Skirting The Issue

“But I always find a sublet,” replied Tavish, the taller of the two.

Sam liked tall men and it had nothing to do with her own height. Josh was tall—not that it mattered.

“But you don’t even investigate the tenants first!”

Tavish stuck on another label. “I go by instinct.”

“Someday your instincts are going to leave you with a trashed apartment.”

“Then it’ll be time to redecorate.” He looked off into the distance. “I’m growing weary of sage.”

If he’d asked, Sam could have told him what colors were predicted to be popular in the next couple of years. Carrington was building a new hotel in Trenton and she’d seen the reports from the decorating team. Colors were going to be clean and complex, whatever that meant. She made a mental note to find out. It might be important for her to know.

“And you always send these cards. Haven’t you heard of e-mail?”

“Who can keep up with everyone’s e-mail address? All those letters and dots and symbols…” Tavish grimaced.

“Who can keep up with your summer addresses?”

“That’s why I send the cards.”

The men had moved behind her. Sam was now passing by the supply counter and people kept reaching in front of her for forms, labels and envelopes. She was relieved when she moved by it, looped around, and several minutes later faced the two men again. Tavish was still peeling off labels and sticking them on his postcards. He apparently had a large acquaintanceship.

“Didn’t you just go on safari a couple of years ago?”

Tavish laughed, a warm rich chuckle that was oh-so-different from Josh’s predatory cackle—not that she was thinking about Josh Crandall while standing in line at a New York City post office. That would be foolish.

“There are safaris and there are safaris,” Tavish replied.

“An elephant is an elephant is an elephant.”

“But the aptly named Mona Virtue will be a member of the group.”

“Ah.” They both laughed.

Men.

“Some men have all the luck.”

“I make my own luck.” Tavish held out his hand for another postcard.

The other man nodded. “I’ll have to admit that holding a lottery for a Central Park West apartment is genius.”

“Thank you.”

Sam had been idly eavesdropping but hearing about the apartment again made her focus her attention even though Central Park West was so out of her league.

“And you don’t even advertise.”

“I don’t have to.”

The movement of the line brought the men closer to Sam and the supply table. People kept cutting through the line which interfered with her eavesdropping.

“…agents do screen, so I’m not taking the wild risk you seem to think.”

“Risk, or not, didn’t you tell everyone to be there at noon?”

Both men checked their watches. Sam did as well. It was twelve-thirty.

Tavish shrugged. “They’ll wait.” He spoke with supreme confidence.

His apartment was being shown at noon. His unadvertised apartment. A sublet. Knowing what she did of New York, Sam knew the sublet was likely illegal. The fact that this didn’t bother her must mean something, but Sam wasn’t going to explore that now. This man in the fake leather cowboy vest had an apartment for rent. Sam needed an apartment. There was no need to complicate matters.

Except maybe to wonder in what kind of apartment a man who wore a fake leather cowboy vest in June might live, but wasn’t that what posters, pillows and artfully placed colorful throws were for?

As the men approached, Sam strained to see the return address on the postcards Tavish labeled. NY, NY. Yeah, yeah. Tell her something she didn’t know. She leaned closer, but at that moment, someone trying to cut through the line jabbed her with an elbow, then bumped into Tavish and his friend.

“Hey, watch it, buddy.” Mr. Titanium Glasses made a rude gesture as several of the postcards fell to the grimy floor.

Not proud, Sam grabbed for one. She intended to give it back—truly she did—but somehow, in the commotion, a strong self-preservation instinct kicked in. She read the printing, “Tavish McLain announces his summer itinerary. In June, he will be on safari and can be reached in care of Mavis Trent Travel…” In July, he’d be summering at a villa in Italy. And so on until Labor Day. Sounded like a great summer. Better than hers, even if she did get the promotion. Must be nice. Sam flipped the card over and there, printed in the upper left-hand corner, was an address.

It had to be his apartment. It had to be.

I make my own luck. Well then. If this wasn’t a sign, she didn’t know what was.

Without giving herself time to reconsider, Sam kept the card and walked out of the post office, hailed a cab, then gave them the address of the apartment.

The man ran a lottery for his apartment. She couldn’t win if she didn’t play the game.

AFTER FLINGING WAY TOO much money—guilt, no doubt—at the cabbie, Sam climbed out of the taxi and looked quickly up and down the street.

Nice neighborhood.

Who was she kidding? Fabulous neighborhood. The kind where all the apartment buildings had snooty uniformed doormen. Except this one, it seemed. There was no doorman, uniformed or otherwise.

Maybe he was performing one of those errands everyone seemed to have doormen perform. Sam only knew this from movies and television and not from personal experience. But she could learn. Would love to learn, in fact.

She pushed open the plate-glass door. And shouldn’t that be a duty of a doorman? she was thinking when her eyes were assaulted by a tableau featuring a man with a pale, hairless chest smack dab in the tiny foyer.

Actually, he was smack dab on a folding lawn chair as he soaked his feet in a plastic wading pool featuring cartoon fishes. He wore baggy blue polka-dot swimming trunks, which clashed with the blue wading pool, she noted, as well as with the lime-green zinc oxide he painted on his nose. And…could that possibly be the Beach Boys? Yes. Definitely the Beach Boys.

“Password?” he shouted over “Surfin’ U.S.A.” He slid his mirrored sunglasses down his nose, which got them gunked up with the zinc oxide.

Password? She should have known good luck always came with a catch. Sam wondered if the password bore any resemblance to the name of a dead president and wished she hadn’t been so generous to the cab driver.

While she considered her next move, the man cleaned the green stuff off his sunglasses and reapplied more to his nose. “I’m waaaaiiiiting,” he sang. Then he cleared his throat and sang it again an octave lower, adding a theatrical vibrato. “Not bad. Certainly good enough for off Broadway, not that there are many musicals off Broadway these days. But better than the dinner theater circuit, wouldn’t you say?”

“I wouldn’t presume to say anything.”

“I noticed.” He slipped the glasses back into place. “Don’t know the password? How about a piece of juicy gossip?”

“I’ve only got this.” Sam held up the card she’d filched at the post office.

“So you are here about the apartment. You’re late.”

“I know, but Tavish didn’t say anything about a password.”

“Consistency.” He gestured outward, as though reciting Shakespeare. “All I ask is consistency. Is that too much to ask?”

Sam did a little gesturing of her own toward the beach setup. “I think you ask a lot more than that.”

He stared at her—or maybe not. With the mirrored sunglasses covering his eyes, she couldn’t tell. “I like you. You may pass.” He waved her toward the elevator.

“Thanks, uh…”

“Franco Rossi, at your service.” He assumed the manner of a Spanish grandee, rolling his hand and inclining his head.

“Thanks, Franco.”

“Do run along. You’re blocking the light.”

Oooookay. Sam didn’t need to be told twice. Jabbing the button on the elevator, she stared at the numbers above the door and willed the car to come.

The Beach Boys swelled for a brief moment then retreated.

“Who are you?” Sam heard.

The elevator arrived and she nearly pulled open the doors herself. Escaping inside, she turned and saw a woman talking to the weird doorman, or whatever he was, and another pulling open the heavy plate-glass door.

“Password?” she heard just before the doors closed.

Great. More competition. She hoped there weren’t any more rules she didn’t know about.

2

THE APARTMENT WAS ON THE sixth floor. Just enough to get a modest workout, if Sam were so inclined. There were only three apartments on the floor and number 6C was at the end. Sam didn’t even have to look at the card. She could hear the crowd the moment she stepped off the elevator.

What was she doing here? This was hopeless.

But Sam had been in hopeless situations before—generally those including Josh Crandall…why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? Anyway, some of those had turned out to be not so hopeless after all because she’d persevered and that’s what she planned to do now. She’d persevere herself right into the apartment.

Sam opened the door. Why knock? No one would hear her.

The first thing she noticed was that the ratio of women to men was about, well, except for a couple of men who appeared to be brokers, the ratio was ninety-eight to two. The next thing she noticed was that there was a high percentage of blondes in the mix, including a woman with pink-blond hair and matching poodle.

Sam was very definitely not a blonde.

People were freely milling around, so Sam acted like she belonged there and milled as well. The apartment appeared to have three bedrooms, though one was currently being used as a combination office and video lair.

Definitely bachelor pad material. She looked upward, expecting mirrors, but apparently Tavish’s excruciating taste extended only to cowboy vests. Maybe a touch of overkill on the Western look—how many steer horns did a person need?—but, hey, this was great. Fabulous location, near the Metropolitan Museum of Art, generously spaced for a New York apartment, and she could always rent out the other bedrooms to help with the rent.

Would that be a sub-sublet? Was that more illegal than a regular sublet?

“Where is Tavish?” pouted one blonde.

One of the men stood on the staircase leading to a small loft. “Mr. McLain will be here momentarily.”

“I say we can start without him,” said another blonde. This one wore a black suit and nearly black lipstick, spike heels and had her hair in a French twist that not one strand dared to come loose.

Sam tucked her own windblown hair—that would be brown windblown hair—behind her ears and straightened her spine.

“My opening offer will be fifteen hundred,” the woman continued. She looked over the competition. “So anyone who can’t beat that is out of luck because the price will go higher.”

“But…but I don’t understand!” It was a redhead. The only one. “Tavish promised me the apartment for eight-fifty!”

“He promised me I could have it for eight hundred!” said someone else.

“Oh, honey.” The blond woman who’d taken charge shook her head. “He does this every year. Then a few of us spend the following year bribing him in hopes he’ll just forget this demeaning lottery and let one of us have the apartment for the summer.” She looked wistful. “I actually lived here one summer. It was…” She seemed to remember where she was and that a crowd of apartment competitors hung raptly on each word. “Just be prepared to ante up, kiddos.”

Sam had been mentally plundering her savings as the door opened and the two women she’d seen in the lobby entered the apartment. They must have known the password.

One of them, poor thing, actually was dragging luggage with her. She looked desperate. Desperate enough to bid a lot. Sam swept an assessing gaze over her. She didn’t look as though she had a lot to bid.

The woman next to her was an unknown. A blond unknown, though. Unsmiling, she looked like a woman with a mission—and Sam knew what the mission was. Sam watched her case the situation from the edge of the crowd, bracing herself for when they locked eyes.

Actually, it wasn’t much of a lock. Sam figured she didn’t come across as much competition when the woman’s gaze swept past her after the briefest hesitation. Probably because she wasn’t a blonde.

French Twist held a check high over her head. “Here it is, folks. Good faith money. Forty-five hundred dollars—three months—up front.” She walked over to one of the agents and tried to hand him a check.

“Hey!” someone shouted, and that pretty much set the rest of the potential renters off.

Some headed for the door and Sam got carried along with them. She didn’t fight too much because she wasn’t yet sure that staying would do any good. Just how much higher would she have to go? Though facing Central Park would be a kick, she didn’t need three bedrooms and there would be the hassle of trying to find roommates for just the summer—even assuming she could outbid French Twist.

The exodus toward the door backed up as the first of the crowd got held up at the elevator. Sam stepped out of the current of disappointed women and found herself next to the two she’d seen downstairs. The one with the luggage was sitting on her suitcase staring blankly at the crowd. The other one, the short blonde, was studying her checkbook and had whipped out her cell phone.

Sam spoke to the woman on the suitcase. “This is really something, isn’t it?”

“Not exactly what I expected,” the woman answered, motioning to the suitcases. “I was planning to move in here today. Now, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Sam knew despair when she heard it. “This is your lucky day. I work for a hotel. Therefore, I can promise you won’t sleep on the street tonight. And you can treat yourself to a nice, hot bubble bath.”

“I can’t—”

“Oh, I got that part. You’d be in one of the unrentable rooms. No charge.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.”

Oh, good grief. When had a good deed become a threat? “Because I can. Because helping the sisterhood was something my mother drilled into me. And, hey, I get off on warm, fuzzy feelings in my tummy.”

There was a crack of laughter from the other woman. “So do I, but they don’t come from giving away freebie hotel rooms,” the woman said with a smile.

Sam grinned down at her. “Samantha Baldwin.” She stuck her hand out at the exact moment the other woman stuck out hers.

“A. J. Potter. You sounded like a madam gathering the poor waif into her house of ill repute. I already made the same great impression. I think we scared her.”

“I’m not scared,” denied the other woman, still sitting on her suitcase. “Just fascinated by abnormal human behavior. Abnormal for a New Yorker, anyway.”

A.J. turned her attention back to Sam. “This place has three bedrooms.”

Ooo. She cut right to the chase. Sam liked her. “I don’t smoke. I can go eighteen hundred a month, but I don’t want to.”

“Non-smoker, I’m in for two grand.”

“You’d get the big bedroom, then.”

They looked down. “What’s your name?” A.J. asked the woman on the suitcase.

“Claire Dellafield. Why?”

Sam gestured to her. “Get with the program. We’re forming a rental coalition. You want in?”

Claire stood, revealing that she was as short as A.J. “You mean we’d room together?”

“Mental functions appear to be intact,” A.J. said. “You smoke?”

Claire shook her head. “But I can learn.”

Sam laughed. “She’s in for the entertainment value alone.”

“How much can you contribute to rent?” A.J. was displaying a practical side.

Claire drew a deep breath. “Eight hundred.”

“That’s forty-six hundred.” A.J. exhaled. “Surely the rent won’t go as high as that.”

They looked at the remaining women arguing with the brokers.

“Then again,” Sam began, just as the door opened and the men from the post office walked into the room.

“Tavish!” several voices squealed. Others snarled.

“Let this play out,” A.J. advised and Sam totally agreed.

The three of them watched women practically pawing at Tavish. Sam hoped one of them would paw off his green vest, but no such luck.

The more she watched, the more her hopes sank. Sam had spent years honing her negotiating skills and knew that the key to a successful deal was figuring out what the other guy really wanted and seeing that he got it. Tavish, she realized, wanted to be adored by his social circle—or the social circle he wanted to, uh, circle in. She remembered French Twist talking about bribing him during the year and remembered his summer itinerary—he was “guesting” everywhere.

Clearly, the key to this deal was more than money. Tavish would probably rent out his apartment even if he weren’t going anywhere for the summer.

Sam glanced at her two potential roommates. She liked A.J. already. Claire, she didn’t know as well, but she had potential. They needed an edge. Something to offer. Something to make them attractive renters to Tavish.

She was figuring out how much it would cost her to let Tavish throw a ritzy party in the flagship Carrington’s presidential suite when she refocused on the scene. All those beautiful blond women vying for his attention…he was lapping it up.

Though A.J. did have blond hair, Sam couldn’t see her as the fawning type.

Sam shifted her package to the other arm. The thing was so hot. She didn’t need to feel hot right now. She needed to be hot…

Sam stared at the wrapping surrounding the skirt. Yeah, sure it was supposed to be a real man magnet, but that was just a story, right? It didn’t really…

“Stand in front of me,” she said to the other two, as she tore off the brown paper.

Claire’s eyes widened as Sam unzipped her skirt. “What are you doing?”

Sam told them the gist of the skirt legend as she pulled it on.

“You’re kidding.” A.J. looked as though she wanted to reconsider rooming with Sam.

“Look, I don’t believe it, either, but it can’t hurt.” She handed her jacket to Claire and smoothed the skirt over her thighs.

It was a great fit. Must be another sign. They were meant to have the apartment.

“Follow me, ladies.” As Sam walked forward, the black fabric whispered over her legs and she found herself changing the way she walked in order to accommodate it.

She imagined herself walking in slow motion, hair rippling over her shoulders, her eyes on the prize—Tavish.

As she drew closer, the women moved to one side, eyeing her and the two behind her. Sam cut right through until she was standing directly in front of Tavish, the two brokers, and French Twist.

“Hello,” she purred.

Three pairs of male eyes swiveled her way.

“I’m Samantha Baldwin.” She held out her hand and Tavish stepped forward to grasp it.

“Tavish McLain.” He took her hand and held it, never once blinking.

The two brokers attempted to introduce themselves, but Tavish wouldn’t relinquish Samantha’s hand.

Propelling Claire with her, A.J. stepped into the breach and occupied the brokers.

“You have the perfect apartment,” Sam cooed. All this cooing and purring was new to her, but it was amazing what it did.

“I c-call it home,” Tavish stuttered, still holding Sam’s hand.

“I’d like to call it home, too—for the summer at least.” She sent him a limpid gaze and squeezed his hand.

“Well, I…well, I’m sure—”

“Just a minute! I’ve given you a check for forty-five hundred dollars!” French Twist wasn’t giving up.

“Roger, give Meredith back her check,” Tavish instructed.

“So I’ll give you another for six thousand.” Boy, the woman was persistent.

“Would you want all the rent up front?” Sam asked.

Tavish creased his brow. “Oh, no, no, no. Not if it wouldn’t be convenient for you.”

Sam still held Tavish’s gaze. He still held her hand. She was going to have to blink soon or her eyes would start watering, but he seemed utterly entranced by her and she wanted to take advantage. What she really wanted to do was quickly scribble out a check.

Fortunately, A.J. had grasped the situation. Sam heard a rip and a blue rectangle appeared in Sam’s peripheral vision. With her free hand she took the check and offered it to Tavish.

“Here you go…two thousand dollars.” Two thousand? A.J. should have tried for fifteen hundred. Still two thousand a month split three ways was within all their budgets.

Tavish smiled. “So you want to pay all the rent up front, after all?”

All the rent? Sam’s heart picked up speed.

Tavish stuck the check in his vest pocket. “The perfect tenant, wouldn’t you say Roger?”

“I’d say so.” One of the brokers inched closer.

“But wait, I thought that was just for—ow!” Claire broke off.

“That should be tenants.” Sam gestured behind her. “My roommates.” She risked breaking eye contact to glance at them. A.J. waggled her fingers. Claire gave a tight smile and rubbed her arm.

“Gentlemen, which one of you has the papers we should sign?” A.J. tried to get the brokers’ attention.

“Papers?” One spoke but he was looking at Sam.

A.J. snapped her fingers in front of his face. “An indemnity clause? Terms of lease? Liability release?”

That’s right—get that laughably low rent in there before Tavish came to his senses.

“Uh, right here.” The broker fumbled in his breast pocket.

Claire linked her arm around the other broker’s. “You and I are on crowd control. Thanks for coming everybody!” she called and waved them toward the door.

“Hey!” French Twist wasn’t budging.

“Ta-ta, Meredith. Just think, you won’t have to walk Cleo.”

“I would have hired a walker for that damn poodle, and you know it!”

“As you did last time. Mrs. Higginbotham said that Cleo was very stressed.”

Poodle? Was dog sitting part of the deal? Sam blinked. She couldn’t help it. Fortunately, breaking eye contact didn’t seem to diminish her strange power over Tavish. “Do you have a dog?” she asked in a breathy voice.

Tavish shook his head.

Okay, then. Things were just hunky-dory. A.J. was handling the contract and Claire was making everybody leave.

Sam’s hand was sweating. Or it could have been Tavish’s. Probably both. How was she supposed to extricate herself? She now not only believed, she thoroughly understood the “magnet” part of the skirt’s legend. Except how did she turn it off?

“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU DID IT!” A.J. gave her a high five, which Sam was glad she could high-five back, because she thought she’d never get her hand back from Tavish. Then Claire high-fived her. Then they high-fived each other—or low-fived, since they were both so much shorter than Sam.

Then Sam took off the skirt. They were alone after having made enemies of a significant percentage of the blondes in New York City, but Sam didn’t care. She’d found an apartment—and for a ridiculously low rent. Don’t ask her how that happened.

A.J., who’d turned out to be a lawyer—and how handy was that?—had put the amount right into the rental agreement.

“I’ve got to get back to the hotel,” Sam called, hating to abandon her new roommates before getting to know them. She’d been really lucky there. The three of them appeared to be on the same wavelength, which was reassuring considering how many different wavelengths there were in New York City.

Carefully folding the skirt—she wasn’t mailing it anywhere after today—Sam put it on the top shelf in the second largest bedroom and put her suit skirt back on. “Let’s have dinner together here,” she called.

“I’ll get takeout,” A.J. offered.

“Sounds fab. If I can, I’ll see if the pastry chef has an extra Sacher torte and contribute that.”

“What’s Sacher torte?” Claire asked.

“Think dense chocolate. Sin on a fork.” Sam grabbed her purse. “I hate to leave you guys like this, but I really need to get back to work.”