by Susan Crosby
“What tempts you?” Brendan asked, his tone of voice provocative.
“I’m mighty partial to peach pie.” Suddenly uncomfortable, she let her drawl thicken, although she left off the “honey” she generally added when speaking with her familiar customers.
She knew she still had to face the signing of the check, which he did with great ceremony, first scrawling his signature across the bill in handwriting as legible as the Richter reading of an earthquake, then tucking a tip into her skirt pocket as he left. Many customers had their quirks about how they paid bills. She hadn’t thought too much of it, at least, not after that first time, when she’d been so startled by his familiarity—and she’d had dishes in each hand. She would have complained except that his hand never lingered, neither did he make suggestive remarks. However...something was different tonight.
First, Diego; now, this man. She wondered if there was a full moon.
“Excuse me,” she said, escaping with a polite smile. “I’ll go tell J.D. your request.”
As she left his table she considered Brendan Hastings and how perfect he appeared. She couldn’t imagine his dark blond hair messed up—ever—as if it might constitute a crime against nature. The rest of him was just as untouchable. Cool gray eyes, strong nose, sharp cheekbones, a solid, muscular body. His clothing was European, from his tailored London suits to his handmade Italian shoes. His diamond pinky ring flashed brilliantly in the candlelight.
All in all, he was an elegant man. Just not her type.
“Stop scowlin’, honey,” Maggie said as she came up beside Diego, provoking him, keeping tension between them. “You’ll freeze your face like that.”
“Another of Mama’s homespun homilies, Magnolia?”
Maggie almost sighed. She loved the look of him in his tuxedo, which emphasized his long, lean lines and superb posture. Just the way he’d angled his head her way without turning his body made every cell in her body play leapfrog for a few seconds.
“Mr. Hastings wants to reserve a card room for tomorrow night,” she said, finally taking care of the business that had sent her Diego’s way.
He inclined his head to Brendan, who she noted was watching them without expression, then Diego turned on his heel, leaving Maggie to frown after him. She’d never seen him react to any guest as he had to Brendan. The nod Diego had given him should have been deferential. It had come across as regal. Of course, Diego had never acted like any other maître d’ she’d worked with.
She moved on to another table. “How was your meal?” she asked Misty Champion as she cleared the dishes.
The president of Misty Nights Lingerie and her current remedy for holding middle age at bay—young, blond and studly—had come in for a late dinner. Her escort was gone, probably sent to call and wait for her chauffeur, part of Misty’s own quirky bill-paying ritual. She never let her escort watch her pay the check.
“Dinner was perfect, as usual. What do you think of Joseph ?”
“Stunning.”
Misty laughed, the smoky sound carrying in the near-empty room so that Brendan turned their direction. He eyed Misty until she lifted her almost-empty wineglass and toasted him before draining it. Maggie glanced away, not watching his reaction, afraid he might decide she cared.
“Stunning and not overly bnght,” Misty said of Joseph as she dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Unlike the man who has been eyeing you like a Christmas present.” She stood, sweeping a beautifully wrapped package off the seat beside her and setting it on the table. “Happy birthday, hon. I designed this with you in mind. Promise you’ll wear it the second time you sleep with him.”
Him? Maggie hoped she was talking about Diego, but was afraid she meant Brendan. “Um, the second time?”
“The first time will be spontaneous, of course. Fiery.” Her eyes glazed a moment. “The second will be different.”
“Do you have someone in mind for me, Misty?”
“The same man you have in mind, I suspect. I hear he likes red.”
Before Maggie could respond, Diego appeared with Misty’s silver fox coat and helped her into it.
“Thank you, Mr. Duran.”
“You’re welcome, Ms. Champion.”
Maggie reacted to the surprising intimacy in their voices, implying a relationship she’d never before considered. Misty liked men at least twenty years younger than her forty-five years. At thirty-two, Diego missed the mark by seven years. Had they been lovers? She looked from one to the other, observing their subtle smiles, as if each knew a secret.
“May I escort you to the door?” Diego asked Misty.
“In a minute. I need to speak to someone first.”
“Thank you for the birthday present,” Maggie said.
“My pleasure, hon. How’s the design coming?”
“I’ll have the sample ready in a couple of days. It’s very romantic.”
“Romantic. Well, there’s a first time for everything. My buyers will be shocked.” She winked at Maggie as she glided by, then came up beside Brendan and bent to whisper something in his ear.
“Are you working with Misty?” Diego asked Maggie as they waited, glued to the scene like onlookers at an accident.
“Um, I had an idea for a new product for her line—a departure from her usual stuff. What do you suppose she’s saying to him?”
“I’d like to know,” he said. “It’s an interesting combination, don’t you think? She would eat him alive.”
“I don’t know. I think he’s used to getting what he wants.”
He cast her a cool glance. “Has he been bothering you, Magnolia?”
Why. he’s jealous, she realized, his tone of voice saying more than his words. How intriguing. How very intriguing. “These plates are getting heavy.”
J.D. watched her walk away, then he mentally shook his head as Misty strolled back, her hips swaying provocatively, and accepted his escort from the room.
“Thanks again for the other night,” she said, her husky voice full of emotion.
“My pleasure.”
“I’m not too sure about that. But you saved my life. I won’t forget it.”
“Right time, right place,” he said with a shrug. “Quit hanging around those kinds of bars, Misty. Trouble’s the only thing you’re going to find.”
“Which begs the question of why you were there, doesn’t it?” She sighed. “Sometimes I just need to be where no one knows or cares who I am.”
He heard the loneliness in her voice. He, too, lived a lonely life, although for very different reasons. His was a loneliness that meant safety for those he cared about.
“Where’d you go, lover?” Misty asked J.D. as they reached the door of the club.
He smiled at her. “Not far.”
“Are you sure I can’t repay you with a little more than thanks?”
“I make it a rule to avoid personal business with guests.”
She fingered his lapel. “You don’t break rules, I suppose.”
“Not personal ones.”
“An interesting answer.”
“If I had accepted you, you’d be backpedaling your way out of it right now. You and I both know there’s someone more than willing to end your loneliness, Misty.”
“We’ve sung this tune before.” Her blond Adonis opened the door behind her. “Good night, then. Oh, J.D.? I did remember red’s your favorite color.”
He puzzled over her words as the door closed on her rich laugh. Returning to the dining room, he observed Hastings slipping something into Maggie’s skirt pocket.
“Thank you for joining us tonight,” J.D. said as he came up beside them.
Hastings’s irritation at the interruption was hardly noticeable, only a slight twitch of his left eye.
J.D. didn’t question what intrigued the man. Magnolia possessed a lethal combination of beauty, energy and sensuality that she didn’t seem aware of, making her even more attractive. If asked, she’d probably call herself a pretty good flirt. And certainly s
he possessed a kind of wholesomeness that kept most men at flirtation distance, the place she’d established for guests and members of the Carola, no matter how famous, how powerful or how insistent they were.
She moved in and out of roles as situations warranted, a skill he admired, even though it often meant she played a role with him, as well.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” Hastings said.
“Good night, sir,” she said.
“I’ll clear the table while you change,” J.D. said after Hastings left.
She looked at him, surprised. “A lofty malître d’ would sink so low as to clear a table?”
“I thought perhaps you’d be tired. After all, you’re thirty now. Old. Your stamina must be fading.”
Maggie responded to his teasing by crossing her arms and cocking a hip. She looked around, making sure they were alone. “I can finish my work here, jog home and still have enough energy to make love, honey. I’m in my prime.”
She shivered as he ran a finger along her jaw Fog crept into her brain, masking logical thought.
“What did Hastings put in your pocket?” he asked so softly she had to lean toward him to hear the whole sentence.
“Huh?”
“Hastings. Did he give you money?”
The synapses in her brain started transmitting information again.
“Of course he gave me money,” she said as she turned and picked up the dirty dishes. “A tip. You know, this hot-and-cold business of yours is really gettin’ on my nerves.”
“How much of a tip?”
“None of your business.”
He slid a hand into her skirt pocket, shocking her. The cup rattled against the saucer in her right hand; in her left, the fork slid off the dessert plate. The feel of his hand against her hip, however briefly, brought forth all sorts of images that danced before her eyes, then faded into confusion over whether he was establishing a closer relationship with her or preventing her from having one with someone else.
“What are you doing?” She tried to jerk away. He held her in place as he drew the folded currency from her pocket and turned it to look at its value.
“Dios. A hundred dollar bill, Magnolia?”
She stared in amazement. Brendan always left her a generous tip, but this was staggering. She swallowed. “I give good service.”
He unfolded the bill, revealing a white business card with a phone number handwritten on the back. He held it close to her face for her to read, front and back.
She looked from the card to him. “At least he didn’t write, ‘There’s more where this came from.”’
“It is implied.”
“I’m not stupid, honey. I know what it means.”
“Do not call me ‘honey.’ You use your Southernness like a shield, when it is convenient. I am serious here.”
“You think you don’t fall back on your background, as well? Listen to yourself. Do not. lt is. I am. And your machismo gets pretty tiresome, too. You don’t have the right to tell me what to do. But that’s been your choice all this time, not mine, as you well know.” She angled her right hip his way. “Return my property, please.”
Holding her captive with his dark, unblinking gaze, he deliberately tucked the card and money into the breast pocket of her shirt. She held her breath as he stuffed them to the bottom, the backs of his fingers more than lightly grazing her nipple, which pebbled at the first touch of his fingers and ached as he pulled his hand away.
She fought for every ounce of control she could muster. “If you’re done manhandling me...?”
J.D. jammed his hands in his pockets. “I cannot—can ’t help the way I speak. I didn’t learn English until I was an adult.” ‘
“Don’t be idiotic. I love the way you talk.”
The words were tossed over her shoulder as she stormed off, leaving behind a breeze scented with perfume and Magnolia.
He cursed himself with each stride she took. He needed her to appear unattainable in Hastings’s eyes. To do that, J.D. had to have her attention focused on him. He was just looking out for her—
So what was that adolescent move to grab a quick feel? he asked himself. Machismo, as she called it? Wish fulfillment? Long-demed need? All three?
He didn’t change his clothes, instead leaned against the wall and waited her out She finally emerged from the women’s locker room dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt proclaiming English Majors Are Novel Lovers. She carried her carton of presents, the still-wrapped box from Misty balanced on top.
“I parked a couple of blocks behind you,” he said. “I’ll meet you at your apartment.”
“You know where I live?” She tipped her head to one side. “How come I’ve known you all this time and I hardly know anything about you?”
“Maybe it’s time to find out.”
“Maybe it is ”
They walked silently to their cars. As she drove off, he started his engine and put the car in gear, then he noticed a dark sedan pull away from the curb a hundred feet ahead. He’d teamed to trust his instincts, so he tailed the sedan that slowed to almost a complete stop when Maggie pulled into the garage below the duplex she rented.
He followed the car until it disappeared into the valet parking area of the expensive hotel where Hastings rented the penthouse.
J.D. stopped at a pay phone and punched in a familiar number. “I’m sorry to wake you, boss,” he said in greeting.
“No problem. What’s up?”
He glanced around as he heard Callahan yawn. “He wants to deal tomorrow night.”
“We’ll cover you.”
“Okay. See you.”
“Wait a second, J.D. Did you give it to her?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to bring her in on it? If she’d go out with him—”
Creative Spanish epithets peppered the air within the phone booth.
“Lighten up, pal. I was kidding.”
“Don’t kid with me about Magnolia.”
“You’ll relax after you give it to her.”
“I don’t trust it,” J.D. said.
“Hey, it’s state of the art.”
“Yeah. Experimental state of the art.”
“So, figure out a backup.”
He glanced at his watch. Too much time had passed. “Already got it covered.”
“I figured as much. Relax already.”
“When this is over. Maybe.”
Two
Maggie eyed her mantel clock when it chimed once, a delicate ping that pierced her anticipation. Twelve-thirty. He should have been at her apartment twenty minutes ago.
She leaned forward on the sofa, resting her elbows on her thighs as she stared at the crystal bowl mounded with shimmering Christmas ornaments that sat on her coffee table. She had to face facts. He wasn’t coming.
She wasn’t surprised. Not really. He’d changed his mind. Probably decided it wasn’t worth spending time with someone who goaded him into an argument whenever he got close. They were so different, she knew they’d never have a serious relationship. What they really needed was to sleep together, to satisfy their curiosity, then the source of antagonism that hovered constantly would be wiped out forever.
Not here, though. They should go to his place. Better yet, to a hotel. Some neutral location where memories wouldn’t linger and taunt.
Spoken like a woman of experience, Magnolia Jean. She pushed her hair away from her face, then let it fall again. The sum total of her experience with the opposite sex wouldn’t constitute three pages in her autobiography, if she included her fourth-grade crush on Bobby Don Morgan. But she’d imagined making love with Diego so many times, she had choreographed the experience detail by detail. At least, what she would do to him.
Before he’d come into her life. she’d dated at least, hoping to meet her lifetime partner. But in the past year, she’d hardly gone out at all, finding flaws in every man who invited her, even though the word thirty seemed lit in neon
across her forehead each time she looked in her bathroom mirror.
Thirty. Where had the time gone? She couldn’t wait much longer, didn’t have the luxury to deal with the attraction to Diego and still get started on a family before she was any older—as old as her mother had been.
The quiet tapping on her front door sent an avalanche of reaction tumbling over her. Boulders of relief, followed by pebbles of annoyance. She counted to ten, then opened the door. Desire rebuilt the mountain instantly. She resented it as much as she welcomed it.
“I figured you changed your mind.” Maggie feigned a yawn as she turned away, letting him close the door himself.
“I’m sorry. I was detained by a...by a—Did you decorate this, Magnolia?”
She turned around. Diego stood, his hands in his pockets, surveying her living room.
“Every bit of lit.” Was that a look of shock or wonder? She knew her voice held an edge of defensiveness, as if daring him to comment unfavorably. She glanced around the room with its framed counted cross-stitch samplers and groupings of baskets and candles and photographs. Pristine eyelet fabric draped small round tables on which Tiffany lamps glowed, the yellow and blue glass reflecting the dominant colors of the room, even competing with the Christmas free lights as they were.
“It’s a little crowded with all the holiday decorations,” she said as he moved around the room, inspecting without commenting. He picked up a heart-shaped pillow and it struck her how utterly feminine it—everything—was. Frilly, romantic, old-fashioned. Or maybe it was just that he was so very masculine.
“What color do you call this?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“Robin’s egg blue.” She watched him replace the pillow slightly askew, resisted the temptation to march over and straighten it.
“It matches your eyes.”
J.D. tried to align the overall impression of her home with his deep-seated image of her. He’d always thought of her as a contemporary woman, a feminist. Certainly, her sassy mouth was pure nineties. If he’d even once tried to picture the environment she lived in, he would have imagined white and chrome and glass, something modern and sleek, certainly nothing close to this... this Suzy Homemaker vision.
