Bachelor on the Prowl

“I’ll get them,” Irene said as Jackie glared at Holly.

“Sorry,” Holly said, shrugging, knowing she was pointing out Jackie’s lack right in front of Harry. “Them that has often notice them that don’t. Guess Mother Nature put those few extra inches in your feet, right, Jackie?”

“Show time,” Irene said, fluffing out Jackie’s train and veil just as the model looked ready to pick Holly up by her ears, swing her around and launch her toward the snack table. “Let’s knock ’em dead!”

Holly stepped back to let Jackie and Harry pass by her up the few steps, then followed, ready to peek out through the break in the curtains once they’d closed behind the two models.

What a sight! The runway, lit romantically by overhead lights, and brightened by what seemed like thousands of photographer’s flashes, was filled with Julia Sutherland’s designs for what tomorrow’s brides should wear.

So many gorgeous gowns, fantastic fabrics. Julia hadn’t missed a trick. There were sheaths for the second-time bride, lacy confections for the young bride. There were white, ivory, peach, pink and even one lightest blue gown edged in white lace. Pearls glowed, sequins sparkled. Headpieces of every size and description were matched specifically to each gown. The heady scent of fresh flowers was everywhere as the grooms, each in their own designer tuxedo, made the perfect foils for the perfect brides.

And then, after the first mad explosion of camera shutters was over, Jackie began her walk down the runway, clad in the strapless, backless show gown that seemed to defy gravity, physics and the dress codes for correct bridal wear in at least two out of every three religious denominations.

The material was peau de soie, the lace Alencon, and the style definitely twenty-first century. The skirt of the low-waisted gown had been gathered, as Holly termed it, “six ways from Sunday,” pouffing out here, tucked in there, each tuck accented by a small bouquet of pink cabbage roses dotted with faux diamonds. The train went on for miles, the veil for a half-mile more.

This was not a gown to be worn by anyone other than a rock star marrying her tongue-pierced rock star lover, or the movie star tripping down the aisle with her sugar daddy beau. This was grand theater, and Jackie knew it. The press knew it.

And Harry knew he was being upstaged. Definitely. He and Jackie had come to the end of the runway, to stand, be photographed some more, when Harry broke from his “handy place to hang the bride” role and began to ad-lib.

He stepped away from Jackie, but maintained contact by holding onto one of her gloved hands. He gestured toward her, inviting applause from the audience—and it was substantial—then bowed over the model’s hand, raising it to his lips.

The crowd applauded again, giving its approval even as Holly, her head barely stuck through the break in the curtains, rolled her eyes and said, “Ham.”

But Harry wasn’t done. He smiled, winked at the audience, and then pulled the now startled Jackie close, bent her back over one arm and planted one on her.

“I’ll kill him,” Holly gritted out from between clenched teeth, letting the curtains fall back into place and stomping down the steps to take a quick drink of soda before she had to go out there, take Julia’s place and hopefully some bows.

“You’re on,” Irene said, motioning for her to get back up the steps. She grabbed the pincushion from Holly’s wrist, then snagged one end of the boa as Holly tugged in the other direction, spun in a small circle so that the boa unwrapped from her neck, and headed out through the curtains.

She couldn’t see a thing. Lightbulbs flashed everywhere, and tall models in huge gowns grabbed at her, hugged her, pushed her forward along the runway, until she got to the end.

Where she stood, dwarfed by Jackie on one side, Harry on the other. She had her speech all prepared, a little something about being honored to stand in for Julia today and thanking everyone for coming.

But the words escaped her as Harry grabbed her, flipped her back over his arm as he had done with Jackie and kissed her square on the mouth.

More lightbulbs flashing, more applause, a little laughter, a few catcalls…and the most overwhelming desire to kiss Harry Hampshire back, and wait a while before killing him.

He released her at last, set her back on her feet, and with the sweep of one hand indicated that everyone should applaud her. “Take a bow, or curtsy if you can manage it,” Harry instructed her, speaking around his smile. “Come on, little lady, you’ve earned it.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Holly yelled back at him over the applause, a major feat, as she did it while still smiling and without it looking as if she were speaking at all. “Are you nuts? What the hell did you think you were doing?”

“What? You mean you didn’t like that? I thought I was being very inventive. Bridal showing, kiss the bride. All that good stuff.”

“Yeah?” Holly said as they turned, Harry having tucked her arm in his as Jackie walked on Holly’s other side. “Well, I’m not the bride.”

“Well, I am,” Jackie pointed out as they neared the curtains once more. “Those of us that can often notice that about those who probably never will,” she then said, grinning triumphantly at getting some of her own back after Holly’s crack about her lack of cleavage.

“Why, you—” Holly began, then stopped, smiled, as a trio of photographers hopped up onto the runway, eager to take still more pictures. Holly hadn’t seen them coming, and now she was blinking furiously, trying to see something other than bright white lights ringed in blue dancing in front of her eyes. “Damn lights!”

“Don’t worry, just stick with me. I’ve got you,” Harry told her, guiding her through the curtains, down the steps to the dressing area. He sat her in a chair, then retrieved a can of soda and a cellophane pack of dry crackers from the snacks table. “Here you go. It isn’t much, but everything’s been pretty well picked over. Do you have to go back out there, face the reporters?”

Holly pressed the cool side of the soda can to her cheek, took a deep breath. “Yes, I do. I do have to go back out there. God, how does Julia manage it? I’m exhausted.”

She looked up at Harry, now able to see him again, and wondered if she’d only imagined that kiss he’d given her. Closed-mouth, granted, but it had sure packed a wallop. “I’ll be sure to give your name to the CNN people and everyone else. I suppose you’ve earned a mention in any segments or articles. That was your plan, wasn’t it?”

He frowned a little, making this really wonderful crease between his eyebrows—almost as if he might harbor a whiff of intelligence behind that gorgeous face. “You’re going to give them my name? What name?”

“Why, Harry Hampshire, of course. You have others you use professionally? Although I shouldn’t help you out, because you nearly gave me heart failure, showing up so late. That really isn’t professional, Harry. I could have complained to your agency, and you’d have a hard time getting another job.”

He looked at her for long moments, then sort of shook his head, as if trying to talk himself out of something. Then he said, “Let me make it up to you. You go do whatever it is you have to do with that thundering horde out there, and I’ll get out of this tuxedo. Then I’ll take you to dinner. My treat. After all, I made good money here today, right?”

Holly felt a flush running into her cheeks, and hated him for it. Go out with a male model? What did he take her for, a masochist? What woman wants to be seen with a man prettier than her? “No, I don’t think so. I don’t date—”

“I’ll bet,” Jackie said, clomping by in a huge aqua turtleneck sweater, tight black leggings and a pair of hiking boots, obviously on her way out as fast as she could go. She had a leather bag the size of Vermont slung over her shoulder, and still wore her full makeup. She looked like Glamour On A Hike.

“Give me fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops,” Holly said, Jackie’s taunt pushing her into accepting Harry’s invitation. “But I want fast food. Hamburger. Fries. A hot dog from a street cart. I don’t care. I just don’t think I could look at another hotel menu without screaming.”

Chapter Two

Colin Rafferty leaned into the mirror as he adjusted the Windsor knot on his maroon-and-navy striped tie.

Funny, he didn’t think he looked like a Harry Hampshire.

A Harry Hampshire would wear a silk ascot, or maybe carry a pipe, and have an ugly pug dog that brought him his slippers each evening when he returned home from his job in the moldy recesses of the trust department of the family bank.

Not that it mattered. Today he would be Harry Hampshire. Good old Harry ought to get out more anyway, live a little, see the sights…have some fun with Little Big Mouth, or whatever Julia’s employee’s name happened to be.

“Hey, excuse me, please,” he said, stepping away from the mirror as he saw a semifamiliar face go by. “What’s your boss’s name?”

“Julia Sutherland,” the woman answered. “What else would it be?”

Colin shook his head. “No, I meant the little one—the one with the motormouth.”

“Holly?” Irene Collier dropped her chin slightly, “Oops, she wouldn’t like it much if she found out I could identify her from that particular description. Still, you’re looking for Holly? Holly Hollis. She’s number two man—woman—in Sutherland’s. She holds us all together.”

“Really?” Colin answered, one expressive eyebrow raised. “Well, I don’t know about that, Ms.—?”

“Irene, you may call me Irene.”

“Irene,” Colin repeated, smiling his best “I know I’m bad but you love me anyway” smile. “As I was saying, I don’t know about that, Irene. I may not have been here long, but I’m willing to bet today’s pay that this whole thing would come tumbling down around everyone’s ears if it weren’t for your calm head and steady hand.”

Now Irene’s face turned red, straight up to the thick salt-and-pepper bangs on her forehead. “Well, aren’t you perceptive. Okay, what do you want?”

“Nothing much, Irene. Just a little information on our Ms. Hollis?”

Irene hugged the ever-present clipboard to her breasts. “Look, I know she was angry, but it’s over now, and forgotten. She isn’t going to report you to your agency. In fact, I’ll bet she suggests to Ms. Sutherland that we use you again. You were a real hit out there.”

“No, that wasn’t what I was going to ask you about, Irene,” Colin told her. “Ms. Hollis has agreed to join me for a meal, and I thought perhaps I should know a little more about her. That’s all.”

Her eyes opening wider, Irene said, “You two have a date? No, you don’t. Holly would never—never mind.”

“Ms. Hollis doesn’t date the models?”

“Ms. Hollis,” Irene said, rolling her eyes, “thinks male models are a curse and an abomination. Actually she just says they’re too pretty and bigheaded for their own good.”

“So, what you’re saying, Irene, is that if I want to score points with Ms. Hollis, I should go find a bag to put over my head?”

“Oh, you’re charming,” Irene said, the blush still burning in her cheeks. “She’s going to hate you. But, hey, before you go, I want to check through my head shots to find yours, go over the information on the back with you to make sure it’s current. We will use you again, I’m sure of it.”

Colin slipped into his suit jacket, ran a hand over his collar to be sure it was in place. “Oh, there’s no need to do that. It’s current. Just send the check to the agency listed on the back. Ah, here comes Ms. Hollis now. Thanks for the information, Irene.”

“Sure, anytime. Good luck…” Irene said, already searching through a thick folder of eight-by-ten glossies, looking for Harry Hampshire’s photograph.

Colin caught up with Holly as she was thanking the dressers and other backstage help. “Purse, coat and out of here,” he whispered into her ear as he took hold of her elbow.

“Hey! What’s the rush?” Holly asked him even as he began steering her toward the door. “I’ve got to talk to Irene, make arrangements for meetings tomorrow. Go find a corner and sit in it, okay?”

“I can’t,” Colin told her, doing his best to look physically ill. “I’m hypoglycemic. I need meat, protein.” He held out one hand, spread his fingers. “Look. See that? I’m starting to get the shakes.”

“Oh, for crying out—okay, okay. Maybe it’s nice to know you’re not quite Mr. Perfect. My coat’s the navy one over there on the rack. The one that’s shorter than all the others. My purse is looped over the hanger. Just let me talk to Irene for a—hey!”

Colin dragged her along to the coatrack, grabbed the navy wool coat, snagged the large tan purse and aimed Holly at the door precisely five seconds before Irene, paging through her packet of photographs, lifted her head and called out, “Hey! Where’d he go? Hey, did anyone see where that good-looking model went?”

Irene’s question was answered by the laughter of two dozen good-looking models….

“So, may I call you Holly? Irene said your name’s Holly.”

“Sure,” Holly said, her head still bent into a strong autumn breeze on the windy streets of Manhattan.

“Okay, and you can call me Harry.”

“Well, duh,” Holly sniped, shooting him a quick look. “I wasn’t going to call you Mr. Hampshire, if you’re going to call me Holly. God, that’s a lot of H’s, isn’t it?”

“I think we’ve pretty much cornered the market, yes,” Colin said, then sort of sighed as Holly bent her head once more, kept walking at a fast clip that had more to do with getting her where she was going than taking a leisurely stroll and getting to know each other better as they walked along. “Are you in some sort of hurry, Holly?” he asked as she couldn’t seem to stand still at the corner, waiting for the light to change so they could head across the avenue. She kept looking up at the light, sort of dancing in place.

“You’re hypoglycemic,” she reminded him. “You’ve got to eat. Last thing I want is for you to keel over here on the pavement. I’d get trampled by all the women wanting to give you mouth-to-mouth.”

“Oh, right,” Colin said, smiling slightly, trying to look sick. This was pretty hard to do, considering that the last time he could remember being ill was in the fourth grade, when he’d broken out in spots and couldn’t play the second king in the school’s Christmas pageant. He’d always thought he’d missed a great opportunity to launch a stage career.

“So, are you feeling any better?” Holly asked as the light turned and they headed across the intersection along with half the population of Manhattan.

“A little better. I…I, um, must have just needed some air.”

“But you’re still hungry?”

“Still hungry,” he answered with a smile as Holly turned into a small restaurant tucked between two up-scale shops.

He looked around the restaurant, saw that customers put their orders in and collected them at the same service bar, then carried them to one of the small tables lining one side of the long, narrow room. “Hamburger? Mustard and ketchup? You go find a table, and I’ll bring everything to you.”

“No, you go find a table and sit down before you fall down. I’ll order for both of us.” She held out her hand, palm up. “You’re paying.”

“I admire a woman who can still accept money from a man, even while she’s ordering him around.” Colin fished in his front pocket, pulled out a twenty. “Hamburger, fries, ice water and no onions. Just ketchup and mustard. I’m hoping to get lucky later, maybe steal a kiss from a lovely lady.”

Holly took the twenty carefully, using only the tips of her fingers to touch a corner of the bill. “Yeah, well, good for you. Me, I’m having onions.”

Colin opened his mouth to say something, he wasn’t sure what, but Holly was already gone, running to get to the counter before a group of six men who had just come in behind them. That left Colin to locate and commandeer the last free table in the restaurant.

He sat down, used a paper napkin to wipe crumbs from the cracked and scarred wooden surface of the table, then propped his elbows on the wood, rested his chin in one hand.

What in hell was he doing here? Hell, what the hell was he doing, period?

Colin hadn’t been back to the States for more than a quick visit in nearly three years, enjoying his job setting up one of his second cousin Max Rafferty’s overseas holdings, sticking with it until it was up and running properly. Since that holding was in Paris, being overseas hadn’t been much of a sacrifice, although he did miss Max’s second wedding to Julia, and had only met her later, when she and Max had flown to Paris for a belated honeymoon.

He’d liked Julia immediately, as anyone who could keep Maximillian Rafferty in line had to be one very terrific lady, and his first stop after going through customs at JFK had been to drop in at the Rafferty condo on Park Avenue. Max had already left the building, and the housekeeper had told Colin that Julia wasn’t home, either, so he’d gone off to his hotel, unpacked…and saw the notice for the Sutherland showing in the main ballroom of that same hotel.

A few smiles, a few General U.S. Grant’s greasing the right palms, and Colin had been directed to the staging area, where he’d hoped to surprise Julia.

Okay, so that’s how he’d gotten there. Now he had to figure out how he’d gotten from there to here, here being sitting in a dingy dive, waiting for his first uniquely American hamburger in too many months.

He was also sitting here waiting for Ms. Holly Hollis, just about the least likely woman he’d ever thought he’d be attracted to, even notice.

But there was something about her. Maybe he’d always harbored a secret fantasy for being bossed around by a pint-size female dictator. Maybe it was the way she’d looked as she stood on a stool to tie his tie, that crazy pink boa wrapped around her neck as she blew at the feathers to keep them out of her mouth, her eyes crossing slightly as she tried to get the knot set correctly.

Or maybe he just wanted to get a little of his own back because she’d mistaken him for some no-show boob named Harry Hampshire. A male model? Did she really think he was a male model?

Good old Harry was in for a surprise, when he got his paycheck for a day’s work he didn’t do. That was rather amusing. What wasn’t amusing was that someone might see him on that television show next week, going by the name of Harry Hampshire, parading around a runway in a tux, kissing women.

He’d have to tell everyone he’d lost a bet. Or won it.

Colin half stood up as Holly approached, balancing a full tray holding several paper-wrapped hamburgers, two bags of French fries and a pair of plastic bottles of spring water.

“Here, let me help you,” he said, taking the tray, placing it on the tabletop. Then he held out his hand. “My change?”

“Change? I had to kick in five bucks. What do you mean, change. We’re in Manhattan, Harry. The lousy water cost three bucks a bottle.”

“Sorry,” Colin said, fishing into his pocket for another bill. “I guess I lost my head.”

“Along with your watch,” Holly said as she unwrapped a hamburger, lifted the top of the bun to check for onions, then passed the thing over to him. “I’m waiting, you know. What excuse are you going to give me for almost not making the showing?”

Colin shrugged. Keeping as close as possible to the truth would probably be best. “I’m sorry about that, Holly. I just got in from Paris this morning. There was a slight holdup in Customs.”

Holly sat back in her chair and glared at him. “You just got back from Paris? And your agent accepted a booking for the same day? What is he, nuts?”

Colin considered launching into a long story about having been bumped from one plane only to have the second develop engine trouble before they took off, but decided he’d like to get the whole subject gone as quickly as possible, before he slipped up. “Yeah, that’s my agent. Nuts. So, do you live here in Manhattan?”

Holly held up her index finger as she finished chewing, swallowing, her first huge bite of her hamburger. “Um…no, I don’t. I’d go nuts myself, if I had to live in Manhattan.”

“You don’t like big cities?”

“Oh, I love them. I love Manhattan. I’d just go nuts here. Visiting museums, taking in all the Broadway and off-Broadway and off-off Broadway shows. Shopping, lots of shopping. Vintage clothing, old books, and we won’t even talk about the diamond district. I’d end up being as late for work as you were today, and get myself fired in a month. I mean, a person could make a career out of seeing big cities. Like Paris. I’ll bet you did as much sight-seeing as you could?”

“I managed to see a little of the city,” Colin answered, reaching for a French fry. “But I sure missed these. How come Americans make better French fries?”

“We use older cooking oil, and more of it,” Holly supplied, smiling. “Seriously, you missed American food?”

“Seriously, I did. So, where do you live if it’s not in Manhattan?”

“Pennsylvania,” Holly said, unscrewing the cap on her bottled water. “Allentown, to be precise. Did you know that the lead actress in 42nd Street was supposedly from Allentown? The city’s used in a lot of songs, books, TV shows. I don’t have the faintest idea why. It’s just a town. My town, but just a town. Still, with all the new highways, I can be in Manhattan in two hours, so it’s still convenient for Julia to check on the plant, or for me to come up here to visit her.”

“Julia? That would be Julia Sutherland?”

“Mm-hmm,” Holly said, nodding, as her mouth was full once more. For a little person, she sure could eat, and didn’t seem to mind letting him know she had a healthy appetite. He bet that Jackie, the model, hadn’t eaten an entire hamburger in years, and Holly was already unwrapping her second.

Colin picked up a paper napkin, reached across the table to wipe some ketchup off Holly’s chin. “Irene says you’re Julia’s second in command.”

“Irene says a lot, doesn’t she?” Holly said, clearly bristling. “What is this? A couple of hamburgers in exchange for whispering in Julia’s ear that you want to be headlined in her next showing? Maybe do some print ads in her catalog, even on her Web site?”

Colin sat back, scratched the side of his nose. “What kind of question is that? Do you have that low an opinion of me, or of yourself? Why couldn’t I have asked you to dinner because I thought we might enjoy each other’s company?”

“Yeah, right,” Holly said, poking through the French fries on the hunt for a dark one. “So what’s next? You want to take a walk in the park, hold hands, maybe catch a movie?”

“Okay,” Colin heard himself say as he crumpled the hamburger wrappings into a ball and stood up, picked up the tray. “The park first, while it’s still got people other than muggers walking the paths.”

Holly tipped back her head, looking up at him. He smiled down at her, liking the way she looked at him as if he’d suddenly grown another head. “You really want to make this a real date? Why? I’ve been rude, obnoxious…”

“Don’t forget bossy. Although I have to admit it, I really liked it when you told me to take off my pants.”

Holly stood up, shrugged into her coat, then grabbed one last French fry from the tray. “I didn’t say that.”

“Yes, you did,” Colin corrected her. “And you were on your knees when you said it.”

“Well, I didn’t mean it,” Holly told him quickly, following him back out onto the pavement. “I mean, I didn’t mean it that way.”

Colin stopped, turned around, put his hands on her shoulders. “I know,” he said, then leaned down, kissed the tip of her nose. “Besides, it was the pink boa that got to me. You looked like you were playing dress-up, a little kid in a land of giant dolls.”

“I can’t help being short,” Holly told him as he took her hand, led her across the street and into Central Park. “All us Hollises are short. Mom, Dad, my sister, Helen, my brothers Herb and Harry.”

“You’ve got a brother named Harry? That’s a coincidence, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s just another H. We’re all H’s. Hillary, Howard, Herb, Harry, Helen and Holly Hollis. Looked great on Christmas cards, but that’s about it. I swear Helen married John Barker just to get rid of the H. I mean, why else would anyone marry a guy who bowls every Thursday night, wearing a shirt that says Bow-wow Barker on the back?”