Can't Touch This by Marley Gibson Page A

into the ocean, I let the salty waves consume all thoughts of Kyle Nettles.  He’s off limits.  End of story.
    Tonight, my focus returns to where it should be:  Rory Ellery.

Chapter Eleven
     
     
    D ressed to kill in my JC Penney couture, I wait for Kyle in the lobby of the Eden Roc.  I scan the myriad faces at the bar for Rory, however, he’s nowhere to be seen.
    I pluck at the tiny spaghetti straps of my new dress that molds to my bust and midriff and tapers over my hips, ending just above my knee with a nice long slit in the back.  I’ll admit, I feel kind of sexy as the fabric brushes the back of my bare—freshly shaved and nicely tanned—legs.
    I’m pleased with my appearance and hope Rory will take notice.  I took William’s advice when he fussed at me that I need to “quit hiding beneath your hair.”  So, I swept it up into a messy ponytail leaving wispy tendrils curling around my face just like all of the models in the fashion magazines.
    My cubic zirconia earrings and necklace set shimmer like real diamonds against my tanned skin.  I look so much healthier now since I’ve gotten some sun, no longer the pasty-white New Englander.
    “Well, aren’t you a sight?” I hear from behind me.
    My heart rate triples as I turn hoping it’s Rory, but it’s actually Kyle standing there.  He’s wearing a thin, white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbow, accentuating his afternoon tan.  His pressed khaki pants flatter his physique and I have to blink hard to keep myself from staring too much at him.  Stop.  Regroup.  Concentrate.  Rory.  Must think about Rory.
    It’s hard to think of anyone else with Kyle standing here.  “You look great,” I say in a cool, nonchalant manner.  “Ready to knock the female attendees on their arses?”
    Kyle smiles.  “Now you know this trip is all about business, not pleasure, Vanessa.”
    I half-heartedly grin back, knowing he’s right, yet knowing I’ll push the envelope if Rory actually is around.
    Suddenly, conference attendees are herded like cattle into three awaiting air-conditioned buses to transport us down Collins Avenue to Lincoln Road.  I glance around at everyone on the bus but don’t see him.  I glimpse plenty of Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, even Versace, but no Rory Ellery.
    “Where can he be?” I mumble as I sit down and look out the window.
    Kyle takes a seat next to me.  “Who’s he ?”
    Crap!  I didn’t mean to say that out loud.  I’ve got to improve upon the inner monologue problem.  “He?  Oh, I meant you .  I was, um, saving you a seat.”
    “Oh, okay.  Thanks.”
    We ride in silence since I’m so afraid of saying the wrong thing in front of Kyle.  Which is weird because I’ve never had a problem talking to people before in my life.
    The bus drops us off one block from the Forest Lynch Gallery, made famous when Oprah bought a painting from the artist’s collection.  Lincoln Road is considered to be the cultural center of South Beach.  Once-struggling artists now find their work treasured, adored, and sold on this pedestrian mall.  Small cafés, restaurants, and most every upscale designer chain store you can imagine dot the sidewalks, which stretches from the Atlantic Ocean almost to Biscayne Bay.  I breathe in the warm night air and soak in the atmosphere of the cool breeze, the chatter from nearby diners, and the music pounding of Trance music from the CD store across the way.
    As our group walks toward the gallery, Kyle touches my elbow and says to me, “You look great tonight, Vanessa.  Today’s tanning session makes you glow.”
    This is the second time he’s accused me of glowing.  I smile though at his sincere compliment.  “Thanks, Kyle.  I had fun at the beach with you today.”
    He winks, not in a cheesy way, and says, “We’ll have to make it a regular thing on our trips.”
    Before I have a chance to let this comment really soak in, he opens the glass door for me and we enter