“What’s this ‘for the rest of our lives’ business?” Holly asked.

Colin handed Holly a hot dog in exchange for one of the water bottles, hoping she didn’t decide to hit him with hers five seconds from now. “Didn’t I tell you? Well, I guess there is just one more thing you’re probably going to bring up from time to time over the years, so maybe I should have mentioned it sooner. You see, I’ve given it some thought, and I’ve decided that I’m going to marry you.”

Okay, Colin acknowledged to himself as he pounded on Holly’s back until she could breathe again, so there were two things he probably should have said to her sooner. One, he was going to marry her and two “Maybe you shouldn’t take a bite out of that hot dog until I tell you number one.”

KASEY MICHAELS

is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of more than sixty books. She has won a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award and a Romantic Times BOOKclub Career Achievement Award for her historical romances set in the Regency era; she also writes contemporary romances for Silhouette and Harlequin Books.

Bachelor on the Prowl
Kasey Michaels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Tara Hughes Gavin,

so she has a matched set.

Okay, Mike, to you too…

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter One

Every woman has a fantasy. Some wish for a handsome prince to come riding up on his white charger and carry her away to that legendarily well-touted Happily Ever After. Some long for fame on stage or screen, being the one woman in the world every man sees, desires, goes majorly stupid over. Some long to be captains of industry, and can actually see themselves in snazzy corner offices, wielding their power with a brilliance that earns them the cover of Time magazine.

Holly Hollis had set her sights a little lower this fall day in New York City.

All she wanted—and only for an hour, at that—was a man. Living, breathing, capable of walking and chewing gum at the same time.

Just give her a man.

Ah, come on, somebody send her a man.

Oh, and could some kind providence please make him a size thirty-eight long…?

Fifteen minutes earlier…

“Jackie! Brides glide. They do not clomp. Maybe you’re modeling Eddie Bauer Mountain Momma wear next week, but this week it’s Sutherland’s, and Sutherland designs call for gliding. Got that?”

“I can’t help it, Holly. It’s these shoes. They’re too small.” Jackie, the six-foot-tall model, her bones and skin—she may have had a fat cell sometime in her life, but she’d banished it long ago—made a face. She was clad in a Sutherland bridal gown, looked fabulous, but walked toward Holly Hollis like a duck in hip boots.

“Shoes!” Holly called out to anyone who’d listen, and within moments there were a half-dozen hands holding out a half-dozen pair of shoes. White satin pumps. Ivory lace-covered heels. Plain shoes. Shoes with silver buckles. Shoes with heels so curved they looked as if they’d warped.

“Size? Come on, come on. Concentrate, Jackie. What size shoe do you wear?” Holly commanded, and Jackie told her. Holly smiled. There is a God, and She gives small pleasures when She can. “Okay, somebody find me a size twelve for Jackie.”

“Gosh, Holly,” Irene Collier said, frowning. “I don’t think we have any twelves. Twelves? Couldn’t she just wear the boxes?”

Think, think. Holly had to think. “Okay, look,” she said to Jackie, tipping her head back to glare up into the model’s eyes. “Tell me what shoes you wore here today. Maybe they’ll work.”

Jackie frowned. Not a lot, because she was twenty-eight now, and the thought of frown lines were one of her obsessions. “Hiking boots. Brown lace-ups.”

Holly pursed her lips, sort of swung them back and forth over her teeth as she searched her left brain, then her right brain, hoping for inspiration. “Nope. Some designers would put hiking boots with a wedding gown and call it a new look. But not Sutherland. Okay, here’s the deal. Barefoot, Jackie. You’re going down that runway barefoot.”

Jackie raised one well-waxed eyebrow. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Wrong,” Holly said, taking the model by the elbow and guiding her over to the short set of steps that led up to the curtain behind the runway. “You’re a blushing bride. On the beach in Maui. At dawn. Irene—tell her escort to get rid of his shoes. And his socks! Don’t forget his socks. Then tell him to go down the runway first, stand at the end, holding his arms out for Jackie’s entrance.”

“At the end of the runway? Barefoot? You sure?”

“Don’t push, Irene. I’m working on the edge here. Okay, Jackie. You carry your flowers—Irene, flowers! That’s it. Now, Jackie, you carry your flowers in one hand, use your other hand to sort of lift the front of the gown as you trip along the beach to your intended. Not clomp, not jog, not even trot. You dance across the sand, love in your eyes, your heart pounding, your veil caught in the ocean breeze. Feel it, Jackie. Feel the morning sun on your face. Smell the salt air. Irene, give me tear-jerker romance music. Something with swells in it or something like that, okay?”

Jackie had her eyes closed, “feeling” the scene. Jackie was a “method” model, whatever the hell that was. Something like a “method” actor, Holly supposed, except she got paid better, and the hours weren’t so long. “I see it,” Jackie said. “Yes, I see it.”

“Well, whoop-de-do, she sees it,” Holly muttered as Jackie went tripping off to Maui—or down the runway set up in the main ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria hotel. “Size twelve? The woman could stomp out small villages. Okay, Irene, what’s next?”

“You are overworked, aren’t you? That’s it, Holly. Jackie was the last before the grand finale, and that’s all set, already running like clockwork. We’ve got a good crew, one person assigned to each model. Take a break, maybe even breathe. We’ve got fifteen minutes before the last bride goes down the runway and you have to go out there.”

Irene handed Holly a clipboard, then went in search of a flower girl model who she’d just seen—in her lovely white gown—ripping open a chocolate bar.

Holly staggered over to the refreshment table, snagging a can of diet soda before finding an empty chair and collapsing into it. This was her first showing without her boss and friend, Julia Sutherland Rafferty, by her side, and if she ever had to do another one without Julia’s help she’d have to first go heavily into self-medication.

Holly had come to work with Julia when Sutherland was little more than a dream. They’d set up shop in Allentown, Pennsylvania, Julia concentrating on ready-to-wear clothes for the young and young at heart. Washable, affordable, cut on simple yet classic lines—perfect for the young mother, the female executive, the increasingly fashion-conscious grandmother set.

In other words, Julia’s designs had a universal appeal, and the small Allentown business grew in leaps and bounds, until Julia’s designs were shown twice yearly in New York, just like all the other “big” designers.

Holly hadn’t known a gusset from an inseam when she’d started out with Julia, as her area of expertise had been in crunching numbers, chasing after overdue orders, hiring and firing—the nuts and bolts sort of work that left Julia free to create.

But the creative end of the business called to Holly, and she’d studied everything she could get her hands on, watched Julia, and soaked up knowledge like a sponge. Now, more and more, there were other employees to do the books, the ordering, the payroll and such, and Holly had taken over more of the “outward” part of the business.

Meeting with buyers, broadening their customer base, even sitting in with Julia as she selected materials, having some input on new designs.

The whole experience had been a joy, from the first day she and Julia had opened the door at Sutherland to today, when the company had grown to be one of the most recognized brands in the country.

Julia and Holly had become much more than simply employer and employee. They’d become friends, close friends, which was why Holly had been so thoroughly shocked two years earlier when this Greek god of a guy had shown up and introduced himself as Julia’s husband.

Holly took a sip of soda. Man, that had been a day. That had been weeks of “man, what a day,” actually, until Julia and Max Rafferty had figured out that their separation had been a mistake and Holly got to watch a little “happily ever after” up close.

Julia’s dad and mom, who’d been unhappily retired in Florida, had happily moved back to Allentown, and now Jim Sutherland oversaw much of the actual production while Julia and Max—and now Max, II—lived in Manhattan almost exclusively, near Max’s businesses.

Julia relied heavily on Holly, and Holly liked that, liked the responsibility, enjoyed the pressure.

But she hadn’t counted on being in charge of the initial showing of Julia’s new interest, bridal wear. Sure, she’d always attended all Sutherland showings, but it had been Julia who’d run them, and run herself ragged, taking care of any last-minute glitches, herding models, pinning ripped hems and taking the applause and bows at the end.

But Julia had Max II now, and she left her five-month-old only rarely. She had planned to leave him with a sitter today, but Max had the sniffles, and Julia had dumped the entire show in Holly’s lap saying, “I know you can do it.”

Holly looked around at the chaos that circled her like a gaggle of dyspeptic buzzards. Models, everywhere. Gowns, everywhere. Makeup artists, seamstresses, caterers, little kids chasing each other, male models posing as if there must be cameras hidden everywhere.

And yet she’d made it to the homestretch with only one glitch—Jackie’s big feet. Thank God Jackie was only scheduled to model two gowns.

Holly longed to slip into the crowd of reporters, buyers and society matrons on the other side of the curtain, just for one quick minute, to hear how they liked the show so far. She could still do that, as she wasn’t Julia; tall, beautiful, definitely recognizable Julia Sutherland Rafferty.

Because she was just plain old Holly Hollis. All five feet one inch, and one hundred and six pounds of her. Nobody noticed her, never did, not in this fashion world of the giants. She could slip outside, listen to the buzz and know whether or not the latest Sutherland venture was looking like a hit or a miss.

Holly put down the soda can and got to her feet. She walked over to the makeup area and peered into one of the mirrors, checking to make sure she didn’t look as wild-eyed as she felt. Nope, still the same old Holly Hollis.

Her chestnut hair always looked out of place, because it had been cut to look that way. Short, spiky on top to give her some needed height, with wisps cut into the sides and at the back, then sort of combed forward, to touch on her forehead, her cheeks, her nape.

Julia had talked her into the cut, saying that her small frame cried out for a little drama, and that the cut accentuated Holly’s huge green eyes, set off her slightly pointy chin.

“Right,” Holly said now to her reflection. “Now all I need is a harness and a sky hook, and I can play Peter Pan on Broadway.”

“Um…Holly?”

Holly turned around, to see Irene making a face. Not good. Irene didn’t make faces. She endured. She conjured miracles. She followed Holly around with a figurative broom, sweeping up problems and making them disappear.

“Problem?” Holly asked, figuring that, at the least, the Waldorf had just caught fire.

“It’s the finale,” Irene said, wincing as she took the clipboard from Holly. “We’re minus the groom.”

Holly looked around the huge room, counted heads. There were male models all over the place. “What do you mean, we’re minus the groom? Pick one.”

“That won’t work, Holly,” Irene told her with the tone of someone pointing out that, yes, by gum, the sky is blue.

“It won’t work?” Holly asked, abandoning her idea to go scope out the reporters and buyers. Oh well, she probably wasn’t dressed for the part of Secret Squirrel anyway, not in her kelly-green sheath, her wrist pincushion and the pink feather boa she’d forgotten she had wrapped around her neck—an expensive accessory for the bridal lingerie portion of the showing she didn’t want stuffed in some sticky-fingered model’s purse and walked out the door. “Don’t tell me it won’t work, Irene. I don’t want to hear that it won’t work.” She sighed, then ended, “Okay, tell me why it won’t work.”

“Here’s the logistics,” Irene told her. Irene loved to use the word logistics. She liked other words, too, like extrapolate, and phrases like in conjunction with. At forty-seven, her stay-at-home-mom years behind her, Irene had decided to forgo going back to teaching and had looked for a “glamour job.” Only she couldn’t quite beat the teacher part of her into submission all the time.

“Don’t say logistics, Irene,” Holly begged, rubbing a hand over her forehead. “My head hurts when you say logistics. And if you’re standing there trying to figure out a way of slipping in my considered opinion into your next sentence, I warn you, I may just have to hurt you.”

Irene was tall. Julia was tall. The models were all tall. The whole world was tall. And Holly sometimes got tired of looking at everyone’s kneecaps. It could make her moody.

“Don’t pout,” Irene said, obviously deciding that today was a moody day. “Now, I’ll explain. As you know, the finale is a parade of eleven of our bridal gowns, each model being escorted down the runway by a groom. That leaves the big moment for Jackie to enter wearing Julia’s real showpiece, the peach peau de soie. Eleven plus one, for a total of twelve. Thirteen’s unlucky, remember? But Jackie has to have a groom, and we only have eleven male models. A tall groom, because Jackie’s…well, she’s tall.”

“You’re all tall,” Holly grumbled. “The world is prejudiced toward tall people.”

“You mean, the world is prejudiced against small people,” Irene, always punctilious, corrected.

“I mean I’m short,” Holly said hotly. “Look at these gowns. I tried one on, you know, just in case my mother’s prayers are ever answered and I actually need some silk and lace. And I drowned. I looked like a little kid playing dress-up. First thing I’m going to do when this is over and I see Julia, is to tell her that there has to be a petite collection. Not just smaller sizes, but designs that won’t overpower us short people. I mean, the gown I tried on had the loveliest poof sleeves. And I ended up looking like Joan Crawford in one of those thirties movies. Shoulders out to here,” she said, using her hands to show the width of her shoulders. “I could play fullback in my nephew’s peewee football league.”

Throughout this tirade, Irene had been counting male heads, watching the door, and counting heads again. “You’re through?” she asked with the patience of a mother of five. “Good. Now, back to our problem.”

“No problem,” Holly said. “We just ax one of the other bridal gowns and slip the groom on Jackie’s arm.”

“No can do,” Irene said, holding out the clipboard to Holly once more. “This is the finale, Holly. CNN is here, filming the whole thing for their special on weddings. One by one—with escort—we send eleven fantastic gowns down that runway, not twelve, because Jackie can’t wear two gowns. Each gown with its own close-up and description. That’s mega airtime for our ladies. Which one do you want to ax, and then wait for the hysterics? We got these top models because we promised them CNN, Holly. Do you want to take a chance on losing any one of them for Julia’s next showing?”

Holly glared at her assistant. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“Ten minutes, Holly,” Irene said, glancing at the silver watch on her wrist. “What do we do?”

“Can’t she walk alone? What’s the problem with her walking alone?”

Irene rolled her eyes. “Are you forgetting that gown? It’s the show gown, Holly, not really meant to ever be worn by any halfway human person. I think the thing weighs seventy pounds, and that’s without the headpiece. Jackie needs an arm to lean on, or she’s going to end up facedown in the front row of laps. That would look real great on CNN, wouldn’t it? And I don’t think Julia wants today’s event to appear on some television blooper show.”

Several thoughts went flying through Holly’s brain, most of them painful, and none of her ideas workable. “Find out who this model is who was a no-show. I’ve always wanted to be able to say you’ll never work in this town again. When I find him, that’s what I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tattoo it on his perfect forehead.”

“Nine minutes,” Irene said, continuing her countdown.

Holly came to a decision. “We yank the eleven male models and pick one to escort Jackie.”

“Airtime, Holly. For the boys as well as the girls. You’d have a riot on your hands, and I hate to see handsome grown men cry. Besides, the first two brides have already hit the runway—with escorts. Oh—eight minutes and forty-five seconds, Holly.”

“Trying for a second career doing countdowns at NASA, Irene?” Holly bit out, then grinned. “Yes! Irene, look over there. At the door. I think I see our man. Quick, what’s his name?”

“Well, better late than never, I suppose,” Irene said, consulting the clipboard once more. “Harry Hampshire. Has to be a made-up name, right? Sic him, Holly, while I get the tuxedo ready. And, please, don’t give him that you’ll never work in this town again line until after the finale.”

Holly was already halfway to the door. Harry Hampshire, huh? He didn’t look like a Harry. He looked, actually, like some sort of Greek god. Max Rafferty looked like a Greek god. Harry made her second Greek god in two years. That had to be her quota. She doubted she would see another in her lifetime.

Tall, definitely tall enough to make Jackie look fragile, he had the slim, muscular build of the professional model. A mane of blackest black hair, one lock sort of slipping down onto his forehead. Blue eyes that sparkled inside a fringe of black lashes any woman would die for. Full lips that were more sensual than hot fudge licked from a spoon. That square, model jaw, those creases in his cheeks as he returned the smile of one of the female models.

Dear God, he made Holly’s palms itch. Gorgeous on a stick. Masculinity refined, smoothed, and yet definitely not domesticated. The kind of guy who’d actually look good in a morning beard. The kind of guy who smiled and that smile made you blink, because surely this guy couldn’t be human. No human could be that perfect.

Yeah, well, so much for waxing poetic over some skin and bones.

“You’re late, buster,” Holly accused, grabbing his arm as he winked at one of the models. “Come on, we’ve got like seven minutes to get you into your tux.”

“I beg your pardon?” the hunk said, although he did move along with her, which was a good thing because Holly was more than ready to try tossing him over her shoulder and personally stuffing him into the tux.

“Look, Harry, I’ve got no time for this. Strut on your own time, okay? We’ve got—Irene! How much time have we got?”

“Six minutes,” Irene called out, lining up more of the other models, each of whom had her own attendant with her, ready to fluff out the train on each gown before the model stepped on the runway. “Tux is ready to go, studs beside it on the chair.”

“Got it,” Holly said, turning around, tugging on Harry’s tie, beginning to unbutton the model’s shirt. She then dropped to her knees in front of him, began untying his shoes. “Come on, come on. No time for modesty, Harry. Kick off the shoes. Drop those pants. We’ve got to get you into this tux now.”

“You want me in a tux?”

Holly looked up at him, motioned for him to slip out of his suit jacket. Nice suit, probably Armani. Modeling must pay even better than she thought. Of course, with this guy’s face and body, he could probably command top dollar. “No, I want you in this tux, right here, right now. So strip!”

His smile invaded her solar plexus, gave it a punch that nearly sent her toppling over, onto the floor.

“Okay, since you asked. But isn’t there somewhere I can change?”

“Yes, there is. Right here. I told you, no time for modesty. Come on, I need you out of those pants.”

Harry looked around, saw that nobody really seemed to find anything odd going on and unzipped his suit pants. “Yeah, well, there’s a first time for everything, I guess.”

Holly paid him no attention, or at least as little attention as possible, because she had noticed that he had great legs. Straight, with unbumpy knees—she hated bumpy knees, because she had them—and with fine dark hair covering his tanned skin. The guy worked out, the guy probably laid in a tanning bed three days a week. The guy wore maroon cotton briefs…

She got up from her knees after holding out the tuxedo pants and watching as he stepped into them, and began fanning herself with one end of the feather boa. She really had to get a grip here.

“Eighth model on the runway. Four minutes, Holly!”

Harry was stuffing his pleated tuxedo shirt into the waistband of his pants as Holly worked to secure the black opal studs. He was still fastening his cuff links as Holly, now standing on a small stool, slid the tie under his lapels, then began tying it. “Hold still, damn it. This is hard enough as it is.”

Harry’s hands came up, clasped Holly’s. “Let me do that, okay,” he said, looking straight into her eyes. “I’ve done it before.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you have. Fill in the employment gaps as a professional escort, do you, Harry? You know, taking rich old ladies to the opera, stuff like that?”

“I have taken a few mature ladies to the opera, yes,” he answered, lifting his perfect chin as he neatly tied the bow tie. “Now, if you’ll help me into my jacket—nice tux, by the way—I’ll be ready for you to tell me what comes next.”

“What comes next,” Holly said, then hesitated, cleared her throat, because Harry Hampshire in a tuxedo was enough to make her choke on her own spit. “…what comes next is you take Jackie’s arm here, lead her out onto the runway and smile for the cameras.”

For a moment, just for a moment, Harry looked nonplussed. Scared, even. “You want me to do what?”

Holly rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. What did you think it meant when you signed up for this showing? That you’d just get to hide back here, scarf down some free eats? CNN is waiting, and you and Jackie are going to be all over that station on promos this time next week. Now, let Jackie take your arm—her gown’s sort of heavy so you have to help her navigate—and just walk on out there, looking at Jackie as if she’s a rare, juicy steak and you’ve been on a chicken diet all month, okay?”

Harry scratched his head, smiled. “You want me to walk out there with this lady, parade around in my tux, make a jackass out of myself for the cameras?”

“One minute!” Irene said, coming down the few steps from the backstage area of the runway, to stand beside Holly. “Is he ready? Oh my, yes. He certainly is. And I found shoes for Jackie.”

“Good,” Holly said, then watched as Jackie, keeping her head very straight so that the headpiece and cathedral-length veil didn’t topple her backward, laid her hand on Harry’s forearm. “Drooling is not allowed, Jackie,” she bit out, then ran her gaze over both of them, giving them one last check before sending them off. “Irene, weren’t there supposed to be bra inserts in this gown? She looks flat-chested.”

“I’ll get them,” Irene said as Jackie glared at Holly.

“Sorry,” Holly said, shrugging, knowing she was pointing out Jackie’s lack right in front of Harry. “Them that has often notice them that don’t. Guess Mother Nature put those few extra inches in your feet, right, Jackie?”

“Show time,” Irene said, fluffing out Jackie’s train and veil just as the model looked ready to pick Holly up by her ears, swing her around and launch her toward the snack table. “Let’s knock ’em dead!”

Holly stepped back to let Jackie and Harry pass by her up the few steps, then followed, ready to peek out through the break in the curtains once they’d closed behind the two models.

What a sight! The runway, lit romantically by overhead lights, and brightened by what seemed like thousands of photographer’s flashes, was filled with Julia Sutherland’s designs for what tomorrow’s brides should wear.

So many gorgeous gowns, fantastic fabrics. Julia hadn’t missed a trick. There were sheaths for the second-time bride, lacy confections for the young bride. There were white, ivory, peach, pink and even one lightest blue gown edged in white lace. Pearls glowed, sequins sparkled. Headpieces of every size and description were matched specifically to each gown. The heady scent of fresh flowers was everywhere as the grooms, each in their own designer tuxedo, made the perfect foils for the perfect brides.

And then, after the first mad explosion of camera shutters was over, Jackie began her walk down the runway, clad in the strapless, backless show gown that seemed to defy gravity, physics and the dress codes for correct bridal wear in at least two out of every three religious denominations.

The material was peau de soie, the lace Alencon, and the style definitely twenty-first century. The skirt of the low-waisted gown had been gathered, as Holly termed it, “six ways from Sunday,” pouffing out here, tucked in there, each tuck accented by a small bouquet of pink cabbage roses dotted with faux diamonds. The train went on for miles, the veil for a half-mile more.

This was not a gown to be worn by anyone other than a rock star marrying her tongue-pierced rock star lover, or the movie star tripping down the aisle with her sugar daddy beau. This was grand theater, and Jackie knew it. The press knew it.

And Harry knew he was being upstaged. Definitely. He and Jackie had come to the end of the runway, to stand, be photographed some more, when Harry broke from his “handy place to hang the bride” role and began to ad-lib.

He stepped away from Jackie, but maintained contact by holding onto one of her gloved hands. He gestured toward her, inviting applause from the audience—and it was substantial—then bowed over the model’s hand, raising it to his lips.

The crowd applauded again, giving its approval even as Holly, her head barely stuck through the break in the curtains, rolled her eyes and said, “Ham.”

But Harry wasn’t done. He smiled, winked at the audience, and then pulled the now startled Jackie close, bent her back over one arm and planted one on her.

“I’ll kill him,” Holly gritted out from between clenched teeth, letting the curtains fall back into place and stomping down the steps to take a quick drink of soda before she had to go out there, take Julia’s place and hopefully some bows.

“You’re on,” Irene said, motioning for her to get back up the steps. She grabbed the pincushion from Holly’s wrist, then snagged one end of the boa as Holly tugged in the other direction, spun in a small circle so that the boa unwrapped from her neck, and headed out through the curtains.

She couldn’t see a thing. Lightbulbs flashed everywhere, and tall models in huge gowns grabbed at her, hugged her, pushed her forward along the runway, until she got to the end.

Where she stood, dwarfed by Jackie on one side, Harry on the other. She had her speech all prepared, a little something about being honored to stand in for Julia today and thanking everyone for coming.

But the words escaped her as Harry grabbed her, flipped her back over his arm as he had done with Jackie and kissed her square on the mouth.

More lightbulbs flashing, more applause, a little laughter, a few catcalls…and the most overwhelming desire to kiss Harry Hampshire back, and wait a while before killing him.

He released her at last, set her back on her feet, and with the sweep of one hand indicated that everyone should applaud her. “Take a bow, or curtsy if you can manage it,” Harry instructed her, speaking around his smile. “Come on, little lady, you’ve earned it.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Holly yelled back at him over the applause, a major feat, as she did it while still smiling and without it looking as if she were speaking at all. “Are you nuts? What the hell did you think you were doing?”

“What? You mean you didn’t like that? I thought I was being very inventive. Bridal showing, kiss the bride. All that good stuff.”

“Yeah?” Holly said as they turned, Harry having tucked her arm in his as Jackie walked on Holly’s other side. “Well, I’m not the bride.”

“Well, I am,” Jackie pointed out as they neared the curtains once more. “Those of us that can often notice that about those who probably never will,” she then said, grinning triumphantly at getting some of her own back after Holly’s crack about her lack of cleavage.

“Why, you—” Holly began, then stopped, smiled, as a trio of photographers hopped up onto the runway, eager to take still more pictures. Holly hadn’t seen them coming, and now she was blinking furiously, trying to see something other than bright white lights ringed in blue dancing in front of her eyes. “Damn lights!”

“Don’t worry, just stick with me. I’ve got you,” Harry told her, guiding her through the curtains, down the steps to the dressing area. He sat her in a chair, then retrieved a can of soda and a cellophane pack of dry crackers from the snacks table. “Here you go. It isn’t much, but everything’s been pretty well picked over. Do you have to go back out there, face the reporters?”

Holly pressed the cool side of the soda can to her cheek, took a deep breath. “Yes, I do. I do have to go back out there. God, how does Julia manage it? I’m exhausted.”

She looked up at Harry, now able to see him again, and wondered if she’d only imagined that kiss he’d given her. Closed-mouth, granted, but it had sure packed a wallop. “I’ll be sure to give your name to the CNN people and everyone else. I suppose you’ve earned a mention in any segments or articles. That was your plan, wasn’t it?”

He frowned a little, making this really wonderful crease between his eyebrows—almost as if he might harbor a whiff of intelligence behind that gorgeous face. “You’re going to give them my name? What name?”

“Why, Harry Hampshire, of course. You have others you use professionally? Although I shouldn’t help you out, because you nearly gave me heart failure, showing up so late. That really isn’t professional, Harry. I could have complained to your agency, and you’d have a hard time getting another job.”

He looked at her for long moments, then sort of shook his head, as if trying to talk himself out of something. Then he said, “Let me make it up to you. You go do whatever it is you have to do with that thundering horde out there, and I’ll get out of this tuxedo. Then I’ll take you to dinner. My treat. After all, I made good money here today, right?”

Holly felt a flush running into her cheeks, and hated him for it. Go out with a male model? What did he take her for, a masochist? What woman wants to be seen with a man prettier than her? “No, I don’t think so. I don’t date—”

“I’ll bet,” Jackie said, clomping by in a huge aqua turtleneck sweater, tight black leggings and a pair of hiking boots, obviously on her way out as fast as she could go. She had a leather bag the size of Vermont slung over her shoulder, and still wore her full makeup. She looked like Glamour On A Hike.

“Give me fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops,” Holly said, Jackie’s taunt pushing her into accepting Harry’s invitation. “But I want fast food. Hamburger. Fries. A hot dog from a street cart. I don’t care. I just don’t think I could look at another hotel menu without screaming.”

Chapter Two

Colin Rafferty leaned into the mirror as he adjusted the Windsor knot on his maroon-and-navy striped tie.

Funny, he didn’t think he looked like a Harry Hampshire.

A Harry Hampshire would wear a silk ascot, or maybe carry a pipe, and have an ugly pug dog that brought him his slippers each evening when he returned home from his job in the moldy recesses of the trust department of the family bank.

Not that it mattered. Today he would be Harry Hampshire. Good old Harry ought to get out more anyway, live a little, see the sights…have some fun with Little Big Mouth, or whatever Julia’s employee’s name happened to be.

“Hey, excuse me, please,” he said, stepping away from the mirror as he saw a semifamiliar face go by. “What’s your boss’s name?”

“Julia Sutherland,” the woman answered. “What else would it be?”

Colin shook his head. “No, I meant the little one—the one with the motormouth.”

“Holly?” Irene Collier dropped her chin slightly, “Oops, she wouldn’t like it much if she found out I could identify her from that particular description. Still, you’re looking for Holly? Holly Hollis. She’s number two man—woman—in Sutherland’s. She holds us all together.”

“Really?” Colin answered, one expressive eyebrow raised. “Well, I don’t know about that, Ms.—?”

“Irene, you may call me Irene.”

“Irene,” Colin repeated, smiling his best “I know I’m bad but you love me anyway” smile. “As I was saying, I don’t know about that, Irene. I may not have been here long, but I’m willing to bet today’s pay that this whole thing would come tumbling down around everyone’s ears if it weren’t for your calm head and steady hand.”

Now Irene’s face turned red, straight up to the thick salt-and-pepper bangs on her forehead. “Well, aren’t you perceptive. Okay, what do you want?”

“Nothing much, Irene. Just a little information on our Ms. Hollis?”

Irene hugged the ever-present clipboard to her breasts. “Look, I know she was angry, but it’s over now, and forgotten. She isn’t going to report you to your agency. In fact, I’ll bet she suggests to Ms. Sutherland that we use you again. You were a real hit out there.”

“No, that wasn’t what I was going to ask you about, Irene,” Colin told her. “Ms. Hollis has agreed to join me for a meal, and I thought perhaps I should know a little more about her. That’s all.”

Her eyes opening wider, Irene said, “You two have a date? No, you don’t. Holly would never—never mind.”

“Ms. Hollis doesn’t date the models?”

“Ms. Hollis,” Irene said, rolling her eyes, “thinks male models are a curse and an abomination. Actually she just says they’re too pretty and bigheaded for their own good.”

“So, what you’re saying, Irene, is that if I want to score points with Ms. Hollis, I should go find a bag to put over my head?”

“Oh, you’re charming,” Irene said, the blush still burning in her cheeks. “She’s going to hate you. But, hey, before you go, I want to check through my head shots to find yours, go over the information on the back with you to make sure it’s current. We will use you again, I’m sure of it.”

Colin slipped into his suit jacket, ran a hand over his collar to be sure it was in place. “Oh, there’s no need to do that. It’s current. Just send the check to the agency listed on the back. Ah, here comes Ms. Hollis now. Thanks for the information, Irene.”

“Sure, anytime. Good luck…” Irene said, already searching through a thick folder of eight-by-ten glossies, looking for Harry Hampshire’s photograph.

Colin caught up with Holly as she was thanking the dressers and other backstage help. “Purse, coat and out of here,” he whispered into her ear as he took hold of her elbow.

“Hey! What’s the rush?” Holly asked him even as he began steering her toward the door. “I’ve got to talk to Irene, make arrangements for meetings tomorrow. Go find a corner and sit in it, okay?”

“I can’t,” Colin told her, doing his best to look physically ill. “I’m hypoglycemic. I need meat, protein.” He held out one hand, spread his fingers. “Look. See that? I’m starting to get the shakes.”

“Oh, for crying out—okay, okay. Maybe it’s nice to know you’re not quite Mr. Perfect. My coat’s the navy one over there on the rack. The one that’s shorter than all the others. My purse is looped over the hanger. Just let me talk to Irene for a—hey!”

Colin dragged her along to the coatrack, grabbed the navy wool coat, snagged the large tan purse and aimed Holly at the door precisely five seconds before Irene, paging through her packet of photographs, lifted her head and called out, “Hey! Where’d he go? Hey, did anyone see where that good-looking model went?”

Irene’s question was answered by the laughter of two dozen good-looking models….

“So, may I call you Holly? Irene said your name’s Holly.”

“Sure,” Holly said, her head still bent into a strong autumn breeze on the windy streets of Manhattan.

“Okay, and you can call me Harry.”

“Well, duh,” Holly sniped, shooting him a quick look. “I wasn’t going to call you Mr. Hampshire, if you’re going to call me Holly. God, that’s a lot of H’s, isn’t it?”

“I think we’ve pretty much cornered the market, yes,” Colin said, then sort of sighed as Holly bent her head once more, kept walking at a fast clip that had more to do with getting her where she was going than taking a leisurely stroll and getting to know each other better as they walked along. “Are you in some sort of hurry, Holly?” he asked as she couldn’t seem to stand still at the corner, waiting for the light to change so they could head across the avenue. She kept looking up at the light, sort of dancing in place.

“You’re hypoglycemic,” she reminded him. “You’ve got to eat. Last thing I want is for you to keel over here on the pavement. I’d get trampled by all the women wanting to give you mouth-to-mouth.”

“Oh, right,” Colin said, smiling slightly, trying to look sick. This was pretty hard to do, considering that the last time he could remember being ill was in the fourth grade, when he’d broken out in spots and couldn’t play the second king in the school’s Christmas pageant. He’d always thought he’d missed a great opportunity to launch a stage career.

“So, are you feeling any better?” Holly asked as the light turned and they headed across the intersection along with half the population of Manhattan.

“A little better. I…I, um, must have just needed some air.”

“But you’re still hungry?”

“Still hungry,” he answered with a smile as Holly turned into a small restaurant tucked between two up-scale shops.

He looked around the restaurant, saw that customers put their orders in and collected them at the same service bar, then carried them to one of the small tables lining one side of the long, narrow room. “Hamburger? Mustard and ketchup? You go find a table, and I’ll bring everything to you.”

“No, you go find a table and sit down before you fall down. I’ll order for both of us.” She held out her hand, palm up. “You’re paying.”

“I admire a woman who can still accept money from a man, even while she’s ordering him around.” Colin fished in his front pocket, pulled out a twenty. “Hamburger, fries, ice water and no onions. Just ketchup and mustard. I’m hoping to get lucky later, maybe steal a kiss from a lovely lady.”

Holly took the twenty carefully, using only the tips of her fingers to touch a corner of the bill. “Yeah, well, good for you. Me, I’m having onions.”

Colin opened his mouth to say something, he wasn’t sure what, but Holly was already gone, running to get to the counter before a group of six men who had just come in behind them. That left Colin to locate and commandeer the last free table in the restaurant.

He sat down, used a paper napkin to wipe crumbs from the cracked and scarred wooden surface of the table, then propped his elbows on the wood, rested his chin in one hand.

What in hell was he doing here? Hell, what the hell was he doing, period?

Colin hadn’t been back to the States for more than a quick visit in nearly three years, enjoying his job setting up one of his second cousin Max Rafferty’s overseas holdings, sticking with it until it was up and running properly. Since that holding was in Paris, being overseas hadn’t been much of a sacrifice, although he did miss Max’s second wedding to Julia, and had only met her later, when she and Max had flown to Paris for a belated honeymoon.

He’d liked Julia immediately, as anyone who could keep Maximillian Rafferty in line had to be one very terrific lady, and his first stop after going through customs at JFK had been to drop in at the Rafferty condo on Park Avenue. Max had already left the building, and the housekeeper had told Colin that Julia wasn’t home, either, so he’d gone off to his hotel, unpacked…and saw the notice for the Sutherland showing in the main ballroom of that same hotel.

A few smiles, a few General U.S. Grant’s greasing the right palms, and Colin had been directed to the staging area, where he’d hoped to surprise Julia.

Okay, so that’s how he’d gotten there. Now he had to figure out how he’d gotten from there to here, here being sitting in a dingy dive, waiting for his first uniquely American hamburger in too many months.

He was also sitting here waiting for Ms. Holly Hollis, just about the least likely woman he’d ever thought he’d be attracted to, even notice.

But there was something about her. Maybe he’d always harbored a secret fantasy for being bossed around by a pint-size female dictator. Maybe it was the way she’d looked as she stood on a stool to tie his tie, that crazy pink boa wrapped around her neck as she blew at the feathers to keep them out of her mouth, her eyes crossing slightly as she tried to get the knot set correctly.

Or maybe he just wanted to get a little of his own back because she’d mistaken him for some no-show boob named Harry Hampshire. A male model? Did she really think he was a male model?

Good old Harry was in for a surprise, when he got his paycheck for a day’s work he didn’t do. That was rather amusing. What wasn’t amusing was that someone might see him on that television show next week, going by the name of Harry Hampshire, parading around a runway in a tux, kissing women.

He’d have to tell everyone he’d lost a bet. Or won it.

Colin half stood up as Holly approached, balancing a full tray holding several paper-wrapped hamburgers, two bags of French fries and a pair of plastic bottles of spring water.

“Here, let me help you,” he said, taking the tray, placing it on the tabletop. Then he held out his hand. “My change?”

“Change? I had to kick in five bucks. What do you mean, change. We’re in Manhattan, Harry. The lousy water cost three bucks a bottle.”

“Sorry,” Colin said, fishing into his pocket for another bill. “I guess I lost my head.”

“Along with your watch,” Holly said as she unwrapped a hamburger, lifted the top of the bun to check for onions, then passed the thing over to him. “I’m waiting, you know. What excuse are you going to give me for almost not making the showing?”

Colin shrugged. Keeping as close as possible to the truth would probably be best. “I’m sorry about that, Holly. I just got in from Paris this morning. There was a slight holdup in Customs.”

Holly sat back in her chair and glared at him. “You just got back from Paris? And your agent accepted a booking for the same day? What is he, nuts?”

Colin considered launching into a long story about having been bumped from one plane only to have the second develop engine trouble before they took off, but decided he’d like to get the whole subject gone as quickly as possible, before he slipped up. “Yeah, that’s my agent. Nuts. So, do you live here in Manhattan?”

Holly held up her index finger as she finished chewing, swallowing, her first huge bite of her hamburger. “Um…no, I don’t. I’d go nuts myself, if I had to live in Manhattan.”

“You don’t like big cities?”

“Oh, I love them. I love Manhattan. I’d just go nuts here. Visiting museums, taking in all the Broadway and off-Broadway and off-off Broadway shows. Shopping, lots of shopping. Vintage clothing, old books, and we won’t even talk about the diamond district. I’d end up being as late for work as you were today, and get myself fired in a month. I mean, a person could make a career out of seeing big cities. Like Paris. I’ll bet you did as much sight-seeing as you could?”

“I managed to see a little of the city,” Colin answered, reaching for a French fry. “But I sure missed these. How come Americans make better French fries?”

“We use older cooking oil, and more of it,” Holly supplied, smiling. “Seriously, you missed American food?”

“Seriously, I did. So, where do you live if it’s not in Manhattan?”

“Pennsylvania,” Holly said, unscrewing the cap on her bottled water. “Allentown, to be precise. Did you know that the lead actress in 42nd Street was supposedly from Allentown? The city’s used in a lot of songs, books, TV shows. I don’t have the faintest idea why. It’s just a town. My town, but just a town. Still, with all the new highways, I can be in Manhattan in two hours, so it’s still convenient for Julia to check on the plant, or for me to come up here to visit her.”

“Julia? That would be Julia Sutherland?”

“Mm-hmm,” Holly said, nodding, as her mouth was full once more. For a little person, she sure could eat, and didn’t seem to mind letting him know she had a healthy appetite. He bet that Jackie, the model, hadn’t eaten an entire hamburger in years, and Holly was already unwrapping her second.

Colin picked up a paper napkin, reached across the table to wipe some ketchup off Holly’s chin. “Irene says you’re Julia’s second in command.”

“Irene says a lot, doesn’t she?” Holly said, clearly bristling. “What is this? A couple of hamburgers in exchange for whispering in Julia’s ear that you want to be headlined in her next showing? Maybe do some print ads in her catalog, even on her Web site?”

Colin sat back, scratched the side of his nose. “What kind of question is that? Do you have that low an opinion of me, or of yourself? Why couldn’t I have asked you to dinner because I thought we might enjoy each other’s company?”

“Yeah, right,” Holly said, poking through the French fries on the hunt for a dark one. “So what’s next? You want to take a walk in the park, hold hands, maybe catch a movie?”

“Okay,” Colin heard himself say as he crumpled the hamburger wrappings into a ball and stood up, picked up the tray. “The park first, while it’s still got people other than muggers walking the paths.”

Holly tipped back her head, looking up at him. He smiled down at her, liking the way she looked at him as if he’d suddenly grown another head. “You really want to make this a real date? Why? I’ve been rude, obnoxious…”

“Don’t forget bossy. Although I have to admit it, I really liked it when you told me to take off my pants.”

Holly stood up, shrugged into her coat, then grabbed one last French fry from the tray. “I didn’t say that.”

“Yes, you did,” Colin corrected her. “And you were on your knees when you said it.”

“Well, I didn’t mean it,” Holly told him quickly, following him back out onto the pavement. “I mean, I didn’t mean it that way.”

Colin stopped, turned around, put his hands on her shoulders. “I know,” he said, then leaned down, kissed the tip of her nose. “Besides, it was the pink boa that got to me. You looked like you were playing dress-up, a little kid in a land of giant dolls.”

“I can’t help being short,” Holly told him as he took her hand, led her across the street and into Central Park. “All us Hollises are short. Mom, Dad, my sister, Helen, my brothers Herb and Harry.”

“You’ve got a brother named Harry? That’s a coincidence, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s just another H. We’re all H’s. Hillary, Howard, Herb, Harry, Helen and Holly Hollis. Looked great on Christmas cards, but that’s about it. I swear Helen married John Barker just to get rid of the H. I mean, why else would anyone marry a guy who bowls every Thursday night, wearing a shirt that says Bow-wow Barker on the back?”

Colin stopped at the entrance to the Park, threw back his head and laughed. “I can’t believe it. Your family almost makes mine sound normal.”

“And it’s not?” Holly asked, pulling him over to a street vendor selling ice-cream sandwiches. “Dessert, and this time it’s my treat,” she said, reaching into her purse and pulling out her wallet.

“My family? Well, no, it’s not. Not in the usual sense, anyway. Mom’s an archeologist, and Dad’s a professional fisherman. No kidding, there are professional fishermen. I’m their only child, probably because they haven’t really lived together very much for thirty years, although they’re still married. Dad’s in Alaska somewhere right now, fishing, and Mom’s in Egypt, digging somewhere near the pyramids.”

“Who raised you?” Holly asked, handing him a rather limp ice-cream sandwich.

“My great-aunt and uncle,” Colin said, then quickly changed the subject again, because Max’s parents had taken care of him when he wasn’t in some boarding school. He didn’t know how much Holly knew about Max’s home life, and didn’t want to take a chance on giving her clues she might follow.

“I would have hated that,” Holly said as they walked into the park. “We’re just this big, noisy family that still gets together every Sunday for dinner. Kids running all over the place, Dad falling asleep in his favorite chair, Mom asking me when I’m going to get married.”

“Haven’t found anyone worth losing your H for, huh?” Colin asked, licking at the side of his hand as vanilla ice cream threatened to run into his cuff.

“I’m not really looking,” Holly told him shortly. “I’ve got my career, my own apartment, I’m not thirty yet. I’m in no hurry.”

“Well, I’m two years past thirty, but I’m in no hurry, either.” He touched her hand again as they walked along, then took it in his, liking the way her flesh felt pressed against his. “Now that we’ve established that neither of us is chasing a wedding ring, what else do we have in common?”

Holly shrugged, avoiding his eyes. “We both like greasy French fries?”

“Right. Obviously the basis for a firm friendship. And we both like walking in the park as the sun goes down. That’s three, not including the hamburgers, or the ice-cream sandwiches. Now, if we share a taste for police chase type thriller movies, we may regret that you got onions on that hamburger. Or that I didn’t. There is that, isn’t there?”

Holly stopped, looked up at him. “What are you doing?” she asked with the honesty he’d come to recognize, and fear just a little, considering he was being about as dishonest as he could be without wearing a fake mustache and dark glasses.

“What am I doing? I don’t know, Holly. I just like you. You’re cute, you’re prickly, you don’t seem to care whether you impress me or not. I like it.”

“Oh, I get it now. Women fall all over you, don’t they? You have to beat them away with a stick. The male model Adonis. That face, that body—that ego!”

“It all can be a burden, yes. Especially the ego,” Colin said, sighing theatrically, trying to hide a smile. “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.”

“Oh, Gawd!” Holly exclaimed in disgust, letting go of his hand, turning and walking back toward the entrance to the park, Colin hot on her heels.

“Hey, Holly—wait! I was just kidding around,” he said, catching up to her. “And don’t tell me you didn’t want to accept my dinner invitation because I’m a male model, because I won’t buy it.”

“That is not why I tried to turn you down,” Holly protested, standing at the corner, tapping her foot as she waited for the light to change.

“Oh? Really? Then tell me, how many male models have you dated? You’d have to have dated some, right, being around them all the time?”

“I have never—oh, okay, maybe I have. One.” She rolled her eyes. “Three. But that was plenty! Talking about themselves all night long, then having to go home early to get their beauty sleep. Using me to get closer to Julia, to be considered for showings, print ads, you name it. Can’t pass a mirror without stopping, checking their hair. Women all but pushing me out of the way to get close to them.”

“Have I done any of that?” Colin asked her as they crossed the street together.

“No,” Holly admitted, making a face. “But you were at the table while the girl at the counter pumped me about you, wanted to know if I was your sister. Do you know how insulting that is? And that girl back there, in the crosswalk. She was going the other way, then stopped dead in the middle of the street, turned around to follow you. She’s still following us. You turn heads, Harry, don’t you know that?”

Colin turned his own head, looked at the woman walking behind him. Pretty, about five foot six, long legs, silky blond hair. She smiled at him. He smiled back. Then realized what he was doing.

“You smiled at her, didn’t you?” Holly asked as they continued walking along the pavement, in the direction of the Waldorf-Astoria.

“Well, of course I did. She smiled at me. I’m not impolite.”

“No, of course you’re not. And you can’t help it. You’re handsome. Drop-dead gorgeous. I’m walking with you, but I might as well be invisible. Models. Male, female. They’re just larger than life, too pretty to be real. And you’re better than most of them, Harry, no question. I just figure I can have enough of an inferiority complex on my own. I don’t need competition from my date.”

“So you don’t date models because you think they make you invisible, because you’re not some too skinny, plastic, pretty model?”

Holly stopped, stepped in front of him. “I’m not that shallow,” she told him angrily.

“No, you’re not. I never said you were.”

Holly closed her eyes, shook her head. “I’m sorry. You asked me why I don’t date models, and I got carried away, got ridiculous. I don’t date models, Harry, because I dated one for six months, only to figure out he was in love with himself, not me. So, handsome as you are, nice as you seem to be, and much as I’m attracted to you, this is our first and only date. There, does that answer your question?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Colin said, nodding his head. Then he smiled. “So, you admit you’re attracted to me?”

“Oh Lord,” Holly said on a sigh. “I’m going in now, Harry. Good night.”

“Wait,” he said, following her. For a little woman, with short legs, she sure could cover ground in a hurry. “If we’re only going to have one date, don’t you think we could make it last longer than an hour?” He blocked her progress, put his hands on her shoulders, did his best to look comic and soulful at the same time. “Then I’ll always have my memories.”

“Your memories. You’re kidding, right?”

“Absolutely,” Colin agreed, smiling, returning her smile. “Come on, it’s not quite dark yet. Let’s walk some more.”

“Only so you can have memories,” Holly told him as they stepped back out onto the pavement.

They walked along, first hand in hand, then arm in arm, discussing the merits and plot flaws of all the Bruce Willis Die Hard movies.

Colin told her about Paris, and Holly told him about her mother who, according to that good woman, still said novenas that her youngest daughter would find a good man, settle down, have a half-dozen kids, forget “this career business.”

Colin told her about the time he’d traveled around Europe after college, with only a backpack and his “hitching finger,” seeing the sights, touring museums, sleeping in youth hostels, getting pie-eyed during Oktoberfest in Germany.

Holly countered with a tale about Girl Scout Camp, and how she’d taken one look at the wooden outhouse and phoned home, demanding her father immediately come and get her. “I can’t imagine traveling through Europe with only a backpack. I like my luxuries, and am not afraid to admit it.”

He told her about his parents’ den, the one with trophy fish on the walls and ancient bits of broken pottery on the tables.

She told him about her mother’s collection of ceramic salt and pepper shakers and her dad’s pride in having every copy of National Geographic ever printed.

They laughed. They argued politics, but only because Colin deliberately disagreed with her for a while, as he got a kick out of the way she looked when she got indignant. They stopped at a small delicatessen and shared a corned beef on rye sandwich between them while the conversation skipped from current events, to books they’d read, to why all boy bands should be bound, gagged and made to promise never to sing again until they could find one note and stick to it.

As they turned yet another corner, and the Waldorf-Astoria was in front of them yet again, Colin had already been mentally kicking himself for about an hour over his deception.

What had started out as a lark had turned into something more. He liked Holly Hollis. He really liked her. She was nothing like any woman he’d ever dated. Cute. Honest. Funny. Short.

And he’d lied to her, continued lying to her. About who he was, how he’d come to be at the showing. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had time to confess, although explaining why he’d gone along with her assumption that he was Harry Hampshire, male model, was still a bit of a mystery to him.

“Well, here we are again,” Holly said as they stood just outside the busy entrance to the hotel.

“Yes, here we are,” Colin said, looking up, knowing his suite looked out over the front of the hotel.

“I really should go in now,” Holly told him, still holding his hands as she faced him. “And you have to catch a cab, right? At least you’ll have no problem doing that.”

Colin looked at the doorman who stood with a whistle poised between his lips. “Nope. No problem doing that,” he said, wondering how he’d tell the cab driver that he wanted to go once around the block. There had to be a big tip involved with that kind of cab ride.

“I had a very good time,” Holly told him, avoiding his eyes.

“So did I. Look, Holly—I have to tell you something.”

She looked up at him, frowned. “No, you don’t. I have to tell you something. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I gave you such a hard time. It wasn’t fair of me to automatically not like you because you’re a male model. Because you’re so damn gorgeous,” she added with a little smile.

“Yes, about that—”

“I mean, it’s not your fault you’re gorgeous. What are you supposed to do? Put a paper bag over your head?”

He grinned. “Actually I had considered it…”

“Please, don’t interrupt while I’m apologizing, okay? Why not be a model? Why not think about getting into movies? You’d give Tom Cruise a run for his money, that’s for sure.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Colin said, stepping closer to her. “But the thing is, what happened today was sort of a mistake.”

“Oh,” Holly said, lowering her eyes, dropping her chin. “Okay. A mistake. I understand.”

He put his index finger under her chin, lifted her head slightly. “No, you don’t. I’m not saying our date was a mistake. I’m trying to tell you that the showing was a mistake. I never should have—”

“Upstaged the gowns?” Holly asked rhetorically, nodding her head. “I agree. But it was inspired, really. We’re going to get some good airtime on that kiss.”

“Which one?” Colin asked, momentarily distracted. “The one for the bride, or the one for the lady of the hour—you? Personally I liked the second one best. I never held someone who felt so small, so light in my arms.”

“That’s because you’d just gotten done flipping Jackie over your arm. Her gown and veil alone probably weigh more than me. But I’m sorry, I keep interrupting you. What are you trying to tell me? What are you sorry about?”

It wasn’t going to work. The moment the truth was out, she was going to hit him, kick him, or just burst into tears and run away. He couldn’t let her run away, even if he deserved the hit or the kick. What he had to do now was soften her up, make her more willing to listen to him. Cloud her judgment a little, until he could make her understand.

“I’m sorry I didn’t kiss you twice,” he heard himself say, and the next thing he knew he’d gathered Holly into his arms, and his mouth was on hers.

He could sense when she went up on her tiptoes in order to be able to slide her arms around his neck, and he bowed his body slightly that he could feel the length of her pressed more closely to his body. She was little, yes, but she was all woman. Soft, and curvy, and with lips that knew how to be kissed, how to kiss in return.

Someone exiting the hotel, dragging a large piece of pull-along luggage, bumped heavily against Colin’s leg, and the next thing he knew Holly was standing in front of him, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed. “I have to go in now,” she said, then pulled a card from her purse and handed it to him. “Here. I’m breaking my own rule. Call me, please?”

“But wait—” Colin called out as she turned and actually began to run into the hotel. “I still haven’t told you—oh, damn it!” He could see Holly overtop the dozen or more tourists trying to move themselves and their baggage into the hotel, all of them following a tour guide holding up a flag in order to keep the group together. The elevator door stood open, and she rushed inside. “Holly, I—”

“Can I get you a cab, sir?” the doorman asked, and Colin glared at him.

“No, thanks,” he said. “I’ll walk.” And then he followed the tourists into the hotel.

Chapter Three

Holly sat on the thick Persian carpet the day after the showing, holding young Maximillian Rafferty, II—or Max Deuce, as his father sometimes called him—and looked at her good friend and employer. “Julia, it was fantastic. We’ve got orders pouring in, the press has been very kind. I think it was the snazzy hors d’ oeuvres. We served great stuff this time, even if my own taste runs more to little hot dogs in pieces of pastry. I actually saw the reporter from Women’s Wear Daily tipping a plate of the shrimp-on-a-stick into her purse.”

Julia laughed as she pushed a lock of her sleek burnt cinnamon hair behind one ear. “I wish I could have been there, and the little guy seems to be fine today, but I just couldn’t leave him yesterday after we got back from the doctor’s office. This mom stuff is all-consuming.”

Holly looked around the room, furnished in comfortable overstuffed couches, fine antiques and a half dozen colorful infant toys. The condo was huge, two floors and magnificent. It was also a home, a well-loved, lived-in home. “You’re doing a bang-up job, Julia. And Max is still so cockeyed over this little guy that I’m surprised he hasn’t had him surgically attached to his hip.”

“He talked about it,” Julia said with a smile as she sipped hot tea from a china cup. “And it doesn’t hurt that Max-Two here was born on his daddy’s birthday. I don’t know if I get any credit here at all.”

“Two Leos against one Scorpion,” Holly said, shaking her head. “Julia, you don’t stand a chance. Although I guess you’re going to try for at least one compatible Pisces or Cancer to even things out.”

“Oh, definitely. I’m not a slave to this astrology stuff, but I have to admit it, it works on Max. He can be ready to fly into one of his tempers, or go into a pout, and all I have to do is sling a compliment his way and he starts purring like a kitten. Men. They’re so…”

“Impossible,” Holly ended, then kissed the top of the baby’s head. “Except you, of course. You’re wonderful.”

The baby giggled, pressed his head back against Holly’s breasts, blinked his big blue eyes at her.

“Did you see that? Only five months old, and already showing signs of the true Leo. Compliment them and they’ll follow you anywhere. And drool on you,” Holly added, swiping at little Max’s chin with a corner of the soft cloth Julia had tossed over her shoulder when she took Max, telling her that it was either keep a drool cloth handy or be covered with damp spots on her clothing.

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