Hot Pink

by Susan Johnson

  Jim Thiebaud’s construction company had build most of the suburbs south of the city, and he was always open to new investments. Rocco hadn’t realized Amy would put her own creative (read: perilous) spin on her father’s cooperation and segue their business partnership into a marriage proposal for herself.

  In fact, that’s what he’d been running from last night.

  She’d invited him to a family party, then whispered to him over dessert—“Why don’t we take this opportunity when everyone is drinking champagne anyway to announce our engagement?” He’d tried to be pleasant. He’d tried to be tactful. He’d tried to explain to her that while they’d dated occasionally, there had never been any understanding between them. She’d turned pouty and sulky and switched to drinking martinis—dangerous fuel to a demanding, self-centered daddy’s girl.

  He’d made his excuses to Jim and Marcy Thiebaud and left.

  And now he had this breakfast meeting, and Amy was sure to be there.

  God help him.

  * * *

  HE DIDN’T ANSWER the phone, although Amy started calling at nine.

  He hated arguing over the phone.

  Or maybe he was a coward.

  Either way, he had no intention of listening to her bitch at him after his sleepless night—the thought of which brought a smile to his face. Perhaps the only one he’d have today, he speculated.

  Café Latte was packed.

  But his sister, Mary Beth, had made sure to come early and save a table; she had that plan-ahead-for-every-eventuality accountant’s mind. She was currently waving a menu at him.

  “Where’s everyone?” he asked, sitting down, picking up her latte and drinking most of it.

  “Probably looking for a parking place. It’s Saturday. You have five minutes tops before they all descend on us. Why the hell was Amy calling me at midnight?”

  He grimaced, picked up her latte again and finished it off. “She wanted to announce our engagement last night at Fiorollo’s with all her family in attendance.”

  Mary Beth smiled. “That must have been a surprise.”

  “Yeah, no shit. My heart stopped for a second.”

  “And she’s calling me for help in corralling you into marriage?”

  He shrugged. “Who the hell knows? Why don’t they have waitresses? I need about six espressos, and look at that fucking line.”

  “You haven’t talked to her since last night, then.”

  “I was gone last night.”

  “A smile like that must mean you were gone somewhere interesting.”

  “Definitely interesting,” he said, not able to suppress his grin. “I met a woman in the elevator when I was running from my surprise engagement party. She has pink hair—sort of . . . a little like yours. A graphic artist.”

  Since her brother rarely—actually never—discussed his dates (which were numerous), Mary Beth was instantly alert to the nuances. But before she could ask another question, as predicted, the rest of their party appeared: their brother Anthony, Jim Thiebaud and a glowering Amy.

  In the following few minutes, greetings were exchanged, and Mary Beth and Rocco—who was quick to volunteer—got into line to pick up lattes and croissants et cetera for the table.

  When they returned, Mary Beth kindly took the seat beside Amy because she was an older sister and still protecting her baby brother. Jim and Anthony had been discussing formulas and prices for supplies; Anthony had sheets of paper piled up between them. Amy was lounging in her chair, looking sullen in a melon linen Prada jacket and pants, her heavy blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail to show off her coral and pearl earrings.

  She didn’t say a word throughout the meeting, spooning whipped cream from the top of her hazelnut latte into her pouty mouth, tearing her chocolate croissant into shreds, eating maybe two bites, swinging her melon-colored leather mule from the tip of her toe in as close an approximation to boredom as her acting abilities would allow. Until her father finally said, “Jesus, Amy, sit up and cut out that infernal fidgeting.”

  “Yes, Daddy.” She stopped swinging her mule for thirty seconds and started again.

  Jim Thiebaud went back to the numbers he and the Vinellis were crunching and didn’t notice.

  They’d already leased an old factory building; they were beginning to buy supplies and equipment, hire employees and draw up an advertising budget. If their business plan remained on schedule, they would be up and running in six months. Mary Beth was overseeing the accounts and employees, Anthony the supplies and manufacturing, and Rocco was in charge of marketing. He’d already been to New York and Los Angeles with samples and brochures, was scheduled to go to San Francisco, Chicago and Dallas soon and then Miami, Boston and Atlanta. It was getting to the point where he’d soon have to give notice at Diversified. Once he had some initial sales and had set up some of the larger accounts, he’d have to hire some sales reps.

  In the animated discussion that ensued, the level of enthusiasm was almost palpable. Anthony, a chemist, had come up with some great formulas—totally organic, wonderfully scented, and affordable. The Vinelli siblings had always gotten along well. They were looking forward to working together.

  And Jim Thiebaud was always pumped when he could get in on the ground floor of a profitable business. There were handshakes and smiles all around when the discussion ended. Minus Amy, of course, who was intent on not smiling even once.

  “I’d say we’re lookin’ good. Right on schedule,” Jim said, coming to his feet. “Same time next Saturday?”

  Since the Vinellis were still all employed in other jobs, Saturdays were their best option. And Jim didn’t mind when he talked business.

  Everyone nodded and agreed.

  “Come on, Amy.” Jim tapped his daughter’s shoulder. “Your mother’s waiting to golf.”

  “Don’t forget the Art Tour, Rocco,” Amy murmured as she came to her feet. “You said you’d take me.”

  Shit. She’d been sitting there the whole time just waiting to pounce. And the sorry fact was he had said he’d take her, in a moment of weakness two months before. “Ah . . .”

  “You promised!”

  Jesus God, she’d stamped her foot. He couldn’t fucking believe it, but there was Jim, looking expectant. “I’ll pick you up at two.”

  “It starts at noon,” she said, pettishly.

  He glanced at his watch. Almost eleven. And he hadn’t slept last night; it would be helpful to rest an hour or two. “I have an appointment with a buyer at noon.”

  “On Saturday?”

  “It was the only time I could see him,” he lied.

  “Well, I suppose if it’s for the business.”

  She said it like she was saying our business, meaning his and hers—fucking terrifying thought. “I’ll pick you up at two.” He couldn’t get out of it with Jim smiling at his daughter like she’d just invented the wheel.

  “Don’t be late.”

  And the thought popped into his mind of another woman who gave orders too, but much more tantalizing orders, and he smiled without realizing it. His voice changed, the edge was gone. “I won’t be late. Promise.”

  “She certainly is a grade-A little bitch,” Mary Beth murmured as the Thiebauds walked away.

  “As long as she’s not my grade-A little bitch, I don’t give a damn. I can be polite to her once in a while.”

  “But not go out with her anymore?”

  “I haven’t taken her out for—jeez—a year or more.”

  “What about those movies and the museum opening and the Christmas party at the Thiebauds’?”

  “And the fund-raiser at the zoo?” Anthony added.

  “Those were not dates. I made sure they weren’t dates.”

  “And she’s still dreaming of marrying you?”

  Rocco shrugged. “Go figure. She’s got too much spare time on her hands.”

  “And she’s designated you her Prince Charming.” Mary Beth threw her hands up. “It’s inevitable. Tall, dark and hand
some—pretty blonde princess . . .”

  “No way. I’d kill myself first.”

  “Don’t kill yourself until we have this business up and running and we’ve either paid Jim back or he’s made enough in profits to break even,” Anthony said, his frown in the way of warning.

  “I know, I know. But Amy’s a handful.”

  “Why did you date her in the first place?”

  Rocco rolled his eyes. “I must have been out of my mind. She was always underfoot, coming to the house on some pretext, bringing me some message from Steve or her family, hanging around, pressing me. I found her in my bed one night when I came home, and finally gave in. But, bottom line and most important—that was a long time ago.”

  Anthony grinned. “We should find her another Prince Charming.” Anthony was happily married with two children. He could afford to grin.

  “Do that with my blessings.” Rocco glanced at his watch again. “I gotta go. I didn’t sleep last night and if I have to actually listen to Amy this afternoon, I’m going to need at least an hour of shut-eye. Ciao.”

  “He told me about the woman he met last night,” Mary Beth murmured, as their brother strode away.

  Anthony’s brows rose. “No joke?”

  Mary Beth shook her head. “She has pink hair and he met her in an elevator.”

  “Sounds like Rocco. Let’s hope that’s all he did in the elevator.”

  FIVE

  CHLOE SLEPT THROUGH TEN OF TESS’S phone calls, three of Rosie’s, one of her mother’s without so much as a break in her breathing. But finally, at two in the afternoon, the ringing of the phone marginally invaded her sluggish brain and she rolled over just as the sound died away. Squinting at the clock, she forced her brain to recognize the numbers, understood it was daylight and shut her eyes again.

  But Tess wasn’t known as the Gossip Girl for nothing, and ten minutes later when the phone rang again, Chloe groaned and reached out to grab the receiver.

  “It’s about time!” her best friend Tess Carlson exclaimed. She tended not to speak in a monotone. It had something to do with her undergraduate degree in drama. “And don’t tell me Fred kept you awake all night!”

  “Damn you,” Chloe said, her voice still heavy with sleep. “You knew he was a dud. You owe me big time.”

  “Yeah, yeah, like you owe me for the time I went out with Grant so you didn’t have to. So who did keep you awake? I’ve been trying to call you since nine.”

  “I’ve been working my ass off for three weeks. Did you ever think I might be sleeping because I was tired from working?”

  “If I didn’t know you since third grade I might. You always get up at the crack of dawn—tired or not. So what was his name? Tell me everything . . . including the size of you-know-what.”

  Chloe chuckled. They’d been exchanging pertinent information on penis sizes since they’d first begun having sex. “The size was good—better than good. I met him in the elevator at Chino’s and he gave me a ride home ’cause my car wouldn’t start—which reminds me I have to get it towed to the car dealership for repairs. Anyway, my elevator pickup is hotter than hot, or was. He’s gone and I don’t think I’ll ever see him again.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he said thanks this morning and just thanks and left, that’s why.”

  “The bastard!”

  “Well, it was a very, very fine night, so he’s not a complete bastard. He can do it all night and every which way and I’ve never felt so good. So I’m feeling a degree of indulgence I wouldn’t ordinarily feel if it had been a wham, bam, thank-you-ma’am fuck.”

  “Was he good-looking?”

  “A movie star, rock star, polo star all rolled into one.”

  “Wow.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Oh . . . that’s the cool part. I think he’s some relative of yours. His name is Rocco Vinelli.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “I’m not surprised. He said he had a couple hundred relatives in Gilbert. And when was the last time you went to Gilbert?”

  “When my grandma died in ‘ninety.’”

  “There you go. That was a long time ago.”

  “So are you heartbroken?”

  “About the sex . . . yeah. But let’s face it, the chances of meeting the man of your dreams in the elevator at Chino’s are pretty slim.”

  “You’re sounding very mature today. Does that mean I don’t have to bring over chocolate truffles and a double cheeseburger?”

  “Ummm . . . that does sound good. I can’t remember when I ate last.”

  “I’m not touching that line; I’m being mature.”

  Chloe laughed. “Come on over and I’ll tell you about it—him . . . it. My God, the man was hung.”

  “Should I bring a cheeseburger?”

  “Bring two, and hash browns if it’s not too late.”

  “Hello . . . it’s two o’clock. And we have that Art Tour to go on. If you dress while I’m on my way over, we can still see some of it before they close at six.”

  “I forgot . . . sorry.” Chloe shook herself awake. “Okay, I’ll be ready.”

  * * *

  CHLOE LET OUT a little shriek when she walked out of the shower and into her bedroom.

  Tess was lounging on her bed, the bag from Mac’s in her lap.

  “Jesus, Tess, didn’t you see Psycho? Shout when you come in next time. Give me some warning.”

  “Sorry. So I’m impatient. It’s not often we run across a man of what sounds like very grand proportions. Tell me everything.”

  Chloe grinned. “Food first.” Grabbing a towel, she rubbed her hair semidry as flopped down on her bed. Between bites of cheeseburger, she told Tess all she could in good conscience disclose. Tess had a habit of being outspoken, and since Rocco was a relative of sorts, she didn’t want him to be embarrassed at the next family reunion with one of Tess’s unedited blow-by-blow accounts.

  “So you’re not going to see him again?”

  “I suppose it’s possible I might run into him; there’s only a million and a half people in the Twin Cities.”

  Tess grimaced. “Cute. You could call him.”

  Chloe shook her head. “He had a funny look on his face this morning.” She shook her head again. “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re not ordinarily so composed.” Chloe was impulsive as hell, as Tess well knew, having followed her through a succession of outrageous escapades over the years, starting with the time they threw water balloons from the middle school windows and accidently hit the principal.

  Chloe wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know . . . maybe he’s too good to believe—like maybe I dreamed everything last night. Or maybe I don’t want to be his four thousandth lay who’s still pining for him.”

  “Are you talking pride? Like he can come to you?”

  Chloe shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t really know. Look, I’m still too tired to actually think straight. Give me a few days and I’ll set this whole night into some kind of reasonable perspective.”

  Tess glanced at the clock and shifted in her chair. “We should go soon, although I don’t want to get to Dave’s until the tour’s almost over—just in case.”

  “You can talk him into spending the night with you.” Chloe smiled. “I know what this is all about.” And she did, because she’d been listening to Tess’s pretty much unending longing for Dave Lepinski for weeks now. But then, Tess was more subtle than she when it came to men. While Chloe preferred the direct approach, Tess subscribed to some polite code of female behavior that resisted options like calling up a guy when you wanted to or making the first move. Not that Tess was a prude. She just couldn’t say “I want you” first.

  Tess held up crossed fingers and grinned. “Maybe I’ll get lucky. So hurry and get dressed. We don’t have to wait for Rosie. She can’t come. She had to go to her mother’s birthday party.”

  “She called yesterday,” Chloe replied, bund
ling up her wrappers and climbing from the bed. “I forgot until now, but, yeah . . . I heard. How is darling Markie Mark?”

  “She cried her eyes out last night. He didn’t show—again.”

  “What a prick. I thought they were going to the Guthrie?”

  “I went with her.”

  “She shouldn’t even talk to him again. He’s such a horse’s ass.”

  Tess rolled her eyes. “She’s in luvvv . . .”

  “With a horse’s ass,” Chloe said, heatedly. “Does he have one redeeming feature? Even one?” She turned back from her armoire. “He hit on me the other night. I wasn’t going to mention it, but—” She shrugged. “I said to him, why the hell would I want to go out with you? You already have a girlfriend—actually, I believe you’re engaged! It didn’t fucking faze him a bit. Maybe some other time, the jerk said!” Chloe pulled out a lavender T-shirt.

  “Don’t wear that. It shows your nipples.”

  “Everything shows my nipples. I don’t wear a bra.”

  “Wear something dark, then.”

  “Are you the fashion police today? Since when did you care. I’ve never worn a bra.”

  “Since we’re going to Dave’s studio, and I want him to look at my nipples.”

  Chloe laughed. “And well he might in that very tight T-shirt. How about I wear black?”

  “Black’s good.”

  In deference to her best friend, who had had a crush on Dave Lepinski for over two months and he’d barely noticed her, Chloe wore a black linen man’s shirt that hardly showed her body, a pair of khaki slacks and sandals. “Do I pass?” she asked with a grin, holding her arms out and twirling around.

  “Perfect. Thanks, Chloe. I want him so bad.” Tess made a moue that emphasized her really lush, full lips—lips Chloe had envied since she’d first understood what boys noticed in women . . . besides big tits.

  “And you’re asking me if I’ll ever see Rocco? Hey, babe, take some of your own advice and call him up. You know Dave’s shy as hell. Why else does he paint those Escher-like paintings that take a year to finish? He’s the world’s biggest introvert.” He was also the type of man she wouldn’t give a second look at, but there was no accounting for Tess’s myopic taste.