LITMIR.BIZ

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Claire. We need you close by. We can always send a security guard. What’s more to the point—” Trish grabbed Jason’s arm “—when we’re all alone in the taxi, I want to know what you think about the fiancé thing.” Claire trailed behind as Trish kept her half nelson grip on Jason. “I realize it’s an imposition, and it was highly unprofessional of Claire to mention it to you during a session.”

      “Maybe I will ride the bike after all,” Claire murmured.

      “What’s that, Claire?” Trish stuck out her hand for a cab. The ones that sped by had their lights on, indicating they were occupied. “I should have had Elaine arrange for a car service to pick us up.” She dug in her Prada shoulder bag and pulled out her cell phone. “I can still have her do it.”

      Claire saw some commuters eyeing Jason. It was only a matter of time before they were surrounded. “Never mind about Elaine.” She spotted a taxi barreling down the other side of Sixth Avenue, stepped off the curb, and with her thumb and middle finger forming a circle, delivered a piercing whistle.

      Like Odysseus responding to the sirens’s call, the cab made a suicidal move through the traffic and shrieked to a halt. All that was lacking was for it to be dashed against the rocks. Luckily, the curbs in Manhattan are low and rounded.

      Trish snapped her cell phone shut. “I’d forgotten that little trick of yours.” She let Jason hold open the car door, then got into the back seat first.

      Jason waited for Claire to get in next. “You realize you just demonstrated requirement number three.” He pantomimed her whistling.

      Claire stared at the way his fingers touched his open mouth. And found her libido bouncing around with all the manic exuberance of a two-month-old Labrador retriever. “Boy, you’re easy to please. Half the women in the world must meet your requirements. And if you don’t get in the taxi soon, a few of them will be joining us any minute.”

      They bundled in, Claire in the middle. Her camera bag rested on her lap. Jason didn’t seem much farther away. “You can’t move a little?” She looked down at his thigh pressed up against her leg.

      Jason leaned over to speak to Trish, ignoring Claire’s comment. “So, tell me about the wedding.” His jacket sleeve put pressure on Claire’s shoulder.

      Claire pursed her lips and studied the taxi driver’s license displayed on the dashboard.

      “It’s really very simple. Claire, David and I all went to high school together in Leeds Springs,” Trish explained quickly.

      “Leeds Springs?” Jason asked.

      “A suburban town north of New York City.”

      “Think country clubs and golf courses,” Claire said. She focused on the driver’s name, trying to decide which eastern European country he had come from. One with an overabundance of “k’s” it seemed.

      Jason turned to Claire. “You lived in suburbia?”

      She shrugged. “Only a year and a half. I survived. So did it.”

      “Yes, well, all three of us were inseparable, mainly because we all worked on the school newspaper. Claire was the photographer, David covered sports, and I, well, not to be immodest, but I was the editor-in-chief.”

      “Why am I not surprised?” Jason said. Claire decided to kick him for that smug little comment.

      “Anyway, to make a long story short, David was my first true love, something that’s very special to a woman,” Trish went on.

      Claire eyed Jason. “Don’t even go there,” she warned sotto voce. He placed his hand on his chest. Who me? he seemed to indicate. She kicked him again.

      Jason winced. “Has anyone ever told you that you have violent instincts?”

      She stared wide-eyed. Only a newborn calf could have looked more innocent. “Sorry, my foot slipped.”

      “Twice?”

      “Repetitive stress syndrome?”

      “And even though we all went our separate ways, we stayed in touch.” Trish cupped her chin wistfully. “Call me unrealistic, but somehow I thought one day he’d come back into my life. Only I never envisioned we’d meet again at a wedding—his wedding, to someone else. To an orthodontist no less.” Trish took a pair of sunglasses from her bag and wrestled them onto her face. “An orthodontist,” she harrumphed.

      “I’m sure she has very nice teeth,” Claire said.

      “Don’t try to be nice, Claire. It doesn’t suit you.” Trish fiddled with the bow of her glasses, designer ones, naturally. “Anyway, even though David’s moved to Chicago—he’s a district attorney—” she turned to Jason “—they’ve decided to get married back at his parents’ place in Westchester, a nice Tudor place right by the golf course. I always did think it would make the perfect place for a wedding.”

      Trish paused, as if visualizing the outdoor seating arrangement of her dreams—lilacs and lilies of the valley roped in garlands along white satin-covered folding chairs, a veritable aromatherapy of connubial bliss. “Well, when the invitation came, I accepted as a matter of course, and replied I would be bringing a guest. The thing of it is, to make this really work—to attend from a real position of strength—what I need is not just a guest, but a fiancé. That way I truly look like…” For once in her life, Trish actually needed to pause.

      “Like you’re sleeping with someone?” Claire offered.

      “That you have someone who is special, a lover,” Jason corrected.

      Trish turned and pulled off her glasses. “Claire, you’re so predictable. But, Jason, you’re really quite sensitive, aren’t you?”

      Claire rolled her eyes. “Sensitive is not the adjective I would have chosen.”

      “But then words are not your line of work, are they?” Jason shifted his weight and put his arm over the back of the seat. His hand casually rested on Claire’s shoulder. She hunched forward and hugged her bag.

      “And what makes it even more incredible, Jason, is you’re clearly amazingly handsome and famous,” Trish said.

      Jason nudged Claire. “See, someone recognizes my better qualities.” She hunched farther forward.

      “But I’m not sure people are going to believe we’re an item.” From the emotional high of a second ago, Trish dipped to the depths of the Marianas Trench. “I mean the wedding’s this Saturday. And we’ve only just met. Besides, it’s not as if we have anything in common. I mean, I wouldn’t know a hockey bat from a baseball bat.”

      Claire rolled her eyes. “It’s a stick, Trish, a hockey stick.” She would have said something further along those lines, but she saw that her friend truly looked despondent, only reinforcing Claire’s long-standing belief that it never paid to fall in love. “Listen, sweetie, don’t worry about the sports stuff. Didn’t you ever hear of the theory that opposites attract? You can just say you met over this story, which is perfectly true. And there was this instantaneous spark. This spontaneous combustion.”

      Trish sniffed. “Spontaneous combustion?”

      “This violent, passionate bolt of desire, which struck like lightning.”

      “Oh, that spontaneous combustion.” Trish waved her hand dismissively and replaced her sunglasses. “Don’t be ridiculous. That kind of thing never happens. I’m surprised that a cynic like you, Claire, would even mention something as silly as that. People just don’t suddenly get all weak in the knees by some sudden onslaught of passion.”

      Claire stared at Jason. She saw him work his jaw. She immediately thought of their fleeting kiss. Her stomach contracted violently. “I suppose you’re right,” she said softly, still looking at his lips.

      “Still, people will believe anything, won’t they?” Trish sounded as if she was trying

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