Read the book: «Sheerly Irresistible»

2

AN HOUR LATER, CLAIRE forced both the photo shoot and Mitch Malone completely out of her mind. Excitement fluttered in her chest as she climbed out of a taxi at Central Park West, then waited while the driver retrieved her bags from the trunk. The Willoughby towered in front of her, a high-rise apartment building with art deco trim on the facade.

Her godmother, Petra Gerard, lived here and Claire couldn’t wait to see her again. But first she had to get past the young man who sat sprawled on a lawn chair inside the glass-enclosed foyer of the building. He wore baggy blue polka dot swimming trunks, mirrored sunglasses, and green-tinted zinc oxide on his narrow aquiline nose.

As she dragged her suitcases through the heavy plate glass door, he didn’t even look up. Just sat there humming to the music emanating from the boom box, his skinny feet soaking in a blue plastic wading pool.

She paused to catch her breath as the Beach Boys began singing about “California Girls.”

“If you don’t give me the password,” the man said, his head propped on the lawn chair with a rolled-up orange beach towel. “I will be forced to stop you with the Venetian death grip.”

“And you are?” Her gaze fell on his pale, hairless chest. Then she noticed the tattoo on his upper left bicep. It looked like a small schnauzer.

“I’m Franco Rossi. Aspiring actor, black belt in karate and judo, and temporary doorman.” He slid his sunglasses up on top of his head, then followed her gaze to his arm. “It’s Toto. The tattoo, not the password. I happen to be a big fan of The Wizard Of Oz.”

“Oh,” she said, wondering if he was mentally stable.

He smiled, “You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“I’m from Indiana.”

“Same difference.”

Claire set both her suitcases on the polished marble floor. “I’m here to see Petra Gerard. She’s expecting me.”

“Ah, Petra.” Franco smiled. “She’s one of my favorite tenants. A little absentminded, though.”

That was putting it mildly. Petra always blamed her total inattention to detail on her muse. A former art professor at Penleigh, Claire’s godmother had been one of Marcus Dellafield’s best friends and a frequent visitor to their home. Bubbly and a little eccentric, Petra had more energy than many women half her age. She’d retired from teaching at sixty and moved to Manhattan, embarking on a very lucrative second career as a sculptress.

“Could you please let her know I’m here. My name is Claire Dellafield.”

“Love to, Claire,” Franco purred, “if you can front me the airfare to Bermuda. Petra left a week ago and I’m not sure when she’s coming back.”

Claire’s heart sunk to her toes. “Bermuda?”

He swished his toes in the pool water. “She’s competing in the senior division of the Ms. Universe fitness pageant. Knowing Petra, she’ll probably come home with the title.”

Claire shook her head. “Petra can’t be in Bermuda. She’s supposed to introduce me to a Mr. McLain. I’m subletting his apartment for the summer.”

He sighed. “You and everyone else in this city. There’s already a crowd up there waiting for the auction.”

“Auction?”

“Petra should have filled you in on all the juicy details, but she probably believed Tavish when he promised not to do it anymore.” Franco leaned forward and lowered his voice to a furtive whisper, even though they were alone in the foyer. “Tavish McLain auctions off his place every summer. Last year a blond ballerina and a Madonna clone battled over it. The ballerina even offered an incentive package, if you know what I mean. Tavish has a thing for blondes, so he enjoyed every minute of it.”

Claire leaned against the plate glass door, vaguely aware that the faint odor of the Dumpster still clung to her clothes. With Petra out of the country, she didn’t have anywhere else to go and certainly not enough money to spend the summer in a New York City hotel room. She wondered if camping in Central Park would be any more dangerous than pitching a tent on the African savannah.

Franco waved her away. “You’re blocking my sun. I’m trying to get a tan here.”

Then he groaned as another woman walked purposefully toward the building. “Here comes another one. How am I supposed to relax with people streaming in and out of here all day?”

Claire glanced at the woman who entered the foyer. She looked nice. And blond. Just McLain’s type—unless Claire got to him first. She turned back to Franco. “I need to see Tavish McLain. Immediately.”

“Password!”

“Can you give me a hint?”

“I’m waaaaaiiiiting,” Franco crooned.

“Toto,” the blonde ventured, her gaze on Franco’s arm.

“Close but no cigar.” Then he burst into the opening stanza of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” before collecting himself. “Are you here for the apartment?”

“Yes,” they replied simultaneously.

“This is McLain’s day of glory,” Franco declared. “The day he lives the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year dreaming of. He is surrounded by women.”

“We’d like to join them,” the blonde said.

Franco leaned closer to them and whispered, “You might try naming the actor who played the cowardly lion.”

Claire exchanged glances with the blonde, then they both blurted, “Bert Lahr.”

“Excellent,” Franco replied with a grin.

“Bert Lahr is the password, then?” the blonde asked.

“No. But I like the fact that you’re both Wizard of Oz movie buffs, so you may pass.”

Claire turned back to Franco as the blonde pressed the elevator button. “Now how about giving me a hint to win over McLain?”

Franco shrugged. “Like I said, he’s into blondes. But maybe you could show a little cleavage, wiggle your hips and see what happens.”

Claire glanced down at her tank top. Mitch Malone hadn’t seemed too impressed with her cleavage. Not that she should care about the opinion of a total stranger. A street-smart tough who probably treated women like toys. Definitely not her type.

Not by a long shot.

A loud ding announced the elevator’s arrival, breaking her reverie. She grabbed her suitcases and headed for the elevator, the blonde helping her heave the biggest one inside.

“Thanks,” Claire said, as the doors slid closed. “I’m Claire Dellafield.”

“A. J. Potter,” the blonde replied with an assessing glance. “I guess we’re competitors.”

She sighed. “I don’t have enough money to be much competition.”

“Want to join forces and bid together?”

Live with a complete stranger? “I don’t know. I…”

“Smart girl. Someone warned you about the big, bad city.” A.J. reached into her purse. “I just heard that the bidding might be brutal and I intend to win. Think about it.”

The elevator doors opened on the sixth floor and Claire dragged her suitcases into the crowded hallway. There were two other apartments on the floor, but it was obvious which one belonged to McLain. Dozens of people jammed around the open doorway.

“I think it’s going to take more than cleavage,” Claire muttered to herself. A dog growled and she turned to see a poodle in the arms of a woman wearing a pink caftan and matching pink bouffant hair.

“Hush, Cleo,” the older woman crooned to the dog. “That mean Mr. McLain is going away soon. Then you’ll have somebody new to take you on walksies.”

Claire and A.J. squeezed their way into the apartment just in time to hear the bidding war start. There were blondes in all shapes and sizes. Claire sank down on her big suitcase, wondering how could she possibly compete.

“This is ridiculous,” A.J. muttered, then whipped out her cell phone.

Claire looked up to see a tall brunette approaching them. At least she wasn’t the only nonblonde here.

The brunette glanced at A.J., then turned her attention back to Claire. “This is really something, isn’t it?”

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

The brunette shifted the package she held from one arm to the other. “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.”

Yikes. Maybe Claire wasn’t the only one who could smell the Dumpster on her clothes. But she wasn’t quite ready to declare herself a charity case yet. “I can’t—”

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

This woman was trying to change the reputation of uncaring New Yorkers in one fell swoop. “Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.”

“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.”

A.J. laughed. “So do I, but they don’t come from giving away freebie hotel rooms.”

The brunette grinned at her. “Samantha Baldwin.”

“A. J. Potter.” The two women shook hands. “You sounded like a madam gathering the poor waif into her house of ill repute. I think you scared her.”

“I’m not scared,” Claire said, “just fascinated by abnormal human behavior. Abnormal for a New Yorker, anyway.”

She thought of Mitch’s behavior this afternoon and a flush of heat washed up her neck. Could the man have been any more oblivious to her? No one had ever called her a beauty, but men hadn’t run screaming from her, either. She was average weight and height, taller than A.J., but shorter than Samantha. She’d been tempted to highlight her long brown hair, but simply hadn’t found the time after taking over her father’s class schedule. Her unusual topaz brown eyes were her best feature and she often wondered if she’d inherited them from the mother who had given her up for adoption. She glanced down at the emerald ring on her right hand, the vibrant color reminding her of her father’s eyes. He’d given her the ring on her sixteenth birthday. They’d been on a research trip in South America that summer and she’d had a crush on one of his graduate students, but the man had been oblivious to her.

A disturbing trend.

For the first time, she wondered if there was something wrong with her. She hadn’t dated much at Penleigh, but she’d assumed that was because most of the men on campus knew about her father’s illness.

What if there was another reason? Claire mentally shook herself, realizing now wasn’t the time to obsess about her love life, or lack of one. She needed to focus on this research project and try to find some way to bring a fresh twist to the subject of dating. Strangers in the Night had been one of the first of its kind to study the effect of the sexual revolution on young singles. So many similar studies had followed that Claire couldn’t imagine finding anything new to add to the field. Something she tried to communicate to the board of directors at Penleigh, but they hadn’t wanted to listen.

Which just made it all the harder to prove herself in the anthropology world, though not impossible. But first she had to find a place to stay.

Maybe she should accept Samantha’s offer of the free hotel room, then move in with Petra when she returned from Bermuda. Unfortunately, Claire had no idea when that might be. Knowing Petra, it could be next week or next year.

“What’s your name?”

Claire blinked, then noticed both women looking at her. She’d completely lost track of the conversation. “Claire Dellafield. Why?”

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

Claire rose off her suitcase, sensing her luck was about to change. “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.”

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

Claire looked at both of them, realizing it would be the first time in her life she’d ever lived with women close to her own age. As much as she’d loved her father, she couldn’t help but feel that sometimes her life had been laid out like a map, with all the routes already chosen for her. Now she was charting new territory. It was both thrilling and terrifying.

“How much can you contribute to rent?” A.J. asked.

Claire did a quick calculation of her bank account. “Eight hundred.”

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

The door opened and the crowd turned in unison to see two men walk into the room.

Several people cried out a name. “Tavish!”

“Let’s play this out,” A.J. advised under her breath.

Claire noticed several of the blondes adjusting their blouses as Tavish moved to the center of the room. He reminded her of a medicine man she’d seen once in Central America. He’d worn a putrid green robe, almost the same shade as Tavish McLain’s faux leather vest. They both shared the same cocky walk, too. As if they believed they controlled the universe. Or at least their own small portion of it.

“Stand in front of me,” Samantha ordered, suddenly reaching around her back to unzip her skirt.

Claire watched in disbelief as the woman shimmied her skirt down her legs. “What are you doing?”

“I think I may have something that will persuade Mr. McLain to give us anything we want.”

“What?” A.J. asked. “A gun?”

“Even better,” Samantha replied, unwrapping the package in her arms, then pulling out a wad of silky black fabric. “A magic skirt.”

Claire and A.J. exchanged skeptical glances. Then Claire cleared her throat. “Did you say a magic skirt?”

“I know it sounds crazy.” Samantha shook out the wrinkles. “But it’s a man-magnet. The skirt apparently originated from the Caribbean, where there’s a special fibrous root that the native women spin into a thread. That thread runs through this skirt. Men will do anything for the woman who wears it.”

“You’re kidding,” A.J. said, looking like Claire felt. Maybe Samantha wasn’t such a great choice for a roommate after all. Unless you were a mental patient at Bellevue. Samantha pulled on the black skirt. “Look, I don’t believe it, either, but it can’t hurt.” She handed her jacket to Claire, then smoothed the black skirt over her thighs.

Claire had to admit it looked nice. The fabric had a very unusual sheen, but she certainly didn’t see anything magical about it.

“Follow me, ladies,” Samantha said, then moved toward Tavish.

A.J. looked at Claire, then shrugged. “What can it hurt?”

“True,” Claire replied, as they walked behind Sam. “And if it doesn’t work, we can always resort to Plan B.”

“What’s Plan B?” A.J. asked.

“We hang Tavish out his window by the ankles until he agrees to sublet us his apartment.”

A.J. smiled. “So it’s a win-win situation. If we drop him, another vacancy opens up.”

But amazingly enough, the skirt did work. Claire watched in sheer disbelief as Tavish’s jaw sagged when he caught sight of Samantha. His gaze became slightly unfocused and he stared unblinking at the skirt. It was as if he’d been drugged.

The next thing she knew, A.J. was handing over a check for two thousand dollars.

Tavish smiled. “So you want to pay all the rent up front?” He stuck the check in his vest pocket. “The perfect tenant, wouldn’t you say, Roger?”

“I’d say so.” The broker sidled closer to Samantha.

Something didn’t add up. “But wait,” Claire interjected. “I thought that was just for…” A warning pinch on her arm cut her off in midsentence. “Ow!”

“That should be tenants.” Samantha motined to A.J. and Claire. “My roommates.”

Claire smiled tightly at the man as she rubbed her sore arm. There was no mistake. Tavish was giving them his apartment for the entire summer. For only two thousand dollars. Claire glanced down at the skirt Samantha wore, no longer a skeptic.

While A.J. and Sam finalized the deal with the broker, Claire helped herd the disappointed bidders out of the apartment before Tavish had a chance to change his mind. Then she returned to the circle with her new roommates, Tavish and the broker just in time to hear the tail end of the conversation.

“Cleo’s the poodle,” the broker said. “Lives in 6B. You’ll have to walk her. It’s part of Tavish’s arrangement with his neighbors.”

“No problem,” A.J. said, quickly scribbling her signature beneath Samantha’s, then handing the pen to Claire.