The Sleeping Beauty Proposal (32 page)

“Yes.”

“Will do.” He starts to move away and I grab him, one of my towels unceremoniously falling to the floor. “Don't go. Not just yet.”

We stand there, me for the most part naked against Nick's own bare chest. His skin is against mine, my cold cheek against his warm, strong shoulders. I can smell him, his earthiness, the sweat, a faint trace of metallic grease. It's a heady perfume that has me intoxicated.We are both smart enough and mature enough to know that my refusal to let him go has absolutely nothing to do with reptiles.

“Genie,” he says softly. "What is it that you want?”

“Do I have to say?” Hesitantly, I look up at him. I'm right. Words aren't necessary. It's all in his dark blue eyes. Passion. Love. Lust.Whatever. I'll take it.

“Is it okay . . . ,” he asks, smoothing my wet hair off my forehead, “if I . . . ?”

Without wasting another second, I reach up and pull him to me, eager for those lips that kissed me in the coffee shop what seems like ages ago.

His kiss starts off gentle, almost curious. Then, sensing that I have no hesitation, he brings me closer until my towel falls off my shoulders to the floor and he lets out a moan of pleasure, his thumbs grazing the sides of my exposed breasts.

I don't care what happens next. All I know is that I want him. I want to wrap my body around his body.Want to get those jeans of his off and see where that
V
goes. I want him inside me.

But most of all—I want the doorbell to stop ringing. “Wait,” he says, reluctantly pushing me away. “We can't do this.”

“Why not?” At this moment I'm more of an animal than a human, incapable of intelligent speech. “They'll go away.”

"It's not that, it's . . .” He looks down at my nakedness and closes his eyes as if he can't be tempted.

My addled brain is not comprehending. “If it's Hugh you're worried about, forget him. I don't care.”

“You don't, but . . .”

“I don't love Hugh. I thought I loved Hugh, but I was wrong. Very wrong.” Oh, God. Why won't he just kiss me again? Why won't those people go away?

“GENIE!” The shrill voice is harsh, unmistakable. It is the voice that haunts me in my dreams, that can trigger all my emotions.

It is the voice of my mother.

“Come on.We know you're in there.”

“It's my mother,” I gasp as all my sexual desire instantly vanishes. “What's she doing here?”

Nick is shaking his head. “I was trying to tell you this before you brought up Hugh.There's a surprise bridal shower waiting for you on the porch. That's why we couldn't do what . . . you know, I think we were about to do.”

“Oh.” Once again, I flush with embarrassment. “A shower?”

“Your sister and mother and Patty and some other women. Patty asked me to keep you away from the porch until they were ready.”

I have never felt so much like a fool. Snapping up the towel from the floor, I wrap it tightly around my body even though it's too little, too late. "Well, you certainly managed a fine distraction. Ha-ha.”

“Genie. Stop.” He grips my bare shoulder. “I completely forgot about the shower just now. It never crossed my mind.”

“Really? Or is that a line you give all your women?”

“Look. I understand you've been hurt by some man and because of that, bizarrely enough, you don't trust me.And maybe you shouldn't because you're weeks away from being another man's wife and it's taken every ounce of my willpower to respect and honor that and there have been moments, like now, when my willpower is no match for how much I want you.” He says this in one breath so that he's almost panting by the time he finishes.

I'm speechless. He's been holding himself back because he thinks I'm getting married when all along I wasn't sure he even cared.

"Nick,” I whisper. "I had no idea.”

“You don't love him, do you?”

"No.” I shake my head slightly. "No, I don't.”

“Then I can wait. Like I've said before, I'm a very patient man. When you're free, I'll still be here. Until then, it's up to you.”

Footsteps come pounding down the hallway. An inner voice urges me to flee to my bedroom before my mother or Lucy catches me. But I don't want to. I want to tell Nick he doesn't have to wait, that I'm here for him now, that I've always been.

"Genie, where the hell . . .” Patty runs past the bathroom door and then, catching sight of us, slowly steps back. “Holy shit! What've you two been up to?”

“Hi, Patty,” Nick says, sliding past her. “Genie's running a bit behind.”

When he's gone, Patty stares at me and I stare at her. All I can say is, “There was a snake.”

"Oh, I bet there was. And let me guess—it was huge.”

Chapter Twenty-eight

Patty has asked me not to tell Nick or anyone else the truth until her black-tie couple's shower is held in a week. After that, she says, we can both come clean together as the bogusly betrothed. Otherwise, she's afraid that if “certain people” (i.e., Todd) find out I'm not really engaged, then they will suspect
she's
not really engaged, either.

“One week. By then I'll have done the fancy party and gotten all the gifts and proved my point.” Patty twirls in a lovely Carmen Marc Valvo embroidered white gown. “Besides, what's the rush? Nick said he can wait.”

He might. I'm not sure I can.

We are in the bridal department of Neiman Marcus, where Patty is trying on wedding gowns and dresses for her engagement party. This is not mere frivolity. Several members of the extended Pugliese family have been feuding over who will get the various wedding contracts—the catering, linen, floral, et cetera. By buying her dress retail, and not through her cousin Carmen who has connections in New York's fashion district, she is aiming to save lives.

Meanwhile, as my wedding day approaches, Mom is near hysteria and has been leaving messages that are straight out of some 1950s book on bridal fashion.

“You should be radiant at each step, Genie,” is the way her last message started. “At your engagement party. At your rehearsal. At your wedding, of course. At the reception and going away.You'll need at least two formal dresses, a wedding dress, a reception dress, and a going-away suit. It'll be a scandal otherwise.”

A scandal otherwise.
Patty and I love that expression. Or, at least, we're pretending to love that expression. Because now that we're getting closer to my wedding and Patty's black-tie couple's shower, Mom's not the only one who's getting hysterical.

I'm beginning to think that maybe we've gone too far.

Over a hundred ecru embossed wedding invitations have been sent hither and yon, overseas and across town, proclaiming that:

“Patty Pugliese in a wedding dress,” I say, fluffing out her skirt. “Like a hooker in a nun's habit. Never thought I'd see the day.”

Patty turns for a side view, pushing in her stomach. “Me neither. On the flip side, don't be so smug. I never thought you'd be able to pull off a fake engagement this long.”

“You thought I'd cave, huh?”

“I thought Hugh would come to his senses, dump his mystery ho, apologize profusely, and ask you to marry him. And then everything would be in place for the wedding you'd planned all along.”

“You thought Hugh would really marry me? What about that feminist claptrap you were spouting about springing myself from the castle without the kiss and forgoing the prince and . . .”

“Admit it. There was a part of you that wanted that fairy-tale ending, too,” Patty says, stepping out of her dress.

I open my mouth to object and find I can't. It's true.Yes, once upon a time, a teeny part of me privately hoped Hugh would return and see the error of his ways, that he would get down on bended knee and beg my forgiveness.

“That's not going to happen,” I say, slipping the gown onto a hanger. “It's over between us.”

“Let's hope so.” Patty zips up an evening dress, a petite Eileen Fisher handkerchief linen tank in a flattering shade of blush pink. “The thing is, I have a problem, too. Roslyn, the new associate who is gunning for my job, has a brother who's a mucky-muck in the navy and he's been snooping around. Guess it doesn't take much to find out who's a captain and who's not.”

Uh-oh. “You mean Roslyn has discovered ...”

“There is no Captain Moe Howard in the U.S. Navy.” Patty smacks herself in the forehead. “Why couldn't I have chosen a name like Tom Smith or Mike Jones? Why did I have to go with Captain Moe?”

“Maybe you've always had a crush on helmet heads.”

“Maybe.” She twirls around. “How does this look?”

“It looks great.” And it does. Pink goes well with Patty's hair. “What are you going to do about Captain Moe?”

“I've got it all figured out. I just need to find a man who will step up to the plate and then I can go to the shower and introduce him as my real fiancé. I'll make up some story about needing to keep his true identity secret for national security purposes because he's with navy intelligence.And I'll tell them Captain Moe was his cover name. Something along those lines.”

I think about this. “You spent a lot of time reading spy novels as a kid, didn't you?”

“I had eleven brothers and sisters and three bedrooms. What do you think?”

“Alternatively,” I suggest, unzipping her, “you could tell everyone at your firm that you and your best friend from college pretended to be engaged so we could receive the same kudos married women get. Make 'em cry into their briefs at the unfairness of our sexist system.”

“Yeah, right. My partners pull down seven figures a year filleting dedicated surgeons who happen to slip their scalpels a half a centimeter to the right. Somehow, I don't think they're going to—”

“Do you hear that?” I ask, trying to find the source of a muffled buzz.Then I recognize it—my cell phone under the heaps of clothes.We actually have to dig it out.

“This is Christy Abramson of the
NewYorkTimes,
” a droll voice informs me. “I'm trying to reach Eugenia Michaels.”

“THE
NEW YORK TIMES
!” I mouth to Patty, who is standing in her bra and panties, a perfect matching set of beige lace.

“What for?” Patty mouths back.

Not for a subscription, I'm guessing. Please may this not have to do with Hugh and his stupid book. Lying to my family is one thing, but lying to the
New York Times
is really serious.You can get subpoenaed for that.

“We've received your engagement announcement,” Christy continues, “and per standard procedure we need to fact-check it. Do you have a few minutes?”

“Engagement announcement!” Covering the phone, I inform Patty they're calling to fact-check my engagement announcement. The big question being . . .

What
engagement announcement?

Patty slaps her cheek in horror.“They're ruthless fact-checkers at the
New York Times.
They check everything.They'll leave no stone unturned. How did they get an engagement announcement?”

Excellent point. I run this question by Christy.

"Well, you sent it to us, didn't you?”

Patty mouths, “Your mother.”

My mother. Curse her. “Right. Mom did. Listen, you don't have to publish—”

“But we want to. Hugh Spencer is, well,
Hugh Spencer.
And while I don't watch TV personally, I understand it was on a national show with Barbara Walters where he first proposed.”

"Oh, that . . . that you
definitely
don't have to print.An engagement announcement is so unnecessary. I really don't want—”

“Also, we're considering your wedding for our Sunday feature when you do get married next month. I know. It's very exciting.”

It's not exciting. It's nauseating. Even the blasting cold air-conditioning of the Neiman Marcus dressing room is not enough to keep the blood circulating in my brain as I envision a front-page story in the
NewYork Times,
an exclusive investigated and reported by the paper's notoriously ruthless Weddings & Celebrations section fact-checkers:

And then, as if in a dream, I hear Christy Abramson utter the implausible. "Mr. Spencer said he would be quite amenable to that.”

Patty, too, has heard this, because she says, “Hugh?”

“Perhaps you two haven't had a chance to communicate since we spoke this morning. After verifying all the information, he was the one who suggested the feature. Our editor agrees that it might potentially qualify. Of course, I'm in no position to promise.”