Free Lucky In Love by Deborah Coonts Page A

test sip, I took a long pull and sighed. “You are a prince among men.”
    “I have you fooled.” I don’t think he meant it like I heard it. One thing for sure, if he kept standing there looking all tousled and sleepy-eyed I was going to be seriously late for work.
    I reached up and tugged on the elastic band of his pants—a pair of tattered warm-ups that were the only things standing between him and indecency.
    “Ah, what a difference a good night’s sleep makes.” He took my coffee mug and set it on the nightstand. Then he slid out of his pants—clearly my suggestion had raised... expectations. Lifting the edge of the duvet, he slid in beside me.
    “Hot coffee. Hot guy. Am I lucky, or what?”
    He nuzzled my neck as I circled him and spread my body the length of his. For a moment he arrested a hand against my stomach, spreading a warmth that exploded when he moved higher, cupping my breast and teasing my nipple with his thumb. When he covered my lips with his and plundered my mouth with his tongue, the world disappeared. Sensation alone remained.
    My hands roamed, retracing, memorizing anew every peak and valley. Closing my mind to my worry about our future, my confusion at how to still believe in forever love when surrounded by the carnage of so many relationships, I reveled in the here and the now.
    The future would take care of itself. Or not. And somehow, I’d survive.
     
    * * *
     
    S howered, dressed in blue linen Dana Buchman pants, a silver silk cami, a blue cashmere cardigan with silver threads running thorough it, and my very first pair of sensible blue Ferragamos, which had been rebuilt at least five times, I was not only sated and caffeinated, but feeling pretty self-satisfied. A lingering kiss from Teddie had launched me out the door and into a delicious early fall day. Walking had seemed like a good idea—the stroll from the Presidio to the Babylon took twenty minutes, if I dawdled, and today was a dawdling kind of day.
    With so much to do, there was rarely any time to think, to reach for elusive perspective. So I enjoyed the quiet time alone with myself. Life. Love. No easy answers. But, if it were easy, then everyone would do it, right? Of course, everyone did do it. So was it just me who made it harder than it should be?
    Lost in thought, I hiked up the long curving driveway to the Babylon. Bordered by palm trees tall enough to turn Donald Trump green with envy, it reminded me of a tropical Appian Way—but without the burial monuments alongside or the catacombs underneath, which I thought was a good thing.
    Paolo was just pressing his hat on his head as he burst through the doors and made a turn toward the limo park. Spying me, his face creased into a lower-wattage smile—apparently he remembered our last conversation—as he altered course and headed toward me. “Good afternoon, Miss O’Toole. I see, we are both starting the day late.”
    “I prefer to think of it as getting a jump start on our evening.” I thought about adding that I also believed that love came to those who waited, but I was losing a bit of strength in that conviction. Besides, clichés were more my thing—I’d leave non-sequiturs to someone else.
    Paolo stopped in front of me, bowing slightly from the waist. “I was just coming to get you.” He turned toward his car, then stopped mid-stride. Turning to me again, he asked, “Did your office reach you?”
    “No. I accidentally left my phone at home. Why?”
    “We have a bit of a problem that will take your special skills.” He moved to the rear of the limo, opened the door, and motioned me inside. “Let me fill you in on the way.”
    “Anything to keep me out of the office.” I dove through the opening and settled into the deep seat. I waited until we were out of the traffic on the Strip. When we were traveling sedately west on Tropicana, I moved over to the bench seat and leaned through the opening—déjà vu all over again, as Yogi Berra once said. “Want