Have Gown, Will Wed Page 9

  “Wow, with charm like that, the fact that some guy didn’t snap you up long ago is shocking.”

  She could hear the smile in Carmen’s voice.

  “Blame it on my tendency to snap back. Damn it. Okay, okay. I’ll just … I can do this, it’s just Xavier Hommes. I’m coming in for this meeting then I’m coming straight back home. I don’t think I can take that man looking at me like a monkey in a cage when I feel this terrible. I’ll see you in an hour.”

  The doorbell harkened again, this time a double, insistent set of ding-dong, ding-dong. Rosalind held back a sneeze, literally pinching her nose closed, and opened the door.

  “Mr. Hommes, good afternoon. I’ll be ready in just ah… ah… ahhhchoo!”

  His eyes grew wide as he took her in from head to toe. What a sight she must have been: stringy locks of blonde hair lumped in random intervals like undercooked pasta, half made-up face, eyes red as Mars. Her jeans were still wet near the bottom, stained a darker blue by saturation. Though heat filled her cheeks and her head experimented with vertigo, chills racked her body, making her shake when the cool air from the hallway floated in with his scent.

  He took two steps in without invitation. “You look terrible.”

  “Just what every girl dreams of hearing a handsome man say to her when she opens the door.” She bit her tongue, as if her ill-intentioned compliment would erase if she could just draw blood. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. When I’m sick, the connections between my brain and my mouth short circuit and all kinds of things just… Wait a minute, how did you get up here?” Her head peeked out the empty door frame, surveying the hallway for evidence of a break in. “You can’t access this floor without a passcode or a—”

  “Eight, seventeen, ninety-three.”

  Now she was sure the room was spinning. “How the hell do you know my passcode?”

  He jumped around her question as easily as he maneuvered around her body to hang his coat on the rack. “Has anyone ever told you how predictable you can be?”

  “Answer me. Is part of your stalking hacking into my building’s security system? That’s illegal you know, not to mention highly unethical. I’ve only told it to Carmen, the dog walker, and my cleaning lady. Don’t tell me you now also place domestic staff and Linda is actually a mole.”

  “If I’m willing to find potential mates, why would a housecleaner be such a stretch?” Xavier shut the door behind him, set down a briefcase, and took off his coat, shaking droplets off on the rug. “Last time I was here, I was standing right behind you as you plugged it in. I know you didn’t see me in the elevator, and I assure you, I didn’t mean to memorize it. Still, I googled it to see if I could find any significance to the numbers, to see if it might give me insight to your nature.”

  She waited expectantly for him to continue, watching a rain drop slick down over an ebony twist of his hair and dissolve into his blue shirt. “And?”

  “Like I said, you’re predictable. Most people either use someone’s birthday or their own. Sadly, finding out your code was Mae West’s birthday didn’t really tell me anything new about you.”

  Her teeth ground. “I’ll have it changed. Just give me a few minutes to get ready and we can… Whoa.”

  She felt like she’d just bungee jumped off the top of the Comerica building. The room twisted as Rosalind’s legs gave out from under her. Airborne. She was utterly airborne. Except that she was braced behind her shoulders and under her knees by something thick and strong. And that smelled divine.

  Xavier’s eyes met hers as her head fell against his shoulder.

  “Rosalind, you’re so hot.”

  “And I said you’re handsome, so now we’re even,” she answered, trying to figure out what had just happened. How was she so close to him? And were they moving? They must be, or else the vertigo had come on for real.

  “No, I mean you have a fever,” he admonished with a teasing smile. “God, you have to be running well into the thirties. Have you taken anything yet? You have any aspirin or acetaminophen?”

  Her body flattened out as her back hit her bed. “I’m fine. It’s just a cold.”

  “Like hell it is. Colds don’t include fevers.”

  She tried to shoo away his concern. “I’m just weak. I haven’t eaten anything since waking up in Tokyo. The food on the plane… Even just the smell of it turned my stomach.”

  Xavier’s hand flattened over her forehead. Even if what he said wasn’t true, she was pretty sure that that fact alone would have pushed the mercury up.

  He sat with a sigh on the edge of her bed. “Of course it smelled bad. You were coming down with the flu. I’m sure if you had anything in your stomach, it would all be coming back up now.” His eyes drifted down the length of her body. “You landed a few hours ago. You didn’t have time to take off those clothes? We need to get you out of those damp things.”

  Despite her dizziness, she shot up into a sitting position. “Oh, no you don’t, buddy!”

  His hands flew out, palms forward and flat. “I wasn’t implying a thing. But can you handle it yourself? If you want me to call someone to come over to help, just let me know the number.”

  She scooted to the end of the bed before wobbling to her feet. “Kamakshi’s in LA, seeing a woman about a dress,S and as she reminded me not too long ago, all my other friends have moved on with their lives. I’ll change myself. But could you… Would you do something for me?”

  The look on his face was so earnest, it unnerved her. “Anything.”

  She pointed vaguely toward the kitchen as she shuffled to the bathroom door. “There’s already hot water in the kettle. I keep the tea bags in a drawer under the coffee pot. Anything not Earl Grey or Lipton, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.”

  She closed the bathroom door behind her and fell to her knees. She needed a minute to get herself under control. The room was treating her to an encore of vertigo. After a few minutes, she straightened. By the time she had managed to strip down, brush out her hair, and redress, a good ten minutes had passed. Her body’s temptation to make good use of the porcelain throne in every way it was possible thwarted any attempt at being swift. She kept her resolve about her and back-talked her body.

  A steaming, earthenware mug sat on her nightstand when she reemerged from the bathroom, along with a note in script way too refined to belong to this century.

  You’re far too sick to go anywhere. Put on some pajamas, get into bed. I called Carmen. She said she’d reschedule the meeting and to listen to whatever I say. Drink your tea and I’ll be back shortly. I took your keychain for the door, and I’ll let myself in. Just don’t change the code before then. -Xav

  Xav. There it was again. She didn’t know why that simple name felt so good on her lips. Almost mythical, like it should be a character in Zelda.

  The tea warmed her, deep in her chest where she had felt the coldest. Xavier couldn’t have picked out a better brew for her ailment; the balance of chamomile and peppermint in the herbal blend soothed both her stomach and her pounding head. Next to the note lay two small, white tablets. Xavier must have given her kitchen a thorough once over to fish those out of some remote corner of a cabinet. She paused before downing them; maybe they were already past their expiration dates. For better or worse, she’d take the risk to get rid of the timpani player on meth currently residing between her eyebrows.

  Somewhere between sip three and four, her eyes grew heavy.

  Breweing Up Trouble

  The selection at the Stop & Shop paid tribute to Soviet Russia. Unless you wanted soft drinks, chips, or energy shots, that was, in which case even Amazon couldn’t compete. Varieties of soup, however, were more refined: a canned chicken noodle he knew from experience had the consistency—and taste—of baby food; an instant cream of mushroom with more salt per mouthful than the Pacific; and a pitiful, single-se
rve microwavable minestrone that could only look inspired by Wolfgang Puck when sitting next to the other two.

  Xavier gnashed his teeth and thought about the dinner he had planned to ask Rosalind to after shadowing her at the office. A dinner in public, away from privacy that might tempt him. A strictly business dinner. Nonetheless, just because there was an agenda didn’t mean you had to sacrifice a culinary-respectable experience. The restaurant on the Embarcadero boasted a wine selection of which Bacchus himself would have approved, as well as a picturesque view of the Bay Bridge. Xavier had always found the less famous of the two San Francisco bridges far more impressive to his own eyes. The Golden Gate stood as a token to the city in its booming past, connecting the bustling port town to the great beauty of redwoods and mountains just past the Sausalito city line. The Bay Bridge, however, marked its domination in modernity, connecting the City by the Bay to Oakland and Berkeley, industrial and thriving in their own way, utterly rebellious to the nation’s general trend toward conformity.

  Even if during rush hour that bastard backed up like nobody’s business.

  And, unlike the GG, the Bay Bridge was so not romantic, definitely less likely to inspire loverly notions over quiche or chicken marsala. Which was important. Xavier Hommes needed to reestablish boundaries after his last encounter with Rosalind Betters. What amounted to a well-contrived fact-finding mission had almost transformed into something much more revealing. He needed to remind himself that their relationship was a business one, and they were merely involved in a transaction in which his role was ONLY to headhunt a husband for her.

  Which he had agreed to do again… why?

  Money, his inner ambitions reminded him. Connections. Reputation. If you can place something this unorthodox for someone so high profile, what can’t you do? You’ll be on top of the game in this city. Plus one year exclusivity with BetaHouse? Serious green.

  Xavier found the cashier and suppressed the urge to run to the restroom to wash his hands. “I don’t suppose you have any produce?”

  The balding, pot-bellied man behind the counter grimaced and pointed out the door. “There’s a holistic living shop in the alley between those two buildings. If you can tolerate the stench, they carry all kinds of organic crap.”

  To not feel a total ass, Xavier threw a few items on the counter and bought a lottery ticket. No hope of winning of course. Lady Luck had proven lately what a tart she really was, and he didn’t expect more than his due.

  Helen’s Holistic Hut smelled like it looked: herbal. As in, illegally herbal. Since the California electorate had created this loophole despite Federal law for weed, the green grocers had become the latest left coast craze in retail. It seemed as if there wasn’t a block in the city that didn’t host either a yogurt shop, a tattoo parlor, or retail reefer anymore. Not that he had anything against anyone who wanted to use marijuana in the privacy of their own home, it just didn’t appeal to him.

  Xavier hoped the smell wouldn’t stick to his clothing. It certainly wouldn’t calm Rosalind’s stomach, the purpose of this whole endeavor.

  A gray-haired woman whose wardrobe originated in the Nixon administration meandered out from behind a beaded curtain at the back. He could only assume this was Helen. “Can I help you?”

  “Someone told me you might have fresh produce here.”

  She grinned. “Well, that’s the first time I ever heard it called that. You got your card on you, honey?”

  Nerves brought a laugh out of him. “No, I mean like onions and carrots and stuff.”

  Her hands anchored on her hips as the brightness of her features dulled. “Ah, yeah. Got some of that, too. Over there, on the other side of the crystal display. Everything’s organic and locally sourced as much as possible. Only root vegetables this time of year. And blood oranges, if you care for them. I never did, but it takes all types.”

  “Thanks.”

  The selection was humble, both in terms of its variety and the size of the carrots, onions, and potatoes he snapped up for his cart. His rummaging through Rosalind’s kitchen told him he was unlikely to find the other ingredients he needed. He approached the dry goods display. Again, the quality left one wanting—obviously the store turned its black ink on its more profitable cash crop—but the basics of what he needed were there.

  “What’s that?” Xavier pointed at the display of tiny brown bottles on a rack at the cash register.

  The shopkeeper eyeballed a barcode, trying to get the scanner to register it. “Aromatherapy oils. Certain fragrances contain healing properties or have other...” Her frame shook with silent laughter as her head jerked back, indicating the safe behind her. “…effects.”

  Wafts of lilac and mint danced in his memory. “Could it help with flu symptoms?”

  “Could it help? Hah! Of course it can.” She leaned over the paisley-patterned linoleum-covered counter as her hand drifted over the bottles, cataloguing them. On the second rack from the bottom, her fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle with a picture of a black cat on the label. The Egyptian-inspired text read FEVER, CHILLS, AND NIGHT SWEATS. She unscrewed the bottle and removed the dipping wand, holding it up for Xavier to sample. “Go ahead. Take a whiff.”

  For all his eye rolling at the idea that something so benign could have such a benefit, whatever was in that little brown vial pleased him. “That might help her. What is it exactly?”

  “Essential oils.” She replaced the cap and screwed it back on tightly. “This one has a bit of eucalyptus, lemon, rosemary, and lavender. Works best when added to a bath or an oil diffuser, but you can always use the drunk’s method.”

  He bit back the urge to say, Don’t you mean the stoner’s method?

  “Just add about ten drops to a bowl of freshly boiled water,” she continued. “Have your wife put a towel over her head, over the bowl, and breathe in the steam.”

  “It’s not for my wife,” he assured her, pulling a fifty from his wallet. Thank God he had cash. No way he wanted a pottery’s line item appearing on any of his billing statements.

  “Girlfriend then.”

  “No.”

  One of Helen’s eyes closed as the other targeted him contemplatively. “Boyfriend?”

  “Just the change, please.”

  “Hey, no offense. I don’t judge. The summer of love’s still in full swing, as far as I’m concerned.”

  The rain had finally stopped by the time he got back to Rosalind’s building. From her bedroom door, she appeared to be sleeping peacefully. He resisted the instinct to tiptoe in and check her forehead with the back of his hand. It would take him a while to get the soup ready from scratch anyway. On the way to the kitchen area, he grabbed out the manila folder from the briefcase by the door and made his way to the cabinet where he’d spotted a stockpot.

  The impression of a real kitchen could serve as the textbook example of how not to stock a galley where actual cooking needed to be done. Rosalind’s fridge played host only to butter, milk—expiration date one week prior—non-dairy coffee creamer, and a king’s sampling of to-go boxes and essential condiments. None of them appeared on the list of ingredients for his mother’s recipe except butter, and he’d limit that to keep Rosalind’s nausea at bay.

  When all the ingredients were in the pot on a low boil, he grabbed the bag from the convenience store and took out the bottle of single serve wine from a vineyard he’d never heard of. Wine glasses were one of the few things Rosalind’s kitchen actually did supply. The red liquid swirled in the cup, its scent, combined with the earthy aroma of the soup as the ingredients began to meld into his mére’s best recipe, transported him home. Xavier closed his eyes, inhaled memory, and exhaled nostalgia. The only missing element, hints of his mother’s perfume as she’d drift between the kitchen and the herb garden outside their door in summer. Where reality lacked, his imagination filled in the gaps. Another deep breath, and the femi
nine wisps tickled his senses.

  “Wow, whatever it is, it does smell good.”

  He jolted when the unfamiliar voice intruded on his trip down memory lane. Luckily, he saved the Merlot from doom; only a drop trickled over the side of the glass with his jerk.

  Xavier glared at Rosalind accusingly. “Why are you out of bed?”

  “Why are you still here?” she huffed back. “Last time I woke up to find a handsome man in my kitchen cooking, it was breakfast and he was naked.”

  “Well, in this case, it’s soup, and I charge extra for that kind of service.”

  As though replaying what she had just uttered, Rosalind flushed. As her face reddened, he saw her body begin to sway. Xavier put the wine down and circled the kitchen island just in time to brace her from falling.

  “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean... I mean, I’m sure your body looks great when you’re naked, but I... Oh, frick, no, I didn’t mean that either.”

  “Shhh.” He guided her back toward her bedroom. “I won’t hold it against you.” He didn’t say specifically if he meant his naked body, or her statement. He told himself this wasn’t because later it wouldn’t trap him into going back on his word. “Lay back down. Soup’s almost done.”

  A few minutes later, he reentered her temple to plainness and set the tray on her side table.

  “Normally, I’d serve this with a hunk of crusty bread and a glass of red, but I think we shouldn’t chance your stomach’s temperament at the moment.”

  He could tell by her furrowed brow she didn’t like to be babied. The fact that Rosalind Betters didn’t take naturally to being cared for was no surprise; he hardly needed to tuck the napkin over the neck of her T-shirt to learn as much. Xavier raised a spoonful of the concoction to Rosalind’s lips and waited. She glared at him.