Her Book Of Pleasure. Marie Donovan

straggled down her cheeks to frame her inkblot freckles.

      “Your dress, it is ripped!” The attendant, an older woman dressed neatly in a black dress with white cuffs, approached her. Meg twisted around and groaned. Not only had Drunken Oaf stepped on it and left a shoe print, he had ripped part of the train right off her waist. If it tore any further, the whole Palmer House Hilton would get a frightening view of her ass.

      Meg wetted a tissue under the faucet and tried wiping away the raccoon rings of mascara. The damn stuff had finally decided to be waterproof.

      Lupe, as her nametag read, tsked and pulled out a basket. She arranged a packet of wet wipes, a sample tube of lipstick, a powder compact and a sewing kit. “Come,” she commanded, as serious as a surgeon about to make the first cut. “We fix you.”

      Meg submitted meekly. “Thank you.”

      Lupe wiped her face with a wet wipe. Meg closed her eyes, relaxing as the cool cloth removed the sticky makeup and drying tear tracks.

      Lupe threw away the used wipe and handed Meg the lipstick sample. “We make you pretty for your boyfriend.”

      “Ha!” The laugh burst out before she could stop it.

      “He is the one who makes you sad?”

      “No, I poked myself in the eye with my fake fingernail.” Meg held up the offending digit. “I don’t even have a boyfriend.”

      “Ah.” The older woman nodded knowingly.

      Meg sighed. “It’s not like that. I don’t even want a boyfriend. I have a great job at the university, I have a great apartment—well, it’s tiny but still very nice—and I have my own life, which my mother refuses to admit because she’s still e-mailing me pictures of boring Japanese salar ymen who want someone to cook their noodles and watch their children while they get drunk after work.”

      She took a deep breath, noting how her tirade had brought some color into her cheeks. She applied the plum-colored lipstick sample and smacked her lips.

      Lupe brushed at the footprint on the green satin. “All mothers, they want children get married, be happy, find love.”

      “Find love?” Meg tucked some hairpins into her ’do. “Who said that was necessary for marriage? Not my old-fashioned mother, that’s who. Marriage first to a man from a good family, then maybe love. Or maybe not.”

      “Mothers know best.” Lupe threaded a needle with white thread and started stitching Meg’s dress. Not wanting to argue with a woman wielding a sharp needle next to her skin, Meg quieted, powdering her freckles until they were almost gone.

      Lupe finished mending and snipped off the thread. “All done.”

      Meg examined the back of her dress in the mirror. Even the footprint was gone. “Wonderful. Thank you so much.” She dug in her tiny purse and pressed a bill into Lupe’s palm.

      Instead of putting the money into her pocket, the older woman gripped her hand, her dark brown eyes earnest. “Listen to your mother. Find a nice man. The old ways are best.”

      She gritted her teeth. The old ways. Her mother used that phrase all the time.

      Meg disengaged her hand and barely stopped herself from bowing in farewell. One mention of the old ways and she was falling into the Japanese manners of her childhood. She escaped the powder room, images of Lupe and her mother swirling through her head. She almost heard her mother’s voice scolding her as she walked to the wedding reception. Great, now the woman had perfected telepathy. Psychic nagging was even quicker than e-mail.

      Lost in her thoughts, she bounced off a blue wall. The wall turned and she saw one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen. No, she corrected herself, not handsome, exactly, but compelling. Magnetic. He had wavy hair with streaks of blond, brown and red all tumbled together, kind of like an old color photo of JFK. His eyes were bright blue with tiny glints of gold, set in sharply angled, tanned cheekbones.

      “I’m sorry.” His deep voice buzzed across her already jangling nerve endings. She stared at him. He mistook her silence for incomprehension and repeated his apology in careful Cantonese.

      “Oh. I’m Japanese, not Chinese.” It was nice of him to try, though. How many men apologized in one language, much less two?

      “Sorry. I only know a few phrases in Japanese. But one I do know is Hajimemashite.”

      Meg tried not to cringe at his accent. “That means ‘I’m pleased to meet you.’”

      “Exactly.” He gave her a white smile, revealing a dimple in one tan cheek. “And I hope you’d say you were pleased to meet me, too.”

      Meg raised her eyebrows. He certainly was fast on his feet. She wondered if he was fast off his feet as well. “I might be pleased to meet you if I knew whom I was meeting.”

      He extended his hand. “I’m Rick Sokol.” She took his hand. Rick’s grip was gentle but enveloped her smaller hand. His right wrist was banded by a gold watch that was expensive, but not ostentatious. She wondered if he were a lefty.

      He released her hand and she fought a peculiar sense of loss. “What’s your name?”

      “My Japanese name is Michiko.” Where did that come from? She almost never introduced herself to Americans as “Michiko,” but she didn’t correct herself.

      “Mitchy-coe,” he repeated, mangling the pronunciation.

      Meg giggled, fighting the urge to cover her mouth like a good Japanese girl. “No, that’s not how you say it. It’s Mee-chee-ko.”

      He tried again, getting closer. “Better?” He smiled down at her and her stomach flipped.

      She nodded, realizing she was in over her head. She tended to attract either short guys who wanted to tower over her, or pale, weedy types who had seen Memoirs of a Geisha twenty-seven times and were fascinated by a Japanese girl with light eyes.

      Tall, tanned, gorgeous men did not smile at her like this and ask her a question, which she had totally missed. “Excuse me?”

      “I was asking if you’re here for a wedding?”

      She glanced at her attire and was tempted to reply that no, she always wore green satin dresses around hotel lobbies, like some kinky bridesmaid hooker, but no good Japanese girl would even think that, let alone say it. “Yes, my friend got married this evening.”

      “Mine, too.”

      They both glanced at the ballroom and turned to each other. He took a closer look at her, his blue gaze traveling from her face to glide over her bare neck and shoulders. Her nipples tightened and swelled against the snug satin bodice. His blue eyes brightened to an almost cobalt shade, lingering on her breasts. She tottered on her dyed-to-match sandals, a flood of lust washing over her.

      Then he grinned. “I thought I recognized that dress. You’re one of Rey’s bridesmaids.”

      He’d been checking out the damned dress, not her. Well, she could at least still be the exotic Michiko. “Yes, I was the maid of honor and Rey’s cousins were the bridesmaids. Are you a friend of Marco’s?”

      “Oh, yeah, we met right after college and have been friends ever since. I’m sorry I missed seeing you at the ceremony, but my flight from Hong Kong was delayed. I just had time to toss my things in my room upstairs and rush down to the reception.”

      “Hong Kong? You are so lucky—I love Hong Kong.” She smiled up at him, remembering days and days spent in the art museum archives examining scraps of calligraphy.

      “Have a drink with me and we’ll talk about Hong Kong.”

      “A drink?” She froze midstep and turned. Standing on the fourth or fifth step, she was eye-level with him and the view was even better.

      Rick shrugged, his wide shoulders moving elegantly under the well-tailored navy blazer.