by Jo Leigh
That was the problem. He was too hot. And she had a banquet to coordinate and a foundation to run. There was a dinner at NYU she had to attend tonight, then tomorrow night she was going to have a preliminary crack at William West, her primary target for this year’s new major donor at yet another fundraiser. The first night she’d even have free was Friday, and by then, if she lived that long, she’d have to pay through the nose to have her hairdresser come to her place so she could work while she was coifed.
It was impossible, that’s all. Jake was a one-hit wonder. It was a damn shame, but there it was.
“WOULD YOU LIKE SOMETHING to drink? Coffee? I have some tea, I think, but I’d have to check. But coffee is already made and it’s so nice of you to come over.” Sally Quayle wrung her hands together. “I get so frightened, what with the news and the stories. Someone was robbed only three blocks away, did you hear? Albert Jester, he was robbed in broad daylight. Drug addicts. They’re everywhere. They have no shame, no boundaries.”
Jake hadn’t had nearly enough sleep to be paying a house call, but he smiled as he gently herded his neighbor toward her kitchen. “Coffee would be nice, thanks. Then we can talk about security. How would that be?”
Sally pressed her hand to her chest as she nodded. “I’ll fix you right up. It’s freshly brewed, not even fifteen minutes ago.”
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” he said, and he drew out a chair at the table and sat down. Everything still hurt this afternoon and he should have gone back to bed, but he’d never be able to sleep now that he’d sent the DVD to Rebecca. She would call. Why wouldn’t she? Even if it was to tell him there wasn’t a chance in hell, she wasn’t the kind of woman to ignore him. Not after the night they’d had. Besides, she’d thank him for the flowers and the movie. At the very least.
He reached for his cell, twisting his bad shoulder in the process with a move that normally didn’t hurt. He needed to make an appointment with Taye, who would read him the riot act while taking great joy in torturing Jake’s poor muscles. He had to call soon, too, because lifting that new shower into place? Bending to fix the plaster and the pipes? Not gonna happen until he could move without wanting to punch a hole through a wall.
No calls. Which he already knew. He’d have heard the ring.
“Here you go, Jake.” Sally put a big purple mug in front of him, then brought over a little plastic tray that had sugar and milk and a spoon. She took a seat, cradling her own mug in two slightly trembling hands. “My sister’s brother-in-law says a Walther PPK pistol is the only way to go. It’s what the secret agents use, and spies should know.”
Jake put a couple of spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee, then added his milk, thinking about the best approach. She was scared right down to her toes, grieving a death that had happened thousands of miles away, that had to feel completely unreal, and there was no way he was going to let her get her hands on any kind of gun.
“Here’s the thing about guns, Sally,” he said. “Most people who own guns think they’re safe…they figure they can handle anything that comes at them. So they don’t bother with the extra dead bolt or the window blocks. And then, if someone does break in, because they’ve skipped over the houses that have obvious security, the gun owner is so scared, so terrified, either they end up shooting themselves or the perpetrator manages to take the gun from them.”
“Oh, but—”
“Sally,” he said, lowering his voice, making it as gentle as he could. “The very best way I know of, and remember, I’ve been a police officer for a long, long time, is to make sure no one ever gets into your house. Ever. We can do that, you and me. I have a friend who’s an expert at putting together home security systems that are affordable, but most of all, they’re reliable. What do you say we tackle this problem with the best information available, so that you can go to sleep knowing you’re safe. Nothing is one hundred percent in this world, but this security system? It’s got backups to the backups.”
She stared at him for a long while, swallowing enough that he knew she was fighting off tears. Her husband had been a nice man. He shouldn’t have died so young, left her on her own. At least she had family. And friends. Living on Howard Street, nobody was too alone, unless they made sure of it themselves, because this was a real neighborhood. As if it had been transported from another era, a time when checking up on one another was like getting groceries. Just something you did.
He took out his wallet, wincing as he moved his damn shoulder again, and brought out a card that had been sitting in there since he’d gotten out of the hospital. He pushed it across the table. “In case you feel the need to talk to someone. This guy? He’s a grief counselor and he’s supposed to be one of the best. He works with cops, and I’ve heard he also counsels spies.”
Sally’s smile told him she wasn’t fooled by any of this. But maybe she’d make the call he hadn’t been able to. “So what are window blocks?” she asked.
Jake took one last look at his phone, then put it aside as he started explaining the basics.
SHE WAS CRAZY. REBECCA WAS crazy and insane and she should have her head examined. She was also incredibly late, and Jake was going to be here in fifteen minutes, and she hadn’t even showered yet.
Rebecca tossed her purse on her bed, kicked her shoes off then dashed to the bathroom, where she started the shower. In record time she’d stripped, put her hair up because there was no time and washed herself from the face down. She’d just shaved this morning, thank God. Shower off, she grabbed her towel and wrapped it around her body as she sat down at the vanity. She’d never done an elaborate job on her makeup except for special occasions and it took her a minute to decide whether tonight’s encore presentation counted.
Nope. He’d clearly liked what he’d seen Tuesday night, so she went with the regular. As she smoothed on her blush, she went over what she had to do before he arrived. The plan had been to make dinner together. Homemade pasta with wild mushroom ragout, salad, dessert, the whole nine yards.
That plan had been ditched at four this afternoon, when the orchestra that was set to play for the donor banquet, which was only five days away, had canceled. The reasons were irrelevant, but her schedule, which had included setting out everything so that the actual cooking could be done quickly, had been replaced by her purchase of a very excellent pappardelle with wild mushroom sauce from Felidia in Midtown, and dessert was now a tiramisu agli agrumi. She and Jake would make the salad together. That could be cozy, right?
At the thought of his name, Rebecca shivered. A little frisson that raced from her brain straight down until it made her squeeze her legs together. It had been like that since he’d sent the flowers. No, that wasn’t true. It had been like that since she’d sat down at the Kimberly Upstairs bar.
He was terribly distracting at the worst possible time. Every minute her mind wasn’t engaged on a specific task, it was on Jake. His hands, the way he’d kissed her, his ass—oh God, that butt was to die for. Unless it was his laugh that stole her attention, or the way his speech quickened when he was talking about the things he loved, like secrets of New York, like films.
She had to get dressed. Now. She finished off her makeup with a couple of swipes of mascara, then a matte lipstick that would stay put. She bent over and shook out her oh-so-straight hair, then flipped it back and done.
Standing in front of the closet wasn’t so simple. There were too many choices. Sexy with an eye toward a slower striptease? Something so low-cut the edge of her red lace bra would peek out? Skinny jeans and a loose sweater with mile-high heels?
She went with the loose-fitting but very low-cut pale gray sweater over black skinny jeans with black heels she wouldn’t dare wear if she had to walk any real distance.
She had to suck it up to get the jeans zipped, but the package came together well. None of the mirror views were horrible, not even from the rear, and what was she forgetting?
Food, check. Wine. Wine! She rushed to the kitchen and got the bottle o
f cabernet from the rack. She uncorked it, wishing she’d thought of this before she’d showered, but she’d already planned on giving him some icy-cold vodka for the prep stage. Only one small glass, because neither of them needed to have a hangover, but she knew the vodka would be a hit.
She twirled around her kitchen, the big butcher-block island empty for the moment. Jake was probably minutes away, so she went fast.
First, though, music. A wonderful collection of movie soundtracks, themes from Laura, Picnic, The Postman Always Rings Twice and more. Then, the kitchen. The wooden salad bowl came out first, then the cutting board and knife. He said he was bringing everything for the salad, including the dressing. Then she got out plates, bowls, dessert plates, including two trays so they could eat and watch the movie at the same time. Wineglasses came down, and she willed the cabernet to breathe faster because the clock was ticking.
The call from the lobby stopped her halfway between the island and the fridge, where she’d meant to get out the wedge of parmigiana cheese, kicking up her heartbeat. He was here, and she was more nervous than she’d been for the blind date, more nervous than she’d been for her very first date.
She picked up the phone and told the front desk that yes, Mr. Donnelly was expected. She hung up and debated sneaking a quick shot of vodka to calm the hell down. How ridiculous. She already knew the night was going to be great. She’d do her best not to stay up too late because she had to work tomorrow even though it was a Saturday. He already knew what she looked like naked, and he probably couldn’t have cared less about her decor or the food or anything but the chemistry they’d already established.
It was one more night. A bonus. That’s all. Just for fun.
The bell rang, and she grabbed on to the back of the couch to steady herself before she walked over to the door.
6
JAKE WIPED HIS FREE HAND down his jeans as he waited for Rebecca to open the door. Jesus, the building was incredible. He’d known it would be from the Madison Avenue address, but he’d had no real idea until he’d walked inside. It was a universe away from his old man’s house. This was a high-rise with all the bells and whistles, and he couldn’t imagine ever having enough money to live there. Only two condos per floor, for God’s sake. A concierge. Museum-quality art in the lobby.
He hadn’t thought about it much, her being a Winslow. She’d never known anything but luxury and extravagance. He’d met people in her tax bracket before, but they were mostly drug dealers, and there were typically a lot more automatic weapons involved. So his only frame of reference for this kind of life was the movies.
She didn’t seem like someone ultrarich. Especially when she was naked and spread for him, pulling him down as she pushed herself into his thrusts.
Maybe he’d try not to greet her with a hard-on, that would be nice. Polite.
She opened the door and one look at her lost him that battle. Christ, she was even more stunning than he remembered, and he had a great memory.
“Hey,” she said, but she was grinning when she said it.
“Hey.”
“Come on in.”
He took a deep breath and went for it. God damn, but she was something in those heels, in that sweater. It wouldn’t bother him at all if they skipped the dinner and went right to dessert.
“You can put that on the island,” she said, nodding at the big grocery bag he’d brought. He was in charge of the salad, and he’d spared no expense. That thought made him chuckle as he put the bag down in a kitchen that would have looked at home on the cover of a magazine. With his hands free, he turned back to Rebecca and drew her close. “You’re even more beautiful than I remember.”
“It’s only been three days.”
“Extraordinarily more beautiful.” He captured her lips in the act of smiling, knew without looking that her cheeks were flushed. She tasted clean and mint fresh, her tongue eager as they kissed as if they’d been apart for weeks.
Her hand moved to the back of his neck, her fingertips sneaking up his scalp, messing his hair and not helping the erection issue at all.
Sadly, she had on far too many clothes, and why were they making dinner when he could have brought a pizza with him? He didn’t care about food, not when she was here and there was a bedroom so near.
She was the one to step back, although she paused before she did so. Her eyes were still closed as they breathed each other’s breaths. It was all he could do not to close the distance, to take her mouth again and more, but this was her party. As she let go of him, a biting sharp pain shot through his shoulder.
Rebecca cleared her throat, looked over at the island and quickly back at him. “I can hang up your coat.”
He obliged and while she went off to a closet in the foyer, he glanced around. The whole place was like something from Architectural Digest. Windows everywhere topped with white, scarlet-edged drapes that didn’t block the view at all. He couldn’t help stepping closer to the window past the dining room table. Spectacular. The Morgan Library was half a block away on 36th Street. When he turned his head to the right, there was the Empire State Building, its tower all lit up.
He then took in the living room. White furniture, white walls with that same brilliant red echoed in the pillows. The area rug was red and white geometric shapes that somehow made everything look cozier instead of just weird. On the wall over the couch was a giant painting, some abstract thing that was mostly deep blue. Not a drop of scarlet in it at all.
It was the kind of classy elegance he could appreciate from a distance. Up close, he had to admit it was intimidating. She was several galaxies outside of his orbit.
His gaze caught on a pair of sneakers half-hidden under a chair by the front door and he breathed easier.
“Vodka?” she asked, and he could tell she was a little nervous, too.
“Depends,” he said, turning to face her. Again, it was like a body blow. A jolt made of desire and heat. “Is it the good stuff?”
“I’ll let you decide,” she said, opening the freezer door. She pulled out a bottle he recognized. Interestingly, it wasn’t the very top of the line. Close, sure, but he had the feeling she was more concerned with liking the drink than impressing him. He hoped so.
She also took out two icy shot glasses, then a small bowl of lime wedges from the fridge. With a steady hand, she rimmed the glasses with the fruit, then poured them each a shot. He picked his up when she lifted hers, and they grinned at each other, which had become an actual thing. Between them. It wasn’t something he did with many people, at least not since he’d been a kid.
He clicked her glass. “To second nights.”
She nodded. “And calla lilies.”
They drank and it went down smooth and cold, leaving him breathless and wanting to taste her again. “Put me to work,” he said instead. The war between anticipation and action had moved from his head to his chest. She’d asked him to dinner. It wasn’t the same thing as asking him to bed. “I’m good with a knife as long as there’s enough room. Not so hot with measuring these days, but I can mix stuff.”
“Confession time,” she said. “We were going to make pasta. From scratch.”
“You do that?”
“When I have time. Which I didn’t tonight. So you’re going to make me salad while I heat up the rest of dinner. If anyone gets to be the helper, it’ll be me.”
“It sounds like you’ve had a hell of a day. I’m decent with a microwave and takeout, unless there’s something special about what you brought?”
She smiled at him as she shook her head. “Not a thing.” Then she went to the fridge and brought out three different take-out containers. One was filled with pasta, one had a dark mushroom sauce and one she didn’t open.
He located everything he’d need, particularly the wine, which he poured. He handed her a glass. “Sit down, relax, watch me tear lettuce to shreds. I like the music, by the way.”
She inhaled deeply, let it out slowly, but rather than moving to the c
hair at the end of the island, she leaned in and kissed him. “Thank you. Work has been brutal.”
When Rebecca turned, he could see a hint of red at the edge of the low-cut neckline. Like the edges of the curtains, the pillows on the couch. He was going to enjoy peeling away her layers.
He brought out his salad kit. Not that it was anything so studied or interesting. Four kinds of lettuce because according to his old friend Sal’s mother only savages ate a salad with only romaine. Green onions were next, red peppers, cherry tomatoes, green olives, black olives and finally fresh basil from Sal’s mother’s kitchen window. Then came the grapeseed oil and balsamic vinegar he’d mixed up ahead of time, and finally, a lemon. He washed his hands, dried them on an incredibly soft kitchen towel, then went to work tearing lettuce as he stared at the gorgeous woman with the bared shoulder.
The sight was enough to make him thankful he hadn’t picked up a knife yet. Her sweater had fallen to reveal one red bra strap across pale, perfect skin. Her legs in those tight black jeans were spread, one of her hands resting on the edge of her chair between her thighs. She raised a glass of dark wine to her lips and drank. When he was able to wrest his gaze from her lips, he found her staring at him, her pupils dark behind the fringe of bangs and eyelashes.
“How’s the wine?” he asked, amazed his voice didn’t break and that he’d said actual words.
“Good,” she said. “Not as good as watching you manhandle that lettuce.”
“The lettuce had it coming.” He tore the last of the radicchio and picked up the escarole. “It must be demanding, running such a large foundation.”
“It can be,” she said, nodding as if the mere mention had reminded her again how exhausted she was. “Especially this week. I have no business doing this tonight.”
“Why not? A girl’s gotta eat.”
She half smiled. “If that’s all we’re going to do tonight, then I think we need to have a talk.”
