Yours to Savor (16 page)

Sandra’s eyes shot open when she noticed the water getting cold. A bit of panic gripped her when she realized she may have dozed off, but she was relieved when the digital clock by the sink showed that only fifteen minutes had passed. She sat up, turned the water on, and started washing her hair, spoiled by the decadent and sweetly scented shampoos and conditioners lining the heavy glass shelf on the wall next to her.

When she was done, she wrapped one towel around her body, another around her hair, and came to the mirror. The stranger staring back at her was like no one she recognized.

The faint circles she’d accumulated beneath her eyes this week from too little sleep
were gone. Her shoulders were relaxed, and a pleased, lazy smile played on her lips. She felt lighter than a rose petal—as if the hot water had somehow absorbed every single one of her worries and replaced them with an airy fluff. Her skin was soft; her mind
fuzzy. Sandra’s thoughts turned to Brandon, and she imagined what it would be like if he were there with her, rising from the tub to come to her in slow motion, glistening water sliding down every glorious muscle of his body as he stood up…

No!
She caught herself, and forced her mind away from tantalizing
thoughts of Brandon. She would decide what she thought of him
after
she saw him tonight—not before. Whatever goodwill he’d earned by putting her into a suite like this would
not
alter her impression of him when they met.

Sandra came out, expecting to find her clothes on the floor where she left them, but they were gone. Puzzled, she waded to the living room, leaving little footprints of water with every step, and was surprised to find a clothes rack that had been set up in the middle of the room. Every single item Clarisse had bought for her today hung there. It was like Sandra had stumbled into a singer’s backstage wardrobe room.

Sandra whipped her head around to see if whoever had brought the clothes was still there—but she was alone. The music must have been so loud when she was in the tub that she didn’t notice anybody coming in.
It must have been Clarisse
.

Sandra crossed the room to turn down the sound system, lest she be caught unawares again, and then came to the rack, hoping to find her own clothes in there somewhere. She searched through the garments with the care of a
librarian turning the precious pages of an ancient tome. No matter what, it didn’t feel like any of these
belonged
to her.

As she was sliding the garments from side to side, Sandra noticed a flash of colors behind the rack. Curious, she went around… and was astonished by a prodigious array of shoes lined up on the floor.

Shoes of every kind and color awaited her. Pumps and sandals, platform and wedge heels. She saw open toes, peep toes, cap toes, pointed toes, with heels ranging from kitten to stiletto. Some were dark Italian leather, others blush satin, yet others still were made of such exotic fabrics she couldn’t even name them. Some had golden trims, others silk, and some were elegantly simple.

She squatted down to look at the sizes. The shoes ranged from sixes to seven and a halves. She raised her eyebrows in disbelief. She was a size seven—any of the shoes would fit.

Clarisse must have picked them out, but how did she know her size? And when had she found the time? They hadn’t bought any shoes when they were shopping together.

Suddenly, Sandra remembered the first thing she noticed about Brandon.
His shoes
. Could this be his work? Now that she really thought about it, there was no
way
Clarisse could have found time to do it on her own. But Brandon, however… he’d spent time with her, and if he cared so much about his own shoes, he must have noticed hers as well. Could he have guessed her shoe size from a look?

Sandra stood back up, impressed. Even if Brandon did this for
all
his dates, it was still flattering. To pay such attention to her was subtle and astute. It didn’t matter that Sandra planned on making Clarisse return everything tomorrow—even if the tags had been cut off, the woman would have to find
some
way to return everything—it was the gesture that counted.

Sandra felt something stir inside her, then. She wasn’t cut out for a tiny apartment, living with a leaky, buzzing fridge at the foot of her bed, and a window that opened to a wall of bricks. The life Brandon was giving her a taste of was… better. Infinitely better.

She shook her head.
No!
She was
not
about to forget herself. She was self-sufficient, she was strong, she was her own woman. She did not need to rely on anybody else. She could do things on her own. Besides, she had a reason for living the way she did. She thought it would give her the best chance of escaping her nightmares.

But hell, maybe being whisked away for a weekend in Seattle by a mysterious man whose very touch made her tremble
was
the diversion she needed after two years of ascetic, monk-like frugality.

As Sandra debated what to wear, she found the rich clothes calling to her. The rack had such beautiful colors, such vibrant hues, such stunning fabrics. Anything she’d ever wanted was right there for her choosing. Maybe she could find something that matched her gray eyes? Maybe—

No!
Again, Sandra had to shake her head and return to her senses. The clothes weren’t
hers
, they were
Brandon’s
, and she had never asked for him to spend money on her this way. Just because he had an abundance of cash didn’t mean she’d accept the charity.

But, what choice did she have? Her own clothes were gone. Sandra cursed Clarisse for that. Maybe it was a stubborn matter of pride that made her unwilling to go to him dressed by his assistant. Sandra was her own woman, dammit!

Eventually, however, Sandra had to settle on a slim-fitting, gray dress. The neck was probably too low, and the hemline
too high—but at least the color matched her resolve. She had to show Brandon she wasn’t the type of woman who fell head over heels
just because he spent a bunch of money on her. Maybe it would have been different if
he’d
been there with her while they were shopping, or if he’d made any attempt to make this seem more personal… but she would
not
be bowled over by him. Not with the way he’d done it.

Sandra stopped to look at herself in the mirror—and was impressed by the woman staring back at her. The gray fabric clung suggestively to her body, teasing every curve of her figure. A beautiful lattice of fine thread enveloped the swell of her breasts. The shoulder straps were so thin that they were nearly translucent, giving the illusion of a strapless design. She spun around to look at her back, admiring the way her shoulders glowed after the long, hot bath.

She looked… pretty.
Beautiful
, even. She’d applied only a light touch of makeup in the bathroom, and the conditioner she had used smelled better than any perfume. She fluffed up her hair a bit. It was still a little damp from the bath, but Sandra didn’t have time to blow dry it now. Anyway, the water made her blonde coloring a little darker, which was the shade that Sandra had always preferred.

She went back to the shoes, and settled on a pair of dark stiletto-heeled sandals made of suede and velvet leather. They had a glamorous 1920s Parisian look to them, and, even better, they matched her dress.

Sandra noticed the darkening sky outside. She’d need to wear something over her dress. She remembered a particular black Donna Karan metallic tweed coat that she had liked, took it off the rack, and slipped it on. It was artful, with an elegant one-button front that hit past her knees. Moreover, it worked well to cover up her dress’s high hemline.

Sandra took one last look in the mirror, nodded to herself, took a deep breath, and left the room.

As she walked through the lobby, she could
feel
people’s eyes on her. It made her want to laugh with delight. It had been a long time since she’d felt like that.

She found Charles waiting for her at the reception desk.

“You look stunning, Miss,” he told her. “Absolutely ravishing. Mr. Galliani will be very pleased.”

Sandra smiled and thanked him.
Galliani?
she thought to herself as Charles led her to the underground parking lot.
Brandon’s Italian?

As they drove through the city, Sandra felt, for the first time today, a little
nervous
about meeting Brandon. What would he be like when they met? Which version of him would she find waiting for her? She still barely knew a thing about the man—she also had to remember to ask why he hadn’t mentioned being from Chicago.

Her resolve strengthened, she sat back and looked out the window as Charles wound toward the Space Needle. She marveled at the landmark’s elegance. Sandra had only seen it in pictures before, and the steel rods and glass tower head were even more impressive in real life.

Charles pulled up in front and hurried around to open her door. When he helped her out, she was surprised to find a crowd of people waiting outside. Many of them were scowling and shooting mean glances at the Space Needle.

Charles led her through the throng right to the door. A young man stood there, guarding the entrance. He stopped them with an outstretched hand. “I’m sorry, sir, but we’re closed for the night.”

Charles didn’t miss a beat. “This is Miss Sandra Hawthorne.”

The young man’s eyes widened, and his cheeks turned a bright red. Sandra thought he was her age, if not younger. “Oh! My apologies, Miss Hawthorne. We weren’t expecting you so early. Certainly, certainly, come in.” He stepped aside, unclipping the hanging velvet chain and pushing the doors open.

Sandra frowned at Charles. He smiled like he was in on some great secret. “I won’t be accompanying you any farther tonight, Miss Hawthorne. It was a pleasure to meet you.” He inclined his head slightly, turned, and trotted back to the limo before she could say a word.

“Miss…?” The attendant reminded her.

“Oh! Yes, thank you.” Sandra stepped through the open doors, and the young man followed her. He locked the doors behind him, and looked relieved to be inside at last.

“Who are all those people outside?” Sandra asked.

“Angry tourists,” he confided, “who’ve had their dinner plans ruined.”

“But, why?”

He looked at her as if she told him Elvis were still alive, but didn’t answer. “The elevator will bring you to the top,” he said instead, motioning in its direction. “That is where your fiancé will be waiting for you.”

“Fiancé? You mean Brandon? He’s not my fiancé.”

Again, the young man blushed. “My apologies. I assumed you were engaged.”

“No.”

“Again, my apologies.” He glanced over his shoulder as if he’d had a change of heart about where he’d rather be. “The elevator?”

“Right.” Sandra walked up to it, hit the button, and the doors opened instantly. She stepped in, giving the young man an apologetic smile and goodbye wave—it wasn’t his fault Brandon had done something ludicrous!—and pressed the button for the top floor.

As the elevator climbed, she thought of a dozen different things she was ready to say to Brandon. How had he managed to keep all those people out? What right did he have to do that? And the greeter down there thought he was her
fiancé?
Was that misunderstanding something Brandon had propagated?

Any uncertainty she felt from before was gone, replaced by a steely determination.
I’ll tell Brandon exactly what I think of the manner in which he brought me here, without a single iota of communication on his part the whole trip! If he gets offended, I’ll walk straight out to Charles and have him drive me home
. And if she couldn’t return the dress she had on, well, it was the idiot man’s fault for forcing the thing onto her through Clarisse. It would be a small loss for him, regardless.

The elevator dinged to announce her arrival. Sandra stepped out, and was immediately impressed. The place was magnificent. She was in the lobby of the restaurant on top of the Needle, on a small island in the middle of a revolving platform. Around her, tables were set along the curving windows with full dishware—but there were no guests anywhere. The attendant was right. Everybody who’d made reservations or wanted to eat here tonight had to find other plans.
How exactly had Brandon managed that?

The outer rim rotated slowly, offering guests seated at the tables a beautiful, panoramic view of Seattle’s darkened skyline as they dined. Sandra had never realized the top of the Space Needle moved!

She walked forward, about to step onto the platform to find Brandon—and stopped. If Brandon were somewhere here, at one of the tables, she would wait for
him
to come to
her,
and not the other way around.

She was fed up with running to him. This was the end of it, right here.