by Robin Kaye
Romeo, Romeo
Robin Kaye
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2008 by Robin Kaye
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Cover photo © Jupiter Images
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kaye, Robin.
Romeo, Romeo / Robin Kaye.
p. cm.
1. Italian Americans—Fiction. 2. Brooklyn (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3611.A917R66 2008
813'.6—dc
Printed and bound in the United States of America
OPM
For my grandparents, Anna Maria
and Antonio Orlando
Chapter One
Rosalie Ronaldi made a successful escape from the insane asylum. Okay, so it wasn't a real insane asylum; it was her parents's Bay Ridge home. But most days, it could pass for the Sicilian version of Bellevue. She pulled on her coat as the storm door snicked closed behind her, took a deep breath of cold early January air, and ran for the solace of her car.
Sitting through a typical Italian Sunday dinner at Chez, Ronaldi was always a lesson in self-control. Today it had become a lesson in avoidance—marriage avoidance.
For the life of her, Rosalie couldn't figure out why her mother would push a daughter she supposedly loved down the aisle. It wasn't as if the institution had brought Maria Ronaldi any happiness. Just the opposite.
Whenever Rosalie made decisions, she measured the odds and studied the statistical evidence—something at which she'd always excelled. With the divorce rate at 53 percent, if you added the number of unhappy marriages that wouldn't end in divorce because of religious beliefs or sheer stubbornness, which she estimated was running at about 46 percent, only 1 percent of all marriages could be considered happy. A person would have to be crazy to take a calculated risk with a 99 percent failure rate.
Rosalie was many things, but crazy wasn't one of them. As a child, she'd made the decision never to marry, and nothing in her experience since had done anything but cement her resolve. Of course, if she said that, she'd be breaking the eleventh commandment: thou shalt marry a nice Catholic boy (preferably Italian) and have babies—or go straight to hell.
Rosalie climbed into her VW Beetle and headed toward her Park Slope apartment. Turning onto the Prospect Expressway, she heard a funny thumping noise. Never a good sign. She pulled over to find her tire was as flat as matzo, and after a marathon Italian dinner, the waistband of her pants was so tight that if she took a deep breath, she'd pop a button. God only knew what would happen when she bent down to change the tire.
Rosalie opened the trunk, expecting to see her spare tire. It was supposed to be right there, but all she saw was a big hole.
Great! Just what she needed. She stared into the trunk, turned to kick the flat tire, and called her brother the nicest name she could think of that fit him. Asshole.
“Stronzo!” She should have known better than to give him a hundred and sixty bucks to replace her spare tire. She'd told him to buy a full-sized spare, and he hadn't even gotten her one of those donuts. “He's proprio un stronzo della prima categoria.”
She had no problem calling Rich the world's biggest asshole in Italian. After all, God excused cursing if done in a second language. He gave bonus points for cursing in a third. Rosalie had a feeling she'd be brushing up on her Spanish.
* * *
Dominick Romeo stood in the state-of-the-art garage of his flagship dealership, the largest car dealership in all of New York. He'd built it from nothing but brains and hard work. He owned a chain of dealerships that covered most of the East Coast, but he'd be damned if he could figure out what was wrong with his Viper.
Nick checked the clock next to his private hydraulic lift and decided to call it a night. He was the only one unlucky enough to be there at five o'clock on a Sunday evening. Anyone with the sense God gave a flea was at home digesting a traditional Italian supper, but not him. His car had chosen today to act up. He slammed the hood and cringed as the noise echoed through his aching head. Wiping grime from his hands, Nick contemplated one of the world's great mysteries: why man had ever combined computers and the internal combustion engine.
The weekend had started badly and gone downhill from there. On Friday, the offer he'd made to acquire the one car dealership he'd coveted since he was a boy had been rejected. Then on Saturday night, instead of being considerate about his loss, his girlfriend Tonya started making noises about marriage, leaving him no choice but to break things off. That led to tears on her part, more than half a bottle of Jack on his, and a screaming hangover Sunday morning.
The very morning he was awakened at six o'clock by his mother's phone call reminding him it was his turn to take Nana to church. Experiencing Mass with Nana while hungover made him wonder whether Jesus really died for our sins—or because dying was less painful than listening to Nana sing. That morning, Nick had been tempted to give the cross a try himself. His broken-down Viper was the icing on the cake. He'd heard trouble came in threes. He must have gotten a double dose, because he was up to five at last count, which meant he had one more to look forward to.
Nick put a socket wrench away and switched off the lights. At least he knew he'd find a cold beer and a warm bed at home. But unless he wanted to drive a wrecker, he'd have to search the key box and move the cars blocking the entrance of the dealership to take a demo.
Nothing brought out the neighbors faster than parking a wrecker in front of his Park Slope brownstone. The dirty looks didn't bother him—at least not enough to spend half an hour searching for keys and moving cars. Hell, he'd lived in the same house since his birth thirty-one years earlier, back when Park Slope had almost as bad a rep as Bedford Stuy. If he wanted to park a garbage truck in front of his house, it was no one's business but his.
Nick wore his coveralls so he wouldn't get his clothes dirty sitting on the greasy bench seat of the wrecker and took off for home. He was almost there when he came acr
oss a disabled vehicle on the shoulder. A woman was kicking the shit out of a flat tire, paying no attention to the cars and trucks careening by at high speeds.
He flipped on the emergency lights and pulled off in front of the lunatic's car. At least, he hoped it was her car. If it wasn't, the owner was going to be pissed, since the woman had missed the tire and kicked the back fender. He backed up, figuring he might as well get through the remaining bad thing sooner rather than later.
The deranged woman looked like a good candidate for bad thing number six.
Nick hopped out of the wrecker and walked toward the crazy lady. Over the sound of the traffic, he swore he could hear her cursing in Italian and maybe Spanish.
“Hey lady, if you're done beating on that side of the car, you might want to start on the other side. You're liable to end up as road pizza if you stay where you are.” He waited for a response, but she only looked at him as if he were an alien being. He tried again, slowly this time. Maybe she was crazy. “Lady, if you'd pop the trunk, I'll change the tire. Then you can go home and deal with the cause of your anger in person.”
“What are you, stunad? Don't you think if he were anywhere in the tristate area, I'd have hunted him down like the dog he is and beaten him within an inch of his life?”
Nick raised an eyebrow, content to watch the meltdown from a safe distance.
“And if he'd bought the spare with the money I gave him, I would have already changed my own tire. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson when I was five and realized Richie had been robbing me blind, trading my dimes for nickels. He said nickels were worth more because they were bigger, and I believed him. I should have killed my brother years ago. Instead, I'm standing here in twenty-degree weather talking to you.”
At that moment, it must have occurred to her that she was yelling at a Good Samaritan. She took a deep breath, tucked her hands in her pockets, and gentled her tone. “Not that I don't appreciate you stopping.”
“Sure.” Nick had a hard time hiding his grin. He'd always had a weakness for feisty women. He wouldn't want to piss her off, but damn, she was cute. A real lunatic, but cute as hell. “Look, lady, why don't you get out of the cold and wait in the wrecker? Just don't touch anything. I'll put your car on the flatbed and take you home. You can pick it up tomorrow at Romeo's.”
She backed up. “You want me to get in the truck with you?”
Dominick narrowed his Sicilian blue eyes, wondering if he'd get credit for number six if he left her standing on the expressway. It wasn't as if he hadn't tried to help.
“You want me to tow your car to the garage or not?”
“Of course I do, but I'm not in the habit of taking rides from strange men.”
He removed the cables he needed to hook up the car. “Good luck finding a cab at this hour. If you need to, you're welcome to use my cell phone. It's on the seat in the truck. I'll be another ten minutes if you change your mind.” Nick heard her say someone should die in a pool of blood, but with the noise of the traffic rushing by, it was hard to tell who she was talking about. He hoped it wasn't him.
Rosalie wondered if the points she'd racked up cursing in Spanish were enough to convince God to send help, since, when she'd called, she hadn't found one garage open in all of Brooklyn when she'd called. It was nice to know her three years of high school Spanish hadn't been a complete waste, but then again, when something seemed too good to be true, it most often was. Wreckers didn't drive around looking for broken-down cars, did they?
If God had sent this guy, she must have scored major points. Okay, she knew she was staring, but how could she not? He looked like a large, dark Jude Law. The Italian in him only added to his good looks, not to mention the way he filled out those mechanic's coveralls. It should be illegal to be that dirty and still look so hot.
Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't have thought twice about having a mechanic drive her home, but something about him didn't add up. He wore coveralls with his name embroidered on them, and his hands were grimy, but his haircut was something you'd see on the pages of GQ, not Mechanics Weekly. He was wearing dress shoes that looked handmade, not oil-covered work boots. Then there was his accent—or lack of one. He had the Brooklyn speech pattern, said the right words, but the accent was missing. He sounded like a guy from Connecticut trying to sound like he was from Brooklyn. That made him either a rich man with amnesia working as a mechanic—or a mass murderer. The likelihood of either was slim, though a mass murderer was a better bet.
Rosalie dug though her pocketbook looking for the cell phone she'd thrown in after her last attempt to find an open garage. She dialed her boyfriend Joey, her parents, her best friend Gina, and even her cousin Frankie. No one was home, and it was beginning to snow. She called a cab. The best they could do was a forty-five minute wait. She'd sooner take her chances with a possible Ted Bundy than stand on the side of the road for the next hour. Besides, her favorite suede boots were fading fast, and she loved those boots. Damn.
She looked up to find Nick, if that was even his real name, walking toward her. “Did you reach anyone?” Rosalie shook her head.
“If you don't want me to take you home, at least let me drop you off at a restaurant or bar where you can wait for a cab.”
“Why don't you have an accent?” Okay, so he thought she was crazy. At least, he was looking at her that way.
“A heavy Brooklyn accent isn't good for business, so I changed mine. Now, are you coming or not?”
His reason was plausible. Even she tried to drop the accent when working. It was strange for a mechanic, but if he were a mass murderer, he could have already thrown her into the truck. What the hell, she'd take a chance and save her boots. “Home, James.”
“The name's Nick,” he said, pointing to the name embroidered on his chest.
“So, is Nick short for Dominick Romeo? It would make my day to be rescued by the most eligible bachelor in New York… well, now that Donald Trump's married again.”
Her joke fell flat. Nick's scowl made her wonder if she'd do better on the expressway, but he was already helping her into the truck.
Nick closed the door and rounded the front. He jumped in and picked up the conversation, not bothering to hide his distaste.
“So, are you looking to get lucky and land a rich man?”
“Who? Dominick Romeo?” Right, like that was going to happen. She strapped herself in, trying to ignore the grease-covered seat belt and the cleft in Nick's chin. Both made her squirm in her seat, for very different reasons. “Bite your tongue. The last thing I need is a husband, rich or otherwise. I have a hard enough time cleaning up after my dog. But if you ever tell another living soul I said that, I'll have to kill you.”
He laughed, and his scowl disappeared. “Your secret's safe with me. So, they're comparing Romeo to Trump now?”
“Yeah. I've heard he's Brooklyn's version of The Donald, minus the comb-over. He might not be as wealthy, but I hear he's younger and much better looking.”
Nick smiled, and she felt as if she'd been hit with a tire iron. He should register his smile as a lethal weapon and be careful where he aimed it. That smile would make any normal woman throw her arms up and scream, “Take me.”
It was a good thing Rosalie wasn't normal. Hell, she wasn't even single. She was in a relationship—one of convenience, but still, it was enough. Correction, it had been enough to keep her parents off her back about marrying, until today. Today her mother had informed her that it was the two-year anniversary of her first date with Joey—a date that obviously had made more of an impression on her mother than it had on Rosalie.
Joey seemed content to let things go on the way they were. She fed him several times a week; they had occasional, albeit boring, missionary-position sex; and they both had a significant other to take to family functions. It also helped that his mother no longer questioned his sexuality. For a while there, he'd said, Mrs. Manetti would ask if he'd like to bring a boyfriend or girlfriend to dinner. She'd sai
d that a boyfriend wouldn't upset her, although she'd looked relieved the first time Rosalie joined them for a meal. Somehow, Rosalie doubted Nick had ever had his sexuality questioned.
Nick took another look at the woman next to him. Crazy Lady was giving him the “alien arrival” stare again. Too bad the only single woman he'd ever met who wasn't looking to marry a rich man was a nut job. Though, to be fair, it could be temporary insanity. He had to admit, he'd go a little crazy if someone left him without a spare.
After getting a good look at her, Nick decided sanity was way overrated. Miss Loco was every guy's wet dream. She reminded him of the Sophia Loren pinup his Great Uncle Giovanni had hanging in the back room of his barbershop. Nick liked his women curvy and built. None of those bony women who looked more like a boy than a girl for him. Tonya was always trying to lose weight, and it drove him nuts. Her ass was so small, there was almost nothing to hold. Psycho had an ass like you read about. Damn, he should ask her out for her ass alone. Plus, a guy had to admire a woman who could curse in several languages. And she was beautiful, even without makeup. He'd never seen Tonya without makeup, not even after sweaty sex, but he'd bet she wouldn't look so good. La Donna Pazza wasn't drop-dead gorgeous like Tonya, but he'd lay odds she didn't get Botox injections and collagen implants—and didn't have breasts you were afraid to squeeze for fear they'd pop. Hers looked like one hundred percent natural 36Ds.
He had a real problem with her car, though. The sunflower yellow VW Beatle couldn't have been girlier if she'd painted it pink. It had a freaking bud vase built into the dashboard. If he did decide to date her, he'd have to get her a new car. He couldn't date a woman who drove a car he'd be embarrassed to be seen in.
“Are you going to give me your address, or do you want me to drop you off at a bar or something? Since I need your name and address for the work order, you might as well let me take you home.”
