A Cowboy in Manhattan(51)
“So, how do you like New York City?” she asked instead.
“I like it fine so far.” He took a drink of his own champagne.
“It’s a lot different from Colorado.”
“It’s cleaner.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Noisier.”
“True.”
“Quite tasty.” He took another drink.
“Don’t forget shiny.”
His glance went pointedly to her shimmering red dress, the glossy beads and the glimmering jewelry. “You people like to be noticed.”
She frowned. “Was that an insult?”
“Are you trying to tell me you don’t expect to be noticed in that dress?”
Only by him. But she couldn’t very well own up to that. “It’s ordinary for New York City,” she lied.
The car rolled to a halt in front of the brightly lit restaurant, and a doorman paced smartly across the sidewalk toward them.
“I’m not sure there’s anything ordinary about New York City,” Reed mused.
“An ordinary dress, in an ordinary city, for an ordinary evening,” she lied again.
The doorman opened the door of the limo.
Reed exited first and immediately turned to hold out his hand for her.
Katrina took the hand, turning in the seat, feet together, knees tight, rising gracefully, just as she’d been taught by the Liberty PR staff.
A flashbulb went off, and then another, and she glanced up to see a small crowd of people had gathered on the sidewalk. It was highly unlikely they realized who she was. The huge limo telegraphed a false sense of celebrity.
“Just an ordinary night?” Reed muttered in her ear as his arm slipped protectively around her waist.
“Smile and keep walking,” she mumbled back. “It’s the car, not us.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” Though she’d been on a billboard or two in the past month, she wasn’t particularly recognizable, certainly not by the general public who might happen to be on the sidewalk outside a midtown restaurant. It was the fancy car, that was all.
Luckily, they were only steps from the glass entry doors. A second doorman swiftly ushered them inside to a compact, octagonal, high-ceilinged foyer where a maître d’ was positioned next to a set of oversize, oak interior doors.
“Reservation for Terrell,” Reed informed the maître d’.
“Of course, sir.” The man responded with professional deference, barely glancing at the small computer screen in front of him. “Would you care to dine inside or on the balcony tonight?”
Reed looked to Katrina. “Were you serious about the balcony?”
“Yes, please.” She nodded. She loved a warm evening, watching the bustle of the street below, feeling the breeze, hearing the sounds of the city.
“You’re not worried about reporters with long lenses?”
“Cute,” she drawled, giving him an eye-roll.
“I can put you behind a privacy screen,” the maître d’ put in without missing a beat.
“Not necessary—”
“Katrina?” The voice from behind her was recognizable as Elizabeth Jeril’s, the Artistic Director of Liberty Ballet Company.
Katrina turned to greet her boss, and was swept quickly into a light, expensively perfumed hug combined with two air kisses.
A former ballerina, Elizabeth was slightly taller than Katrina, dark haired with dark eyes and close to forty-five. Though she didn’t dance professionally anymore, she was still trim and athletic.
“We didn’t get a chance to talk after rehearsal today,” Elizabeth noted, pulling back. “But you looked fantastic. Did Dr. Smith check your ankle?”
“He did. It’s fine,” Katrina assured her. It had been sore immediately after the dancing, but the pain was nearly gone now.
Elizabeth’s gaze shifted to Reed, curiosity clear in her expression.
“Elizabeth Jeril,” Katrina obliged. “This is Reed Terrell. Reed is from Colorado.”
“A souvenir?” Elizabeth teased, grinning as she held out her long-fingered, red-tipped hand.
“It was either me or the tacky T-shirt,” Reed played along, taking Elizabeth’s hand gently in his larger one.
“I like him,” Elizabeth told Katrina, eyeing Reed up and down.
There wasn’t much about Reed a woman wouldn’t like, Katrina silently acknowledged. “Elizabeth is Liberty’s Artistic Director,” she finished the introduction.