Midnight Resolutions

“Make you? Me?” She fluttered her lashes and he laughed.

“You can say all the heartless jokes you want, but I’m on to you.”

“Do you always get your way?”

“Yes. You should have figured that out by now.”

She waited, fingers crossed under the table, until finally he nodded, and she remembered to breathe. “I’ll do it.”

Rose was so excited she nearly kissed him, except for the hot hunger that still lingered on her lips. She wanted to keep that taste there, just for a little longer.

“You’re sure? I mean, if you really don’t want to…”

“You’d let me off the hook that easily?”

“Not really, but I’m trying to show some pretense of sensitivity. Humor me, here.” Because she owed him, she endured three more blow-by-blow surgical descriptions without even a visible quiver of nausea.

Before he moved to number four, he glanced down at his watch. “It’s late. You look tired.”

A secret peek at her watch said it was nearly one, and all Rose wanted to do was go home and fall into bed. Alone.

She’d had exactly zero lovers. When you were groomed for matrimony as a blood sport, virginity was highly prized, right up there with a clean complexion and a coming-out dress. Her parents hadn’t had the money for white satin and richelieu lace, so the Hildebrandes had over-compensated with endless lectures on virtue and a lifetime supply of Neutrogena. Rose—being a bright girl and not one to rebel—had taken the hint.

Now she yawned, not exactly faked. “I’m exhausted, and with your day—honestly, I don’t know how you do it.”

“Good drugs,” he answered with an easy laugh.

And the stamina of a camel. Mentally, she slapped herself, feeling tired, punchy, and the bubbles in her blood were starting to die down. A master of efficiency, he helped her into her coat, always the gentleman, and she took a last sweep of the patrons in the lobby. Everything was so beautiful here, the polished marble, the gleaming silver, the people with their gentle laughter and placid faces. The six years of charm school had been so similar to this. Every day, the candle-glow lights and high-gloss perfection had been a safe haven for her, a few peaceful hours away from home. There, here, Rose had survived and thrived, grown hard and strong.

Her chin lifted, perfectly parallel to the ground, and she pivoted smoothly, slow and elegant, and the entire room watched her leave.

As they made their way out the doors, her heel caught on the step and when her foot moved on the shoe stayed behind. Remy—happy, smiling, gloriously rich Remy—swooped down and brandished it with a romantic flourish. “You did this on purpose?” he asked, as if she could be that clever.

He bent down, dark hair gleaming in the light, and placed the shoe on her foot. It should have been enchanting.

“Do you believe in fairy tales, Remy?” she asked curiously. If you lived within the invulnerability of the castle walls, did the myth of ever-after seem a big con on the rest of the world?

“Do you think this night is magic?” he countered, rising to his feet, and she saw a flash of something in his eyes. Something that she’d seen when she kissed the stranger. Hope. On New Year’s, everyone wanted to believe.

“I think people deserve one night of magic,” she answered, almost the truth.

It was his cue, his moment, and Remy was not stupid. He leaned closer and took her mouth, and Rose was too determined to pull back. Remy was a lot more viable than a fairy tale. He was everything she’d worked for, and his kiss was every bit as accomplished as it should be. So where was the triumph? No triumph, only the persistent taste of a hot hunger that even a fourth-generation Sinclair couldn’t ease.

Patiently she waited for the thrill of victory, the absoluteness of her control. Perhaps she hadn’t won the war, but this battle belonged to her. So why did she feel the same as before, the same as yesterday, the same as she’d felt all her life—

Numb.

As his hand moved purposefully toward her waist, Rose realized the hot hunger wasn’t going to return. It couldn’t be forced, it couldn’t be tricked.

Damn.

Deliberately, her hand covered his, and she raised her head, gave him her nicest smile—a pretend smile designed to make people believe she had a heart.

“I can’t.”

“Too quick?” he asked.

“Yes,” she told him, regret in her voice. “I’m sorry, Remy.” And she was, disappointed in herself, in her trickster mind. Sometimes she saw monsters where there were none, and sometimes she felt nothing when she should be pulsing with life.

“Soon,” she promised. “I’m still not there, yet.”

Remy thought her heart was involved elsewhere, that Rose was pining for a man who was desperately unworthy of her affections. A failed love affair had been Sylvia’s idea, but Rose had approved because it solved a lot more problems than it created.

“I can wait,” he said gallantly, not wanting to imagine a woman would be stupid enough to turn him down forever. Someday, Rose wouldn’t turn him down, but not tonight.

“Can I see you home?”

“I’ll manage. It’s not far.” Another big fat lie.

He took her hand, as if she were a princess, and kissed it once. If she were being honest with herself, she’d stop playing this game and get on with the life that she had planned. Instead, she stood there watching him go, a worried smile on her face.

After Remy had left, Rose hoofed it on aching feet to the number six train, which would take her to the Bronx. The Bronx was home, but not for too much longer. Rose had big goals for her life. She was grown, a woman fully formed, and stronger than her parents had ever guessed that Little Mary Poofster could be.

Rose wouldn’t live on false hopes and broken dreams. She didn’t have to worry about whether fairy tales or magic truly existed because they didn’t; all she had to do was foster the illusion. Rose had long ago mastered the art of the illusion. Money was security, money was real, money made you invulnerable to whatever the Fates chose to throw your way.

After she got off at her stop, she walked past the pet store boxed between the bodega and the OTB site. It was an odd place for animals, and she liked to stand outside the glass, watching the puppies from a safe distance.

The puppies always fascinated her, confined to a small pen that they didn’t seem to mind. Five tiny black fur balls with twinkling brown eyes that saw only the best in the world. They always looked carefree and content and safe behind that store window. The Hildebrandes never had a pet. Not even a fish. And Rose hadn’t missed them. Dogs were smelly and loud and dirty and could rip a hole in pink satin, quick as you could say boo.

But she liked watching from behind the window, and she wondered what they thought while they played behind the pane. Sometimes she’d put her hand on the glass and leave it there, waiting to see if they’d come to her, but they never did. Animals didn’t like her, knowing things that people never would.

Tonight, there were no puppies, only a big black monster dog with huge jaws, but tired eyes. He was curled up on the hay, with absolutely no faith that tonight was the start of something new. Lazily he opened an eye, squinted at her, and Rose squinted back. She placed her hand to the window, because from behind the glass, there was nothing he could do to her.

The dog growled.

Rose quivered, her hand falling to her side.

However, she did defiantly stare him down, until he realized she was no threat and shut his eyes, prepared to sleep once again.

Yup, animals knew things that people never would.

Before she climbed the steps to her building, Rose looked one last time at the lights of the skyline, the late-night partygoers making their way home, shouts of happiness ringing in the air, as if all was right with the world.

For a second, for one heart-stopping second, she had felt that way, too. Rose pressed a finger to her lips, remembering his kiss.

Somewhere he was out there. Was he alone? Was he thinking about her?

My prosperous Prince Charming.

The words whispered inside her, seductive and golden and warm. Quickly Rose shushed them away.

She turned and went inside.

It was New Year’s Eve, and all she wanted to do was be alone, let down her hair and slip into a pair of cushy polka-dot socks. Bright lights and a polished world might put stars in her eyes, but it sure was hell on the feet.

Chapter Three

THE HOME OF COUNT ANTON Simonov and his lovely, Brooklyn-born wife, Sylvia, was a stately twelve-room penthouse with soaring painted ceilings, a bank of windows overlooking Central Park and frame after gilt frame of stony-faced Old Masters. In the count’s private offices was a set of ornate cabinets that displayed his most treasured possessions—glass shelves full of Imperial eggs, handcrafted by Fabergé.

Every morning, a truckload of fresh flowers was brought in, all in white, because Sylvia adored white. As Sylvia’s personal assistant, it was Rose’s job to ensure that the flowers were properly placed, dead petals properly plucked, and that there were no nasty chrysanthemum’s in the bunch. According to Sylvia, “Mums look cheap, and if I wanted cheap, I’d have Anton spring for 36 double Ds and dye my hair platinum.”

To Rose, Sylvia was a living, breathing, teetering, stiletto-wearing hero. Nearly thirty years ago, Sylvia had risen from the ranks, trading in on her beauty and her wildly successful fund-raising abilities to snag one of New York’s wealthiest bachelors—who happened to be a Russian count to boot.

Rose had been doing a fine job working at a shipping insurance office in Pittsburgh, but there were always whispers that trailed after her. What the heck was she doing in an insurance office? Oh, her name wasn’t famous and her face wasn’t one they’d seen before, but her profile was too striking, her posture too straight, her walk a little too prissy for the shipping business. The curse of expectations never met.

When she spotted the profile on Countess Sylvia Simonov, a plan emerged. For two weeks, she had taken the 4:37 a.m. bus from Pittsburgh to Manhattan to volunteer at the Simonov food pantry. Not only was she helping feed the hungry, but in less than ten days, she had convinced Countess Sylvia Simonov that Rose was a charity organizer extraordinaire.

For the past three years, Rose had been in the Simonov employ, where the smell of peace and prosperity filled the air. It’d taken her twenty-seven years, but she had finally found a place where she fit. Here, under Sylvia’s nurturing eye, she was given on-the-job training on how to belong in the upper echelon, as well as steady exposure to Manhattan’s most desirable bachelors. Best of all, Sylvia and Anton were the poster people for how affluence can positively affect your life.

With Sylvia’s energetic influence, Rose had watched and learned how to achieve the life she wanted.

Today, January 1 in the Simonov household, Rose’s happy gaze touched on polished wood, perfumed satin and, most appealing of all, contentment. Dorothy, you’re not in Kansas anymore. Attention World: Dorothy is now arriving at the Plaza.

A stack of engraved envelopes landed on Dorothy’s desk, reminding her that Rose was actually paid to do more than daydream. Impatiently, Sylvia tapped a scarlet nail on the blotter.

“Rose. Thank-you notes for the Christmas gifts. Be a darling. Linda kept a running list with three categories: mine, Anton’s, ours. Here’s what I need. For mine and ours, write a personal, funny message, and let your gushing know no bounds. Sound like me if at all possible, preferably without the accent. For Anton’s list, especially the blue bloods, be impersonal, cold and stodgy. They really seem to go for that.”

At fifty-five, Sylvia was an odd contradiction of humility and beauty in an approachable, yet elegant package. Her dark hair never looked meticulously coiffed, but Rose knew the truth. The stylist was there every morning before Anton woke up in order to make the “high-glossed, natural softness” a fait accompli. Anton affectionately called it Sylvia’s bedroom hair. Sylvia would then shoot a conspiratorial wink at Rose. Rose never winked back, but sometimes she wanted to.

Daintily Sylvia stroked a black brow back into place. “Do you know the best cure for hot flashes? Believe it or not, Cristal. Seriously. But the next morning, oh, my God, the hangover is killer. Speaking of hot flashes, how’d the date go with Dr. Sinclair? Do I need the caterers and printers on speed dial, eagerly awaiting my call?”

Four dates and Sylvia was ready to post the banns. Unfortunately, Rose moved tortoiselike to Sylvia’s hare, not wanting to go too fast, not wanting to go too slow, which usually stalled things to not going anywhere at all.

“It was nice,” Rose answered vaguely.

“Yessss?” prompted Sylvia, who braced her hands on the fili-greed wood, causing fingerprints aplenty. “Tell. Spill.”

Spilling wasn’t easy for Rose. She wasn’t impulsive or impromptu, she was meticulous and well rehearsed. Being around Sylvia, though, she had learned to relax. Sylvia was…a friend. “I froze. I shouldn’t have clammed up. I should have been forthright, open. Instead, I’m with world’s most perfect man, and I find flaws. I think my standards are wonky.” She ended the whine with a perky smile, which never seemed to fool Sylvia.

“You’re too hard on yourself, Rose. A woman like you? Your poise, your face, those boobs. If I weren’t on the Forbes list, I’d have to hate you. Lighten up. It’s early yet. Give yourself a little time. Not everyone can move at light speed like moi.”

And in case life affirmations were required, Sylvia waltzed to the piano, her sheer leopard print caftan billowing around her. Delicately she plucked a white magnolia from the crystal vase and inhaled, beaming at Rose with a “yes, your life could be this grand,” gleam.

Then she squinted, stared.

“Why are you pale? You’re missing the usual glow. And those circles. You either need another brand of concealer, or else something’s keeping you up.”

“It’s nothing,” answered Rose, but Sylvia waggled a creamy white flower in her direction.

“Let me be the judge of nothing.”

Carefully Rose made neat stacks of the envelopes on the blotter, then dabbed at the smudged glass with the edge of her blazer, and finally adjusted the tiny silver desk calendar, all of which made her feel better, but did nothing to stop Sylvia’s tapping foot.

Of all the topics that Rose would love to discuss with Sylvia, this wasn’t one. Although, maybe if she talked about it, maybe if she put it out there, it would be no big. After all, it was no big, not big at all. The countess’s shoe clicked on the marble like a ticking time bomb.

Frantically, Rose scanned her desk, but there was absolutely nothing else to straighten. Because she was not a coward nor intimidated by the idea of confessing meaningless minutiae, Rose crossed her legs and lifted her chin in her best “it was nothing” attitude.

“I kissed someone last night.”

“Remy?”

“Another him,” Rose admitted.

Now looking completely intrigued, the countess raised her eyebrows, but didn’t speak. Rose was on her own. Grudgingly she owned up to the truth.

“I met someone. Times Square. It was a total fluke. I dropped my phone. He helped me out. He was…I don’t know, but…”

“And you kissed this flukey someone?” the countess asked, cutting to the heart of the matter.

“Yes.”

“At midnight?”

Evenly, Rose met her eyes, showing no fear at all and nodded.

“I see.”

“What do you see?”

“New Year’s Eve. Times Square. Midnight. Stranger. Handsome, I presume.”

“Certainly, but it wasn’t the handsome that bothered me.”

The countess flew to the desk. “Bothered you? Grab the police sort of ‘bothered you’?”

Rose shuffled the envelopes. “No. Worse.”

“Are you going to make me play twenty questions, Rose?”

There was an empty pit in her stomach when she looked up. The countess was a friend, the mother Rose had always known existed, but confiding never came easy to her. This time, however, the temptation to talk was strong, to understand, to purge.

“You had a plan, you executed, you got exactly what you wanted. Along the way, did you ever get sidetracked? Did you ever think you weren’t in control? That life wasn’t going to cooperate with what you wanted? Or is that part of it? A test of strength to see if you can overcome getting sidetracked?”

That nefarious possibility crept up on her, making Rose nervous. When you needed your life to be plotted, planned and perfectly implemented, the idea of bigger forces being at work was a disaster.

No, the bigger force was self-will and determination. Rose had to stay focused. Think Sun Tzu, think tough. Think…magic.

No.

Yes.

Maybe?

All muddled inside, she looked to the countess for advice, not even concerned that she was frowning, which wasn’t her best look.

“You believe in fate, an invisible nudge that is pushing you toward that perfect someone?”

“No.” Probably not.

Sylvia tapped a finger to her head. “And that is the correct answer, young grasshopper. Never forget. As women we can’t sit back and let the world whip us around, gusting this way and that, all because we’re too spineless to design our own destinies. Take this place. Do you think this is destiny? Hell, no. I adore Anton, there is no other man for me, but…”

“But what if we have a soul mate?” The words were clearly audible, yet Rose’s gaze flicked worriedly around the room, because there was no way that she had said that.

“Right, and there are three crones sitting around a pot, cackling like constipated hens. The hard truth is that they all live on the thirty-second floor of Central Park West, not somewhere in the wilds of a Shakespeare fable, missy.”

Relieved, Rose nodded once. “You’re right. When you’re right, you’re right.”

The countess patted her hand. “Don’t get caught up in the fantasy, Rose. A kiss can linger, sticking in your brain like yesterday’s chewing gum. Are you going to see him again?”

“I can’t. I don’t even know his name.”

“Problem solved!” Sylvia popped away from the desk, and spread her arms wide.

“It’s a billion to one shot I’d even run into him a second time,” Rose reasoned. Manhattan was huge, it was impossible to find someone unless they, for example, wanted to be found, or put an ad in missed connections. Why, if she didn’t read missed connections then she’d never know. On the face of it, the odds against her ever meeting him again were boggling.

“Not just a billion to one,” the countess corrected, “a gazillion. But, let’s walk down the primrose path. Let’s say you do run into him. Then you let him take you home, screw his brains out and promptly get him right out of your head. Unless he’s royalty. And then, dear Rose, you have my permission to marry him. But there’s no screwing with royalty. At least not at first. Women must appear to be patient, passive and never, ever, eager beavers. You have to think about these things. Sex has repercussions. Consequences.”

Rose didn’t want to think about sex; she’d spent all last night not thinking about sex, and frankly, all that not thinking about sex was making her dizzy. Finally she snapped back to the present. “I’m pretty sure he’s not royalty. Maybe finance.”

Sylvia’s mouth tightened into a disapproving moue.

“He looked like he was still doing okay,” Rose added, wanting to defend him.

Still, Sylvia appeared doubtful. “I can see you’ve got your mind preoccupied here. It’s written all over your little dreamy face.”

Hearing that, Rose removed all traces of dreamy from her face, and Sylvia continued.

“If you do have a chance encounter, go ahead, work him out of your system, and then come back and we’ll start in immediately on Plan B.”

“The bachelor auction?”

“Of course. You’re going to win the bid, you’re going to bed him, and it will turn out to be the best night of your life.” Sylvia strolled over to her flowers, then looked up and shot Rose a wink. “But do not forget. If there’s any sex to be had with this Prince Charming, you have to share every sordid detail. And leave nothing out.”

Rose held up a solemn hand. “I promise.”

FOR IAN, BEING A RUTGERS men’s basketball fan was a testament to his unwavering loyalty. Win, lose or pulverized, the three friends were always there. It had started during college. He, Beckett and Phoebe had hung out at the games between exams. After graduation, after all the life choices had been made, they moved from the student section into the moderately snazzy mezzanine where the alumni presided, secure in their life choices and their employment decisions.

On the first day of the New Year, Ian was no longer secure in his employment decisions, but the Rutgers team was sucking like a vacuum and the arena was empty, so hey, he kept his head high.

After grabbing a soda and springing for an order of nachos, Ian jogged up the concrete steps to his spot. There was the standard ritual of unspoken greeting. Phoebe waved a red cup, slightly rumpled in jeans and a Knights sweatshirt. Beckett merely grunted.

All social obligations aside, Ian checked the score. Down by ten already. Okay, not a good night at the RAC, but the Knights could come back, never say die.

However, by the second period, the Knights were still losing, and no one was talking. Worse, Beckett was pale, unshaven and crabby. Now, crabby wasn’t that unusual—Beckett put the mud in curmudgeon—but Beckett always shaved. Precise grooming was one of those boarding school rules that Beckett conformed to without even realizing it. Since boarding school was a sensitive topic, Ian chose to keep his mouth shut. “Bad hangover?” he asked instead.

“Yeah.”

“Sorry about last night. I couldn’t go to your place and smile and be all friendly.”

Phoebe leaned in, peering around Beckett. “Don’t worry about it, Ian. How was Times Square? Nightmare on Forty-Second Street, sardined in until you are intimately acquainted with people of questionable hygiene whom you never want to see again?”

“More or less. But I’m glad I went. You have to do it in order to say you’ve done it, unless you lie, and what’s the satisfaction in that? Think about it. On December 31, it’s the most perfect place in the world to be—and we live here. Why not take advantage? You ever stop to wonder about how many things we don’t do?”

Beckett didn’t look convinced; of course, Beckett never looked convinced. “There’s a reason why we don’t go to Times Square, Ian. You can watch it on TV.”

TV. As if all life’s problems could be solved on a twenty-seven-inch screen. “But you miss all the excitement,” Ian pointed out, knowing it would do no good, but needing to try anyway. Life involved spontaneous kisses and meeting the woman of your dreams, having her visit you in your dreams. Of course, it would be nice if the evening ended a little better—not that he was going to think it was a sign.

“I’ll live without the excitement, thank you,” Beckett answered, completely unenthused.

Choosing to abandon the impossible, Ian turned his attention to Phoebe. “Sorry about Dexter.” Dexter had been Phoebe’s latest.

“Eh,” she answered with a shrug.

“Don’t worry. You’ll meet somebody new.”

“Yes, I could meet someone new. Possibly. Or the world could end first, destroying all male civilization as we know it, leaving me the sole survivor, and alone I must discover the path to mono-sexual reproduction without any knowledge of biology at all. I’m thinking that’s the more likely scenario.”

Beckett snorted. “You could do it.”

Phoebe quirked a brow over her lenses. “Meet someone new?”

“The asexual reproduction thing. You’re really smart.”