Kitabı oku: «More Naughty Than Nice», sayfa 3
“Don’t you think a marriage that can be broken up over a book deserves to fail?” Stevie returned, with more than a hint of acid. “Or do you think all marriages should stay glued together, no matter how terrible?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what you think. And what do you think, Stevie?”
He regarded her as if she were a rather dull exhibit at the zoo, mildly interesting, but nothing to write home about.
Okay, Mr. Smarty Pants. “You know what I think. You read the book.”
“The book strikes me as superficial and not all that well thought-out.”
“And once again, you don’t have a question, just a sermon.” Stevie stood up, ready to spit nails at him.
Superficial and not all that well thought-out. He had a lot of nerve coming to her signing, staring at her, witnessing her fans and their devotion, pawing her, teasing her with kisses that didn’t happen and then, after all that, calling her book superficial. If she’d had a copy of Blissfully Single handy, she would’ve clobbered him with it.
“Is something wrong, Ms. Bliss?” he asked, feigning surprise, which only made her madder. He knew very well what reaction he was going to get. He was goading her into it. And she hated the idea that he could do that. She was supposed to be in control here, damn it.
“What exactly do you have against the ideas in Blissfully Single?” she demanded. “Are you that threatened by the notion that women can control their own lives?”
“You’re getting off track.”
“You pushed me there,” she shot back.
“I don’t think anyone pushes you anywhere,” he said with what looked to her like a small sneer.
She came up with a sneer of her own. “That bothers you, does it?”
“Not in the least.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Just for the record, I am not threatened by you, your book or the idea that women can control their own lives,” he said evenly. “But I happen to be a big believer in truth, honesty, integrity. All those old-fashioned things that seem to have eluded you as you created this Stevie Bliss myth.”
He was practically accusing her of being a fraud. And the best she could come up with was the most immature kind of “nyah, nyah” argument. Attempting to damp down her anger, losing the battle, she snapped, “I think we’re done here, don’t you, Mr. Dasher?”
“Stevie, can I speak to you, alone, for a second?” Anna broke in, plucking at her sleeve. “You wouldn’t mind if we took a time-out, would you, Mr. Dasher?”
“Call me Owen,” he said, once again doing a charm school routine for Anna. “No, I don’t mind. Take your time.”
Forcing a smile, Anna dragged Stevie over to the corner, about ten feet away. “Are you nuts?” she hissed. “You were yelling at the man. He is a reporter. We don’t yell at reporters, okay?”
“He’s a jerk. Accusing me of being a fake. And of breaking up marriages. Ha!” Turning herself firmly away from any position where she might have to see Owen Dasher, Stevie ground one spiked heel into the parquet floor. “First he’s got his hand on my leg, like total sexual harassment…”
Anna lifted an eyebrow.
“Okay, so it wasn’t sexual harassment,” she admitted. She was a fair person. She could allow that much. “I let it happen. I encouraged it to happen. But I still think it’s wrong that one minute he’s all touchy-feely on my thigh and the next he’s saying the book is shallow and a home-wrecker. That’s pretty nervy, don’t you think?”
“I think you can handle him.” Anna pressed her lips together in a frown. “Stevie, you’ve had a thousand guys come on to you, and another thousand tell you your book was all wet, but you shot every one of them down without a problem. Why can’t you do that this time?”
“He’s different,” she bit out. “He plays one way and then the other. He tried to seduce me just to distract me long enough to get a zinger in. The old bait and switch.”
“Oh, my. A baiter and switcher. Call the cops,” Anna responded, rolling her eyes.
“He’s getting to me,” she argued. “And not in a good way!”
“Calm down, okay? He’s just trying to mess with your head.” Anna continued in a soothing tone, “I told you, it doesn’t matter. Whatever he writes, it’s publicity, and it’s for the good. You know the two big rules of media interaction—accessibility and quotability. Have you hit the target on either of those?”
She had certainly been accessible, given the fingers under her skirt, although she knew very well that was not the kind of accessibility Anna meant. And she was handing out quotes on the order of, “Oh, yeah?” Swallowing around a dry throat, Stevie allowed, “I am not hitting the target, no.”
“So you’re going to go back over there and give the sassy, quotable answers you want to give no matter what he asks, and then he’ll write whatever he wants to write and we will go on from there. All right?”
“Yeah, yeah, I suppose.”
Except Owen Dasher didn’t wait for them to come back. He’d picked up his notes and his pen and whatever else he had hiding on his annoying body, and he came tromping over to interrupt their conversation.
“Sorry,” he offered, acting all rushed and distracted. “My column’s going to run on Wednesday this week, because of Thanksgiving, so I have an early deadline and I need to get out of here. Anyway, I think I have enough to put this one to bed….”
At which point Stevie began to choke and Anna had to pinch her arm hard to make her stop.
“Are you okay over there?” he asked solicitously.
“I’m fine.”
“Right.” He smiled. It was a humdinger of a smile, all toothy and wonderful and bright, and it made her want to strangle him. “Well, anyway, I’m okay with what I’ve got for Wednesday’s column.”
“Are you sure you don’t need a few more quotes?” Anna asked anxiously. “We want to make your column as complete as it can be and for you to cover the whole range of ideas represented in Stevie’s book. We don’t want you to go away unsatisfied.”
Stevie choked again.
“I’m satisfied,” he said calmly, giving her and her obvious discomfort an amused glance. “But I’m thinking it might be fun to explore the Blissfully Single phenomenon in more depth. See it in action, so to speak.”
“In action. Uh-huh,” Stevie echoed, her mind filling with images of him and her and the kind of “action” the two of them could get into. Fighting. Kissing. Touching.
It was horrifying. Maybe strangling was too good for him.
“I’m thinking of the, uh, proposition you made before, Stevie.”
“When was that?” she asked, not remembering anything remotely resembling a proposition except telling him it wasn’t that hard to get into her pants. Was that a proposition? Or just temporary insanity?
“What are we talking about?” Anna interrupted briskly. “More interviews? Or maybe you’d like to observe the Blissfully Single lifestyle on its feet?”
“On its feet, off its feet, whatever.” He smiled. She decided she hated him. “But nothing new planned for me. I wouldn’t want to disrupt your schedule.”
Right. He just wanted to disrupt everything, including her mental health.
He continued, “I think what would work best for me would be to follow Stevie around, on a typical day, maybe some time next week. If we’re lucky, maybe we can stretch this into two or three columns. What do you say?”
“I think that is possibly the wor—”
“She’d love to,” Anna cut in. “Fabulous idea.”
“Anna!”
“It’s great, Owen. Just give me a call and I’ll set you up with her schedule for the next week or so. Anything you want, you have access.”
And then the traitorous Anna stepped in front of Stevie, slipped him a business card, told him what hotel they were at, gave him her cell phone number and ushered him away, before Stevie could get in there and object.
More interviews with this guy? Following her around on a typical day? Breathing on her, touching her, pretending he was moving in for a kiss and then not?
“Not bloody likely,” she said under her breath.
No way in hell she was getting anywhere near Owen Dasher ever again.
3
Bliss at the Bookstore
By Owen Dasher, Chronicle Columnist
When I went to see Stevie Bliss, the newest self-help maven, invade Chicago earlier this week, I expected Round Billion-and-one in the War of the Sexes. You know, men/bad, women/good, yadda, yadda, yadda.
Turns out Ms. Bliss is more into the Game of the Sexes. And when she puts up a pass, you can bet there will be a receiver. Lots of them. You see, that’s a potent part of her offense. She looks for multiple receivers. To quote from her book, Blissfully Single, “Why limit yourself to one man? You’re more likely to win if you play the field.”
Good strategy, huh? Oh, and she knows how to kick the extra point, too. Right through the uprights.
Stevie Bliss 7, Chicago 0.
Who knew bookstores could be so much fun? Stevie Bliss, apparently. She’s packed humor, moxie and a whole lot of steam into Blissfully Single, so it’s no surprise she’s a powerful package in person. As her assistant puts it, “Stevie bites.” Ouch.
If I doubted that before I saw her in action, I didn’t after. Sure, she had some guys from the Swingin’ He-Men Club stop by to give her a hard time. And the Righteous Moms Brigade, too.
But Ms. Bliss gave ’em all the old heave-ho, knocking out the competition with a few well-timed put-downs and an impressive display of pseudo S&M costuming. All this Leather Lady needs is a whip to really knock the crowd senseless.
Stevie Bliss 14, Chicago 0.
She says she’s not anti-men or anti-marriage.
If that’s what she wants me to believe, I’m not going to fight her on it. She might sizzle me with her dazzling blue eyes. She might walk on me with her spike heels. She might bring out the whip and make me beg for mercy. I’m only a guy, after all. I don’t stand a chance….
“HEY, DASHER, nice column.”
Startled, he glanced up from his computer screen. He’d thought he was alone in the newsroom. “I just sent it, T.J. You read it already? What are you doing here, anyway?”
T.J. was an intern who floated from department to department to fill a hole here or there. The staff reporters had figured out that she was very good at research and background material, and they kept her pretty busy doing grunt work they didn’t want to. “I’m bored. I’m gonna be here late,” she explained, ruffling her cropped orange hair with one hand. “I’m doing a round-up tonight for Sports. Lots of turkey tourneys.”
“So you were just sitting there waiting for me to press Send, huh?”
“We’re the only ones here. And I always like your stuff.” She shrugged. “But I gotta tell you, I was expecting something different.”
“Oh, yeah. Why?”
“When Mike or somebody said you were off to see Stevie Bliss at a bookstore, I thought, whoa, this is going to be good. But you weren’t as snarky as I thought you’d be.” She grinned. “You liked her, didn’t you?”
“Uh, no.”
“You did so,” she teased. “Poor Dasher. Begging for mercy. Who ever thought we’d see Dasher goin’ for the nasty girl? But he is totally smitten.”
“I’m not smitten. I was making fun of her and the crowd’s reaction to her.” Owen concentrated on his computer screen. Surely there was something he needed to edit. “And she wasn’t that nasty.”
“Sure she was. I mean, she is.” T.J. scooted around behind his desk, as if she planned to read over his shoulder. “It’s not like it’s a bad thing. Nasty girls are totally cool. Like Buffy, you know. Or Charlie’s Angels.”
“Isn’t there something else you should be doing?”
“Nope. Just waiting for the Sports phone to ring.”
“Okay. Well, you can wait back in Sports.”
But she stayed where she was, continuing to scrutinize him.
Finally, he asked, “Is there something else?”
“Just curious. ’Cause I’ve read the book. Blissfully Single, I mean.” She scooted closer. “After reading the book and then waiting to see what you said about her, I thought for sure you’d toast her.”
Yeah, well, that was what he’d thought, too.
“You always flame the pop-culture dudes, y’know? So, good for you, for letting one slide.”
He still wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing. But there was something about Stevie Bliss… Something that had more to do with her brain than her ridiculously short skirt or her plunging neckline. Or even that wicked little moan she’d made when his thumb brushed the soft skin of her thigh. If he were a betting man, he’d lay odds she didn’t even know she’d made that noise.
And that was what made it interesting. Everything else about her was so conscious, so planned. Except that noise. Now that was spontaneous.
He wasn’t sorry he’d danced on the edge of impropriety to get her to make that tiny whimper, either. He’d been replaying it on his tape for hours.
Yet there was definitely more to his interest in her than an impromptu moan. It was the potent combination of brains and body, and the curious mix of audacity and innocence. Innocence? He must be mistaken. There was nothing innocent about Stevie Bliss, the leather-clad siren who strode into a room like she owned it, who slept with anyone who took her fancy, who had professional athletes for breakfast and politicians for lunch.
But the expression in her eyes when he touched her, and that amazing little noise…
She was a mystery, that was for sure.
“So, Dasher?” T.J. asked, interrupting his thoughts. “Why did you give her a bye? If you’re not hot for her bod, I mean?”
Not hot for her bod? He was plenty hot. Maybe not admitting he was hot for her bod was more accurate. Or not sharing that fact with T.J., at any rate.
“Some of what she said made sense,” he grumbled. “And I liked how she handled herself on her feet.” He pushed back in his chair, eying the intern. “So you read the book? Did you buy into what she was saying, about playing the field and not getting tied down?”
“Sure. Well, not totally. I’m in no hurry to get married, that’s for sure.” T.J. plunked herself down in a nearby chair and gave herself a spin. “I think the one-month rule—you know, where your boyfriend automatically expires after a month, kind of like old milk?—that strikes me as cold. But it’s a sharp idea if a few high schoolers look at their prom dates and go, hey, maybe I should go to college instead of getting married to this dweeb. Or even more so, chicks hitting twenty-five and getting all weird about not having a ring. Like the ones on… What was that terrible show, with all the women trying to get that one lame dude to marry them?”
“So you don’t think it’s demeaning for women to sleep around without being in love?”
“Demeaning? Who are you trying to kid?” She shrugged. “Men do it all the time. C’mon. Sex should be for fun. That’s all she’s trying to say. It’s only when you try to pretend that love is involved that things get screwed up. So don’t pretend. Let it be what it is and nobody gets hurt. Right?”
“That’s the theory, anyway.”
A phone rang from over in Sports, and she took off to answer. Backpedaling, she called out, “You need anything, you let me know, okay, Dasher? I’d love to work for you.”
“Sure, sure.” As he watched her pick up her phone across the wide newsroom, typing quickly onto her computer, he mused on her reaction. It seemed reasonable, after all, when she framed it like that. Sex is for fun. It’s only when you try to pretend that love is involved that things get screwed up.
But could people—male or female—live that way? Could they really go around, taking whoever caught their fancy, without wanting something more?
It was a puzzle. And so was Stevie Bliss.
His mind replayed their encounter, including the little moan, without even bothering to listen to the tape. Amazing. And it wasn’t just the question of how someone that bold could seem surprised or caught unawares by her own physical response. No, it was more about how she’d gotten to be Stevie Bliss.
Who was she, under all the prepackaged wrappings? Where had this Blissfully Single idea come from? Beautiful women didn’t just wake up one day and decide they were never going to fall in love, never going to get married, without some kind of provocation. What happened to Stevie Bliss?
He certainly didn’t have any answers from their short interview. It rankled that he was really a very good reporter and interviewer, and yet this time, he had done such a lousy job. What, had he asked a total of three questions? And all three were annoyance questions more than anything useful. Never married, never left at the altar. If she was telling the truth, that was the sum total of what he’d found out that he didn’t already know from reading the book. Not a terribly complete personal profile.
If he got her in his crosshairs again, he would not let her off so easily.
When the intern pushed away from her terminal across the room, he said, “T.J., if you’re still interested, I might have a project for you.”
“Great. What do you need?”
“Some research.”
Her lips curved into a smug smile. “Let me guess. Stevie Bliss.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Yeah. You can start wherever you want. But I want to know her real name, which I am fairly certain is not Stevie Bliss. I want to know where she comes from, who she’s dated, sisters, brothers, mom, dad, all that good stuff. Oh, and what she’s got against underwear.”
“I got it. The whole nine yards.” T.J. gave him a knowing grin. “But you wouldn’t by any chance be smitten or anything, right?”
“No,” he returned tightly. “Just get me the info, will you?”
“Sure thing. It shouldn’t even be that hard.”
“I want everything you can find. Her kindergarten report card if you can find it.”
“Yeah, yeah. I heard you the first time. First thing in the morning, I’m on it.”
“Good.” Maybe with a whole dossier in front of him, he could finally get a handle on Stevie Bliss.
Maybe.
“THERE IS NO WAY I am letting him follow me around for a whole day. I don’t care how many times he calls or what you tell him. Not going to happen.”
“You’re driving me nuts about this,” Anna muttered. She rose from the breakfast table in their suite, taking the newspaper with her, and then dropped into an overstuffed chair in front of the fireplace. After propping her feet up on the ottoman, she opened the newspaper and hid behind it.
Stevie announced, “If you want to convince me to do this, you’re going to have to look at me.”
Anna said nothing, just rumpled the newspaper loudly to indicate she wasn’t listening.
Stevie glared at her friend. It was a wasted glare, since Anna was safely still behind the wall of newsprint. Feeling about as grumpy as she got, Stevie spun her spoon around her cup, aimlessly stirring black coffee.
Finally, after a long moment, Anna snapped down the paper. “I shouldn’t have to convince you,” she said tartly. “You should have enough of a brain to know this is a good idea. I mean, the biggest shopping season of the entire year is in full swing. You looked great on TV, we got a big bump from the first column, everyone else has run a line or two and now we’re having trouble getting more coverage. He wants to do another column.” She stopped, let out a small shriek of frustration, and then started again. “Christmas season, and she won’t talk to a reporter. Yeah, sure, that makes perfect sense.”
“It was a snide and distasteful column,” Stevie announced grandly. She stood up, whipped her pink chenille robe around her matching flannel pj’s, marched her fluffy pink slippers over to the chair opposite Anna and carefully took a seat.
“It was a perfectly wonderful column. And you know, you look ridiculous sashaying around like the Queen of Sheba in flannel pajamas with poodles all over them,” Anna told her.
Stevie raised a finger. “Don’t make fun of my pajamas. I’ve told you before. This is what I like to sleep in. And if I don’t get my sleep, I won’t have the energy to keep up the slutpuppy act.”
“Flannel pj’s and little braids in her hair and fluffy slippers,” Anna mocked. “Oh, yeah, what a slutpuppy. I’ve been dressed for an hour and you’re still lounging around in your poodle pajamas. I swear, Stevie, if anyone sees you in that Swiss Miss outfit…”
“Who’s going to see me?” she demanded. “Oh, wait. The room service guy is probably calling in the scoop even as we speak.”
Laying her head back into the cushions, Anna stared at the ceiling. “Why do I put up with this? I’ve turned into your nanny.”
Momentarily considering whether she could throw something at Anna, Stevie wondered instead if there was time to call room service again and get them to bring up a big basket of chocolate croissants and another pot of coffee before she jumped into the shower and started on yet another day in what she was beginning to think of as “The Book Tour That Would Not End.”
Outside the hotel, kids were drawing up their Christmas lists, grandmas were stoking up the oven to get a head start on holiday baking, parents were surfing toy stores for the season’s hot buys and families were scouring lots looking for the perfect tree. But on the twenty-fifth floor of the Hotel Marceau, you’d never have known it was Christmas. No tree, no packages, not even a sprig of mistletoe.
She liked the suite, really she did. It was lush and comfortable, with a vaguely French château decor. But it was still a hotel. Being in a hotel at Christmas felt all wrong.
Moody and out of sorts, Stevie gazed into the flames crackling in the fireplace. She and Anna were doing what they did every day. Checking surveys, reading reports from focus groups, analyzing data and trying to stay one step ahead of all the other self-help gurus selling books this Christmas season. Bah humbug.
She was bored. She was hungry! And she could really have used that basket of chocolate croissants. Maybe she did have time to call room service….
The fantasy vanished quickly. Even if there were time, she couldn’t go near pastries. Not if she wanted to fit into the size two Stevie Bliss wardrobe. She had worked so hard for so long, and the payoff of workouts and body toning had been amazing. But she was starting to wonder if she was ever going to eat a hot-fudge sundae or sleep till noon or do anything fun ever again. What good was it to be a celebrity and make pots of money if you couldn’t control your own schedule or what reporter you talked to or even your intake of croissants?
Maybe she was cranky all the time because she was seriously low on chocolate. Had anyone thought of that?
“Anna,” she said firmly, “you’re not my nanny. But you’re not my boss, either. If I don’t feel comfortable with that reporter, I shouldn’t have to talk to him.”
“Stevie—”
“I’m serious. He creeps me out.”
“He does not.” Anna sat up and threw down the newspaper. “That’s the problem. You’re attracted to him and it scares you. Well, get over it.”
Her mouth fell open. “Attracted to him? You’ve got to be kidding!”
“You’ve got a thing for him, Stevie. Anybody in that bookstore could’ve seen it.” She picked up the paper again and waved it. “And anybody who read his column knows he’s also got a thing for you. He said you sizzled him with your dazzling blue eyes. He said he didn’t stand a chance. Hmm, I wonder what that means? I’ll tell you what it means. It means he has a thing for you. So use it to your advantage!”
“No.” Stevie stayed where she was, resolute. “So what if he’s whacked out by my faboo blue eyes? They’re not even really blue.”
Anna waved that off, too. “They’ll be blue again as soon as you put in your contacts.”
Stevie shook her head. “You’re just not getting it. He’s rude. He talked about me as if I were a football game. Paul Newman did that in that terrible movie, the one where he’s in Paris and Joanne Woodward pretends to be…” She caught the look on Anna’s face and cut it short. “Never mind. But I don’t even like football!”
“So tell him to pick a different sport next time.”
“And he said I wore dominatrix clothes. And that I carried a whip,” she said angrily.
“He didn’t say you carried a whip. He said you needed a whip. He was being satirical, Stevie. That’s what he does.”
“Not at my expense, he doesn’t.” Even though she knew it was dopey, she was still smarting over the “pseudo S&M” crack. Why did it matter if he thought she was all about kinky sex? Wasn’t that why they dressed her that way?
No, she thought. I’m supposed to project sex, but not ugly sex. And with a brain! Marlene Dietrich, not Vampire Hookers from Outer Space.
Anna tried again. “Stevie, it’s publicity. There are probably six or seven whip makers angling to sponsor you even as we speak. And if there are—”
But Anna didn’t get to finish that thought. The phone rang, and they both jumped. For a moment they stared at it, merrily chirping away, all by itself on a delicate, gilt-edged table near the window. Since Anna handled everything on her cell phone, this was the first time Stevie could recall hearing that phony-looking French hotel phone ring. But ringing it was.
“It’s eight o’clock in the morning,” Stevie whispered. “Who’d be calling us now?”
“I’ll get it.” Stalking past the sofa, Anna grabbed the ornate black-and-gold phone out of its antique cradle and stuck it up to her ear. “Hello?” After a second or two, she began to relax, sinking into her Anna-the-Perfect-Assistant role. “Hello,” she said smoothly. “Nice to hear from you. Thank you so much. Hang on a second, will you?” Covering the mouthpiece, she held out the receiver. “It’s for you.”
“Who is it?”
“Take a wild guess.”
Stevie’s stomach did a few flip flops. It couldn’t be. “Dasher?”
“Well, it isn’t Donner or Blitzen.” Anna waggled the phone. “Come and get it.”
“No.”
“Stevie, don’t be any more of an idiot than you already are. You’re really very good at handling the press. So start handling, will you?”
She took the phone. “H-hello?”
“Good morning, Ms. Bliss. How are you today?”
That voice again. That damn voice that ruffled her nerve endings and weakened her knees. She squeezed her eyes closed and thought about the cold winter morning outside the frosted window. Chilly, chilly thoughts. It didn’t help. She was already all melty.
“Stevie? Are you there?”
“It’s awfully early, don’t you think?” she asked, stalling for all she was worth. Maybe when it wasn’t morning, she would have more wits about her. “Maybe you should call me back later. Like, this afternoon?”
“According to the schedule Anna sent me, you’ll be speaking at the Brody Academy by then.”
You gave him my schedule? she mouthed at her traitor of a best friend. Anna shrugged.
“Well, we’re not really up and around yet, so this isn’t a good time to talk. Anna and I were just having breakfast and—”
“Excellent.” How did he make a regular old word like “excellent” come out so sensuous and sly? She leaned away from the receiver, blunting the impact of his voice a little, but she still caught it when he added, “I’m in the lobby, and I have a box of Krispy Kremes. So I’ll come right up.”
Although under normal circumstances she would’ve traded her soul for a doughnut, at the moment she was so shocked she passed right over the Krispy Kremes.
“You’re in the lobby?” she demanded. “The lobby of my hotel? You just came over here and expected to come up to see me at eight o’clock in the morning?”
“I wanted to catch you before you left.”
“You can’t come up,” she tried. “I’m not even dressed.”
“Excellent,” he said again, sounding so evil and self-possessed she wanted to throw the phone out the window. “I’d like to see the real, unvarnished Stevie Bliss.”
“There is no such thing as an unvarnished Stevie Bliss,” she shot back.
Anna snatched the receiver out of her hand. “Come right up. We’re in the penthouse suite. The code for the elevator is 5-1.” And then she dropped it back into the cradle.
“Anna!” Stevie cried. “Look at me! I’m wearing poodle pajamas! You invited him up here when I look like this?”
“He’s the press. We need the press,” her friend said flatly. “Accessible, remember?”
“That doesn’t include my hotel room at eight o’clock in the morning.”
“Come on, Stevie,” Anna tried. “Just remember who you are. You’re Stevie Bliss. You don’t cower and hide when a lousy reporter throws you a curve. I don’t see what you’re getting so upset about. I have every confidence you will deal with him in the same confident and polished way you deal with everything else.”
“I think you’re starting to believe your own press releases, Anna,” she groused. “What are you, sniffing toner when I’m not looking?” She pulled off her robe and kicked her slippers toward her bedroom, already unbraiding her hair. “Meanwhile, he’s on his way up here and you said it yourself—I look like the Swiss Miss!”
“You’ve got a few minutes,” Anna noted. “That elevator is slower than slow. And you don’t have to get completely dressed. We can give him the sexy, at-home side of Stevie Bliss, lounging around in a seductive state of undress.”
This was turning into a farce. She glanced down at her cozy pajama top, buttoned up to her chin. “Since when does Stevie Bliss have a sexy, at-home side?”
“Since now.” Anna took her hand and towed her into her bedroom. She frowned at the dresser. “I don’t suppose you have anything slinky hiding under all the flannel in your drawers?”
Right behind her, Stevie moved to the closet, shoving one hanger after another across the rack. Tight tops. Tight skirts. Racy bits of designer outfits that didn’t go together and didn’t fit eight o’clock in the morning. And the minutes were ticking away. “The best I can offer is the hotel robe. But somehow I don’t think big, fat white terrycloth with a Hotel Marceau insignia is going to do the trick.”
“What about that silk robe the Barely Boutique gave you for signing at their store? What did you do with it?”
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