Love/Forty Read online

  “Yes. I’m terribly sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you, and I apologize that you were subjected to that horrible event.”

  “Guess you’re used to them, but I also know you’re not to blame. Well, except maybe for the kiss…”

  She gave a little chuckle because she didn’t want him to know how upset that incident made her. She heard the smile in his tone when he asked, “Then, you’re all right?”

  “Yes. I’m safe and the concierge told me the photographers are no longer at the hotel.”

  “I know. They followed me here, which is what I wanted. If they spend the night outside in their cars, I’ll be happy to wake them at dawn on my way to the airport.”

  “How do you think they knew where to find us?”

  “I’m not sure. I didn’t have my guard up, and someone probably saw us in Old Town, maybe followed us to your hotel, and assumed I was staying there also. Or maybe Max’s staff is too efficient and already released the news about our agent-client agreement and they were waiting for him and better yet, found us instead.

  “That’s what’s most disturbing about this. You have no idea where or when they’ll show up and after a while, you put them out of your mind. Well, once I leave Arizona, you should be safe for the rest of the week. I hope you and Max have a great visit.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mercedes?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you mind if I called you sometime?”

  She let out a silent breath. “Friends?”

  “Definitely. I enjoyed being with you and Max, and I don’t have a large network of friends to call outside of tennis, especially female friends. Well, I have my mother.”

  She laughed. “All right. If I don’t get to talk to you before the French Open, I wish you the best and I’ll be rooting for you.”

  “Thanks. I wish you were going to be there.”

  Mercedes didn’t respond.

  “Take care, then…”

  They said goodbye for the third time, and Mercedes turned off the phone. She got ready for bed, putting the incident with the paparazzi out of her mind for the moment. But, not the kiss…

  Chapter Five

  Several days later, Mercedes and Max arrived at the Phoenix airport earlier than usual to have breakfast together before they’d have to part to different gates after they went through security.

  They had checked their luggage, gotten their boarding passes, and then verbally tied up all loose ends over coffee and breakfast burritos as to when and where they’d be able to get together again. She began to recover from the scene at the hotel, especially since there hadn’t been any articles in the tabloids.

  “I want to stop by the bookstore before I go to my gate, buy some gum, and see what’s new on the bestseller list,” she said. “Interested?”

  “Great idea. I need to pick up a newspaper and a snack,” Max said.

  They hurried to the newsstand and Mercedes froze, grabbing her brother’s arm.

  “What?” He asked, looking at her. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Mercedes merely pointed in the direction of the magazine rack with her head and backed away from the store.

  Max smacked his palm on top of his head and spun around. “Damn. I don’t believe this.”

  He followed Mercedes to a lounge area and they sat down in the middle of the airport. She struggled to say something, but couldn’t speak.

  “Wait here,” Max ordered, “while I go in and purchase some of them. Do you want anything else besides gum?”

  She shook her head. As soon as Max disappeared inside the store, she grabbed her sunglasses and put them on—she would have worn them even if it were nighttime. How would she manage to arrive home without seeing someone reading one of those papers? Worse, the attendants would probably be passing them out on the flight for the passengers to read before takeoff.

  When Max returned, she grabbed a couple of the magazines and stared at the picture on the covers of Dante kissing her in the hallway of the hotel, their names splashed across the page in bright colors. She opened her briefcase and plopped them inside before slamming down the lid. One headline read: “McFadden, Edwards and McFadden,” like a corporation you’d read about in the WSJ or Forbes.

  “Do you want me to change my flight and go to New York with you? Or would you rather come with me to Florida? Maybe stay with Mom and Dad when I go to Paris.”

  “Neither. Give me a few minutes to collect myself. We’ll go through security and I’ll grab a cup of coffee and bury my head in a book. Would you mind going back to the newsstand and buying me one of those books in the window? A friend of mine recommended that fat book to me; I think Wally Lamb is the author.”

  A few minutes later, armed with gum, a small box of chocolates Max threw in for fun, and what appeared to be an eight-hundred-page novel, she went through the security gate while there still wasn’t much of a wait that early in the morning.

  That accomplished, she hugged her brother, promising to call him after he arrived in Florida.

  “You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

  “Yes. I’ll be fine. Thank you for everything, especially the first class ticket. We had a great week together. I’ll sit by the window, plug in my music, and ignore the person who has the nerve to sit next to me,” she said, giving her brother a fake smile. All the while thinking she couldn’t wait to get home to cry. Her emotions sat on the tip of her nose and threatening tears were difficult to control.

  Once on board the plane, she grinned pleasantly at the man who occupied the seat beside her, mouthed an inaudible ‘hello,’ turned on her Mp3 player and buried her face in her book. She found concentrating on the words a challenge while her mind wondered with curiosity what the tabloids had said about her and Dante.

  The flight home proved to be the longest in history, in her mind, at least. She wanted to be home, locked behind her door alone, with no one or anything to distract her. Well, she thought, except for the newsstand gossip…

  With her suitcase, briefcase and tote bag, along with a plastic bag of takeout Chinese cartons—she had had the cab driver wait while she picked up an order—she somehow managed to make her way to the front of her building. She struggled to get the door open and put all her belongings in the lobby, nodded to the driver, who at least had the decency to wait until she was safely inside before speeding off, considering he didn’t bother to help her except to take her suitcase out of the trunk of his cab.

  As soon as she entered her loft, she let go of her suitcase, dropped her briefcase and tote bag, rushed to the kitchen and placed the food on the countertop, and ran to the bathroom and struggled with the dry heaves.

  That done, she dragged her suitcase into the bedroom and unpacked, dropping the laundry in the hamper, she returned to the great room, opened her briefcase, grabbed the magazines and tossed them on the couch. She turned on some music before she took a shower and changed into a comfortable sweat suit.

  After she began to feel a little relaxed and certain she wouldn’t be sick to her stomach again, she decided to eat. She grabbed a set of chopsticks and fixed herself a tall glass of iced tea while she waited for the microwave to heat her dinner.

  Once she felt her muscles loosen a little, she picked up the phone and called Max. “No, I haven’t read the articles, yet,” and “no I don’t want to discuss the situation,” and “yes I’ll call you tomorrow. I promise I’m not going to cry.”

  With chopsticks in hand, she began to tackle her orange chicken and fried rice. She looked over at one of the tabloids, put her dinner down, and bawled like a two-year old during a temper tantrum. When she thought there were no more tears left, she stood and stomped her feet, paced the room, stared out at the lights of the city coming to life, then grabbed one of the other papers and read the article inside, threw the gossip rag across the floor and started to cry again.

  Being acquainted with Dante Edwards was about to turn her into a
recluse. Picasso had nothing on her. She’d probably be better off if she joined a monastic establishment. Or maybe she should take Max up on his offer to join his staff and handle Dante as a client. At least that might cut media speculation.

  That’s what the articles were, mere speculation.

  She finally calmed down after a few whimpers and decided to enjoy her dinner when her phone rang. The break in the silence made her shiver. She thought of ignoring even looking at the Caller ID, but lost that battle and gave a sigh of relief when she saw that the call was from her best friend.

  “Faith?”

  “Mercedes! Thank goodness. After seeing your face all over the newsstands this morning, I’ve tried for hours to call you and finally came to the conclusion you must have either dropped from planet earth or your phone was off and you were flying home. How are you? Do you need me to come over?”

  “No, thanks. I’m all right.”

  “Mercedes, this is your best friend.”

  After receiving a few moments of silence, Faith asked, “What happened?”

  “Basically what you read in the tabloids.”

  “You’re just friends?”

  “Acquaintances.”

  “Now I know you’ve lost your mind. How can you be just acquaintances with that man? Reminds me of that cartoon of the famous painting of the royal couple. She’s pregnant and the cartoon says, ‘tell the press we’re just friends.’ Did you even bother to take a good look at him?”

  Mercedes made a funny sound and said, “Did I ever? However, if a celebrity, whether they are a star or an athlete, is seen in public with someone, the tabloids automatically presume they are either having a hot love affair or she’s pregnant.”

  “That’s how they sell their product, Mercedes. Besides, this incident could improve your dating prospects.”

  “Faith!”

  “Do you have any plans to interview him for an article?”

  “Yes. After the U.S. Open.”

  “Do you want to use my place?”

  Faith was the senior editor of a women’s magazine and her office was half of a penthouse she shared with her father, Thomas Townsend, who owned both the building and the Townsend Publishing Company.

  “No, thanks. I invited him to come here for dinner.”

  “Tell me you didn’t?”

  “I don’t want to be seen in public with him in some restaurant for several hours while I conduct the interview and end up with my photo all over the newsstands again.”

  “Let me guess, you promised to cook Italian for him.”

  Another moment of silence and Faith said, “OMG! Please tell me you haven’t fallen for this man?”

  “No! But he really is quite nice, Faith.”

  “I’m going to ask you once more, did you take note of how handsome he is?”

  “Didn’t miss a dimple.”

  “Mercedes, most men from countries who speak one of the romance languages are gigolos, and many of the married ones keep mistresses. Do you really believe he’s going to spend hours in your condo and not want to make love to you? Of course, he’d be a fool if he didn’t.”

  “I’ve given the prospect some thought.”

  This time the long pause was on Faith’s end of the line. “What happened to my friend who vowed she wouldn’t get involved with any of the famous men she met and become their trophy? Believe me, Mercedes, he’s not your type. Besides, have you considered getting naked in front of him? Even if I looked like a Victoria’s Secret model, I would have plastic surgery and liposuction before I’d let him see me in the nude!”

  Mercedes hadn’t given that a thought because she had no intentions of having sex with him. She might be tempted, but that was all. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t think I’m pretty enough to attract him?”

  “No, I’m trying to remind you how gorgeous he is and to remind you that you’re still a virgin. Consider the bevy of sophisticated and beautiful women he dates and then imagine his reaction when he discovers you’re a virgin. You’re going to need some help on that matter. Remember that movie we saw with Debra Messing—the one where she was going to her sister’s wedding and her ex-fiancé was the best man?”

  “Yes, the one where she hired that handsome man from the escort service to go with her as her fiancé?”

  “That’s the one! Maybe I could call around and fix you up with someone like that. Strictly a high-class escort service. I’ll even give you the keys to my parents’ cottage in Newport. You can change your name…”

  “Faith!” she exclaimed, scandalized by such a suggestion.

  “Well, it’s a thought.”

  “Maybe he’d be attracted to someone who hasn’t slept around.”

  “Do you really think he’s looking for a woman who’s unskilled in the ways of making love?”

  “I believe, speaking generally and not specifically about Dante and me, when two people are right for each other, expressions of love come quite naturally.”

  Faith groaned.

  “I’ll think of something. I have plenty of time and anyway, he’ll probably forget about me and the interview by then.”

  “All right. Call me. Let’s do lunch…”

  Chapter Six

  After a fitful night of on-and-off sleep and feeling anxious, Mercedes got up before dawn and made the bed. With nervous energy, she started a load of laundry, put her suitcase by the front door to take downstairs to storage, then hopped on her treadmill and worked out for half an hour until she felt her frustration dissipate.

  Next, she waved a feather duster across her bookshelves that had been completed while she was away, getting rid of any dust that had gathered before she began filling the shelves. She also dusted the tops of the furniture, and when everything was in place and back in order, she showered and dressed.

  Her nerves still weren’t completely settled, but she felt better in spite of being bored. She reached for the phone and called Max and the conversation skirted around every subject other than Dante, except when her brother asked her how she felt concerning the Scottsdale incident, as though it were a front-page crime report.

  “Well, chances of any photographers capturing another picture of me with the famed tennis star are nil, and even if they captured a photo of me crossing the Avenue of the Americas, the media would have nothing to write about to ever connect the two of us. I won’t be seen with him, or any other man since I rarely date anyway, and I intend to keep a low profile if I do.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” he said, and snickered. “And if you have a date with someone, your plan is to take a cab and meet him at some obscure restaurant?”

  “Maybe.”

  He simply shook his head; glad she couldn’t see the expression on his face. Changing the subject, he said, “Mom and Dad want to know if you’ll be able to find time to come down to visit?”

  “Scheduling is your forte. You know I can hop a plane anytime, only make sure I come when he’s in Europe.”

  “All right, if you insist. I’ll check my calendar and get back to you.”

  After they hung up, Mercedes decided to call Faith and see if she was free for lunch. As she reached to pick up the receiver, her doorbell buzzed.

  She pushed the intercom button and asked, “Who’s there?”

  “UPS. I have two paintings to deliver from Arizona.”

  “Take the elevator and I’ll be waiting for you.”

  Excited to see the paintings and anxious to have them hung in her condo, she hurried to meet the UPS driver.

  As soon as the paintings were placed in her foyer, she took the elevator down with the delivery man, in search of a carpenter on the premises.

  She found Al, the one man who had helped her with the bookcases and other projects, in the one-story condo below hers and he promised to come up on his lunch break on one condition, she had to order pizza.

  With a grin on her face, she shook her head, and said, “Deal!” She was good at making deals. Then she hurried back to h
er place, wondering what was with men and the phrase, on one condition? Maybe there was an On One Condition Secret Society she hadn’t heard of where male members write conditions in a book for all men to share.

  Seated at her desk, she stared at the paintings, tempted to remove them from the crates, but afraid to risk damaging them; she called Faith, instead.

  “I had started to call to see if you could go to lunch, but was interrupted by the UPS man…”

  “Don’t tell me you’re having an affair with the UPS man?”

  “Faith!”

  “Sorry.”

  “When I was in Arizona, I bought two oil paintings. The carpenter is coming to hang them and I’m going to order pizza. Want to join us?”

  “Ah! A ménage à trois?”

  “What has gotten into you, Faith?”

  “Crazy, I guess. I like to tease you. All right, how about if you order the pizza from that little Italian restaurant down the street from your place, and I’ll pick up on my way.”

  “Perfect.”

  “What time?”

  “Let me call you back. I’ll go and ask Al when he plans on taking his break, order the pizza, and let you know what time they’ll be ready.” In a hurry to get back to her project, she said, “Gotta go. Talk to you in a few.”

  Mercedes felt alive and excited, like her old self again, the incident in Arizona gone from her mind, temporarily at least, now that she had her day planned. Before she went to check on the carpenter, she put her load of laundry in the dryer, put a load of darks in the washing machine, and hurried down to the first floor, bursting with energy.

  By ten o’clock she had all her chores completed, even took a few minutes to put out napkins, plates, and glasses. Then she sat at her desk and opened her computer to edit and send the article she had finished on her way to Arizona to the magazine editor as an email attachment. She had gone out of her way to keep busy and control her mind from wandering.

  ****

  The opening of the two oil paintings couldn’t have been any more exciting if they were to be displayed in the Metropolitan. After some discussion and attempting to decide where to hang the Aspens, the three of them decided on the brick wall in the foyer, so when guests arrived, the first thing they’d see would be the painting on the wall opposite the front door.