Page 52 of Just One Look
“The first one is …” She smelled it again. Most of the way up her left arm, almost in the crook of her elbow. When he’d buried his nose in it, she’d nearly shuddered. “Sort of warm and spicy and sweet, but not as much as the one right below it, which is overpowering, like it would give me a headache. This one is … nutty, though, maybe? Almost like dark chocolate, or vanilla, or something. It smells sweet, but sexy. Doesn’t it?”
His smile was all in his eyes. “Yeh. It does. Sexy, and a bit bossy, too. Black Opium, that one’s called. Sexy name, and you probably wouldn’t wear it to work. Or the one below it, either, that you didn’t like. That’s Good Girl. More of a nighttime scent, both of them. You’d wear this to dinner. Someplace special, with fairy lights.”
“Someplace with lobster,” she said. “And really good wine.”
“Yeh. Someplace special like that. With somebody who’ll appreciate you wearing it.”
“I wouldn’t wear anything to work,” she said, because she needed to say something. “Not appropriate.”
“Because you can’t be sexy at work. Too many male surgeons.”
“No. Not because of that. I’m the last thing from sexy at work, and wearing sexy perfume wouldn’t change that. I wouldn’twantit to change that. No, because of patients. Some people are sensitive to scent, and they’re more sensitive if they aren’t feeling well.” There. That was better. That was neutral.
What was shedoinghere? She was so out of her depth.
“I’m going with the idea that you can’t be too sexy,” he said, “because you’ll drive all the other surgeons mad.”
All right. She had to laugh at that.
“So that’s one,” he said. “What’s the other one you like?”
“This one.” She held up her right wrist. “It’s pretty, isn’t it? Almost lovely.”
She should be used to him holding her by now. She wasn’t. “Yeh,” he said. “Completely different from the other. Flowery. Powdery. Roses in there, maybe. Romantic, but in a different way.”
“A bowl of old-fashioned roses on an oak table on a summer day,” she agreed. “With the windows open and the curtains moving a little in the breeze. Which sounds poetic, and I’m not poetic.”
“No?” he said. “You’re purple, though. Sensitive.”
“I’m just exactly not.”
“Could be that Nyree and I are both wrong, then,” he said. “Because that’s what we think. And, yeh. This one is sexy, too, but in a softer way. The other one’s a woman in a suit and stilettos, her hair in that twist, sitting at the head of the conference table, making a man think dirty thoughts. This one’s a girl in a long dress, one of those floaty ones. White, and not much underneath. Got her hair down, and maybe she walks across the patio to a hammock and arranges herself in there, her arm hanging over the side, and says, ‘Come smell my perfume. Isn’t it nice?’ La Vie est Belle en Rose. Life is beautiful. In roses.”
“That’s …” She cleared her throat. “An excellent description. Is this being seductive on purpose, or is it just your habitual line of conversation?”
He laughed and let go of her hand. “Depends. Is it working?”
“Not sure.” Which was a lie. It was working.
“So, based on that … One more stop.” He took her around the corner to the Chanel counter. “These are my favorites. I want you to like them too much, maybe. Don’t be swayed.”
“OK,” she said. “I won’t. I’m rarely swayed, so you know.”
“I noticed that. One of the many things I like about you.” He picked up the tester. Chanel No. 5, a perfume even she had heard of. The bottle was simple and elegant, the liquid a deep yellow. Not the most attractive color to a doctor, possibly, because all that color said to her was, “dehydrated.” She’d think of it as “amber,” maybe.
“We’re out of arm space,” he said. “OK if I spritz this one on your neck?”
“OK. Sure.” She could handle that. This wasn’t sexual. He washelping,because he liked to smell nice things.
His hand, lifting her hair, being so careful. Holding her head. The faint hiss of the perfume leaving the bottle, and the scent wafting up to her.
“Sophisticated,” he said.
“Mm. I don’t know. I’m not … sure. It’s … maybe overpowering? I can’t tell yet.” It was pretty hard to be sure of things when a six-foot-four-inch man had his hand in your hair, too much muscle, and that look in his eyes.
“Let’s try this one, then,” he said. “Coco Mademoiselle. See what you think. Compare and contrast, eh.”
The same performance on the other side of her neck. Lifting her hair away, stepping close, spraying the tiniest bit of the faintly pink liquid just below her ear.
