Kitabı oku: «No Holding Back», sayfa 2
She guided Matilda around the circular driveway, came to a stop opposite the grand front steps, complete with stone Grecian urns. Snow obscured the view, but it wasn’t hard to tell the house was a colossal Colonial.
This wasn’t how the other half lived, this was how the other millionth lived.
So…
Car in Park, she sat for a minute before switching off the engine. She really didn’t want to drive all the way back to Philly in this mess. The roads were dangerous and the trip could take hours. Options were either to wait out the storm right here in Matilda…she had plenty of gas to run the heater periodically…or see if anyone was home. No lamps glowed in any windows, at least not in the front of the house, at least as far as she could see. The light shining over the entrance could be on a timer.
Nothing ventured…
She pulled the handle and nearly had her arm torn off as a gust of wind wrenched Matilda’s door wide open. Her excitement gave way to jitters. This storm took itself quite seriously. Now she hoped someone was home, not only for the sake of her immortality-guaranteeing article, but to make sure she survived this.
Up the steps, she nearly slipped twice, squinting through the sting of ice, finally reaching the front door. Holding her breath, she rang the bell, then crossed her fingers for good measure and crossed her arms over her chest, strands of her ruined upsweep whipping her cheek, earrings turning into tiny daggers repeatedly flung at her neck. Another gust rocked her back on her probably ruined heels. Hannah made a grab at the house’s front-door handle and miraculously stayed upright.
This was not that much fun. At least not yet.
Another poke at the bell, another shivery icy minute or so waiting, though by now she knew it was ludicrous. On New Year’s Eve with the master abroad any remaining staff would have the night off, and if there were some type of butler or housekeeper on duty, he-she would have answered by now.
She stepped away and craned up at the facade to see if any lights had gone on in response to her ring. Though housekeeper-butler rooms would be in the back, wouldn’t they? She wasn’t that up on her mansion architecture.
A horrifically bright flash of lightning, a massive crack of thunder, a truly terrifying assault of wind. Hannah yelled and leapt toward the door, pressing herself against it for the tiny bit of shelter theoretically offered by the ledge above.
Then the odd impression of something dark swooping through the air in her peripheral vision, and the open-mouthed disbelief as the limb of a tree—large enough to be a tree itself—landed on her car.
Crash.
Hannah stared. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Oh, Matilda.
Her roof and hood were crumpled down to the seats, the windshield smashed. If Hannah had still been inside, she could be dead now.
Dear God. Delayed shock hit, funny breathing and all-over-body shaking that wasn’t only from the cold this time. This was really, really not good. Really. When was she going to learn to curb her impulsive behavior? She knew this storm was coming. Jack Brattle’s estate was not going to disappear overnight. Her parents and friends would say it again. How many times do we have to tell you, look before you leap? Think before you act.
Think, period.
Okay, okay. Staying calm. She had other more important things to worry about. Like not freezing to death.
Down the treacherous steps again, she tugged at poor sweet Matilda’s door. It didn’t budge. Slipping and sliding her way around to the other side, she pushed her arm through cold scratching branches to yank on the other door, even knowing the frame was too crunched to be able to open.
Oh Cheez Whiz. Her evening bag containing her Black-Berry was still in that car. Her GPS system would broadcast her location, but not until someone realized she was missing and tried to find her. Why had she told Dad she was already home safely?
Because he had enough to worry about.
She staggered back up the steps, huddled against the house’s cold uncaring door again. Not for the first time she envied her mother and father their renewed commitment to each other after they got their lives back on track, their mutual caring and support. If she had someone now, the kind of man she dreamed about finding, he’d stop at nothing to bring her home safely.
Or he would have stopped her being such an idiot coming here tonight in the first place, and she’d be home safely in bed with him now, ringing in the New Year in one of her very favorite ways.
Tears came to her eyes and she blinked them away in disgust. Okay, game plan. She was responsible for herself and had been as far back as she could remember. Maybe there was a service entrance? Maybe someone in the house would hear her ring or knock from there? Maybe there was a cottage behind the house she could break into, or maybe her amazing luck would hold and there’d be a garage with the door left coincidentally open…
Oh dear.
Another flash of lightning. Hannah turned away from it, burying her face in her hands, shoulders hunched, waiting for the smash of thunder.
Boom. More wind. Sleet pelting her back.
“Stop.” She grabbed the door handle and twisted desperately, knowing it would be locked and the gesture was completely—
The handle turned.
The door swung open.
She tumbled in, gasping with surprise, then relief, slammed the door behind her, closing out the terrible storm.
Did that really just happen?
Who the hell went abroad and left his front door open? More than that, what house of this size and value didn’t have a dead bolt and a security system? She waited with held breath for the ear-splitting shriek of an alarm. Whoop-whoop, intruder alert.
Nothing.
Maybe he had a system that only sounded at the police station. One could only hope. Rescue would be welcome if the cops took long enough so she had plenty of time to look around. Because it was slowly dawning on her, now she’d escaped the possibility of hypothermia, that she could very well be in Jack Brattle’s house.
Of course it was possible the door was open because someone had already broken in. Maybe some terribly dangerous criminal was right now prowling the floors above her.
She listened, listened some more, kept listening…and heard nothing, besides the distant hum of the heating system. Really, what kind of idiot would be out on a night like this?
Ha ha ha.
Maybe someone was asleep upstairs? Maybe he or she forgot to lock the gate and the front door after a particularly fun party?
“Hello?” She wandered closer to the staircase, barely visible from the light coming in through the front windows. “Hello?”
Nothing. She climbed halfway up, peering into the darkness of the second floor, and prepared to shout as loudly as she could. “Anyone home?”
Still nothing.
Most likely careless—or tipsy—staff or service people were responsible for the unlocked entrances. Maybe they’d intended to come right back and the storm had held them up or held them off. Whoever they were, she owed them a huge juicy kiss for inadvertently offering her shelter. Bless their irresponsibility. She was not only going to survive the night, she was going to survive the night inside Jack Brattle’s house—because she just had to say that again. Inside Jack Brattle’s house.
That was assuming Dee-Dee was telling the truth, which Hannah would, because why would she go to all that trouble to send Hannah anywhere else?
Of course Mr. Brattle would have a phone so she could call for help right away, but…she didn’t need it right away. Later would be fine. Far be it from her to make someone risk his or her life coming to rescue her now in this terrible weather. Right? Right.
Oh, this was a night for her memoirs. First, she needed out of these wet shoes and to hang her coat somewhere waterproof so drips from melting ice bits wouldn’t stain the hardwood.
She fumbled at the wall near the door and struck pay dirt with a light switch that threw a soft chandelier-glow over the breathtaking entranceway. Hannah let her eyes feast in a slow circle around her. Parquet flooring, and thick vivid Oriental rugs that she lost no time in exploring with frozen toes after she kicked off her shoes and stripped off her sodden stockings. Mmm, bliss.
The house was warm—deliciously warm—so obviously whoever left was planning to come back soon. At least when he or she did, the storm, the open gates, open door and Hannah’s devastatingly destroyed car provided the ideal justifiable excuse for her presence.
This could not possibly have been more perfect. Maybe being impulsive hadn’t been so bad for once. Matilda—God rest her engine—would not have given her life in vain.
A promising set of louvered doors slid open to reveal, just as she’d hoped, a vast closet with an array of expensive coats—men’s coats—in conservative shades of brown, black, gray and tan, suitable for the average heir. She brushed her hand over the textures—wool, cashmere, leather—sniffed the lingering hint of their owner’s very nice cologne, then pushed past the wooden hangers for a metal one her damp coat wouldn’t ruin. Down the hall to her left she discovered a first-floor bathroom in whose shower she hung her dripping woolen mess.
And now…to explore. Jack Brattle’s house.
Kitchen first, glimpsed as she’d passed in search of the bathroom. Ooh la la. State of the art, but not detracting from the nineteenth-century feel of the entranceway. She skimmed her fingers over the built-in paneled refrigerator. Wouldn’t she love to microwave a hot dog in a room like this? She bet it had never seen one.
Out of the kitchen, exploring room after room, not unlike Gerard Banks’s house—and hey, how often did she score a two-mansion day?—but here there were no leopard statues, no large-screen TVs or—dare she say—gaudy furniture. Jack Brattle was all dark wood, leather, brick fireplaces, rich subdued colors in rugs, books, cushions. True old-money class.
She had to admit, in spite of her aversion to opulence, the house was incredible. The kind of place that brought to mind every fabulous manor she’d imagined while reading, from The Secret Garden to Jane Eyre. And yet, a home she could imagine someone actually lived in, not redecorated every season to show off to visitors and lifestyle magazines.
Up the curving staircase to a landing with a comfortable-looking burgundy couch and gold patterned chair, another shelf of books and a window seat beside it. Down the hallway lined with portraits and landscapes, passing at least four bedrooms, a workout room, a study, another bedroom, apparently unoccupied like the others, and then, what she suspected was the master bedroom suite. Was this where Jack Brattle slept?
The glimmer of light under the door registered at the same time she pushed it open…
And came face-to-face with the wettest, handsomest naked man she’d ever been startled out of her wits to meet.
Chapter Three
“OH! I’M SO SORRY!” HANNAH jammed her eyes shut and reared back into the dim hallway, slapping a hand over her closed lids for good measure. Oh, no. Oh my goodness, oh my…goodness what a sight. Even with her eyes closed she could still see—
No, stop. She could be arrested for breaking and entering, this was not the time to go lusty-wench. He could be calling the cops right now. Reporter Busted for Ogling Billionaire’s Bodacious Bod.
“Sorry. I’m really sorry. I, um, got lost and your entrance was open and my car is—”
She sensed the door moving in front of her, slid two fingers apart and peeked through.
Gulp.
He was standing, towel wrapped around his, um, hips, ohhh, yeah, and, um, his chest was…whew. He…Wait. He was smirking. She apparently amused him. Or maybe he thought it was funny because he’d called a SWAT team, which was pulling into his driveway right now and unloading bazookas.
“I was, um…just saying that your door was open.”
“You pushed it open.”
“It was—” She realized just in time what he meant. “No. Downstairs. The front door. Was open. My car is outside with a tree on it. What I mean is, I got lost and the roads are bad and then, so I saw your gate open and then the car-crushing thing happened and I came in because you’re unlocked in front, and I was freezing and thought the place was empty, so I started looking around, but…uh…but it’s not, is it. Empty that is.”
Silence. He looked even more amused, but as if he were trying hard not to be. God, he was gorgeous. Gor-gee-usss. If this was Jack Brattle, then he had to be emotionally bankrupt or deeply miserable because it was just not fair that anyone could have all that money and all that…everything and look the way he did.
“No, the house isn’t empty. I’m here.”
“Right. Right. I see that. I’m so sorry. I just needed shelter because I didn’t…have any.”
“Okay.”
Are you Jack Brattle? She couldn’t ask, because she wasn’t supposed to know this was his house. But, of course, who else could be naked in the master bedroom? Stunningly naked, she might add.
“I’m Hannah.”
“Jack.”
Jack! Jack! It took every ounce of energy not to light up like a tree angel, blast off like a rocket, or fizz like a shaken Coke. Bless Dee-Dee and her gravity-defying boobs.
“Nice to meet you, Jack. I’m truly sorry to barge in on you like this. Especially—” She gestured to his towel without looking at it even though she really wanted to look at it, and at him. All of him. “—like this. My phone is in my car, which I can’t get into. If I could use yours to call the—”
“Wait here.”
She nodded demurely, then when he went back into his room and closed the door, she did a silent, hopping, fist-pumping victory dance in his hallway. Besides a front-page spread in Lester’s “Rack of Glam” article, she owed Dee-Dee a hundred lunches with D. G. “Highbrow” Jackson for this. No, a thousand.
Hannah stopped dancing and put a hand to her hammering heart. Regroup. She was a pro. He was her subject. When he came back out, she needed to talk less—since she’d just broken the world record for disjointed babbling—and observe more. So far she’d observed that he wasn’t very chatty, not that she’d given him much of a chance, and that he had no problem giving orders. “Wait here” was not the most charming way she’d ever been asked to linger. Though for all he knew she was a lying con-artist thief, so maybe a lapse in manners was forgivable.
She had also observed that he was the kind of male eye candy she liked best. Thick dark hair, none of this California surfer-dude stuff for her. A strong face, very masculine, stopping short of head-clubbing-caveman. Tall. Dark brown eyes that sent out a shock of attraction on contact, and that indicated copious brainpower behind them.
And—gravy on her stuffing—the man obviously worked out. Good shoulders, flat stomach and that great sculpted butt that—
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Oh. Well. That’s okay.” He’d put jeans over the great sculpted butt, which was disappointing because while she liked him naked just fine, she always thought of Jack Brattle in a tuxedo, kind of James Bondish. Were they thousand-dollar designer denim? Looked like Lees to her. “You certainly don’t need to apologize. I’m the one who intruded on your—”
“I saw your car out my window. Impressive.”
“I do things thoroughly.”
“Uh-huh.” He moved forward unexpectedly and took hold of her wrist—not very gently. “So what are you really here for?”
She gasped at his harsh tone, which took her completely by surprise after his initial pleasantness. “To keep from freezing to death?”
“You’re sure that’s all?”
“Yes.” In spite of her shock over his Jekyll-Hyde act, she felt a crazy pang of sympathy and a dose of guilt. Guys like Jack Brattle probably had people with ulterior motives surrounding them 24-7. Including her at the moment. “Why else would I be here?”
“You’re not a reporter, are you?”
She laughed nervously, unable to lie to this man’s face. “Of course I am. Breaking into strangers’ houses on major holidays is how I work.”
“I see.” His lips half smiled, and she realized with more guilt and a twinge of satisfaction that he thought she was joking. Advantage Hannah. Except then he started looking her leisurely up and down in the short clingy sequined dress and she didn’t feel like she had an advantage anymore. At all. “You didn’t come here with…other ideas?”
“What? Why would I do that? I didn’t even know you were going to be home.” Oops. Because I thought you’d be in Europe, Jack Brattle. “I mean here.”
His brow went up. “Where did you think I’d be?”
“I have no idea. I thought the house was empty, then I found out it wasn’t. You left your door unlocked, so I—”
“You told me. I’m sorry if I insulted you. Women have—It’s happened before, though not at this house.”
“You have others?”
“Yes.” He started looking her over again, and she got all flustered and a little heated up, when she really wanted to be annoyed and insulted. “And that is a very seductive dress.”
“I was at a party.”
“Where?”
“Malvern.”
“You live in Philly?”
“Yes.”
“Strange way of heading back to the city from there.”
“I got lost, I told you.”
“Yes, you did.” He held her eyes and she controlled her hot and flustered self enough to look back fairly steadily.
Except the second she relaxed her guard, she started thinking about how much she wanted him to kiss her, and how sexy and romantic it would be right here in his twilit hallway. He could back her up against the wall and have his multibillion-dollar way with her.
Mmm.
What would he do if she leaned forward right now and—
Stop it. Just stop. Had she learned nothing about herself and about men in the years since puberty? Not to mention she’d just become outraged when he suggested she was thinking exactly what she was thinking.
“Sorry about that.” He relaxed his interrogation-stare, so apparently she’d passed the test. “I just have to be careful.”
“Why?”
He winked. “Double-O-Seven stuff.”
“Seriously?” She nearly swallowed her tongue. Had she not just been thinking James Bond? And here he was, the legend come to life, though she doubted he was actually doing anything but running his late father’s business. A business, of course, she knew nothing about as far as he was concerned, so she’d play along. “You’re a spy?”
“Not even close. What are we going to do with you?”
She had many ideas by now, none of which she could say out loud. But his abrupt change of subject away from the personal meant this could be a tough interview. “If you’ll point me to a phone I can call Triple A and have my car towed.”
Say no, say no, say no.
“Why don’t you wait until this weather clears? I’m sure Triple A will have its hands full rescuing motorists who couldn’t find conveniently unlocked, apparently deserted houses.”
“If you’re sure…” Stranded in a mansion with a hot über-rich playboy who could make her career? A miracle. Though she had no idea if Jack Brattle actually was a playboy. She could rule out gay now that she’d met him and had been on the receiving end of those eyes. If he was a playboy, he certainly kept his conquests as thoroughly out of the press as he kept himself. Maybe he sold his discarded women into slavery to ensure their silence.
She did think it was odd he wasn’t more disconcerted about his door being left unlocked.
“Are you hungry?” He put a hand to his sadly now-covered stomach. “I’m starved. Hardly got a thing to eat tonight.”
“Were you out?”
“For a while. The forecast convinced me to ring in the New Year at home.”
“Considering the state of my car, you made the right choice. Home would have been a lot simpler.”
And one-eighth the fun.
“Where in Philly is home?”
“Ah.” She glanced pointedly at her surroundings. “A stunning three-room estate above a shoe-repair shop.”
“Location, location, location.”
“So they say. Did you grow up in this…hut?”
“Yes. You never did tell me if you were hungry.”
“Famished.” Another abrupt change of subject. He wasn’t going to make this easy by volunteering long tales of his childhood, was he.
“This way to the kitchen.” He pointed down the hall and curved his other arm behind her as if he were going to touch her, but ohh, not quite. “Or maybe you’ve already been there.”
“I…took a peek, yes. Couldn’t resist. This is so not my life.”
“Don’t assume that’s a bad thing.”
“No?” She turned at the top of the stairs to see his face. Reserved as usual. “Why? Most people would die to—”
“Most people have no idea.”
Billionaire’s Bitter Secret. “Tell me then.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“What do you think I think?” She knew he thought she’d gone too far when he shot her a look and started down the stairs ahead of her. “You think I ask too many questions.”
“You do sound like a reporter.”
“Didn’t I tell you I was one?” She laughed again, ha ha ha, watching him closely, but he only laughed, too, ha ha ha. Wow. Obviously he wasn’t as suspicious as he seemed or he’d have been all over that one. “Just naturally curious I guess.”
He ushered her into the kitchen and turned on subtle track lighting around the tops of the cabinets that lit the room one might almost say romantically, if one was thinking along those lines, but, of course, Hannah wasn’t. She wasn’t going to fall in the blink of an eye for any more toads who happened to be wearing prince’s clothing. Might as well become infatuated with movie actors.
Of course, she did that, too.
“Have a seat.” He indicated a tall stool pulled up to the space-age-looking island in the center of a vast area that would set any chef drooling, then rubbed his palms together. “What do you feel like?”
“Surprise me.”
“Okay. Let’s see.” He narrowed his eyes, looked her up and down speculatively, which made her hope her stomach wasn’t pooching out in doughy rolls. “You don’t look like a peanut-butter-and-jelly woman…”
“Ha!” She put on a deeply offended look. “I’m a prime, grade A, number-one peanut-butter-and-jelly woman. My desert island food.”
His smile made the corners of his deep brown eyes crinkle. “Then let’s go in another direction. You game?”
“Sure.” When he looked at her like that she’d agree to anything.
“Any foods you hate?”
“Tofu hot dogs. They taste like how my dentist’s office smells.”
He chuckled, which made him look twice as charming, she should mention, and worse, making him laugh gave her a stupid silly thrill. “Crossing tofu hot dogs off the list. Now…”
He looked around, as if choosing which cabinet to open and amaze her with first. Then he opened one with a flourish…and apparently struck out. As he did also on his second try. One more, and he made a sound of satisfaction and pulled out a couple of plates.
Hannah kept on her polite smile. He didn’t know where he kept his plates? Did this man do nothing for himself?
Powerful Billionaire Helpless in His Own Home.
Two drawers later he’d located knives, forks and spoons. Quite a while passed before he found champagne glasses. The champagne, however, he scored on his first try, and she’d just say that wow, it was not Asti Spumante, and it made her uncomfortable thinking of how much the bottle cost and how much her parents could have used the money she and…Jack…would drink up in such a short time. Probably a week’s groceries in that bottle. Maybe two.
“To start us off.” He removed the cork expertly and just as expertly poured her a glass. Clearly he had more experience with bartending than cooking, she’d guess with bottles exactly this expensive and more. “Happy New Year, Hannah.”
“Thank you, Jack.” She lifted her glass and toasted him, feeling a fizz of excitement even before she’d started drinking, a feeling she recognized all too well. No, no. No crushes. She was here as a professional first, not a female, and never the twain should meet. “You’re not having any?”
“After I get the food ready.”
“Cheers, then.” She took her first sip tentatively, hoping to be able to sneer and assure herself a bottle of bubbles couldn’t possibly be worth that much money.
Oh wow.
Not that she was an expert, in fact, she prided herself on being an expert on all things not likely to be in Jack Brattle’s palace, but even she could tell the champagne was exquisite. Nothing like the swill Gerard served at the party, not that she’d blame him with that many people drinking that much. But this…tiny bubbles that streamed daintily upward, a smooth delicate flavor that changed over the course of the sip-swallow, and no sour aftertaste to ruin the experience. This was why champagne existed, and what everybody was after while making do with inferior stuff.
“I don’t need to ask what you think, I can see it in your face.”
“I was that obvious? How unchic of me. But, yes.” She turned the glass reverently. “I’ll have to work not to guzzle.”
“Feel free.” One eyebrow quirked. “I enjoy watching that much pleasure.”
Ohh my. Except instead of arching an eyebrow back and saying something sultry like, I’d love to show you exactly how much pleasure I can feel, Jack, she gave a snort of nervous laughter and then made an even more revolting noise to get champagne out of her sinuses.
“You okay?”
“Mm, yeah. Sure. Fine.” She thumped her chest and took another more cautious sip.
“I’ll put the bottle where you can reach.” He took a slim elegant wine cooler from under the island and slid the champagne inside, putting it on the counter next to her. “There’s more where that came from.”
“Thank you.” There was more. More hundreds-of-dollars bottles of champagne. Not just this one, carefully saved for the occasion, of course not. The idea both thrilled and repelled her.
“Let’s see what’s in here.” He rummaged through his refrigerator, mumbling to himself—which tickled her since she did the same thing—occasionally withdrawing cans or jars or various other containers, and placing them on the counter next to him. Hannah’s bid to check out what billionaires had in their refrigerators besides not-Asti Spumante champagne was foiled when she couldn’t stop checking out the pull of his wide shoulders under the soft-looking shirt and the shape of his beautiful you-know-what—yes, they were Lee jeans and, oh, he did such lovely things for them. They should be grateful. She certainly was.
A few minutes slicing this and that, arranging that and the other, another few minutes at the gleaming toaster, then he loaded up his haul onto a large lacquered tray and bore it triumphantly to the island. “Seems we’ve done pretty well.”
“Um…yes.” She put down her champagne and gaped. Suffice to say what was in his refrigerator bore absolutely no resemblance to what she had in hers. A glass jar of foie gras with slices of toasted brioche and thin slices of what looked like apple or pear but wasn’t—maybe quince?; tins of osetra and beluga caviar to be served with delicate bone spoons alongside toasted pita bread squares, and a satiny white cream of some sort to spread over them; translucent slices of prosciutto next to a silver bowl of fresh green and black figs; cheeses whose names she didn’t know on a polished elegantly grained wooden tray; olives in three colors; flawless miniature vegetables—tiny carrots, yellow squash, cucumbers and elongated radishes—with a green creamy herb dip; perfect maroon grapes the size of peas, tangerines the size of golf balls; plump raspberries whose gorgeous perfume made her want to bury her face in them; assorted miniature pastries…
“Are you expecting a crowd?”
“You said you were hungry.”
“You eat like this all the time?”
He looked blank. “Doesn’t everyone?”
Billionaire Out of Touch With Reality. She was about to roll her eyes when he winked, and she blushed instead, because the wink made it seem as if they were alone in a highly intimate situation. The fact that they were alone in a highly intimate situation only made her blush harder. But that wink would do it even in a crowd of thousands. And yet…how could she eat this? Enough for twenty people. What would he do with the leftovers? Toss them? To waste money and food…she hated the idea of both. However, no, she couldn’t help herself. She was dying to try everything. Would he let her take some to share with Mom and Dad? With her friends. Her landlady? The whole block? Everyone should be able to eat like this.
“Now, the final touch.” He fumbled with buttons on an under-cabinet music system and soft jazz floated into the room. Oh my. Oh my my my. You could absolutely not beat the cheesesteaks at Jake’s Corner Bar, or the fresh almond cookies at Mama Fortunato’s Bakery, or the sizzling shrimp at Hu Min’s Dragon but…
Oh, but…
Mr. Amazing then rummaged in another three drawers before he found what he was looking for, which turned out to be candles. Candles. What kind of man thought of candles?
Perfection in a Male: My Evening with Jack Brattle.
Was this his typical evening at home? He couldn’t have been expecting her. Maybe just a typical New Year’s? But why would he haul it all out for her if he was planning a party later?
Was he…trying to seduce her?
She shouldn’t, but with half a glass of excellent champagne in her, on top of a couple of glasses of not-so-excellent champagne, and dazzled by the man and the occasion, she sort of hoped so. Not that she could give in and sleep with Jack Brattle when she was planning to publish an article about him. She had her limits. What fun though to hold this memory close to her heart, and place it reverently into her best friends’ voice mails and long e-mails to people she didn’t know that well, for the rest of her life.
