You Call This Romance!?. Barbara Daly

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      DAZED FROM KISSING FAITH, which had been the surprise of his life and had shaken him to his jaded core, Cabot wasn’t sure what to do next. One thing he did observe was that they got plenty of attention on the way to LAX in the garish limo. Tourists lifted their cameras and snapped pictures when they pulled up to the terminal, and they’d do the same thing in July, not even knowing that Tippy Temple was about to step out of the car. When you were in his line of business, attention was a good thing.

      Once he’d gotten his little party settled in first-class, with Faith beside him in the window seat and the video crew scattered out in front of him where he could keep an eye on them, it seemed time for small talk. Any kind of talk would do except talk about that kiss and its impact, and since the kiss was all he could think about, he didn’t have a clue how to begin. “Nice suit” wouldn’t work, because she hadn’t had anything to do with choosing it.

      Joey and Tippy had chosen it, had chosen the entire trousseau. Tippy loved shopping with Joey. Cabot wished he’d thought to ask Joey if he’d like to marry Tippy, since it was only for show.

      Modern Day Pygmalion Story: Stylist Marries His Creation. Cabot could see the headline in his mind’s eye, and wished he could see it on the cover of Variety. And People. And Vanity Fair. If Tippy were marrying Joey, he, Cabot, could spend this weekend profitably, which in his addled state meant kissing Faith numerous additional times. And doing more than kissing, if she wanted to.

      He wondered if Faith’s mental processes felt like his did right this minute—electrical impulses leaping from right brain to left, from front to back and skittering off on the diagonal. If so, he felt sorry for her.

      “…and I’m finally figuring out what my sister Charity has been going through as a model,” Faith was saying, “except that her shoes never fit. Maybe that’s why she’s so determined to be a scientist instead. Comfortable shoes.”

      Since she’d come to his rescue, effortlessly supplying the small talk he couldn’t seem to dredge up, Cabot thought he’d better help. “Let me guess,” he said. “You have another sister and her name is Hope.”

      “Yes. How about you?”

      He gave her a sidelong glance to find that she wasn’t even smiling, when that lovely, surprisingly wide mouth seemed to smile so easily. She seemed nervous. Fear of flying? I don’t think so. Fear of me is more like it.

      “One sister, which I thought was one too many when I was a kid. She’s married, now, with two kids. She’s an artist, he’s a stockbroker. I don’t know what they talk about.”

      “I told you about Charity,” Faith rattled on after her brief interest in Cabot’s family. “Hope’s a big businesswoman in New York. We’re all so different. Hope and Charity got all the brains, though.”

      She sounded so glum that Cabot found himself wanting to make her feel better. “Being brainy doesn’t necessarily make you successful,” he suggested, “and being successful doesn’t mean you’re brainy.” It sounded good, but he wasn’t sure he’d said anything meaningful. “You’re a good travel agent, and that’s not easy.”

      She suddenly whipped an earnest gaze around to him and he felt himself melting under it, or at least some of him was melting and some of him was impersonating a stalagmite.

      “Do you really think I could be a good travel agent?” she asked him.

      He shifted uneasily in the upholstered seat that would magically become his life jacket if he needed one.

      “Because it’s practically my last chance to succeed,” she said mournfully. Her mouth tilted down at the corners. Cabot wanted to settle his fingers right there and tilt it back up. “I’m thirty years old and my résumé reads like a terrorist’s dossier.”

      “Now I can’t believe you ever…”

      “I haven’t caused any actual explosions—well, a fire or two—but disaster strikes on every job I’ve ever held. First there was the Marrakesh caper.”

      “That sounds…”

      “Yes. Very exciting, doesn’t it? And I thought it would be. A very famous author—you’d СКАЧАТЬ