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He bent his foot up to remove the shoe, turning to face her just in time to see her dipping her toe into the spray.
“Oooh! Okay, it’s a little cold, but I can handle it. How about you?”
She turned to him, mischief twinkling in her amber eyes, the spirit he’d always known lay inside but that she usually kept buttoned up and hidden on display for all to see.
No. Not for everyone.
Just for him.
“Hey!” A harsh voice came from far off, bouncing off the hard surfaces of the pavement and buildings. “Hey, you!”
They turned to see a heavy-set security guard lumbering their way.
“No wading in the fountain!” The man squinted at them, evidently unable to make them out clearly in the dim light.
Ryder froze, but Vic let out a startled yelp. She hopped down from the raised platform, shoes and stockings still in hand. She motioned to him frantically. “Come on!” she hissed.
Yeah, probably best to get out of there, especially if they were looking to avoid headlines involving petty crimes.
He climbed down and followed after her—she was halfway to the car already, scampering at a pretty good speed for someone in a pencil skirt. Ryder ducked his head to join her in the back of the town car just as he heard the guard behind him swear. “Damn hooligans.”
Ryder slammed the door shut, and the driver pulled the car into traffic.
He swallowed, afraid to look at Vicky. This was exactly what they were supposed to not do—draw negative attention to themselves. He didn’t think they’d been recognized. But that didn’t make him feel any better. He’d egged her on, and she was the one whose reputation would suffer if they got more salacious publicity. Heaven knew his reputation couldn’t get any worse.
“Vic, I . . .”
And then he heard her. Little sounds escaping, her body shaking gently at first, then more violently, until finally she gasped for breath, and it exploded out of her.
She was laughing.
Chapter Fourteen
Back home in her Park Avenue apartment, Vicky showered, slipped on her silk pajamas, ordered Thai food, answered a dozen emails, and still couldn’t get the afternoon out of her head.
She kept replaying the scene at the fountain. The play of the lights in the darkening plaza, Ryder daring her to break the rules, the brisk spray of water on her bare legs, Ryder gazing down at her, just inches away, looking like he might . . .
Okay, no. This was no good.
She closed her laptop and set it on the coffee table, picking up the remote.
She flicked on the TV, flipping through the channels. A news report on unfilled potholes. A documentary on toads. Finally, she stopped on a movie channel. Ooh, Love, Actually. She’d always enjoyed this one.
She curled her legs up under her on the plush sofa. Colin Firth was typing on loose sheets of paper outside (really, why would anyone do that?), when his non-English-speaking maid accidentally lifted his paperweight, and naturally, a gust of wind blew all of poor Colin’s papers into the pond.
Now the maid was jumping in and of course so was Colin, and they were both complaining about how cold it was and splashing around. It struck Vicky that this was exactly what would have happened had she and Ryder actually made it into the fountain at Lincoln Center.
She began to laugh, thinking about how very much unpleasant it would have been to have been soaking wet in New York in February, even if it was an unseasonably warm day. And Ryder! Good God, she could only imagine how clingy and cold his fitted suit would have felt after a dip in the water.
A mental image flashed of Ryder’s normally artfully mussed hair weighed down and dripping, plastered to the side of his face. She dissolved into a fit of giggles.
Oh, she had to share this with him!
She muted the TV, grabbed her phone, and started a text:
Am realizing fountain was bad idea. Next time I propose hot tub and proper attire.
There now. Hmm, did it need an emoji, maybe? Was there a bathing suit? Or maybe a wink. Or . . .
