Blame It on the Blackout

She half expected the driver to come around and hold the door for her, but instead the door opened on its own. Her steps faltered as a foot emerged, followed by a leg, an arm and finally a head of sandy-blond hair. She’d thought Peter was simply sending a car for her, that she would meet him at the hotel where the dinner was being held. Now, it looked as though she would have to ride there with him. In the back of the limo. In close proximity.

He stood on the curb, waiting for her, looking like the California version of James Bond in his black tuxedo, and she had to remind herself to breathe, then put one foot in front of the other until she reached his side. He smiled brightly, letting his gaze slide over her as he reached out a hand for hers.

“If possible,” he said, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze, “you look even more amazing tonight than you did yesterday.”

The compliment washed over her like a warm breeze, causing the corners of her mouth to lift.

And then, from behind his back, he produced a single long-stemmed red rose. “For you. I thought you might appreciate it more than a corsage.”

Although a small lump filled her throat at his thoughtfulness, she laughed. Peter could be incredibly charming when he wanted, but until this moment, she’d never been the recipient of that seductiveness.

She knew it wasn’t real. He was only being polite for this one night because she was doing him a favor by accompanying him to the fund-raiser.

Still, for her, for now, it was real. And there was no reason she shouldn’t enjoy it while it lasted. Soon enough—like first thing Monday morning—it would be back to work, back to their usual employer/employee relationship.

She lifted the bloom to her nose and inhaled its rich fragrance. “It’s beautiful, thank you.”

When their eyes met over the top of the rose, she thought she saw something deep and meaningful flash across his features, but it was just as quickly gone—if it had been there at all.

Clearing his throat, he moved away from the limousine and waved an arm for her to precede him. “Shall we?”

She nodded, stepping into the plush rear of the limo. Peter slid in beside her and the car rolled forward.

“Would you like something to drink?”

A bottle of champagne, already open, sat chilling in an ice bucket on the opposite seat. He poured a few inches of the golden liquid into a cut crystal glass and handed it to her before filling a flute for himself.

Lucy wasn’t much of a drinker, and normally she never would have started in the car on the way to an event where she knew she would probably consume even more alcohol. But tonight, her nerves were jumping like kernels of corn over an open fire. Maybe a few sips of champagne would calm them down.

“Thank you again for coming with me,” he said as the cool bubbles tickled their way down her throat. “I already feel more relaxed about the evening than if I were going alone or with a practical stranger.”

If the majority of Peter’s dates were “practical strangers,” he certainly cozied up to them enough to invite them in at the end of the night.

She took another gulp of wine to wash away the depressing thought. Peter’s love life was none of her business. His personal life was none of her business. Only his professional life, filling the hours from nine to five, were any of her concern. And sometimes a slice of overtime, such as tonight. But other than that, he could do whatever he wished with whomever he wished, and it wouldn’t bother her a bit.

“This isn’t a favor,” she felt the need to clarify. “It’s part of my job.”

“Yes, but you didn’t have to come along. You could have said you were busy, already had a date, or just plain refused.”

She could have…if she’d thought of it.

The rest of the drive passed in silence until they pulled up in front of the Four Seasons on M Street, very close to the city limits of Georgetown. Peter set aside their empty glasses as the driver came around to open their door, then stepped out and turned back to offer Lucy his hand.

Arms linked, they walked into the elegant hotel lobby. A large banner and smaller, raised signs announced the City Women benefit and directed guests to the bank of elevators leading upstairs. Several couples were already there, and Peter and Lucy joined them.

The last ones in, they were at the front near the doors. She could feel the heat of Peter’s hand at the small of her back, through the sheer material of her shawl. She tipped her head to look at him over her shoulder, noticing the thin line of his mouth, the tightness in his jaw. Her eyes narrowed, and she was about to ask if he was all right when the elevator doors opened with a swish. The pressure at her back increased as he urged her forward, into the plush, paneled hallway and in the direction of the crowded ballroom.

Round tables draped with hunter-green and pink linens to match the City Women’s trademark colors filled the room, each seating ten to twelve people. At the front, a raised platform held long, rectangular tables on either side of a tall podium.

As soon as his eyes landed on the microphone he would be using for his acceptance speech, Peter made a choking sound and stuck a finger behind the collar of his shirt, as though the small black tie was cutting off his air supply.

“You’ll be fine,” she assured him, laying a hand on his elbow and running it down the length of his arm until their fingers twined. “Now we’d better get up there before Mrs. Harper-Whitfield starts ‘yoo-hooing’ for you over everyone’s heads.”

He groaned. “Please, no. Not Mrs. Harper-Whitfield.”

Laughing, they started through the crowd, nodding and saying hello to acquaintances, stopping to chat only when they weren’t given much choice. When they finally reached their seats, the City Women directors and founding members flocked to Peter’s side, thanking him for coming, complimenting him on his latest donation or software creation.

Lucy sat beside him, a smile permanently etched on her face for the stream of admirers who paraded past, wanting a moment or two with the esteemed Peter Reynolds.

Finally dinner was served, and they were left mostly to themselves while everyone enjoyed delicious servings of thinly sliced beef, steamed broccoli, lightly seasoned new potatoes, and fruit tartlets for dessert. Hundreds of mingled voices filled the room, making a private conversation difficult.

Lucy realized, too, that Peter was inordinately nervous about getting up in front of such a large group. But no matter how slowly he ate, the meal was soon over and the City Women president was addressing the crowd, describing the organization’s accomplishments of the past several months and relaying some very moving success stories.

As soon as the speaker began talking about that one special contributor who had helped to fill their shelters with computer equipment and offer women avenues other than remaining in abusive situations, Lucy felt Peter tense beside her. His entire body went taut, and his knuckles turned white where they tried to squeeze the life out of a poor, defenseless cloth napkin.

Turning unobtrusively in his direction, she leaned close enough to be heard and whispered, “Relax.” She covered his clenched fist with the palm of her hand, gently stroking his warm skin until his grip on the linen loosened. Setting the napkin aside, she slipped her free hand beneath the lapel of his tuxedo jacket and retrieved the stack of index cards she knew would be there.

“Take a deep breath,” she ordered in a soft, soothing tone. “You’ve done this a million times before, you’ll be fine. And if all else fails, remember to picture everyone naked.”

His head whipped around and his gaze, hot, green and intense, drifted over her, lingering a little too long on the area of her waist and breasts.

“Not me,” she growled with a roll of her eyes, putting three fingers to his cheek and pushing him away.

The City Women president smiled brightly as she finished her introduction and the spotlight swung to Peter. Lucy shoved the note cards into his hand and urged him to his feet before joining in on the applause.

In the end, he had nothing to worry about. His speech was both funny and poignant, delivered with perfect pitch by a man who could flirt a nun out of her habit. Before he finished, Peter promised to continue refurbishing and donating used PCs for the organization’s use, earning him a standing ovation and another round of boisterous applause. The City Women then gifted him with a plaque in appreciation of his aid.

From there, everyone moved across the hall to a second ballroom where an orchestra was set up to play for the rest of the night, as well as four cash bars that would split their profits with the hosting charity.

Now that his speech was over, Peter was much more relaxed and willing to mingle with a crowd that obviously adored him. And Lucy knew this was her cue to spring into action. To approach some of D.C.’s wealthiest citizens and talk up Peter’s freshman software company, convincing them that any man who would volunteer so much time and money to such a worthy cause certainly deserved a modicum of support for his own interests. She would set up appointments for them to visit Peter at home, see samples of his work and discuss his plans for the future of Reyware.

Two long, exhausting hours later, Lucy had set up twenty-odd meetings for the following weeks and was fighting not to yawn and offend all the people she’d just spent half the night trying to impress.

Coming up behind her, Peter slid an arm around her waist, resting his chin on the slope of her shoulder. “Have we put in our time yet? Can we get the hell out of here?”

“I thought you were enjoying yourself,” she said without turning around.

“Making the most of a bad situation…it’s not quite the same thing. So how about it—wanna blow this Popsicle stand?”

She checked her watch. Nearly midnight. “I suppose it wouldn’t be too terribly rude to leave now. We have been here for almost four hours.”

“Feels like six. Besides, I want to get home and find a place to hang my new plaque.” He waved the chunk of wood and gold plating in front of her as they made their way to the outskirts of the ballroom and sneaked off—hopefully—without being noticed.

The elevators were free, the doors sliding open as soon as Peter punched the down button. They were alone inside the carpeted, glass-walled car, and Lucy once again spotted signs of strain bracketing his mouth, his fingers clenching around the brass handhold that ran along all three sides.

“Do you have a problem with elevators?” she asked, drawing his attention from the glowing red numbers above the door.

“Elevators? No, why?”