Dream Trilogy (12 page)

“Excuse me?”

“Margo Sullivan can sell anything. What else have you been doing for the last ten years but hawking someone else’s products? Sell yourself, Margo.”

Baffled, she sat back. “Excuse me. Aren’t you the one who just finished rapping my knuckles for mentioning doing just that?”

“Not your picture. You. Open a shop, stock it with your own possessions. Advertise it. Flaunt it.”

“Open a shop?” Her laugh bubbled out as she reached for her glass. “I can’t open a shop.”

“Why not?”

“Because I . . . I don’t know why,” she murmured and deliberately pushed her glass aside. “I’ve had too much wine if I don’t know why.”

“Your flat’s already a small-scale department store.”

“There are dozens of reasons why it wouldn’t work.” Her head spun just thinking about it. “I don’t know anything about running a business, keeping books.”

“Learn,” he said simply.

“There’s taxes, and fees. Licenses. Rent, for Christ’s sake.” Flummoxed, she began to run her fingers up and down the jeweled chain she wore. “I’m trying to eliminate bills, not make more of them. I’d need money.”

“An investor, someone who would be willing to pump in the startup money.”

“Who’d be stupid enough to do that?”

He lifted his glass. “I would.”

She spent most of the night picking the idea apart, tossing in bed and reciting all the sane objections she should have thought of in the first place.

It was a ridiculous notion. Reckless and foolish. And it had come along just when she was trying so hard to stop being ridiculous and reckless and foolish.

When tossing in bed frustrated her enough, she rose to pace in the dark. Obviously Josh knew little more about business than she did, or he would never have suggested such a preposterous plan.

She wasn’t a shopkeeper, for God’s sake. Appreciating lovely things only meant she had expensive taste. It didn’t mean she could turn herself into a merchant. And maybe she did know how to sell, but being the Bella Donna Woman and
urging some tourist to write a traveler’s check for a Daum goldfish were two entirely different matters.

Certainly people would come, at first. Out of curiosity, out of glee to see the once famous, now notorious Margo Sullivan hawking her wares. She would probably make a few sales too, initially. And some society matron with too many face-lifts could gesture to her curio cabinet to point out the antique snuff bottle she’d bought from that poor model who’d fallen on hard times.

Margo set her teeth. Well, she’d have that snooty matron’s money in her pocket, wouldn’t she?

Catching herself, she shook her head. No, it was an impossible idea. Starting a business was simply too complicated, and maintaining one would be beyond her. She would only be setting herself up for another failure.

Coward.

“Just shut up, Josh. It wouldn’t be your butt on the line. Just your money.”

And she wasn’t going to take his money anyway. The idea of being indebted to him was more than her pride could stand. Even if she swallowed her pride, she didn’t think her nerves could handle working with him. He’d undoubtedly be popping up even more than usual, checking on her, checking on his investment.

Looking at her the way he looked at her. Absently she rubbed a hand between her breasts. Had he always looked at her that way? Had she just begun to notice? She recognized hunger in a man’s eyes when she saw it. Was used to seeing it. There was no reason for her mouth to go dry and her pulse to start jittering because they were Josh’s eyes.

His eyes were as familiar to her as her own. She’d known those eyes, known him, all of her life. It had to be her imagination—imagination skewed by her emotional upheaval. It
was just that she’d been feeling so unwanted, she’d mistaken kindness and concern from an old friend for desire.

That was it, of course.

But she knew she hadn’t mistaken her own reaction when he touched her, when his fingers skimmed over her shoulder. Flesh to flesh. And for an instant, just a quick flash, she’d actually fantasized that his fingers would dip lower, part her robe, cup her breasts and . . .

And she had to be skirting madness to wind an erotic daydream around Josh Templeton.

He was a friend, practically family. And at the moment, the least of her worries.

She had to concentrate on practicalities, not sexual intrigues. After Alain she’d decided that sex, romance, even the whisper of relationship were going to the bottom of her priority list. The most reasonable thing for her to do would be to contact Josh in the morning and ask him for the name of the agent he’d mentioned. She would cull out everything she didn’t need for basic survival, take the forty percent, and go on.

She’d sell the car as well. And her furs. Her standing twice-monthly appointment at Sergio Valente in Rome was out, as was her biannual jaunt to Les Pres et les Sources in France. There would be no more strolling down the Montenapoliane with careless forays into Valentino and Armani.

She would make do with what she had, or what she had left, and find a job.

Damn him for making her too ashamed to snatch up a quick six figures for one harmless photo shoot.

Besides, what kind of shop would it be? she asked herself as her mind stubbornly circled back. People didn’t go into a store expecting to buy a Gucci bag and a Steuben bird in the same place. It wouldn’t be secondhand clothing, or curios, or
leather goods. It would be a hodgepodge; confusing, unfocused.

It would be unique.

It would be hers.

With her hands pressed to her mouth, Margo let herself imagine it. Busy shelves with an elegant yet friendly clutter of pretty, useless things. Glass cabinets gleaming with jewelry. Tables and chairs and fussy ottomans. For relaxing, and all for sale. A room fashioned like a huge walk-in closet for clothes. Another little seating area where she would serve tea and flutes of champagne. China and crystal also priced to sell.

It could work. Not only could it work, it could be fun. An adventure. The hell with the details, the fine print, the sanity. She’d figure it out somehow.

With a reckless laugh, she dashed into the bedroom and threw on some clothes.

Josh was dreaming, and dreaming well. He could even smell her, that straight-to-the-glands fragrance that always seeped through her pores. She was murmuring his name, almost sighing it as he stroked his hands over her. God, her skin was like satin, smooth and white, that glorious, generous goddess body growing damp as she clung to him.

Arched back, trembling and—

“Ow. Goddamn it.” Pinched him.

He opened his eyes, blinked at the dark. He would have sworn his shoulder ached where fingers had dug. And he could swear that her scent was in the air.

“Sorry. You were sleeping like the dead.”

“Margo? Are you crazy? What time is it? What are you doing here? Jesus!” He continued to swear, viciously, as the light she turned on speared into his eyes. “Turn that goddamn thing off or I’ll kill you.”

“I’d forgotten how surly you are when you wake up.” Too
cheerful to take offense, she switched off the light, then moved to the drapes, opening them to the lovely muted glow of sunrise. “Now, to answer your questions: I think I may be. It’s about quarter after dawn. I’m here to thank you.”

She smiled at him as he stared groggily at the coffered ceiling. The bed was a lake of rumpled linen sheets and the slick royal blue satin of the spread. The headboard was a fantasy of cherubs and fruit, all carved and gilded. Rather than looking ridiculous tucked in all that splendor, he looked just right.

“Gosh, you’re cute, all heavy-eyed and grumpy, and that sexy stubble.” She leaned over to give it a teasing rub, then squealed when he yanked her onto the bed with him. Before she could gather the next breath, she was pinned under a long, hard male body.

A fully aroused male body. There was no possible way to attribute that to imagination this time. Her hips arched in response before she could prevent it. And his eyes went opaque. Instinctively she pried a hand free and slapped it to his chest.

“I didn’t come to wrestle.”

“Then why are you here, and how’d you get into the suite?”

“They know me downstairs.” Good God, she was out of breath, and shaky. And hot. “I just said you were expecting me, and said you might be in the shower, so . . . the front desk gave me a key.” His gaze lingered on her mouth, made her burn. “Ah, listen, I seem to have interrupted one of your prurient dreams, so I can just wait in the parlor until . . .”

She trailed off, deciding it was best not to continue the thought, when he caught her wrist and pulled her arm back over her head.

“Until?”

“Whenever.” His mouth was close. She could almost feel it on hers. Hard and hungry. “I wanted to talk to you, but obviously I should have waited. Until.”

“You’re trembling,” he murmured. And her eyes were delicately shadowed from lack of sleep. Her hair, those sexy miles of it, spread wildly over the tumbled sheets. “Nervous?”

She could hear her own labored breaths, knew no one could mistake the desire in the sound. “Not exactly.”

He lowered his head, scraped his teeth lightly over her jaw. When she moaned, he hoped he was making her suffer for even one of the nights he’d burned for her. “Curious?”

“Yes.”

He cruised up to her ear, and her eyes crossed with lust. “Ever wonder why we haven’t ended up like this before?”

She was having a hard time keeping a coherent thought in her head as he nibbled along her neck. “Maybe, once or twice.”

He lifted his head. The light from the rising sun showered over him. With his hair tousled, his eyes dark, his face shadowed, he looked rough and reckless, dangerously and delectably male.

“Don’t.” She didn’t know where the denial came from when every nerve in her body was primed to beg for more.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t kiss me.” She let out a shaky breath, drew in another. “If you do, we’re going to have sex. I’m just turned inside out enough to jump in without giving a damn about an hour from now.”

“You don’t have to give a damn about an hour from now.” His mouth skimmed along her temple, teased the corner of her lips. “This is going to take longer. A lot longer.”

“Please. A few hours ago . . . Jesus, Josh . . . you convinced me that what I do affects other people.”

“Believe me,” he murmured, “I’m affected.”

Her heart drummed in her ears, insistently. “I can’t afford to ruin another part of my life. I need a friend. I need you to be my friend.”

Cursing her, he rolled off. “No offense, Margo, but go to hell.”

“No offense taken.” She didn’t touch him. She was certain that if she did one or both of them would go off like a rocket. For a moment they lay there on the rumpled satin spread in silence, not moving, barely breathing. “I’m just saving us both a lot of trouble.”

His gaze shifted, pinned hers. “You’re only postponing it. We’ll get back to this.”

“I’ve been choosing my own bedmates for some time.”

He moved fast, snagging her wrist and hauling her against him. “You want to be careful, duchess, about throwing your lovers in my face just now.”

It was exactly what she needed to break the spell. Her chin angled. “Don’t get pushy. I’ll let you know if and when I want to play.” She saw the change in his eyes and flashed her own. “Try it, just try it, and I’ll shred the skin from your bones. You aren’t the first man who thought he could shove me on my back and make me enjoy it.”

He let her go because it was a wiser course than strangling her. “Don’t compare me to the wimps and washouts you’ve wasted your time with.”

Knowing her temper was ready to snap, she got off the bed. “I didn’t come here to tear up the sheets with you, or to fight. I’m here to discuss business.”

“Next time make an appointment.” No longer worried about the niceties, he tossed back the sheets. Her eyes didn’t flicker as he strode naked into the adjoining bath. “Since you’re here, order up some breakfast.”

She waited until she heard the shower running before she let out a long, relieved breath. Another minute, she admitted, and she might have eaten him alive. With a hand pressed to her jumpy stomach, she told herself they were both lucky she’d forced them to avoid that mistake.

But as she glanced back at the bed, she didn’t feel lucky. Only deprived.

While Josh dressed, Margo enjoyed the first cup of coffee and picked over the silver basket of baked goods on the linen-decked table in the window nook of the dining area. She relaxed with the view of the piazza, the statues of gods and winged horses in white marble.

As did any suite in any Templeton, it offered a sumptuous interior as well as the view. A massive Oriental carpet spread over a floor of ivory tile. The walls were papered with roses with golden leaves, the fancy work of cornices and textured ceilings added to the opulence. Curvy settees rich with brocade and tasseled pillows, entertainment centers discreetly concealed in intricately carved cabinets, the little touches of statuary, antique lamps, heavy crystal ashtrays, giant urns filled with flowers, the full ebony bar curved in front of a glass wall—all bespoke that distinct Templeton flair.

The Art Nouveau style was just rich enough, just decadent enough to make even the most jaded guest sigh. She sighed herself.

But with Templeton, style went hand in glove with efficiency. A touch of a button on the streamlined white phone in every room of the suite could summon anything from fresh towels to tickets to
La Scala
or a bottle of perfectly chilled Cristal in a silver bucket. There was a basket of fruit on the pond-size coffee table, the grapes plump, the apples glossy. Behind the bar, the mini fridge would be stocked with unblended Scotch, Swiss chocolates, French cheeses.

The flowers, abundant even in the bath and dressing rooms, were fresh, watered and replaced daily by one of the well-trained and always amenable staff.

She sniffed at the pink rose on the breakfast table. It was long-stemmed, fragrant, and just opening. Perfect, she mused,
just as anything with the Templeton name was expected to be.

Including, she thought as Josh stepped into the room, the Templeton heir.

Because she was feeling just a little guilty about invading his rooms at dawn, she poured him a cup from the heavy silver pot, adding the generous dollop of cream she knew he preferred.

“Service at Templeton Milan is still the best in the city. So’s the coffee.” She passed him the cup when he joined her at the table.

“I’ll be sure to pass your comments along to the manager—after I fire him for letting you in.”

“Don’t be cranky, Josh.” She slanted her most persuasive smile his way, only slightly annoyed when she saw it didn’t make a dent. “I’m sorry I woke you up. I wasn’t thinking about the time.”

“Not thinking is one of your most highly honed skills.”

She plucked a berry from the bowl, popped it into her mouth. “I’m not going to fight with you, and I’m not going to apologize for not sleeping with you just because your ego’s bruised.”

His smile was thin and sharp as a scalpel. “Duchess, if I’d gotten your clothes off, you not only wouldn’t have to apologize, you’d be thanking me.”

“Oh, I see I’m mistaken. Your ego’s not bruised, it’s just painfully swollen. Let’s clear the air here, Joshua.” She leaned forward, the confidence in her eyes sultry. “I like sex. I think it’s an excellent form of entertainment. But I don’t have to be entertained every time someone suggests a party. I select the time, the place, and my playmates.”