She’d said this last bit loudly enough that everybody else in the store heard it. Two teenage girls perked up, their incensed mothers tried to hustle them away, and a young father, with two kids in tow, wistfully eyed the condoms Joe held up. Whether he was fondly remembering sex, or wished now that he’d used condoms when he had engaged in the act, Meg had no idea. Her response, however, was knee-jerk.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, ma’am. I’ve never met that man before in my life. Here—” she pushed the sweater she held into the startled older woman’s hands “—this will look great on you with your coloring and your…pink muumuu.”
With that, Meg hustled away from the woman, wanting to get out of the store as soon as possible.
But Joe had no intention of being left behind, apparently. He called even more attention to her by shouting, “Meg! What’s wrong? Where’re you going?”
She didn’t stop, didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge that she knew him. But there was plenty she wanted to say. Ribbed or lubricated. As if. Just make a stupid decision. How hard can it be? I mean, really. Who—other than that great-grandma lady who should know better—cares what kind?
Finally away from the scene of her humiliation, Meg rushed headlong for the elevator bank, praying one would be there, waiting to whisk her upward from this sub-lobby level of Hell and back to the real world. She rounded a final corner into a minuscule foyer, skirted a huge terra-cotta pot planted with a real palm tree—and ran smack into a big, muscled guy dressed all in black, his hair slicked back, who was just then exiting an elevator car. Also stepping out of the car behind him were two more guys just like him. All three men looked as startled as Meg was, but the one in the lead had grabbed her arms and was holding her tightly.
“Hey, whoa there. Where’s the fire?”
Blind with fear, Meg stared up at him. How could she have allowed her embarrassment to drive her into the arms of the enemy? For that was exactly what she’d done—run away from Joe and right into the Mafia. Like some really stupid heroine in a poorly written book or movie. Meg did the only thing she could.
“I have pepper spray in my purse,” she blurted.
Which was, at that very moment, unhelpfully stashed in the room—but no sense telling this guy with the Bronx accent that. It’s not like she’d really use it, anyway.
The man who held her in place held up a hand, as if silently warning the two attack dogs behind him not to, well, attack. “I’m glad to hear you do. A lady needs protection. But I don’t think there’s going to be any call for that here.”
“Let her go.” This came from somewhere behind Meg. It was Joe and he sounded awfully serious.
Only, the Mafia guy didn’t obey. Instead, the very big, strong man, still maintaining his grip on her, raised his head until he stared, no doubt, right into Joe’s eyes. “Who’re you?”
“Who wants to know?”
The mountain of a man sized Joe up. “Rocco is all you need to know. Now answer my question. I asked you who you are.”
Meg was silently praying. Don’t be stupid, Joe. Don’t be some macho hero. Just tell the nice, no-doubt armed man who you are.
“Joe Rossi, if it’s any of your business.”
“I’m making it my business. Now, here’s another question for you, Mr. Joe Rossi. Who are you to this lady?”
Before Joe could reply, Meg found her voice…a low, croaky one, but still a voice. “He’s my…husband.”
The man settled his gaze on her. “Is that so? The guy in the pink shirt is your husband?”
“Yes. And it’s salmon…not pink. His shirt, I mean.”
“Yeah, okay. So, what’d he do?”
She swallowed hard. “With what?”
“I don’t know with what. To upset you. What’d he do?”
“Look, why don’t you just leave her alone?” This was Joe and he sounded closer. “Your quarrel isn’t with her. I’m the one who has The Stogie, and I’ll show you right to the car right now, whatever you want. Just let her go.”
The Mafia man frowned at Joe “That’s all very interesting, Joe. Thanks.” He looked down at Meg. “Does he always say crazy things nobody knows what he’s talking about?”
Her shrug was necessarily a very subtle movement, clamped as she was in the guy’s viselike grip. “A lot more than you’d think.”
“I can believe that. So, again, what’d he do?”
“Well, he was in the little shop back there and trying to pick out some—” Why was she telling him this? “Nothing, really. He just embarrassed me. I don’t think he meant to.”
Meg was beginning to doubt this guy was Mafia. He talked more like some concerned citizen stepping in to make sure she wasn’t being abused by her boyfriend or husband. How nice. And noble. She ventured a smile for him.
He returned it, showing her perfectly white and even teeth set in what was—she now noticed—a ruggedly handsome face. “You sure you’re okay?”
“She’s fine,” Joe said testily.
“I’m not asking you,” Rocco said, jutting his jaw out pugnaciously. Behind him, his two clones made threatening noises and shifted their weight impatiently. “I’m asking the lady.”
The lady started talking. “I’m okay. Really. In fact, we’re getting ready to go to a wedding. And then we’re going out to eat. And then I think we’ll take a moonlight walk on the beach.” She was babbling, she knew it, but she couldn’t stop herself. “We built a sand castle today, only the tide ruined it and I got a lot of sand in my hair and had to wash it twice, like it says on the bottle. I’ve never had to do that before.”
Initially, the man was silent as he stared down at her. No doubt he wondered if she was insane or simple-minded. Looking uncertain, he released her and stepped back. “Your…hair looks real nice, Meg. I like it. In fact, I like you. And I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
Relieved, Meg pressed a hand over her heart. “Neither would I, but thank you, you’re very kind.”
Joe stepped up, took hold of her elbow and tugged her as he stepped back to allow the three men to pass.
“Joe,” she whispered as they moved away, tugging on his shirt to get his attention.
Tearing his challenging glare away from the departing men, he finally looked at Meg.
“I didn’t tell that man my name.”
Disbelief replaced his consternation. “What? Well, should I get him back so you can also give him your room number?”
“Shh. Lower your voice.” Meg could have pinched him hard. “I don’t want him to have my room number, goose. I’m saying the man said my name just now. He called me Meg.”
Joe stared blankly at her, then realization dawned. “He did? You’re sure you didn’t tell him what it was?”
“Why in God’s name would I do that? You told him yours, but I never said what mine was. Do you know what this means?”
“Yes,” Joe said emphatically, but instantly changed his answer to “No, I don’t. Maybe he heard me calling out to you from the shop. That has to be it. And, why did you run out of the store? What’d that elderly lady in the muumuu say to you?”
Meg’s temples suddenly throbbed. “That is so not the point right now, Joe. But…she told me to tell you to buy both boxes, if you can believe that.”
“She did? Well, sorry. When you ran out, I threw them down and…didn’t buy any.”
“You know what? I don’t think it matters anymore. However—” she said pointedly “—that big, bad guy couldn’t have heard you call out my name because he was still on the elevator when you did.”
“Hmm.” Joe looked from her to the men quietly disappearing down the long carpeted hallway and then back to her. “Are you sure, Meg? Really sure?”
“Oh, for—” She reached up and cupped his cheeks in her palms, forcing him to look into her eyes. “I’m sure I did not give that man my name. But more importantly, what are we going to do about it?”
“Hey, Rossi.”
Meg froze, her eyes widened…a mirror image of Joe’s expression. He pulled her hands away from his face. As one, they turned to the leader of the black-clad pack.
“Yeah?” Joe called out. Credit the man for sounding unconcerned and nonchalant.
“Tell Mr. Seeger he’s only making things harder on himself, running like he is.”
“Who says I know where he is to tell him anything?”
Rocco’s grin had nothing to do with humor. “You know. Tell him I’ve got a message he needs to hear. It’s about an old friend of his.”
Putting an arm around Meg, Joe called back, “I don’t take messages. Tell him yourself.”
Meg jerked her head so fast in Joe’s direction that her neck actually hurt. She whispered fiercely, “What are you doing? Have you lost your mind? Quit baiting him.”
Joe spoke out the side of his mouth. “I’m not. Look at him. He doesn’t know what to say now because I called his bluff. This is funny.”
Meg’s knees locked with the shock of it all. “No, it isn’t. There are three of them, Joe. Any one of them is bigger than both of us together. And they have guns.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Yes, they do. They’re the Mafia. What do you think they have? Whistles and gumballs?”
“Come on, Meg, they’re not Mafia. Yeah, there for a few minutes, I thought they might be. But when they didn’t take The Stogie when I offered it, or take the two of us hostage—”
“You mean right here in front of all these people coming and going from the shops? Just snatch us right out of this hallway in plain sight of everyone? I’d think—I’d hope—they’d be more polished than that, Joe.”
“Good God, you have this whole thing romanticized, don’t you? Come on, Meg, if these guys were the real deal, I’m betting we’d already be dead.”
“Well, don’t sound so happy about it.”
“I’m not. I’m just saying they could have used us to flush Uncle Maury out of hiding. Yet they’re not even interested—I don’t even think it occurred to them. And they’re letting me push them around, pretty much. So, isn’t it obvious? If nothing else, how do you think Mr. Slick Hair knew your name? Answer: my great and nutty uncle told him. See? This is a game.”
“Joe, you have got to get over thinking that. For one thing, it’s gone on too long. I mean, what would be the possible point of keeping us together another day? What’s Maury trying to do?”
Joe stared at her as if she’d just pushed the wrong button at a missile silo. “Oh, man, that’s it, Meg. You got it. Uncle Maury wants us together. That’s why he set up this blind date and everything that’s followed. This has nothing to do with money, senility, or the Mafia. It has to do with us. Me and you.”
Frowning her confusion, Meg glanced the way of the Mafioso, who seemed content to let her and Joe have this whispering conversation while they waited. “Well, it does kind of make sense.”
“Exactly. Look, my uncle likes you a lot. And I’m probably his favorite relative. But he doesn’t like Linda. He thinks she’s too perfect, and he doesn’t mean it in a nice way, either. Anyway, he’s orchestrating events so we’re together every second—until we fall for each other.”
“Oh, Joe, that’s just a bit over the—”
“No, it isn’t. Watch this.” Before she could stop him, Joe called out to the patiently waiting mobsters, “You guys are good, I’ll give you that. You’ve had us really going now for about twenty-four hours, so take a message. Tell my great-uncle we’re on to him. Tell him we’re not running anymore. We’re staying right here. Tell him I said ‘Game over.’”
To Meg’s surprise, the three men in black traded subtle but uncertain glances with each other. Then, Rocco said, “Yeah, we’ll do that when we catch up to him. In fact, I want to say the same thing to him myself—nice try, only no cigar…if you get my drift. You two kids enjoy your evening. We’ll be around.”
With that, the three men turned and continued on their way toward the door to the parking garage.
ABOUT THIRTY MINUTES LATER, as sunset approached, Joe stood with Meg among a loose cluster of several curious onlookers, on the rooftop balcony that opened off the reception-ready banquet room. Man, he reflected, there was nothing like an encounter with mobsters, fake or otherwise, to cool your jets. He and Meg had yet to get past first base with each other. By tacit agreement, after downing a quick, stiff drink from the poolside bar, they’d proceeded directly to the very public wedding.
Right now, the sweet smell of Meg’s perfume filled his senses with renewed longing as he leaned, along with her, over the chest-high, thick stucco wall to peer down at the wedding in progress. He had to admit he’d had his doubts earlier about how a wedding held outside at a hotel, on the beach, with strangers in shorts and bathing suits gawking at the bride, could be romantic. But he was won over. The alfresco setting, complete with improvised altar area, red-carpeted aisle between two long rows of padded folding chairs, and plenty of flowers everywhere, was breathtaking. Especially when the background was a gorgeous expanse of beach that led down to the sun-sparkled waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
It was a perfect evening, although Joe would have felt better if he’d been able to reach Uncle Maury by phone. He told Meg he wasn’t that concerned, figuring the old guy was purposely incommunicado, now that his friends had told him, no doubt, of their accidental encounter. Joe supposed he and Meg could go home now, but she hadn’t mentioned doing so. And he wasn’t about to. If she wanted to be here with him on this idyllic evening, then, by God, he wanted her to be, too.
“Oh, Joe—look,” Meg whispered excitedly, pointing over the balcony’s wall. “The bridesmaids are coming.”
Joe peered over the side. And there they were. Three pretty women, doing that curious half-step walk unique to female participants in a wedding, strolled down the aisle to the accompaniment of canned but nonetheless inspiring music. They wore wide-brimmed hats and their gowns were mint-green and lacy. They had to hate those dresses. Joe knew this from everything he’d ever heard from his sister, her friends and various of his girlfriends about how they always hated bridesmaids’ dresses because they were expensive, couldn’t be worn to anything else ever again and always reminded the wearer that she wasn’t the bride.
“You know what I just thought of?” Meg said, turning to him, her voice lowered respectfully. “My best friend Wendy’s younger sister’s wedding is tonight, too, in Dallas. I can’t believe it. Here we are, whole states apart, but both at weddings that aren’t ours.” She sighed.
“Yeah, I know how you feel,” Joe said, sounding disappointed. “It’s not my wedding, either. I just hate that.”
“Oh, I bet you do, you poor thing.” She moved in closer to him.
Joe put an arm around her, resting his hand possessively on her shoulder. She smiled up into his face.
“I just love weddings.”
“Yeah…me, too,” he whispered next to her ear, delicately kissing her hair.
She pulled back to run her gaze over his face. “Do you really? Are you just saying that? Guys hate weddings. They act like wild stallions that have just been roped and tied—”
“Preparatory to being gelded. Yeah, that’s our official stance, the one in the manual.” She elbowed him in the ribs, causing him to wince. “But I was going to add that if this wedding makes you want to cuddle with me, then I’m all for it.” Affectionately squeezing her shoulder, he grinned at her.
Her face colored prettily as she ducked her head and turned her attention back to the procession below. The music swelled…. “Here comes the bride!” Meg blurted. “Oh, isn’t she beautiful? Look at that dress. And her flowers. Oh…and her hair—I love her hair—”
“Shh, Meg,” Joe whispered. “People are staring at you.”
Meg stiffened with horror and, pulling away from him, started edging away from the wall. “Oh my God, I do not believe this.”
When she tried to tug him back with her, Joe, amused, resisted. “Hey
, it’s okay. I don’t think they heard you down there. It’s like ten floors below.”
“Not that,” she whispered, pointing in the direction of the wedding scene below. “Look down there, but do it carefully. The third row on the left, about halfway in. Tell me if my eyes are deceiving me.”
“What’s going on, Meg? Am I going to see those goons from before? Because I told you I don’t think they’re—”
“Oh, I wish it was them.” She shoved him toward the balcony’s solid wall. “Go ahead. Look.”
“Okay, okay. Quit pushing.” Joe peered over the wall, quickly locating the spot. So what was the big deal? Wedding guests. A whole row of them. He’d expected maybe to see his great-uncle right in the thick of things. But…no. Confused now, Joe turned to Meg—and she wasn’t there. He looked around, muttering, “What the hell?”
Finally he spotted her, standing back from the wall, almost to the striped awning that shaded the far half of the balcony. Standing rigidly, her very pretty features now a mask of rank disapproval, she signaled desperately for Joe to hurry to her. “What—or who—exactly am I looking for, Meg? Because I don’t recognize—”
“Carl,” she hissed. “It’s Carl, Joe. Here. At the wedding. With a date.”
Joe didn’t bother pointing out to her that since he had no idea what Carl looked like—and still didn’t, except maybe for the top of his head—he couldn’t have verified for her what her eyes were showing her. But smartly taking the high road here, he said, “The man is slime.”
“I told you he is. He never mentioned anything to me about having a wedding to go to, and we only broke up a week ago.”
“Maybe the bride or the groom is her friend and he just met this woman—”
“Are you really going to take his side, Joe? Really?”
“I’m not taking sides. I—”
“He has his arm around that woman. Did you see that part? Didn’t I tell you he was a jerk? Do you see what I mean?” Her voice was rising, not in volume but in octaves. “I haven’t even turned down his marriage proposal yet.”
“Shh, it’s okay, Meg. You don’t even like him, remember?”
Blind Date Page 11
