"There is no way you are calling me."
"We need to talk."
She snapped the phone shut.
On the street in front of the Ritz, there were no reporters in sight, but Julia sensed them lurking like zits under the surface of her skin. She quickened her step almost to a jog, then she slowed instinctively. The last thing she needed was a picture of her running in pumps on the front page of the next day's papers, the headline: JULIA JAMES RUNS TO LOVE! or DON'T HURRY LOVE! or STOP IN THE NAME OF LOVE! The potential plays on words were endless. She wasn't about to give any pun-happy junior editor an easy gem to print in eighteen-point font.
She made it inside and to the elevator, and pushed the button. Button lights up; this is good, Julia thought. Elevator doors open, good. Turn left. Fumble with key. Not good—who created these cheap little plastic card things? Red light. What does the red light mean? She tried the card again. Another red light.
A door behind her opened and closed. A voice cried out, "Oh, my goodness!"
A fan, Julia thought. Of all the times and all the places . . .
She plunged the card into its electronic lock once more.
"I heard the news and I . . ." The woman behind her struggled for words. "It's just. . . you've always meant so much to me and . . ."
Red light.
"... new hope. Such an inspiration. I mean, if you can find love, then anyone can."
Hey! Julia forgot about the lock momentarily. I think I'm offended, she thought, suddenly feeling like the Quasimodo of the self-help section.
She knew she should begin a one-woman PR campaign in the hotel hallway, but at that moment, all she really wanted was to be on the other side of that door.
"I'm sorry, but..." she started, when, to her amazement, she felt the door handle turn, opening from the inside. Stunned, she turned and came face-to-face with Lance Collins.
Lance grabbed Julia's arm and pulled her into the room. "I'm sorry," he told the woman, who dropped her Saks Fifth Avenue shopping bags where she stood. "We need a little alone time.'
With the door closed behind them, Lance was squeezing Julia into the corner of the room. It reminded her of how her father would squeeze baby calves into the side of the corrals while he gave them shots.
"Get close," he'd told her. "Don't give them room to kick." Lance Collins must be a farm boy, Julia thought. She didn't have a spare inch to move, much less enough space to haul back and kick him with her sensible shoes. He had one hand pressed firmly over her mouth as he spoke in a low, even tone.
"I know you hate me," he said, bright eyes staring into hers. "But we need to talk. Talk now—hate later. Okay?"
All she could do was look, wide-eyed, into his face and wait.
"Okay," he went on, "the hand is coming off now."
He slipped his hand away from her mouth, gently releasing the pressure until she was able to free her lips. She didn't scream. Instead, she bit—hard. Let the man be the one to scream for once, she thought, gratified by the sound of his yelp.
"I can't believe you did that!" Lance moved away from her and studied the red semicircle that surrounded the knuckle on his pinkie.
"Why?" Julia pushed past him. "Because you know me so well?"
"Hey, look," he said, following her, jerking his hand as if to start the blood flowing again to his finger. "I've got this agent. You know, the jerk from the restaurant. And he saw you there and, well, I didn't know anything about it."
"Do you want money?" Julia asked in her snippiest tone. "Because I have money. I can give you money."
"No," he said, stepping forward.
Julia stepped back. "Contacts?" she guessed.
"I don't wear contacts."
"I mean I can get you contacts. To help your career."
"Oh! I don't want your contacts."