Chapter Two

Mirjam pawed through her suitcase.

There has got to be something decent in here to wear.

A pair of black slacks sailed over her right shoulder to join the black skirt and other non-sexy business outfits littering the floor.

The towel wrapped around her wet hair fell loose. She yanked it off and flung it to the floor.

“Why did I let Taina talk me into this?”

She surveyed the mess and picked up the black skirt.

“And why in the world am I talking to myself?”

She shook it out and held it against herself. It would have to do. A sharp knock sounded on her door. She tightened the sash on her robe and peered through the peephole. A bellhop with a pink tie loomed into view. She opened the door.

“A package for you, miss.” He held out a large box wrapped in brown paper and tied with pink string.

What the— She took the box, tipped the bellhop, and brought the mysterious package to her bed. Dare she open it? She peered closer and noticed a pink stamp in the upper left corner that matched the seal on her invitation.

Well, nothing for it. She opened the package. Nestled inside, wrapped in pink tissue paper, lay a black silk, A-line skirt; a red, wrap-around blouse, red lacy underwear and bra, as well as a pair of black, peep-toe heels, all in her size, all much sexier than her mundane business outfits, and all to her taste.

Well, damn. No time to worry about straightening up or figuring out who this Jenn was—she needed to meet her date in less than half an hour. She tossed her robe aside and shimmied into the clothes.

“Just a chance to have fun,” she told herself again.

She hustled to the bathroom and blow-dried her hair, using her fingers to push, yank, and wish her locks into a semblance of order. She checked the time. Shit. The nap and soaking the last hour in the big-assed tub hadn’t been such a great idea after all. At least she’d thought to shave.

She threw on some makeup, briefly acquainted her eyelashes with mascara, and rushed to the nightstand for her purse.

Lipstick!

She dashed back to the bathroom and spread some around, smacking her lips. She blew out a breath, the artificial light showing all her tiny facial lines and sapping some of her confidence. Maybe this was the only way for her to score a date. She sighed. Still, her sister rocked the crazy juice to think she’d sleep with a stranger.

* * * *

Mirjam adjusted the strap on her ridiculous four-inch heels and willed her pulse and breath to a normal rate. As instructed, she stood under a giant palm in the lobby. Lord, not only was she nervous about interacting with this stranger—what would they talk about?—she was also anxious about afterward if she did end up liking him. The whole stupid mess of being interested in someone and wondering if he reciprocated, ugh.

Each approaching male caused her stomach butterflies to replicate and flap harder. Each could be him. As each passed and left her behind, it felt oddly like a metaphor for her romantic life. The only reason one would stop would be because it had been arranged. She’d seen enough of the other women populating the lobby not to fool herself otherwise. Brian had taught her that lesson.

She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Shit. She should’ve taken more effort with her appearance. She stuck out like a Redshirt on an away mission. Oh, wait. She was wearing red. She groaned and smoothed her hand over her stomach. Think logically.

How to know what to do next, though? The note delivered by the bellhop told her only where and when to wait. Details had been scant; a name—Riley—but no last name or picture or anything else.

She eyed the elevator door with longing. So her sister called this “an intervention,” did she? Her promise of more drastic measures if she refused was the one factor keeping her from placing one foot in front of the other, faster and faster, until she reached the safety of the elevator.

What could be more drastic than a blind date with a stranger arranged by some unseen force using a slot machine as its mouthpiece? She shuddered. Well, nothing said she had to sleep with the guy. Her breath gradually returned to normal, but her heart still tripped along at a rate faster than made her comfortable, and the butterflies had taken up permanent residence in her stomach. What had she gotten herself into?

An elegant, whip-thin guy broke the pattern, heading straight for her, a pink boutonnière on his lapel. Was this him?

“Ms. Linna?” At her nod, he continued. “If you’ll follow me, please.”

“Where are we going? Are you my date?” She silently cursed—she sounded like the baby bird in that children’s book forever asking, “Are you my mother?”

He turned his head and eyed her up and down. A wistful smile crossed his face. “No. All will be revealed soon.”

He led her past the lobby’s polished mahogany concierge stand, through a marbled archway, and along a winding hall. He stopped before a frosted glass door and held it open.

With a deep breath, she stepped into a cozy, candlelit room dominated by a burgundy massage table. A selection from Handel’s “Water Music” filtered through recessed speakers. The exotic blend of citrus, coconut, and other scents she couldn’t name, spelled “Caribbean,” soothing her on her next breath.

“Here.” Her guide lifted a plush hotel robe from a silver hook near the door. “Please remove your clothes and get comfortable. Julian, your masseuse, will be here shortly.”

Huh? Her hand automatically took the robe.

He offered a last smile, spun on his heel, and left, the door snicking shut behind him. She shrugged. In for a penny, in for a pound. A massage would be nice—get relaxed and energized for work tomorrow. She shed most of her clothes and tied the robe tightly around herself.

On the walls hung desert photos, richly saturated in color. She stepped closer to one, admiring how the photographer had captured the stark beauty of a cactus, plump with life-giving water, set against the desiccated landscape; all in a single frame, in a single moment of time. A longing she couldn’t name settled over her.

The door behind her opened quietly, and she whipped around. A massive man with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail eased into the room. He flashed a big grin and held out his hand. “Ms. Linna? Julian. I’ll be giving you your massage this afternoon.”

“What’s going on? I didn’t know I was getting one. Do I have to get naked?” The last word came out on a high note.

He gave a slight bow. “My apologies. I assumed you knew. At this moment, you’re scheduled for a massage, and yes, you’ll get the most from the experience if you’re nude.”

“I left my panties on,” she squeaked.

Another smile. “That’s fine. Your comfort is most important. Go ahead and lie face down on the table and I’ll be back in a few.”

The instant the door closed, Mirjam tore off her robe. No way would she allow him to catch her, butt waving in the air, trying to situate herself on the table when he returned. She had just fit her face into the little hole and scooched her hips into a comfortable position when the door opened again.

“It’s me,” Julian said in a melodious voice. A sheet settled over her lower body. Bottles rattled and warm hands, slick with pungent oil, smoothed over her shoulders. She flinched. “Shhh. Relax. You’re very tense.” He kneaded the stiff muscles on her shoulders.

Good luck working those kinks out, buddy.

“Your patron was right. You do need this.”

“My patron?”

“Yes. Her instructions were quite specific, starting with an hour-long session with me.”

He dug an elbow into a spot between her shoulder blades and Mirjam grunted. No doubt, she needed this. She’d barely taken a day off in the last year and a half since she’d started the software development company with her old college roommate. You could pull only so many late-nighters before it caught up to you.

She inhaled slowly, forcing herself to be in the moment and enjoy this rare treat. When was the last time…?

“Ms. Linna?”

“Huh? What?” Mirjam snuffled and lifted her head, blinking. Wetness trickled down her chin. Oh, God. Drool! She swiped her face and sat up.

“It’s time.”

“But. I thought I had an hour?”

Had she fallen asleep? How embarrassing. Why was Julian looking at the ceiling? She glanced down. Oh, shit. She grabbed the nearby towel and wrapped it tightly around herself.

“Indeed and that hour’s up. I’m to escort you to your next appointment.”

“Another one?” Not more pampering; she’d be a limp noodle by the time she met her date. Scratch that. She already was a limp noodle. Oh, who cared? It’d give her an excuse to bail early.

“Go ahead and dress. I’ll be back in five.”

Mirjam scrambled to make her relaxed limbs scurry back into her clothes.

Julian returned as promised and ushered her into a brightly lit room down the hall. A mirror covered the far wall, a stylist’s chair in front. Nearby, elegant boxes of makeup lay neatly arranged on a polished wooden counter. A full-figured woman with shocking red, short-cropped hair smiled.

“Please, take a seat.” She waved to the white leather chair. “I’ll be your hair and makeup specialist for the evening.”

“You, what?”

“Julian told me you are unaware of your schedule.”

That was an understatement. She nodded.

“Your patron was insistent. She feared you wouldn’t take the proper time to get ready. So, first hair and makeup, then off for your mani-pedi. I’m Mandy, by the way.”

Mirjam groaned, but she sat, the soft leather croaking beneath her. She certainly hadn’t taken the time, much less gotten her toes all cute.

“She said you dash through life.” Mandy pumped the chair up so her face was level with Mirjam’s. “She’s worried you won’t stop long enough to enjoy life as you live it.”

The patron was obviously Jenn. But who was she? How could Jenn know her so well, from her wardrobe sizes to her hectic lifestyle? Would Jenn get ‘the man of her dreams’ right too?

Oh, what was the point? The sooner she started her date, the sooner it’d be over, and she could curl up in the huge-ass hotel bed and devour late night movies on TV. Maybe there’d be a movie marathon on the SyFy channel.

But as she sat in the chair and followed the changes in the mirror, she felt a tickle of something—excitement? Anticipation? She took a deep breath. Relax, have a nice date, say thanks but no thanks, and conk out for the night. That was the plan.