You Call This Romance!?

3

IN LOS ANGELES ALONE, forget Pasadena and Malibu and all the other contiguous communities, the ratio of travel agents to customers had to be one to ten, and he’d somehow picked the one who made him look at what he did for a living and find it detestable.

Creating an image for a client, a job he was good at, could be described two ways. One was simply bringing out the best in a person.

His father had needed nothing more than some decent promotion. The guy had been a great actor. He’d provided a comfortable living for the family doing bit parts. But he’d never made it to the big time. At last he’d given up trying, ended up teaching drama at a small Midwestern college and acting with the local community theater. He was the reason Cabot had become a publicist in the first place. He’d wanted to do for actors what he wished someone had done for his father.

Nothing detestable about that.

The other way of describing image making was that you were inventing a whole new person out of lies. Tippy was invented.

Cabot realized he was chewing his nails. Twenty-five dollars for the essential executive’s manicure these days and he was chewing his nails. He needed to do something with his hands. Of course, he was driving with his hands, but in L.A. that didn’t count. He had to call Tippy, but after he’d punched her number into his car phone, he was hands-free again.

“I want to take you to dinner,” he said as soon as he’d gotten her on the line.

“Shoo-uh,” Tippy said, ending with a big popping sound. “Where? You gonna get a photographer? Get us in Variety?”

“That depends,” Cabot said mysteriously.

“Well, I got a new dress and I wanna be sure we’re going someplace worth wearing it.” She sounded cross.

“Wear it. We’re going to Spago.” The restaurant was always packed with celebrities. Incentive. That’s what he needed here. Motivation.

She cheered up right away. Of course, he also heard the ominous sound of a lighter flicking on and the whoosh of breath that meant she’d inhaled a long, satisfying drag from a cigarette.

It would not be an easy evening.

Several hours later he was seated across the table from her. Her streaky blond hair was fluffed out in a cloud that reminded him way too much of Faith’s hair and her skin had just the right degree of tan, golden and smooth. Her lipstick was pale. Her fingernails were pale, too, and perfect. She was utterly gorgeous in a dress made of two or three or—well, one too few layers of blue chiffon that made her the focal point of the entire room of beautiful people.

The waiter hovered. Cabot ordered drinks. The second they arrived, Tippy, with extraordinary grace, pulled out a cigarette and held it up expectantly.

“We’re in a no-smoking section,” Cabot said.

“What the hell were you doing putting us in the no-smoking section?” Her face was sweet. Her tone wasn’t.

“You need to get in training,” Cabot said.

“What for?” She tapped the cigarette on the table.

“For the dry run. We’re booked into a no-smoking hotel.”

“So switch hotels.”

“Can’t. They’re all full. It’s the weekend before Valentine’s Day.”

“Well, screw ’em,” Tippy said. “Put on the pressure. Pay somebody a little cash under the table.” Her face was still sweet. She really was one great actress. Only Cabot could see the tic starting to twitch in the corner of her left eye.

“I’m working with a travel agent,” Cabot said. “I don’t think she’s the put-on-the-pressure, a-little-cash-under-the-table kind of person.”

“Screw her too.” She punctuated each word with a jab of her swizzle stick, the one that had come with her extra-dry straight-up martini and had once had olives impaled on it.

Cabot felt a hard red flush of anger rising to his face and squelched it by sheer strength of will. “You don’t want to do that. She’s one of your biggest fans.”

“She is?” Sudden interest gleamed in the baby blues.

“Absolutely. She sees you as the saint, the martyr you played in Kiss. Now Tippy,” he said indulgently, “a big part of my job is to establish your image in the media minds. Your job is to maintain that image. Have I got this right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, this travel agent believes in your image. She booked the no-smoking hotel by accident, I think.” Here Cabot paused for a moment, reflecting that Faith Sumner probably did a good many things by accident. “She’d be deeply, deeply disappointed in you if I told her you couldn’t make this one little sacrifice, not smoking for a weekend. You might lose a fan. You can’t afford to lose a fan. Not even one.” This was a subtle reminder that she hadn’t made it to the big time yet. There was still room for a little humility, a little accommodation.

She contemplated him coolly, never losing the sweet smile. “I think you got a little thing for this travel agent,” she said.

The color rose again to Cabot’s face. “Absolutely—”

“You’re not thinkin’ about backin’ out on me, are you? Like Josh?”

“—not. I’ve made a commitment…to your career.” He added after a brief hesitation, “And I intend to follow through on it.”

“That’s a promise.”

“Yes.”

“Scout’s honor?”

“Scout’s honor.”

She gazed at him. “Okay, then.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, keep the friggin’ no-smokin’ hotel.”

“Thanks,” Cabot said gratefully. “I promise you we’ll have a decent time. I’ll stock the room with chocolates and—”

“Whaddya mean ‘we’?”

“Pardon?”

“If you think for one minute I’m goin’ on that dry run with you you’re dumber than I figured. Not smoke for a whole weekend? Fageddaboudit.”

“Tippy…” Cabot looked up to see a waiter hovering over them. “Salads,” he said, “one Caesar, one Cobb, and bring me the wine list. No, just bring us a bottle of something. I don’t suppose you have any hemlock stashed away in the back.”

“Is that a California, sir, or a French…”

“He was kidding,” Tippy said, melting the waiter with a long, long look, then turning the look on Cabot.

It didn’t faze him. He glared at her from across the table. “You expect me to do the dry run alone? Pose for the video by myself?”

“You’d look precious in my going-away suit,” Tippy said, “but no, this is the movies, baby. You take a double.”

SO HERE HE WAS AGAIN, back at Wycoff Worldwide and feeling like a fool. But this time, what he had to do wasn’t the kind of thing you could do on the phone.

Just to show himself, and her, that it wasn’t anything about her that had brought him back, he gave her a scowl as he walked right past her and straight to the head honcho’s office.

He peered in. Wycoff, a portly man with a bulbous nose, sat behind his desk leafing through travel brochures, like a man planning his own vacation. “Harrumph,” Cabot said.

Wycoff lifted his head, but he didn’t look happy to see Cabot standing there. “May I help you?” he said in an unhelpful tone.

“Yes.” Cabot strode in and sat down, refusing to be put off. “Name’s Cabot Drennan. Your agent Faith Sumner is working with me on my honeymoon arrangements and I…” He paused, fascinated by the dull-red color suffusing Wycoff’s face.

“Say no more. I’ll set you up at once with Miss Eldridge. Miss Eldridge has been with me for thirty years, and she—”

“I don’t want Miss Eldridge. I want Miss Sumner.” Feeling that a dull red flush might be climbing his face, he added hastily, “to go on working with me.”

“You do? She hasn’t somehow booked your cruise on a Russian oil tanker or found you a hotel where an Elderhostel is in session and the food is cafeteria style?”

“Of course not,” Cabot snapped. The man was a pig. He disliked him intensely. “She’s been terrific,” he lied. “Over-the-top. If you had a few more agents like her…”

Now Wycoff blanched and Cabot decided he’d gone too far. He’d only known Faith for two days, but already he could tell he didn’t want more than one of her in his life. Although having her in his life would be…What am I saying? What am I thinking?

“What I mean is,” he said, starting over, “that I have a request that might sound, I mean right at the beginning, until you understand the concept, sort of unusual.” Since Wycoff’s eyes were darting right and left as if he were looking for help, Cabot barreled right ahead. “I want Ms. Sumner to take the honeymoon with me first.”

Wycoff lumbered up out of his chair. “Mr. Brandon, I must—”

“Drennan,” said Cabot.

“Mr. Drennan.” Wycoff wasn’t a whole lot taller standing up than he had been sitting down. That’s what Cabot would call short legs. “What you suggest is absolutely out of the question. It’s indecent. I could get sued.”

For a minute there, Cabot had thought Wycoff actually cared about Faith, in which case, he’d try to forgive the man for being a pig. Now he didn’t have to. “What I mean is that I want her there to check out the arrangements in person, on site. It’s called ‘advancing’ the event,” he added in case Wycoff needed a buzz word to make things clear. “It would be like standing in for the bride, the way a maid of honor does at the wedding rehearsal. I’d want her to take her complaints to the hotel staff, smooth things out before the actual honeymoon.”

Wycoff was thinking about it. It was a good sign.

“My intended is a film star,” Cabot threw into the silence. “Wonderful woman, but you know how temperamental actresses can be. I just want things to go well.”

“A movie star?”

Those were magic words in Los Angeles, maybe anywhere. “Yes. We haven’t made the announcement yet, or I’d tell you her name.”

The man’s mouth was clearly watering.

“Agent Sumner could do my PR firm a great service,” Cabot said solemnly. “But of course I wanted to get your approval first. Then you can talk to her, see how she feels about it.”

“I assure you, Mr. Drennan, that if I’m convinced it’s a good idea, Miss Sumner will do as I ask.”

“I thought that might be the case,” Cabot said, and settled back, satisfied.

FAITH SAT at her desk staring at the Focus, Faith screen saver and contemplating the loss of yet another job. It was the only reason Cabot could possibly have for bending Mr. Wycoff’s ear.

Once again she’d failed. Where had she gone wrong? Because however well suited she seemed to be for a job, something always went wrong.

Succeeding as a travel agent at Wycoff Worldwide was important to her. The time Hope and Charity had put into coaching her and designing screen savers and mouse pads, that alone was enough to make this job important, to say nothing of the fact that they’d paid for her training.

And she was the oldest. According to the current literature on birth order, she was supposed to be the leader, the competitive one, the…

“Faith!”

…one to carry on the family work ethic, the one most likely to…

“Faith Sumner!”

…walk into Mr. Wycoff’s office and get fired. As she staggered forward on leaden feet, she discovered that the feet were wearing unmatched shoes. They were the same color, pearl gray to match her suit. It was the heel height that was different. This meant she’d also taken a mismatched pair to the shoe shop for resoling, which meant that now she’d have to take these two shoes in as well, which would cost twice as much, and the higher-heeled pair hadn’t even needed resoling.

Leveling herself by walking on one toe and one heel, she stuck her head through the doorway of Mr. Wycoff’s office. “You called?” Her knees buckled under her and her throat closed up. “Sir?” she squeaked.

Cabot Drennan lounged gracefully in one of Mr. Wycoff’s visitor chairs, his right ankle crossed over his left knee, looking more serene than she’d ever seen him look. Getting someone sacked must be a real mood-lifter for him. She’d been too agitated earlier to notice how he was dressed, but it had to be Casual Friday at his office because he wasn’t in his three-piece suit. He was in khaki shorts, snowy-white running shoes and an even snowier polo shirt. The white gleamed against his all-over tan, and his dark eyes gleamed as he slowly raised his gaze to her face.

But it wasn’t Friday. It was Tuesday…no, Wednesday. And his eyes weren’t melting over her. She was melting under their steady assault.

“Sit down, Faith,” he said. “I have a project to discuss with you.”

“I CAN’T DO THAT,” Faith protested. “Go on your honeymoon? Stay in the honeymoon suite and have all those manicures and go to all those restaurants as if…Well, I can’t. It’s just too weird.” She could hardly breathe. Just sitting there beside Cabot was making her heart pound and generating other unusual symptoms, both pleasurable and distressing. These were not feelings one should have in a gray suit while sitting in one’s boss’s office. But on a honeymoon…

Going on Cabot’s honeymoon was what she wanted to do more than anything, but not like this. Not as a proxy to be coiffed and made up and positioned and photographed, but as a bride, to be loved and cherished. Loved, at least. Frequently and with passion. She was fairly sure that was one task she could focus on without difficulty.

She drew in a sharp breath as he uncrossed his muscled legs and leaned toward her. “Travel agents check out hotels and resorts all the time, don’t they?” he said. His look and his tone were persuasive.

“Well, yes.”

“I believe you spent a weekend at the Sunny Sands resort on the Gulf Coast during the summer.”

Mr. Wycoff’s voice startled Faith. It was the first time he’d spoken since he summoned her in, and she’d almost forgotten he was in the room. “Yes,” she said, “I did do that. It was an experience I’ll never forget.” It had been a nightmare, free or not. She had no difficulty comprehending why she’d been chosen to receive a complimentary weekend on the Louisiana coast in the searing heat of late August with a hurricane approaching. Her boss had chosen her, hoping she’d blow away in the storm, or be eaten to death by mosquitoes, which dived even faster with a tailwind.

“Same thing,” Cabot said. His voice pressured her like a firm caress, seeking acquiescence. “Except I’m comping you, not the hotel. I just want you to go there, go through all the motions. That way I’ll know the honeymoon will…will…”

For the first time he seemed to flounder. Faith found him even more charming floundering than being so perfectly self-assured.

“Everything will go just the way a very special person’s honeymoon should go,” he finally concluded.

This brought Faith’s mind firmly back to the real bride, the beautiful Tippy Temple. It also stilled her heart a little, cut down on the tingling sensations that made her want to wriggle in her chair. In short, she’d just gotten a shot of reality. If he wanted Tippy to have a perfect honeymoon, maybe he did have a romantic streak.

And it was her job, wasn’t it, to make her clients happy?

“Advance work of this sort could come to be an important part of your job.” Mr. Wycoff’s voice carried a cold note of warning. “Especially as Wycoff Worldwide ceases to be merely a neighborhood standby and becomes a mover and shaker in the film industry travel business. I see this coming, Miss Sumner.” He cast a significant glance toward Cabot. “In the very near future.”

One occurrence doesn’t equal a trend. That was the thought that went through Faith’s mind. It was so alien to the thoughts that usually went through her mind that she couldn’t imagine where it had come from. She could hardly say it aloud to Mr. Wycoff in front of the “occurrence” in question. What her boss was saying was that if Faith wanted to keep her job she would be his stepping stone to the film industry by taking Cabot Drennan’s honeymoon, like it or not, and making him so happy that he’d rush right back to his office to spread the Wycoff name around.

She was suddenly aware that they were both staring at her. Mr. Wycoff’s stare was impatient bordering on exasperated, but Cabot’s was something else altogether. His dark, winging eyebrows were slightly lifted, his eyes were warm and a smile played around the corners of that suggestive mouth.

He knew he’d get his own way eventually, and it just tickled him to death.

“Well, Faith?” Mr. Wycoff spoke again, undoubtedly wishing he could get back to his daydream of being “travel agent to the stars.”

She was cornered. She’d held this job longer than any other, feeling each day that she was poised on the brink of dismissal. Mr. Wycoff did not like her, and she was confident he was just looking for a reason to fire her. She could not lose this job. She could not, one more time, call her sisters and then her parents to announce that she was unemployed.

“I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of it,” her boss said in a complaining tone.

She didn’t intend to tell him, either. She’d better pull herself together and act normal about the whole thing or Cabot would know why she was making such “a big deal” about pretending she was Tippy Temple for a long weekend. So she straightened her shoulders and firmed up her chin.

“Come to think of it, neither do I,” she said cheerfully. “Okay, I’ll go to Reno on…well, on whatever day we reserved the suite.”

“In the limousine with the fake flowers all over it.”

She stared at Cabot. “You really want to rehearse the whole thing?”

“Everything but the marriage ceremony.” He smiled at her. “We’ll start with the going-away-suit part.”

“We?”

“Don’t forget the second limo for the crew.”

“We?”

“Rooms for everybody. And make all those restaurant reservations. We’ll start with dinner on—”

“You mean you’re going too?”

His eyebrows lowered until they almost met at the bridge of his nose, and he looked at her as though she were truly a dim bulb. “Well, of course. How else can I plan the shots, check the lighting, oil the gears for the real thing?”

“Silly me,” she said faintly.

“So now that that’s settled…” Mr. Wycoff said.

“I must be going,” Cabot said. He rose from his chair and herded Faith out of the office and back to her workstation. She was sorry because now he was behind her and she’d been looking forward to watching him walk again, checking out his height again—six-two, six-three—She wanted to get a closer look at his shoulders and his buns, of course, and while she was at it, the muscle tone of his calves. She hadn’t been able to take it all in when he’d had himself covered up in a three-piece suit.

Back at her desk, she called Charity’s cell phone and reached her at her new job, then let Charity patch in Hope, who was shopping for office space in New York. She and her new love were going into business together, and Hope was the Real Estate Task Force.

“What’s up?” Hope said briskly, while Charity said, “You okay, Faith?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Faith said. “I was just wondering what you wear in Reno in February on your honeymoon.”

It really made her crazy when they squealed like that at the same time. She held the phone away from her ear until the squealing faded a little and then said, “Not my honeymoon. Ha. Gotcha.”

“You twit,” Hope said.

“Whose honeymoon?” Charity said.

“Tippy Temple’s.”

“Tippy Temple’s getting married?” Charity’s tone was hushed and reverent.

“You know her?” Faith asked.

“Who’s Tippy Temple?” Hope asked.

“Someday you should take time to catch up on pop culture,” Charity scolded her. “Tippy Temple’s in that movie…”

“…’A Kiss to Build a Dream on,’” Faith supplied.

“…and she’s fantastic. So sweet…”

“…and I’m going to Reno to fill in for her.”

“Wait a minute,” Hope said.

“Oh, Hope,” Faith said, “not on their real honeymoon. This is just a rehearsal.”

“A rehearsal for what?” Hope was clearly in a militant feminist mode. Faith had imagined that falling in love would change Hope a little, but apparently she’d been mistaken.

“For the video. I mean…” she halted, realizing she was getting in deeper with every word that came blabbing out of her mouth. “Hope,” she said firmly, “it’s business. You’ll just have to trust my judgment.”

“Who’s the groom?” Charity said.

Faith couldn’t stop herself. “Oh-h-h,” she said, sighing, “you mustn’t tell a soul, of course, but he’s a publicist named Cabot Drennan, and he’s everything Tippy deserves, the stuff dreams are made of—tall and tanned, strong and forceful, successful and…”

In the silence, she realized what her sisters already knew, that her judgment was not to be trusted, especially not by her.

4

“I’VE GOT AN ANSWER FOR YOU.” Charity sounded abrupt. That meant she was not at her new job, but at one of her remaining modeling sessions and wearing shoes that were too tight.

“Oh, thanks,” Faith said. “What was the question?”

“What to wear on a honeymoon in Reno. I was talking to the stylist, and he—”

“It’s a moot point now,” Faith said, cutting her off. “My trousseau just arrived, courtesy of Cabot Drennan, ‘Publicist to the Stars.’”

“Wowie. He’s doing it up right,” Charity said. “Well, come on, tell me, what’d you get?”

Feeling like Cinderella, Faith unzipped one bag after another. “There’s a pale-blue silk suit. With a matching straw hat. And clutch bag.”

“Your going-away suit,” Charity said, sounding dreamy for once.

“Tippy’s going-away suit,” Faith corrected her. “And here,” she said, unzipping another bag, “is a…oh, I see, it’s a layer of crumply silk over a layer of satin. The color of vanilla ice cream. And a cashmere shawl that matches.” She pulled the shawl around her shoulders and snuggled into it, relishing the softness of the wool.

“A dinner dress for your wedding night.”

Faith took a breath. “A dinner dress for Tippy’s wedding night.”

“Oh. Right. I keep forgetting.”

“Tippy won’t wear this same dress, of course,” Faith said. “She’ll wear something similar.” She paused. “Probably a size smaller,” she concluded grimly.

“Oh, Faith, stop it. If you were any thinner you’d disappear. Hurry up and unpack some more. They’re going to call me soon. At least I hope so. My feet are killing me.”

Faith unzipped and reported, unzipped and reported. Another fantastic dress, a white silk pantsuit. Bikinis and cover-ups. “You ought to see this,” she said finally. “It’s a pale-blue satin dressing gown just like the one Lauren Bacall wore in that forties movie, the one about—”

“No underwear?”

Neither Charity nor Hope shared her passion for the romantic old movies and were quick to cut her off when she launched into the plot of one of them. Too used to the maneuver to be offended, Faith riffled through the stack that was piling up on her bed. “No.”

“No tempting teddies, black lace bikinis?”

“No. Of course not,” she said a moment later. “They won’t be photographing Tippy in her underwear.”

“Bummer. I’ll send you some money,” Charity said at once. “Go out and buy yourself some luscious—”

“Absolutely not,” Faith said. “I have plenty of underwear. Just not the kind…” She caught herself. She’d almost said, Just not the kind I’d like Cabot to see me in. It was fortunate Charity couldn’t see her blushing. “Not the kind Tippy will take on her honeymoon.”

“But you’d feel more romantic if you were wearing sexy underwear under those slinky clothes.”

This time when Faith took her deep, stress-reducing breath, she also counted to three. “I don’t need to feel romantic. I don’t want to feel romantic, because it’s not my honeymoon.”

Her impatience faded at once when she was distracted by the note that was attached to one of the handbags in the pile. “Make an appointment at Ricardo’s on Rodeo Drive to be fitted for shoes.”