by Robin Kaye
“Huh?”
Nick was tempted to snap his fingers in front of her face. Instead, he picked up the clipboard and filled out the form.
“I need your name.”
“Rosalie. Rosalie Ronaldi.”
“Ronaldi? Any relation to Rich Ronaldi?”
“He's my older brother and the reason I'm missing a spare. You know him?”
Nick smiled. The less she knew about his history with her brother, the better. Even at fifteen, getting drunk and sleeping with Rich's girl had been unforgivable. Getting them both arrested for grand theft auto had added insult to injury.
The last he'd heard, Rich had been teaching at some college in New Hampshire or Vermont—one of those states that had more trees than people and way too much snow. He saw no need to alert either the delicious Rosalie or her brother that Nick Romeo was dogging her. She'd figure it out soon enough, and by the time Rich heard, it would be too late to do anything but wipe her tears. Not that Nick intended to leave his women crying, but more often than not, that's what happened. His relationships never lasted long, so why complicate things by bringing up old news? He'd be history by the time Rich came back to town. Although for some reason, the thought wasn't gratifying.
He shook it off. He was a Romeo in every sense of the word. It was a legacy and a curse. Nick came from a long line of men who married women, knocked them up, and left, never to be seen again. He'd never put a woman and a kid through what he and his mother had gone through. No, the Romeo line would end with him. It wasn't as if he did anything underhanded. All his women knew the score. He practiced serial monogamy, refused to marry, and always used condoms. The way he looked at it, he was doing women a favor.
“Rich still teaching?”
Rosalie turned to face him, pulled her leg up, and tucked it under her. “He is. It's hard to believe, I know. I can't imagine an ex-juvenile delinquent like Richie in charge of impressionable kids, though I hear he's great at it.”
“It just goes to show you, we all grow up sooner or later.”
“Do we?”
Rosalie looked as if she doubted it. He remembered Tonya saying he “suffered” from Peter Pan syndrome. But his definition of suffering and hers were two different things. He got to sleep with a beautiful woman until the novelty wore off or she started talking about marriage, whichever came first. He kept his place off-limits, so he never had to worry about putting the toilet seat down. And, best of all, he didn't have to be at anyone's beck and call. If he didn't want to do something, he didn't. Yeah, that was his kind of suffering.
Nick pulled into the slow lane and stole a glance at his passenger. “So, Rosalie, are you going to tell me where you live, or do I have to guess?”
“Get off at the next exit, and head toward the park. Left on 4th Street.”
Rosalie tried not to stare, honest she did. She fumbled with her bag, but her eyes always returned to Nick. He must have been having a bad day. His eyes were bloodshot, and he wore a pained expression as if he had the mother of all headaches. The emotions that swept over his face were telling—anger, determination, and a cocky “I'll show you” look.
The man could grace the covers of magazines and romance novels, but if she needed eye candy, she'd buy herself a beefcake calendar. She knew they made one with guys from the NYFD. Maybe they made one with mechanics. She had no problem imagining Nick with the zipper of his coveralls pulled low, showing his muscled chest, washboard abs, and treasure trail leading down to…well, let's just say she wouldn't mind checking out his undercarriage.
“Well, what do you think?”
The sound of Nick's voice pulled Rosalie's mind out of the gutter. “Excuse me? I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention…urn, what did you say?”
“I asked if you wanted to grab lunch or a cup of coffee when you pick up your car.”
“Why?” Okay, now he looked as if he thought she'd escaped from a mental ward, which, today, wasn't far from the truth. “I mean, um, I guess, okay.”
“Gosh, try to contain your excitement. You got something against dating a mechanic?”
“A date? With you?” she sputtered. Great. She sounded like an idiot. “I've got a boyfriend--”
“Look, if you don't want to go out, just say so. There's no reason to lie.”
“I'm not lying. I have a boyfriend.”
“Yeah? Then why didn't you call him when you got stuck on the side of the road?”
“I did. He wasn't home.”
“Where is he?”
“How the hell do I know? We don't check in with each other.”
“You two are real close, huh?”
“My relationship with Joey is no concern—”
“So, how long have you and Joey been going out?”
“Two years. Why?”
“I see.”
“You see what?”
“I see that either Joey's an idiot, or he's ready to move on. Maybe both.”
“I know I'm going to regret this, but I'll ask anyway. What do you mean by that?”
“It's obvious. Joey's not concerned about some guy coming on to you and stealing you away, which makes him an idiot. 'Cause if you were mine, I'd damn sure know where you were—and you'd know how to reach me twenty-four hours a day. But maybe he's ready to move on. Then he's distancing himself, showing that you're not together, that you're out of sync and not involved in each other's lives, in which case, he's an idiot for letting you go.”
She couldn't believe she was having this conversation with Nick the mechanic… or anyone for that matter. She crossed her arms and turned toward him.
“Wow, you're good, aren't you? You just cut my boyfriend to shreds, made him sound like an uncaring jerk, all the while making me out to be some kind of fantasy woman. Amazing. It's hard for a girl to listen to that monologue and be angry with you. I bet it works like a charm.”
The weasel had the nerve to smile. Sure it was a good old-fashioned, take-your-breath-away-and-moisten-your-panties smile, but, still, he had some nerve.
“Did it ever occur to you that I might be distancing myself? That I'm the one ready to move on?”
“I sure hope so, but it still proves my point.”
“What point is that?”
“The guy's an idiot. Only an idiot would leave you unsatisfied.”
She hoped he had good peripheral vision, because he had his eyes on her, not the road. The look he gave her said he knew what to do to keep a woman satisfied and that he'd be happy to demonstrate. He smirked and returned his attention to the road.
“I'm right, aren't I? The guy's an idiot. Now the question I have is this—why would you, Rosalie Ronaldi, date an idiot for two years?”
“It keeps my family from harping about me getting married, and I always have someone to take to family functions.”
“So, how's that working out for you? Your family off your case?”
“What are you, a freaking psychic? It worked fine until today. It seems I've passed the uncommitted-relationship expiration date. Where in the Italian handbook does it say a girl turns into a puttana after dating a guy for two years?”
Nick shot her a sideways glance. “It's in the fine print below the section on arranged marriages.”
“Well, no wonder I missed it. I'm not interested in marriage, never have been. Why would anyone take that kind of risk, especially a woman? Why spend her life catering to a man, only to be replaced by a new model as soon as her body starts to droop?”
“Beats me.”
“Make a left on the next block. Third house on the right.”
Nick double-parked in front of her brownstone and took her car key off the key chain.
“Which floor is yours?”
“Why do you want to know?”
Nick pointed to his clipboard. “I need your address.”
“First floor.”
He held out Rosalie's keys and then wouldn't let them go. “So, where do you want to go to lunch tomorrow?”
Tugging t
he keys from his hand, she found him smirking again and tried not to smile. Not an easy thing to do; he had one hell of a smirk. She started to grab the door handle, but Nick stilled her hand.
“Don't.” He jumped out of the cab, walked around to open the passenger side door, and helped her out of the truck. His rough, scarred hand warmed and dwarfed hers.
Rosalie stood with him on the sidewalk in front of her apartment and had to tip her head back to look him dead in the eyes. “I never said I'd go to lunch with you. I'm seeing someone.”
“You told me that you're distancing yourself from Idiot Joey, the guy who doesn't satisfy you. So I'll see you around one tomorrow.”
“I can't come back to Brooklyn for lunch. I work in the City.”
“Dinner then. I'll meet you at the garage. You can pick up your car before we eat.” “Nick, I told you—”
“I know. Look, pick up the car after work, and we'll grab a bite. No big deal.”
“I don't even know your name.”
He handed her the clipboard and a pen. “Sure you do.” He pointed to his chest. “Nick.”
Rosalie scribbled her signature and handed the clipboard back. Nick wrote something else before he tore off her copy and gave it to her.
“Call me if you need anything. You can reach me at Romeo's. Just ask for Nick. Everyone there knows me. The other number is my cell phone.”
She took the paper and stuffed it in her coat pocket. “I won't need anything.” She started up the steps of her brownstone with Nick on her heels. When she reached the door, she and Nick did another tug-of-war with her keys. He won. He unlocked the door, held it open, and stood on the stoop under the porch light. “Good night, Rosalie Ronaldi.”
“'Night, Nick.”
He leaned forward and for a second there, she thought he was going to kiss her. She held her breath, but he only pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and winked. Then he turned around and took the steps two at a time, whistling. Whistling!
Chapter Two
Nick jumped into the wrecker and waited until the light came on in Rosalie's apartment. As soon as he saw the curtains move, he knew that Idiot Joey was history. No woman watches a man drive away unless she's interested, and the way Rosalie looked at him when he touched her, she'd been plenty interested… and not a little disappointed that he hadn't followed through.
What had he been thinking? She belonged to someone else. Sure, the guy seemed like an idiot, but Nick didn't poach. He'd learned that lesson with Rich Ronaldi's girlfriend, no less.
With Rosalie, Nick couldn't help but want to touch and taste. Especially taste, she had a hell of a mouth on her. Yeah, Rosalie gave new meaning to the word “lush.” From her black, chin-length, curly hair that felt as soft as it looked to her killer rack and world-class ass, she epitomized fantasy material. But until she broke up with Joey—the jamoke—he wouldn't touch her, no matter how cute she looked, how great her ass was, or how nice she smelled. Nick pulled into traffic and took a deep breath. The scent of her perfume lingered over the ever-present scent of motor oil. He wanted to smell her perfume again—up close and personal.
Nick had forgotten the thrill of the chase. For the last several years, he hadn't had to dog women. He had to beat them off with a stick, and he'd taken full advantage of the veritable sexual smorgasbord. Nick couldn't remember when he'd lost the taste for it, but for the last year or so, he'd had a hard time telling the difference between girlfriends.
Okay, so Rosalie watched Nick pull away. It didn't mean anything. She'd watched him because he had her car. She loved her car. Yeah, good one, Ronaldi. Dave wouldn't buy that even if you attached it to a cookie. Speaking of which…
“David Rufus Ronaldi, where are you?”
Dave lumbered into the living room looking confused. Damn, she should have snuck into the bedroom. She could have caught the sneaky bastard sleeping on her bed, though she hardly needed proof. All that black hair pretty much gave the mutt away.
“Expected to hear the car, didn't you, boy?” She bent down to kiss him on the head and got a wet lick on the lips. Ewww! The damn dog had impeccable aim. “Come on, let's go out.”
Rosalie followed Dave to the garden and tried not to think about what Nick said, not that it worked. But really, how could she help but think about it?
After Dave watered every bush that he hadn't already killed, they went back inside. Rosalie turned on some music and went to get out of her clothes so she could breathe. She'd pulled on flannel sleep pants and a T-shirt when Dave started barking. A second later, there was a knock at the door. She had a bad feeling it was Joey.
Looking though the peephole, Rosalie spied Joey staring back at her. Damn, why did she have to be right—and how had he gotten past the security door?
Rosalie disengaged all four locks and opened the door while trying to hold back Dave, who'd been doing a realistic imitation of Cujo. Dave was half Saint Bernard. The other half looked like Black Lab, but then he hadn't come with a list of ingredients. Dave had never liked Joey, and Joey, not one to tempt fate, seldom came over, which she'd always thought was a godsend. It got her out of doing the whole clean-the-apartment-and-change-the-sheets-before -a-date thing. Rosalie would never be confused with Martha Stewart, and the major difference wasn't that she'd never worn a police-issued ankle bracelet.
After she locked Dave in the bedroom, Rosalie returned to find Joey pacing. Something must have had him pretty worked up, because Joey didn't pace. He was so laid-back, there were times when she contemplated taking his pulse to see if he was still alive. Damn. She wanted to crawl into bed and lose herself in a hot romance novel, not have a serious discussion.
“I got your message and looked for your car. Are you all right?”
Rosalie wanted to say “Duh, what the hell does it look like?” but it wasn't his fault that she'd had a flat and gotten picked up by Hot Mechanic Guy.
“Yeah, I'm fine. A wrecker happened by and took my car to Romeo's garage.” Joey seemed distracted. Why hadn't he called? Rosalie tried to ignore the sound of Dave digging at the door and whining. “Is that the only reason you came by? To check on me?”
“No, I want to talk to you about something.”
Could the day get any better? He wanted to talk. It would surely be a scintillating conversation. The word “idiot” blinked like a neon sign in her brain. “Do you want wine? I think I have a Cabernet open.” Actually, she was the one who needed the wine.
He started pacing again. “No, um, can we sit down?”
“Sure.” She pushed her briefcase and pocketbook to the side and sat on the couch, right on her hairbrush. She pulled it out from under her and stuffed it into her bag.
Joey gave her one of his disapproving looks. He got that from his mother; Rosalie saw it every time his mother asked when they were going to marry. His lips pressed together with such force, they all but disappeared. One eyebrow shot up to his hairline, which, for Joey, was pretty high, and his head shook a bit before he made a tsking sound. Talk about annoying. He had a way of making her feel as if she were five years old again and trying to explain to Mother Superior the reason she'd flushed all the pennies down the toilet.
Joey sat on her coffee table. Now, there's not a whole lot of room between the couch and the coffee table. Rosalie wanted to get up and move away, but Joey trapped her leg between his and then reached for her hands. His were cold and shaking. Oh man, she had a bad feeling.
“Rosalie, I've been thinking about my life. I talked to my parents, and we've made a decision.”
“Look, Joe—”
“No, just let me get this out, okay? I practiced all day.”
The phone rang. Saved by the bell. She picked it up from the table behind the sofa and thanked God for the interruption. “Hello?”
“Has he asked you yet? I got a call from Mrs. Manetti. She wants to have the wedding at her church! Do you believe the nerve of that woman? I should pay for a wedding at her church? You'll be married at St. Joseph's, I
told her.”
“Ma?”
“Of course. Who did you expect? The Virgin Mary?”
OhmyGod, ohmyGod, ohmyGod. “Yeah, Ma, Joey's right here. No, nothing's new.”
“Oh, he's asking you to marry him, and I'm interrupting. I gotta go and say a novena to bless your marriage. Ti amo, you've made me very happy.”
“Ma, hold the novenas, I think you're jumping the gun here.”
“Ciao, bella. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”
Rosalie stared at the phone until the damn thing beeped. She couldn't believe this was happening. Joey took the phone, pressed the end button, and rose to put it back on the cradle.
She tried to come up with an out. If she let Dave out of the bedroom, he'd kill Joey, and then at least she'd have a valid excuse not to marry him. Joey got down on one knee. The phone rang again.
“I'm sorry. I have to get this.” Rosalie slid past Joey… well, okay, she kind of hit him and pushed him off balance in her rush to answer the phone. “Hello?”
“If you think your wedding's gonna upstage mine, you got something coming to you. How dare you get engaged before I'm married? This is my time. Mine!”
“Annabelle?” Great, first her mother, then her sister.
“Who'd you think it was? The freakin' Good Humor Man?”
“No, the Virgin Mary.”
“Very funny. Look, just because you're an old maid doesn't mean you can… Oh my God, you got knocked up! I thought you looked bloated today.”
“I do not look bloated!” Rosalie looked down. Okay, she did look a little bloated—what do you expect after eating for four hours? “Look, Annabelle, why don't you call Mama and talk to her? I gotta go.”
Joey returned the phone and disconnected it. There would be no more phone calls. “Rosalie.” He took her hands again but this time, thank God, he stayed on his feet. “Pop's gonna retire at the end of the year. He and Mama are moving to Florida with Nonna. I'm gonna buy them out of the butcher shop, so I think it's time we finalized our arrangement. We'll live in their apartment above the store, and you can quit your job. You'll be too busy helping me run the store to work. And once we start a family, you'll have the children to care for. Marry me, Rosalie.”
