Passion by Marilyn Pappano

them.
    But just this once, she thought with a self-satisfied grin,
she
had been the bad one.
    And it had been very, very good.
    She adjusted the thermostat as she passed it, then went into the bathroom. It was empty, confirming her suspicion that John
     had been long gone. She wondered when he had left, it he had lain with her most of the night or if he had simply waited for
     her to fall asleep before he made his exit. She would have liked to say good-bye, she thought wistfully. She would have liked
     one more kiss, one more appreciative look from those hazy blue eyes of his.
    She would have liked to thank him.
    Quickly she brushed her teeth, then dressed in one of her two remaining outfits, a sundress that was light and cool. It was
     long enough that she needn’t worry about hose, bright enough that for a quick trip downstairs she didn’t have to bother with
     makeup to put color in her face. She would findSimon, she planned as she slipped into a pair of sandals, and apologize profusely for missing their breakfast date. She would
     see him off to the airport, then come back up, shower, and head off to explore the city again.
    She intended to play the I-can’t-believe-I’m-actually-here tourist role to the hilt. She was going to ride the St. Charles
     streetcar, gawk at the beautiful houses in the Garden District, take a buggy ride around the French Quarter, eat beignets
     at the Café du Monde, and walk until she could walk no more. After sitting by the river to regain her strength, she would
     venture out again, would eat too much and listen to the musicians in Jackson Square, watch the street performers and shop
     for souvenirs.
    Then tonight, like Cinderella, her magical time would end. At nine o’clock she would board a plane bound for Virginia, and
     tomorrow morning she would be plain Teryl Weaver again. She would go to work every day, meet friends for lunch, and spend
     most evenings home alone. She would occasionally wonder why there were no men in her life, and when one did eventually come
     along, she would wonder why she had wanted him in the first place.
    But, she thought with a melodramatic sigh, she would always have New Orleans.
    And one wicked night with John.
    Sliding her room key into her pocket, she left, taking the elevator to the lobby. It was a cavernous place, the marble floor
     softened by Oriental rugs, the high ceiling decorated with ornately carved moldings and medallions, and the walls painted
     with thirty-foot-tall murals depicting scenes from the city’s history. Lush plantings created small islands of privacy for
     the sofas and chairs scattered about, and the babble of water from a central fountain served to mute the sounds of guests
     coming and going.
    She was passing the massive marble registration desk when she heard her name. Turning, she found the man she was looking for
     standing beside one of the free-form beds that provided the lobby with its rich, earthy scent. With the fronds of a fern providing
     the perfect backdrop for his bright-patterned shirt and faded khaki trousers, he looked more athome, she thought, than he had anyplace else since arriving in the city. He looked more at ease. More handsome.
    Less threatening.
    She approached him, her apology bubbling over before she reached him. “Simon, I’m so sorry about this morning. I forgot to
     set the alarm last night, so I overslept. I’m really very sorry. You should’ve called and awakened me instead of waiting.”
    “It’s all right. We barely missed you.”
    His expression, as close as it had come to friendly since they’d met, didn’t waver with his last words, which somehow served
     to make his barb a little sharper. Holding her head a little higher, she smiled coolly. “I’m glad I didn’t inconvenience you,
     but I do apologize. So… what did you think of your first foray into the world as Simon Tremont?”
    “It’s been an experience.”
    “A pleasant one?”
    “For the most part, yes.”
    “You