Beautiful Stranger (13 page)
She slapped a smile onto her Lipfusion cherry-glossed lips. “Waiting for you. Surprise!”
This was the moment where, in her fantasy, he would take her into his arms and give her a passionate kiss, so thrilled was he to see her. Evidently her fantasies were much better than real life, because he didn’t try to approach her at all. Of course, the fact that there was some bizarre-looking rotund colleague with him could have had something to do with it.
“Ah, here is the address of the restaurant,” the other man said, holding out a business card he had been fishing for in his wallet. In contrast to that of the security guard, his accent was quite thick. For a moment, Sam wondered why they were even speaking in English. Maybe it was some sort of consular protocol. “This is supposed to be the best Thai food in the city. Call and arrange for the president to eat there this evening. Representatives from Paraguay, Canada, and Jamaica will join him. Plus a security detail, of course.” He smiled politely at Sam. “Hello. Are you a friend of Eduardo’s?”
Eduardo plastered a smile on his face. “Joaquin, this is Samantha Sharpe. Samantha, this is Joaquin Loyo-Mayo. He’s the consul-general here in New York.”
“Lovely to meet you.” Joaquin took Sam’s hand and gave a formal little bow.
“Would you excuse us just a moment, Joaquin?” Eduardo asked politely. “I need to speak with Samantha.”
“I’ll see you inside,” the consul-general said. After telling Sam again that it was nice to meet her, he bustled past the guard desk.
The moment that Joaquin was gone, Eduardo hugged Sam warmly.
“How wonderful to see you!”
“Love that this-is-Samantha-Sharpe-my-
fiancée
intro,” Sam blurted. It was impossible to keep the edge out of her voice.
He kept her in his arms. “This is not the time or the place to inform a colleague that I recently became engaged. But seeing you is a lovely surprise.”
“Yeah,” she agreed sarcastically. “You’re oozing joy.”
“Are you angry about something?” He stepped back; a quizzical look darkened his face.
Sam sighed. Acting like a bitch was
not
going to fix anything.
“I guess I just expected a more enthusiastic greeting,” she admitted. She gave his hand a little squeeze. “You know what I mean?”
“I think so. Follow me.”
Eduardo led her to the elevator and then pushed the down button. The doors opened immediately. He got in, pushed the button for the lobby, and then hit the emergency stop button. Then came the softest, most gentle kiss in the world.
“Like this?”
“Much better.” She grinned from ear to ear.
“Kissing is frowned upon in front of the consul-general, Samantha. So how is it that you’re in New York?”
He hit the emergency stop button again, releasing the car; it started smoothly toward the lobby.
“Well, I was—”
Before she could finish her answer, his PalmPilot sounded. He answered it in English, then switched over to Spanish. Eduardo’s half of the conversation consisted of two lines of Spanish, which even Sam could translate:
That sounds fantastic, but I can’t talk now. Call me later
.
Who the hell was he talking to?
The elevator doors opened; they stepped out into the building lobby, and Eduardo pocketed his PalmPilot. “I would love to take you to dinner, but as you could see, I have an embassy affair tonight. That was one of my colleagues at our mission to the United Nations. It wouldn’t be good for you; everything will be in Spanish. I’d neglect you terribly.”
“I already have plans,” Sam assured him, though she felt a little disappointed. “I flew in with Anna. We’re going to this fantastic new club tonight called Europa. Have you heard of it?”
“I have. It’s supposed to be impossible to get into. But I’m sure you and Anna will find a way.” Eduardo nodded and looked pleased.
Did he have to look so happy? He should be
unhappy
that she was going to a club without him. What about that stereotype—that Latin men were hot-blooded and extremely proprietary about their women? Well, okay, he was hot-blooded enough. But where was the proprietary part?
His PalmPilot sounded again. Every fiber of her being wanted to ask him who was calling. But that would make her sound like an insecure, jealous cow. Just because she
felt
like an insecure, jealous cow did not mean she had to advertise the fact.
Eduardo clicked it off, then pulled her close again. “I wish we could go right back to my hotel. Did I tell you how gorgeous you look in that dress? It’s new, no?”
This was much more like it.
“It
is
new. So are you mentally undressing me?” Sam teased. She loved the feel of his arms around her.
“Actually, I am mentally doing this.”
He lifted her hair and whispered something very specific in her ear that made her blush.
“And then this.”
He whispered in her ear again.
“Get food poisoning during dinner,” she whispered suggestively. “We can go back to your hotel and you can show me.”
“I can’t. I am here to work. It will go very late tonight, so I cannot even promise to meet you later. And in the morning, there’s a seven-thirty breakfast for the president with the Spanish ambassador to the United Nations. All the staff will be there. Me included.”
Sam nodded slowly and tried to look understanding, which was the last thing she actually felt.
“How long will you and Anna be in New York?” Eduardo asked.
“A few days. Till the weekend, at least. Maybe even a week. I’m not sure.”
“Then I have an excellent idea. You two must come to the embassy dinner on Friday night.” It felt like more of an order than a suggestion. “It’s actually at the consulate, but it should be quite the affair. The president is speaking that day at the UN; there’ll be a lot to celebrate. I’ll introduce him to you.” He winked slyly. “Maybe he’ll want your autograph.”
“Maybe he’ll want my father’s autograph. I’m good at signing his name.” Sam smirked, but she was happy he’d invited her. People who were engaged were supposed to invite their partners to occasions like this. And now the invitation had been issued.
But even as Eduardo gave her one last kiss goodbye, she couldn’t help wondering if That Bitch Gisella would be at the embassy party, too.
“W
o Hop?” Anna said with delight as she and Logan got out of the taxi on Mott Street in Chinatown. “I haven’t been here since I was a little girl.”
Chinatown had always been one of her favorite neighborhoods in Manhattan. Teeming with people who spoke in rapid-fire Mandarin, full of open-air markets that sold fish, shellfish, and exotic vegetables, with strange music wafting from shop stalls and every second doorway seeming to lead to a tiny, family-owned restaurant, Chinatown had a vibrancy and excitement that she knew her Upper East Side neighborhood lacked. Back when she lived in Manhattan, she and her friends would come here often, just to walk around or to eat. As far as she knew, her mother had
never
been here. Which said something significant both about the area and about Jane Cabot Percy.
“With your nanny, my nanny, and me. I think we were eight. Something like that,” Logan recalled.
Memories flooded Anna as she stood with him at the busy corner of Mott and Canal Street. At the time, her nanny had been a wonderful young woman from Taiwan, who’d ordered for them in perfect Mandarin.
“Lian,” she remembered. “That was my nanny. She was going to Hunter College at night.”
“At which time the night nanny took over. Lian told us her name meant ‘graceful willow.’ I think she’s the reason I ended up studying Chinese at St. Paul’s, actually.” Logan led the way down to the basement level restaurant. “Can I make a true confession?” he asked as he opened the glass door, a bright, honest look in his soft blue eyes.
“Of course,” Anna allowed, trying to conceal her curiosity.
“That nanny Lian? She was my first crush.”
Anna laughed. She was happy to be here. Logan had called to confirm their plans earlier in the day, while she’d been at Bergdorf Goodman with Sam. He’d suggested dinner, and told her that he’d pick the place, but that she should dress casually. Anna had asked Sam again whether she wanted to come along—she’d cleared the possibility with Logan, even—but Sam again insisted that it just be the two of them. She’d go to Lincoln Square to see the new Gus Van Sant film. Anna deserved some positive male attention after the fiasco with Ben. Some
solo
positive male attention.
Anna was dressed casually, in white cotton vintage ripstop roll-up shorts and a simple Proenza Schouler white eyelet cotton blouse with pearl buttons, her grandmother’s antique diamond stud earrings, and black Chanel ballet flats. Her hair was pulled back in a casual low ponytail, while her only makeup was pale pink Stila lip gloss and dark brown Christian Dior Snow mascara.
When Logan had rung the doorbell exactly on time, Anna was waiting for him. He wore khakis with a pale blue linen shirt with a white sport coat. He looked devastatingly handsome, especially when he grinned and handed her a single white rose.
Anna was delightfully surprised. And, she had to admit, impressed. She hadn’t thought it would be that kind of a date, and probably it wasn’t. But no one had given her flowers in forever. She was even more impressed when she learned that he recalled from grade school that white was her favorite color. “We were studying abstract art in second grade, and we were supposed to draw our own. You spilled white paint on a white sheet of paper. The teacher hung it on the bulletin board and said you were the next Frank Stella.”
“How do you remember all these things?” she asked him now, still charmed by his admission of his nanny-crush.
“The curse of a great memory,” he answered lightly, holding the door open for her. Anna walked in, their arms lightly brushing as she passed. “Besides,” he added with an impish grin, “you never forget your first crush.”
Inside, the restaurant was as noisy and crowded as she remembered, the air fragrant from the food being served by graceful men who could carry several plates at once balanced up and down their arms. They only had to wait ten minutes before a table for two opened up, something of a feat in a popular place that didn’t take reservations. Logan ordered in English—squid with black bean sauce, eggplant stuffed with shrimp—and the waiter scurried off.
“I’m surprised you didn’t order in Mandarin,” Anna remarked, sipping aromatic green tea from a tiny white bone-china cup.
He shrugged. “Somehow that screams ‘pretentious.’ When I was in Beijing last summer I forced myself to speak Mandarin, even with Chinese people who spoke English, because I was there to improve my language skills. But to do it here? In Chinatown? It would be so that other people could overhear me and so the waiter could be impressed, not so I could order what we wanted.”
“I see your point.” She studied him, trying to remember exactly the last time she’d seen him. Fourth grade? Fifth grade? “Your eyes are the same,” she decided.
He sipped from his tea. “So are yours.”
She wrapped her fingers around the fragile teacup. “So, I want to hear everything—The Life of Logan.”
He cocked a furrowed eyebrow. “Everything, huh? Well, there’s boarding school, or as it is not-so-fondly called by the inmates, boring school.”
“Really?” Anna asked, somewhat surprised. “You hated it?”
“Sometime yes, sometimes no. I had two amazing English lit teachers my junior and senior year—that helped. And friends I’ve known forever. And I traveled with my parents a lot—that’s been great.”
“Where did you go with them?”
“Europe, Asia, Africa. I loved Tanzania. The people are amazing. Their national poet, Shaaban Robert—do you know his work?”
Anna shook her head.
“I’ll get you a book of his poems,” Logan promised. “He writes about the savannah, about native tribes, about how even a Masai tribesman has the same hopes and dreams as anyone else. Really amazing stuff.”
Logan’s story continued. He was, as he’d told her, going to Harvard. That had been his choice since sixth grade, and he’d planned his schooling to that end, graduating second in his class at St. Paul’s, captaining the soccer team, and volunteering as a literacy-in-schools worker three afternoons a week. It had worked. He got the same early-decision letter from Harvard that Anna had received from Yale. The fact was, she thought, he probably would have gotten it even if he wasn’t a fourth-generation legacy.
At least two hours later, the waiter brought the check. This time, Logan said thank you in Mandarin, which earned him a happy grin.
“You up for a surprise?” Logan plunked his black AmEx card down by the check.
“Sure.”
“Fair warning—it’s another walk down memory lane. So if you’ve had your fill of that …”
“No, no, it’s fine.” Anna was charmed that he’d put so much thought into their date. She was curious to see what he had in mind.
It was a long taxi ride away—all the way uptown to Fort Washington Park, at Lafayette Place and West 181st Street—and Anna still didn’t know the ultimate destination. In fact, she didn’t figure it out until he led her down the footpath to the bridge over the West Side highway, then down across Riverside near the George Washington Bridge and south to #8230;
“The Little Red Lighthouse!” she exclaimed.
This was amazing. The red lighthouse was located just south of the bridge on the New York side of the Hudson. Back before the bridge had been built, the lighthouse kept the tugboats on the river from foundering on the rocks. After the bridge went up, it didn’t have much of a purpose. Yet New Yorkers always loved it.
More memories came flooding back. The yearly school outings to the autumn Little Red Schoolhouse Festival, where an Urban Park Ranger would take kids and their parents or nannies (for Logan and Anna both, it had always been nannies) on a tour of the historical lighthouse, where an elderly gentleman—Anna found out later it was the folksinger Pete Seeger—would read the children’s book
The Little Red Lighthouse
to the enchanted students.