“Oh?” Theresa echoed incredulously. “You invited him and you didn’t tell me?”
“I thought you were going to be here with Reese,” Janna said lightly, tearing open a bag of celery with her teeth. “I didn’t think it mattered. Besides, it wasn’t my idea, it was Ty’s. Something to do with team unity.” With the care of an artist, she arranged the celery on the platter. “So what are you going to do? Hide in here all night?”
“Maybe.”
“Too late,” Janna murmured beneath her breath as Michael Dante appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Hey, Janna, Theresa.”
He gave Janna a small peck on the cheek. Theresa tensed, waiting to see if he’d try to do the same with her. She was glad when he didn’t—although seeing him brought back her dream and with it, an embarrassing, unexpected rush of heat to her body. She turned away, pretending to study Janna’s spice rack.
“Everything smells great,” said Michael.
“Thank you,” Janna replied.
“Need help with anything?”
Theresa rolled her eyes, glad he couldn’t see her face. Need help with anything? she mimicked in her head. What was he, a freaking Boy Scout? He was always so nice and helpful.
“No, everything’s set,” Janna said.
Theresa turned back around just in time to see her friend lift the fully adorned veggie platter from the counter and hustle it through the kitchen door, leaving her alone with the last person on earth she wanted to be left alone with.
“So,” Michael began casually, taking a step towards her. “What are you doing in here?”
Hiding from you, she almost said, but decided against it. He hadn’t really done anything. Why be mean? Instead she answered, “Talking to Janna.” She eyed him carefully. “You know, I almost didn’t recognize you without your pinky ring and toothpick.”
Michael chuckled affectionately. “Starting early tonight, huh?”
“We’re not starting anything,” Theresa snorted.
“Oh, no?” Michael raised an eyebrow. “Then why am I here?”
“What are you talking about?”
Michael winked. “Let’s just say I know.”
“You know what?”
“I know,” Michael repeated, more portentously this time.
“Well, I don’t,” Theresa said, taking a small step back as he moved towards her.
“C’mon, Theresa,” Michael admonished as he drew nearer. “I know you had something to do with my being invited tonight.”
“What?” Theresa said, astonished. “Are you out of your mind? I had nothing to do with it.”
Michael frowned. “Yeah, right.”
“Believe what you want,” Theresa said, shaking her head. “Ty invited you because he wants you to bond with your teammates or something, maleducato.”
“God, I love when you call me names in Italian,” Michael murmured, putting his hand over his heart as he feigned a swoon.
“I can call you worse,” Theresa smiled, warming up.
His eyes flashed wickedly. “You sure you want to do that? Someone might walk in and think you’re an Italian girl from Brooklyn. Can’t have that.”
Theresa gasped. “You are such a jerk.”
“And you are enjoying every minute of flirting with me like this, but you’ll never admit it.” Michael sighed, cocking his head to one side as he studied her. “Tell you what. Let’s call a truce. You stop calling me names and I’ll stop teasing you. Deal?”
“Deal,” Theresa muttered, hating her own transparency.
“So now what?” Michael asked.
“I guess we should join the party and try to have some fun.”
“You sure you remember how to do that?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Theresa replied in a mock purr. Shit! I did it again! God, what IS it with him? She adjusted her glasses. One hour, she told herself as she gestured toward the door, then breezed past him out of the kitchen. She’d stay one hour, then she’d leave.
With Michael following, she went to the buffet table, put together a plate of food, mostly salad, a small piece of lasagna, then headed for one of two large, overstuffed chairs perpendicular to the couch where Petra and Denise sat, careful not to spill anything as she sat down.
Just as she knew he would, Michael settled in the other chair after briefly talking to Ty, Kevin Gill, and some very young, adolescent-looking blond man.
As politely as she could, Theresa introduced Michael to Janna’s sister and her partner. Aware of Michael’s ability to charm any audience, she wasn’t surprised when he soon had them engaged in a lively conversation about the law, since both women were lawyers. What did take her aback was his bold willingness to say “I don’t know what you’re talking about” when he didn’t understand something. Most men she knew, starting with her own father and brother, would play along rather than admit a gap in knowledge. Studying his strong profile in the candlelight, Theresa couldn’t help but be impressed by the confidence it took to be so honest. God knows if it were her, she’d be nodding her head off, pretending she understood what was being discussed even if she was clueless.
She watched with curiosity as the blond boy, whom Ty had been holding court with most of the evening, sauntered over to Michael. “Still here, huh, Dante? This must be way past your bedtime.”
Michael ignored him.
The blond’s eyes flicked lasciviously to Theresa. “Who ya got here, your granddaughter?”
Michael didn’t even bother to look at him. “Right,” he replied, bored.
Van Dorn looked down at Theresa, seemingly unaware of the silence that followed his initial statement. “Into old guys, huh?”
“Watch how you talk to her,” Michael warned.
Theresa could feel her ire rising. “Who are you?” she asked van Dorn coldly.
Petra and Denise both sniggered but van Dorn carried on, oblivious. “I’m Paul van Dorn. I’m the one who’s going to force this old guy”—he glanced at Michael—“into early retirement. Ain’t that right, Mikey?”
“Right,” Michael repeated, yawning.
“Were you raised by wolves?” Theresa asked. Clearly Michael was used to this young jackass needling him, but that didn’t mean the rest of them had to listen to it—or like it.
Van Dorn laughed and nervously glanced around at the others, rolling his eyes as if to say “Is this chick nuts or what?” When no one responded in kind, his face turned pink.
“What?” he asked.
“What the hell makes you think you can march up to someone at a party and insult them?” Petra demanded.
“Didn’t your mommy and daddy teach you any manners?” Denise asked, almost simultaneously.
Mortified, van Dorn slunk away. Theresa, struck by the thought that they might well have totally emasculated Michael, turned to him apologetically. “I’m sorry. But that kid was way outta line.”
“Not a problem,” Michael replied, looking at her in wry amusement. “Maybe I should hire you as my body-guard.”
“I mean, where does he get off?”
“It’s okay, Theresa,” Michael assured her, putting a warm hand on her shoulder. Heat shot through her as she noticed the size of his hands. Big, strong, square. Solid.
“Sorry,” she repeated.
“Don’t be sorry,” Petra said. “That little twerp had it coming.”
“What do you think, can I sue for harassment?” Michael joked.
All three women laughed.
One hour turned to two, two to three, and three to four. Before she knew it, people were saying their good-byes as the party wound down. She’d spent the entire evening in Michael Dante’s company and had had a good time. How was that possible?
“Would you like a ride home?”
Michael’s question was a simple one, but Theresa stalled. On the one hand, it would save her cab fare. But on the other, she’d be alone with him again, which could be dangerous, especially since he seemed to have an uncanny gift f
or getting under her skin and making her behave like she was still a wisecracking, flirty Bensonhurst girl. Still, she didn’t want to appear ungracious.
“That would be great,” she told him.
All night long, he’d been checking his watch. Theresa couldn’t decide if it was a personal tick, or if he was bored as hell. But when he did it again as soon as they got in the car, she couldn’t hold her tongue.
“I’m sorry you were bored,” she said as he drove down Fifty-seventh to First Avenue.
Michael glanced at her, confused. “What?”
“You kept checking your watch like you couldn’t wait to get out of there. Are you meeting someone after you drop me off?” Not that I care.
“No.”
“Then what?”
Stopped at a red light, Michael’s hands restlessly tapped out a beat on the steering wheel. “You’ll make fun of me.”
“I will not!”
“Yeah, right.” Michael sighed. “The reason I kept checking my watch—”
“Every five minutes—”
“Get outta here—”
“Ten, then.”
“—is because I wanted to make sure I got home in time to get some sleep. I have to take my grandmother to Mass tomorrow morning.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Really.” Michael’s voice was full of distrust.
“Honest.” The car lurched slightly as the light turned green and they continued driving. “Where does she go? Saint Finbar’s?”
“Yeah.”
“God.” Memories flooded Theresa’s mind. “Is that nasty Father Clementine still there?”
“Oh, yeah.” Michael cracked his window slightly. “You know Clementine?”
“Who doesn’t? When I won the third grade spelling bee, he didn’t want to give me my prize because the sister told him I talked too much in class.”
“So what happened?”
“My mother went up there, threatened him within an inch of his life, and he handed over the prize.”
Michael laughed appreciatively. “I can see your mother doing that.”
“Mmm.” Theresa hated that he knew her mother. It was too close, too intimate. Time to steer the conversation away from Brooklyn.
“So what’ll happen Monday in the locker room between you and van Dorn? Will you hang him out to dry?”
“He’s not worth the effort.” Michael turned left, steering the Mercedes smoothly onto First Avenue. “Annoying little bastard, though, isn’t he?”
“That’s one word for it. Is he seriously gunning for your spot in the lineup?”
“Yup.”
“Does he have a chance?” Theresa asked, feeling, to her surprise, genuine concern.
“Nope.”
“Well, that’s good.” She settled back in her seat, relaxing. She’d had a nice evening. Good food, good conversation, low key, no pressure, no complaints.
Apart from Reese bailing on her on such short notice.
And Michael calling her bluff in the kitchen.
She stole a glance at him; he seemed to be in his own world, his eyes fastened on the road, right thumb still tapping on the wheel. Is he nervous being with me? she wondered.
Without warning, he turned and looked at her.
“What?” she asked, warily.
“Nothing.”
Since he was still looking at her, instead of the road, she said, “Nice car.”
“Let me guess: You were expecting a Camaro. Or maybe a ribboned donkey cart full of mozzarella and oregano plants.”
“I’m not that bad,” Theresa protested. “And keep your eyes on the road.”
“Yeah, you are,” said Michael. “But you can’t help it.”
“Gee, thanks,” Theresa retorted. A bit sulky now, she peered out the window. She’d always liked New York late at night. The place still pulsed with energy, but it was more subdued, concentrated, like the ocean in between bouts of breaking waves.
“Almost there,” she announced to him. “I’m on Fifty-ninth.”
“Got it.” The car slowly rolled up to another red light and halted. After a moment or two of silence, Michael again turned to look at her. His eyes were so full of desire that Theresa contemplated jumping out of the car while it was still at a standstill—not because she wasn’t feeling the same way, but because she was.
Obviously she’d had too much vino.
“I had a really nice time tonight,” Michael said quietly.
Theresa looked out the passenger window. “Me, too.”
Silence thick as snowfall blanketed the car. Finally reaching her building, Michael eased the car to a halt at the curb. It sat there, idling, while Theresa tensely waited for him to bid her good night. But he didn’t.
“I need to ask you a question,” Michael said.
“Go ahead.”
His gaze was full of tenderness. “Would you mind if I kissed you?”
Theresa’s breath caught. This was so out of left field, so unexpected, that for a moment she couldn’t speak. He had asked, not assumed. She thought about it. What harm was there in one small, friendly kiss? She would be doing him a favor; maybe even get him off her back once and for all.
She lifted her eyes to his. “Okay,” she whispered.
Slowly, almost gingerly as if he was afraid of hurting her in some way, Michael leaned over and gently cupping a hand behind her neck, lowered his mouth to hers. Theresa felt a small, internal shudder of resistance—It’s not Lubov, it’s not Lubov, it’s not Lubov—then gradually surrendered. The kiss was sweet and lingering, the firm press of his mouth against hers tasting of wine and long pent up desire. She could tell he wanted more, but he didn’t push. And she . . . well, she was dizzy with this, her first taste of a man in so, so long. She clung to the moment and reveled in it, was even disappointed when it ended, though she continued to tell herself she’d done him a favor, nothing more, nothing less.
Seemingly contented, Michael settled back in the driver’s seat. “So, when do you want to go out for coffee?”
Theresa blinked in confusion. “Excuse me?”
“Coffee. C’mon, Theresa. You just let me kiss you, you let me drive you home . . . are you telling me you’re still not going to let me buy you coffee?”
“This was coffee, Michael. This whole evening—clearly—was in lieu of coffee. Get it?”
“Ah ha!” Michael exclaimed. “So you did ask Ty and Janna to invite me!”
“What color is the sky in your world, Dante? Because clearly, you are living on a completely different planet. On my planet, tonight counted as our coffee date!”
“Oh, no. No way.” He was shaking his head obstinately. “The rule book states you can’t substitute a party for a one-on-one situation.”
“Well, obviously you don’t have the most up-to-date version. My edition says substitutions are fine.”
She could see the hard set of his jaw in the dim yellow lamplight flooding the car.
“You’re not playing fair, Theresa.”
“I’m not playing at all, Michael. The sooner you get that through your head, the better.” The nerve! I let him kiss me and he still has the cogliones to assume he’s going to get a coffee date as well? Relentless little—
“It’s getting late,” Michael snapped, stepping on the gas to make the engine roar.
“Fine,” Theresa snapped back. She couldn’t wait to get out of the car and be free of this—baccala. What the hell had she been thinking?!
Mother of God, she was the baccala.
Meanwhile, Michael was staring straight ahead, unwilling to look at her. “So I guess the next time we see each other will be to go over stuff for Dante’s?” he said through clenched teeth.
“I guess.” Theresa opened the car door and stepped out onto the curb. “Have fun at church tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah, right.”
She went to close the door, but at the last second Michael leaned over, holding it open. “I’m not giving up on you, There
sa,” he declared.
Ignoring him, she pushed his arm away, slamming the car door shut.
She meant to tell him to drive safely, but it was too late: He had already peeled away from the curb.
CHAPTER 08
It was so hot in St. Finbar’s, and the drone of the priest was so boring, Michael feared he’d pass out and smash his forehead on the pew in front of him.
He’d conveyed Nonna Maria to church by seven-thirty, as directed, but she wasn’t the only one there early to stake her claim. Michael counted at least twenty nearly identical old women filing into the church at the same time, all legging it as fast as they could up the center aisle to grab “their” spots. He wondered what would happen if one of them found someone else sitting in their personal seat. Would they all band together and force the interloper to move? The image of a band of rosary bead-wielding grannies menacing a poor, unsuspecting worshipper amused him.
Hell, he needed something to laugh about, didn’t he?
Arriving home the night before, the first thing he’d done was throw Gemma’s moonstone out the window. Next, he tossed the candles in the trash. Even now, the temptation to scowl at the figure on the cross and mutter “Thanks for nothing” was strong. He resisted, fearing outright sacrilege.
What the hell had happened?
One minute Theresa was letting him kiss her, the next she was telling him their relationship was strictly business. It didn’t make sense. She didn’t make sense. He’d locked lips with a few women in his time, and he could tell when someone was into it. Theresa was definitely into it. Aware of her past, he’d deliberately held back, not wanting to push her. He didn’t want to do or say anything to make her feel pressured or trapped. He sensed she appreciated it, though—
Ouch, Madonn’. “Jesus, Nonna!” A sharp poke in the ribs knocked him out of his daydream. Everyone else in the church was on their knees.
“Sorry,” he whispered to his grandmother, whose disapproval he couldn’t bear.
He knelt down beside her, knowing his knees would regret it later. He was relieved when Nonna closed her eyes and seemed to lose herself in prayer.
Maybe he had pushed.
Maybe asking her out for coffee right after the kiss was too much for her to handle. He knew pushiness was a problem of his. Something would stick in his mind and like a dog with a bone, he couldn’t let it go. Dogged determination was the reason he’d made it into the NHL. The reason he was still on the third line and that effing—Sorry, Jesus—moron van Dorn remained out of the lineup. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure he knew how to back off.
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