Dreams of Perfection (Dreams Come True) Page 4

  “I’m not drunk. I’m celebrating. Oh, Saul,” she called, capturing the waiter’s attention, “bring Darcy here a glass of champagne. Your finest.”

  Darcy leaned over the table. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Wait for the champagne. Ah, here it is. Thank you, Saul. Now go away.”

  The crusty old waiter muttered under his breath as he shuffled off.

  “I heard that,” Gloria reproached.

  Darcy knew Gloria loved to give the wait-staff a hard time, but made up for it with generous tips, always claiming she didn’t have the time or the patience to wait for the change.

  “Lift your glass for a toast. To the cover of your tenth novel.” She pulled an advance reader’s copy (also known as an ARC in the biz) of her latest book from the enormous Prada tote bag she always carried and presented it to Darcy with a flourish.

  Darcy teared up, as she always did when she first saw her latest book cover. A blond-haired, blue-eyed hunk wearing a white doctor’s coat stood, feet planted, a stethoscope draped his neck, his muscular arm wrapped around the waist of a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty. An ambulance, a medical helicopter, and a hospital provided the backdrop. The words THE DOCTOR’S DILEMMA emblazoned across the top and DARCY BUTLER across the bottom.

  Darcy’s fingers traced the lines of the hero’s face. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

  “Of course it is. Now, let’s get down to business.”

  The party clearly over, Darcy took a quick gulp of her champagne before the discussion began.

  The book would be out in six months, so Gloria talked book signings, press releases, and television interviews, and making an event out of the release of Darcy’s tenth novel with cocktail parties, book clubs, and women’s charity luncheons.

  Just listening to the upcoming schedule left Darcy exhausted. She hated this part of her profession—the public appearances. Not the book signings, she loved interacting with her readers, but the television and radio interviews still scared the bejesus out of her.

  Saul brought their orders, and after preparing the steak tartar to Gloria’s liking, took his leave.

  Gloria set aside her notes, eyeing her raw meat with delight.

  Darcy shivered with distaste, then delicately took a bite of her crab cakes. Unable to resist, she picked up the ARC again. “It really is beautiful isn’t it?”

  “Hmm,” was Gloria’s only response, as she took another sip of her martini.

  Darcy skimmed her fingers over the hero’s chiseled features. “He’s perfect,” she muttered.

  “Harrumph. Nobody’s perfect. Especially a man.”

  “He’s perfect in my imagination,” Darcy defended as she set aside the book.

  “All right, what is it that’s so perfect about the man you’ve dreamed up?”

  Darcy looked thoughtfully at the cover again. “Blake is polished and sophisticated, yet all male. He’s an adventurer, an athlete, and an intellectual—a superb dresser, an excellent dancer, and a connoisseur of art, music, food, and wine. And of course he’s a gifted surgeon who saves lives through his heroic deeds.” And once he found his true love, he’d never cheat on her.

  “How old are you, girl?” Gloria’s tone was biting as she leaned in to give more weight to her reproach. “You’re not getting any younger, you know, and with expectations like that, all you’ll ever see for your efforts is disappointment and an empty bed. Men like that only exist in the novels you write.”

  Gloria set aside her fork and leveled her most intimidating glare at her. “You’d better lower your sights, or you’ll find you’ve imagined your life away, while real life, the one that counts, has passed you by.”

  Darcy lifted her chin. “Mr. Right is out there. I know he is. I just have to be patient.”

  “Mr. Right may be out there, but he won’t be Mr. Perfect, and the sooner you get that through the fairy dust in your head, the better.”

  Darcy cringed as her phone buzzed in her purse. Gloria didn’t tolerate these interruptions, so Darcy tried to ignore it. The buzzing stopped momentarily then began again.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, answer the infernal device,” Gloria hissed in annoyance.

  Darcy rooted through her purse until she found the phone. “Hello.”

  “Is this Darcy Butler?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Metropolitan Hospital. Laura Armstrong asked me to call you. There’s been an accident.”

  “What?” Darcy’s voice rose an octave. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine, but she’d like you to come to the hospital right away.”

  “Of course. Of course. Tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Darcy ended the call, and began gathering her things. “I’m sorry, Gloria, I’ve got to go. Laura’s been hurt.”

  “That one. Probably tripped over one of her stilettos after one of her booty calls.” Gloria waved her hand as Darcy leaned over to kiss the woman’s cheek. “Go.”

  Gloria signaled Saul and watched Darcy as she fled the restaurant. She’d been harsh with Darcy, but someone needed to be.

  Doug Lansing, AKA Cheating Bastard, had devastated her goddaughter with his infidelity, and if Gloria ever saw him again in person, she’d cheerfully stick a fork through his heart—if he had one. The verdict was still out on that.

  As it was, she had to resist the urge not to launch the nearest heavy object through the television screen whenever she had the misfortune to stumble across one of his sports casts. But broken heart notwithstanding, that girl needed to learn that the perfection she sought wasn’t all that.

  Chapter 7

  Darcy dashed through the doors of the ER straight to the information desk. “Laura Armstrong?”

  The receptionist tapped on the computer keys before looking up. “Through the double doors. She’s in Room Nineteen.”

  “Thanks,” Darcy replied absentmindedly, as she followed the woman’s directions. Finding Room Nineteen, Darcy rushed in to find a slightly damp, bedraggled, and thoroughly pissed off Laura.

  “Are you okay? Where are you hurt? What happened?” Her eyes swept Laura’s disheveled appearance searching for injuries.

  “I’m fine. Aside from a broken finger, bruised pride, and a mangled shoe.” She held up the injured digit—the middle finger of her right hand—all black and blue and swollen.

  “How on earth?”

  “I was on my way to Barneys—they’re having a fabulous shoe sale and I wanted some nude Louboutin pumps. Anyway, I was crossing Fifth at the light, when this cab driver failed to stop—”

  “He hit you?”

  “Well . . . not exactly.” She chewed her lower lip. “It all happened so fast. I slammed my tote down on the hood of his car—”

  Darcy gasped. “Not your new Vuitton?”

  “That’s the one. Anyway, he started cursing at me—at least I think he was cursing—I couldn’t understand him, so I . . . I flipped him off.” Laura lifted her shoulder in an insolent shrug. “I wasn’t paying attention and I sort of . . . tripped over the curb,” she finished lamely.

  “You broke your finger because you tripped over the curb while flipping-off a cab driver?” Darcy’s brows flew up as concern turned to astonishment, and astonishment became amusement. She pressed a hand to her mouth to suppress the giggle that bubbled to the surface.

  “It’s not funny! I not only broke my finger, I broke the heel on my favorite Louboutins.” Laura looked as if she was about to cry.

  “I’m sorry.” Darcy continued to chuckle, her shoulders shaking with mirth. “You’re right, it’s not funny.” She snickered, managed to compose her features momentarily then burst out in a full-fledged guffaw. “But it is.” Between breathless attempts to stop laughing, she apologized to a red-faced Laura.


  “Ladies, care to let me in on the joke?”

  Laura’s eyes widened then narrowed to the telltale slits of a predatory woman with a prime catch in her sights.

  Darcy spun at the resonant sound of the male voice. A voice she’d heard in her head for the past six months. She looked at that handsome face, a face she also knew well, then at the name on his white doctor’s coat. Impossible!

  She couldn’t get enough air in her lungs—like trying to inhale through a straw. Her head felt funny, as if it were filled with helium. The room began to spin and her vision tunneled.

  The next thing she knew she was seated in a chair with her head between her knees and something icy on the back of her neck.

  The voice, that sultry, silky voice, told her to breathe. “That’s it. In through the nose, out through the mouth.” His warm hand held hers in a firm, capable grip.

  She wanted to look up, but was afraid of what she’d see. Or not see. The champagne and the anxiety must have gotten to her, made her dizzy, made her imagine things. Yep. Visual hallucinations. That had to be it. That and maybe a touch of wishful thinking.

  Darcy lifted her head, slowly, hesitantly, and stared into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, in real life anyway. A honey-blond lock fell over his forehead, hiding the scar she knew she’d find just above his right eyebrow.

  He knelt in front of her, his gaze locked with hers. “Better?” He flashed a smile that almost sent her swooning again. “Your color’s better, anyway.”

  She reached a tentative hand out and, holding her breath, brushed aside the silky hair. The breath she’d been holding came out in a gasp, and she dropped her hand as if it had been burned. Whoa, Nellie! The scar was there, exactly as she’d imagined it. From eyebrow to hairline.

  His brow puckered in confusion.

  Darcy felt as if she were having an out-of-body experience. Taking a deep, calming breath, she gazed into his eyes again.

  “Um, excuse me, Dr. Gorgeous . . . hello. I believe I’m the patient here.” Laura waved her injured hand in the air in an attempt to get his attention.

  But he just gazed back at Darcy with something akin to amusement in his eyes.

  Dragging her eyes away, she glanced down again at the name on his coat: Blake Garrett, M.D., Department of Orthopedics.

  “Is this a joke?” That was it! Her friends were trying to teach her a lesson. Laura wasn’t really hurt. I mean, who breaks her middle finger flipping-off a cab driver, she scoffed. Although . . . her hand was doing a pretty good impression of black and blue.

  “Is what a joke?” he asked, brow lifted in confusion.

  “You’re . . . you’re Blake Garrett . . . you’re Dr. Blake Garrett,” Darcy stammered.

  “Very good, Ms. . . .?”

  “Oh, um, Butler, Darcy Butler.”

  “I think you’re going to be just fine, Ms. Butler.” He patted her hand as he stood. “But, please, stay seated until the nurse brings you some water.”

  The nurse holding the ice pack left to do his bidding.

  Dr. Garrett turned his attention to a now-annoyed Laura.

  “About time,” Laura grumbled. “I was beginning to think my injury had rendered me invisible.”

  He picked up her chart and skimmed over it. “My apologies, Ms. Armstrong. The X-rays show a fracture of the middle phalanx of your second finger. It’s a clean break, but you’ll need to wear a brace for four to six weeks. It should heal just fine.” He tore off a slip of paper and handed it to her. “Take one every four hours as needed for pain. I’ll have an ortho assistant fit you with a brace.”

  He set the chart on the gurney next to Laura. “The rest of your hand escaped unscathed. Can’t say the same about your knees.” He knelt down and examined her skinned, bloody knees. “The nurse will get these cleaned up and bandaged for you.”

  Darcy watched the interchange, still trying to get a grasp on reality. Blake Garrett, her hero, Dr. Perfect, stood before her in the flesh. Had held her hand, had gazed into her eyes. The nurse handed her a cup of water, which she drew shakily to her lips. This was a dream, and she’d wake up any moment now.

  “Thank you, Dr. Garrett,” Laura said with a predatory purr, pleased now that she was the center of attention once more.

  “I’ll return after the brace has been fitted.” Dr. Garrett turned to Darcy. “Feeling better?”

  “Yes, I . . . I think so.”

  “Good. I’ll be back shortly.”

  Darcy stared as he exited the room.

  “What was that all about?” Laura snarled as soon as he left. “I know he’s gorgeous, but since when do you have fainting spells?”

  Darcy shook her head, as if to clear it. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, back off. I saw him first.”

  Darcy shot to her feet, and then regretted it when the helium filled her head again. She grabbed the back of her chair to steady herself. “No way.” Her hero had somehow come to life, and she wasn’t about to stand back and let Laura chew him up and spit him out like she did her other conquests.

  “He’s my doctor.”

  “Well, he’s my hero!” Darcy stomped her foot for emphasis.

  “Was that a foot stomp? Did you just stomp your foot?”

  “Yes.” Darcy lifted her chin defiantly. “He’s my hero,” she repeated.

  “What? Because he swooped you up in his arms when you fainted?”

  “He did?” Darcy asked, shocked, wishing she could remember that. “No. I mean he’s really my hero.” She reached into her tote bag and pulled out her ARC. “I get dibs on him.”

  Laura took the book with her good hand and examined the cover, then her injured hand flew to her mouth. “Oh. My. God. It is him!” She looked up at Darcy, eyes wide. “Your critics weren’t kidding when they said your characters jump right off the page.”

  Darcy lugged her purse and tote, along with Laura’s purse and tote, while Laura limped along behind her, the skinned knees and broken shoe making walking difficult. Laura had vehemently refused to wear the little rubber-bottomed socks the hospital offered.

  Dr. Gorgeous, er, Garrett, stopped them. “Ms. Armstrong, perhaps I can help.” He knelt down and, like Prince Charming with a glass slipper, removed the still-intact shoe with its signature red sole.

  Before Laura could protest, he snapped off the heel. “There. Now you’ll be even.” He slipped the shoe back onto her foot as if breaking the heel off a pair of Louboutins was nothing out of the ordinary.

  A speechless Laura stared at the dismembered four-inch heel he’d placed in her uninjured hand.

  “Ms. Butler, may I have a word?”

  Darcy frowned and glanced back at Laura’s dumbfounded expression, before following Dr. Garrett into a nearby alcove. She could smell his spicy cologne, the same cologne she’d imagined he’d wear.

  “Ms. Butler, Darcy, I’m not in the habit of asking out my patients, but then again, you aren’t really my patient . . . technically.”

  He smiled, crinkling the corners of those deep blue eyes, making Darcy’s knees go weak again. “I have two tickets to the Met on Friday night. Would you care to join me?”

  “The Met? You mean the Metropolitan Opera?” She gave herself a mental dope-slap. No, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, you twit—of course the Metropolitan Opera. Just call me Ditzy Darcy.

  His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Yes, the Metropolitan Opera. They’re presenting La Bohème.”

  “Sure . . . I mean, yes . . . I’d love to go.”

  “Wonderful. I have to work, but my car service will pick you up at your place at six and then swing by the hospital to pick me up. Does that work for you?” Before she could respond, he placed a hand on her arm. “Leave your address with the charge nurse. And get some rest. Can’t have you falling ou
t again, can we?”

  Her heart stammered in her chest, matching her less-than-stellar response. “Um, no. I mean, yes. I mean, the car service is fine, the falling out not so much.” Smooth. Real smooth. She wasn’t in grade school, and this wasn’t Charlie Smathers, the first guy she’d ever had a crush on. She was a grown woman, for pity’s sake. Just as Blake’s pager went off, she offered up a tentative smile. “See you Friday, then.”

  “Looking forward to it,” he said, striding down the corridor, pager in hand.

  As if in a dream, Darcy drifted back to an impatiently waiting Laura.

  “He broke the heel off my shoe. My very expensive shoe.” Laura waved the heel in Darcy’s face before narrowing her gaze. “So, do tell. Did Dr. Gorgeous pull you into a linen closet for a quick grope session à la Grey’s Anatomy?”

  “What? No. He asked me to the Met on Friday.”

  “Oh,” Laura replied, her voice thick with disappointment, before it brightened. “Oh! Get you, Darcy. You’re living your very own Pygmalion romance.”

  Chapter 8

  The lobby of the Metropolitan Opera teemed with patrons dressed in their best glitz and glam. Jewels glittered at the throats, wrists, fingers, and ears of the Met’s wealthiest female patrons, all vying to see and be seen. The men, attired in either tasteful dark suits or tuxedos, networked with current and prospective business associates.

  Josh stood back, watching the throng with something akin to dismay, trying not to look the small-town yokel that he was. He’d lived in New York for over ten years now, but he’d never seen so much affluence in one place in the whole of his life. The very air seemed to carry the scent of money.

  These were the people he needed to rub elbows with if he wanted to raise money for the Women’s Legal Fund of Harlem, the legal aid center he volunteered for, which helped single mothers with civil legal matters. Their big fundraising gala was set for late summer and as event chair, these were the people he’d like to attract. As marketing chair, Laura’s connections would go a long way to make that happen.