by Robin Kaye
“Everything? Even anchovies?”
“I love anchovies, but don't get them if you don't.”
“No, anchovies are good. I've never met a girl who'd eat them.”
“I have DiLorenzo's on speed dial, unless you want to order from somewhere else.”
While Nick ordered, Rosalie slipped out of bed and did her best to fade into the wallpaper on the way to the bathroom. She closed the door and leaned against it, wondering what to do. Her only robe was in the closet.
Nick rapped on the door and then shoved it open, sticking his head in and smirking. “It'll be at least forty minutes—I told them not to rush. We have time for a shower.” He slipped through the door, walked bare-assed to the tub, and started the water. “Come on, I've wanted to see you wet and soapy for a while now.”
“Oh, yeah, it's been ages.” Rosalie didn't hide the sarcasm.
He cut her off with a kiss, lifted her into the shower, and slid her down his body with a groan.
Chapter Six
Rosalie stepped out of the bathroom as Nick ran for the front door, wearing only a towel. She'd never seen a better-looking man naked, not even if you count that picture of Keith Urban in Playgirl—which you couldn't, since Keith held his guitar in front of everything interesting. Besides, no sane woman would go for a man who was prettier than she was, not to mention thinner, which explains why he married Nicole Kidman.
The only things pretty about Nick were his eyes. A woman could wax poetic about their color or kill for his lashes—curled, dark, and so thick, they held water. Mmmm… That was only one of the wonderful tidbits she'd discovered. The other was that self-induced orgasms didn't register on the Richter scale compared to those given by Nick. Hell, orgasms induced by her battery-operated boyfriend, BOB, didn't even measure up to Nick-induced aftershocks. The real things rated at least a 6.7, and that was without doing the deed. It boggled the mind.
Rosalie pulled a T-shirt and flannel pants from one of the clean laundry piles, thankful for the time it would take Nick to deal with the delivery boy. She wasn't uncomfortable with her body, but she was uncomfortable displaying it to gorgeous men. Guys like Nick went for tall, skinny blondes, surgically enhanced to bring their cup size up to the highest letter they could recite without singing. Not that her cup size wasn't respectable—if anything, it was too respectable. The discomfort lay in the fact that her breasts were proportionate to the rest of her body. Nick was probably used to women who looked like swizzle sticks with boobs, and Rosalie was so not that.
Nick strolled in, wearing nothing but a smile and holding a pizza and beer. If he ever posed for Play girl, hiding the goods would not be on his agenda. The smile turned into a flat line and a raised eyebrow.
“I thought you wanted to eat in bed.”
“I do.”
“So, why are you dressed?”
“Eating in bed doesn't mean I have to eat naked, does it? I eat in bed all the time, and I'm always dressed. I wanted to get comfortable. Besides, it's dangerous to eat naked.”
“Dangerous?”
Nick pulled the sheet and blanket up to his waist and then covered the family jewels with a pillow. He admitted, if only to himself, that eating naked at Rosalie's was indeed dangerous, not to mention a team sport.
She picked a pepper off her slice and fed it to Dave, who lay between them. Dave smacked his dripping lips and groaned in pleasure, moving his head from Rosalie's thigh to Nick's. Dave's eyebrows rose in a silent plea without moving his head. His damn head must weigh 15 pounds, Nick thought, feeling like he had a cinder block on his thigh. No wonder Dave needed to rest it.
Nick picked a piece of Canadian bacon off his slice and flipped it toward Dave, who raised his head to make the catch and swallowed the piece whole. Nick only heard the slap of jowls and the gulp.
“Don't feed Dave human food. It's not good for him.” Rosalie licked her fingers and shrugged. “You forgot to get napkins.”
Nick swallowed a groan, thankful the pillow hid his somewhat surprising erection. It had been, what, forty minutes? And one lick of her finger had the bad boy standing at attention. He cleared his throat and took a sip of beer. “You tossed him a pepper.”
Rosalie sank back into the pillows resting against the headboard of her iron bed.
“Vegetables are okay. They're healthy.”
She bit into the pizza and caught threads of melted cheese that stretched from her mouth to the slice between the fingers she had licked. Tilting her head back, she dropped them in her mouth. Nick had never before considered eating pizza erotic.
Dave raked his paw across the pillow on Nick's lap in an apparent plea for more.
Rosalie patted the pillow. “Told you it was dangerous. Do you want to put on your jeans?”
“Jeans wouldn't cut it. I'd need a cup at the very least.” Besides, he doubted he'd be able to zip the damn jeans up now.
“Speaking of cups.” Rosalie reached into the drawer of her bedside table and rummaged around. Did she have a cup stashed in there? Hell, it looked as if she had everything else. She searched the covers surrounding her and slid her hand under his pillow—not the one on his lap, damn.
“You're not lying on my remote, are you? I want to catch the score. Islanders are facing off against the Flyers tonight.”
“You're more than welcome to look, but you'd better be careful. I guarantee you'll miss the game if you check under any more of my pillows.”
Rosalie snorted and ran her hand under Dave, continuing her search. Dave groaned and rolled over onto his back, his jowls flopping open, exposing a set of impressive teeth. She scratched his belly and found his tickle spot. Dave rolled onto his side and kicked Nick with increasing speed. He not only kicked Nick, but sent the pillow on Nick's lap and the empty pizza box flying.
“Oops.” She pulled the slice of pizza Nick was biting into out of his mouth, leaned over Dave, and bussed a kiss on Nick's cheek. “Sorry.”
Rosalie didn't return his pizza, not that he cared. It wasn't as if he was still hungry—at least, not for pizza. She rolled on her stomach to search under the bed. Nick lay back and enjoyed the view of her rather spectacular posterior. If only she hadn't covered it in flannel.
All the movement proved too much for Dave. He extracted himself by walking over Nick and jumping off the bed.
For the second time that day, Dave knocked the air out of Nick. He tried to breathe as pain radiated through him. Dave was not only a guard dog, but also an excellent form of birth control. Permanent birth control.
“Damn, I can never find anything when I need it.” Rosalie scanned the room and there, lying on top of the TV, was the remote. Of all the stupid places to put a remote control, that had to be the worst. Nick grunted. He must have seen the remote the same time she had. One of them had to get it. She turned to sweet-talk him into it, but his color had turned as white as newly fallen snow before rush hour, and his mouth hung open as he gasped for air.
“What's the matter? Oh, no! Dave didn't. Did he? He did. Oh, Nick. I'm so sorry. Here, let me see…”
Nick groaned again and held the covers tight over his lap. The look he gave her was anything but welcoming. Okay, that was the wrong thing to say.
Nick took a deep breath and released it. His color returned, though his mouth still hung open like a big fish on dry land.
She considered offering to kiss it and make it better. But the way he looked, even that wouldn't help.
The best remedy for an ailing man is chicken soup and control of the remote. In this case, Rosalie doubted chicken soup would cut it, but beer sounded like a good bet. She climbed out of bed, plumped his pillows, handed him the remote, and kicked Dave out of the bedroom before getting Nick a beer. If he didn't want to drink it, he could always use it as a cold compress.
Nick made an amazing recovery while they watched the game and seemed to like hockey as much as she did. Rosalie was thankful that Nick learned quickly not to crowd her. It was hard to cuss out a ref when yo
u were tucked under someone's arm, and it was impossible to do hand gestures.
She turned off the set when the post-game commentary began. It had been painful enough watching the
Flyers annihilate the Islanders 5-1. No need to subject herself to more torture.
As if witnessing the slaughter hadn't been bad enough, Rosalie had another problem to deal with. It was ten o'clock, and Nick was still in her bed. The bed she slept in alone. She stretched and yawned, hoping Nick would take the hint and hit the road. Oh, God. What if he wanted to stay over? How could she ask him to leave without sounding as if she were asking him to leave? One more reason to go to a guy's place—she could leave when she wanted. Well, except with Nick. He'd insist on taking her home, and they'd be back in her bed. Together.
They both spoke at the same time. Whew, what a relief. Rosalie really didn't want to say, “Nick, it's been fun, but I'd like you to leave now so I can get to sleep.”
“Sorry, Nick, you go first.”
“No, after you.”
Oh, no, you don't. “Um… I forgot what I was going to say. You go ahead.” Ha.
Talk about awkward. There was nothing worse than the morning after or, in this case, the evening after a first sexual encounter. Both parties are über-polite until they get used to the idea that they've seen each other naked, or one of them leaves. Rosalie wasn't used to the idea and might never be, which meant it was time for him to go.
Nick smiled and took her hand. He looked as uncomfortable now as he had when Dave did the cha-cha on his privates.
“I have a staff meeting before we open tomorrow, so I have to take off. I'm sorry.”
“No problem. I've got to get in early, too. I didn't accomplish much today.” Rosalie tried to cover her feeling of utter relief better than Nick had hid his discomfort. He looked at her as if she'd grown another head. Gee, guess she'd failed.
Rosalie helped Nick find his clothes. She'd thrown his jacket on the floor beside the bed and thought his shirt might have gone in the direction of the treadmill, which, like all treadmills, had morphed into a large clothes hanger. His pants and boxers, thank God, were within his reach.
By the time Rosalie found his shirt, he'd buttoned his jeans. Somehow, she resisted the urge to run her hands over his chest and stomach once more. Who knew muscles could feel so good? The man could do an infomer-cial for a weight machine.
She tried to act as if they'd had dinner together without an appetizer of white-hot, multi-orgasmic sex. Because really, what could she say? Thanks for the orgasms? Having no set precedent for such a situation, she felt as if she were walking blindfolded though a minefield.
Nick finished dressing while she picked up the pizza box and beer bottles and took them to the kitchen. No, she wasn't practicing avoidance. She was keeping busy and straightening up the apartment like she did all the time. Right.
Nick never spent the night at a girlfriend's place because it was much more difficult to avoid making plans while in bed or in the shower together. There was always that question she'd sneak in when his brain was concentrating on sex. In between the “Oh yeah, baby,” and “Damn, that was good!” she'd throw in something like, “Would you like to meet my parents for lunch?” and all he heard was “yada-yada-yada.” The next thing he knew, her old man would be grilling him on his intentions and his portfolio (though not necessarily in that order); her mother would be saying how beautiful their children would be; and he'd find himself hurtling at breakneck speed down the aisle toward matrimonial hell.
Nick checked his reflection in the mirror. This non-relationship with Rosalie was unlike any other he'd ever experienced. He'd never told a girl he couldn't spend the night without her trying to talk him into staying. He'd seen everything from pouting to bitter anger. Rosalie was the first to look relieved. Hell, truth be told, she looked as if she couldn't wait for him to go. He should be thrilled. Finally, a woman who followed his rules.
Yeah, this was good.
He scanned the items on her dresser: a shoe with a broken heel; jewelry—nothing expensive, more unusual, funky; a bra and a thong like the one she'd worn the other night; and perfume. He picked up the square, red bottle and sniffed. Her scent. Gold lettering caught his eye— Trouble. How apropos. Nick returned the perfume to its place, shook his head at the irony, grabbed his jacket, and left the bedroom.
Rosalie was waiting next to the bar separating the kitchen from the dining area, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Nick slid into his jacket and closed the distance between them. She had a recently ravished look that brought back memories of them doing several things he'd like to repeat.
He wrapped his arms around her and waited until her tension drained away. It took a moment, but she relaxed and leaned into him. He gave her a soft kiss, not a peck, but not a kiss that would keep him up the rest of the night, either.
“'Night, Lee. I'll call you tomorrow.”
Tension returned to her body. Maybe she was afraid she'd never hear from him again. He tipped her chin up to look in her eyes. She moved away, her fingers busy twisting the drawstring of her pants.
“Um… I'm starting with a new client tomorrow. I'll be working late the rest of the week.”
Nick stepped back. She wasn't worried she wouldn't hear from him again. It seemed if anyone had to worry the other wasn't interested, it was him. Not that he would. Still, he couldn't imagine why she wouldn't want to see him. He'd made sure she'd had a good time in bed. Maybe she was pissed about getting all dressed up for nothing, or because he hadn't told her how nice she looked. Or maybe she was telling the truth and had a busy week ahead.
“You know, you've never told me what you do.”
“I'm a corporate turnaround expert. I go into failing companies, take over as their interim chief financial officer, and try to turn things around. It takes me at least a week to get up to speed.
“Okay, let's get-together on Friday night then.”
“I'm sorry, Nick, but I've got a status meeting with my boss Friday afternoon that will probably run late.”
Nick groaned. He had box seats for the Islanders at New Jersey Saturday. He would love to take Rosalie, but mechanics couldn't afford box seats. Besides, too many people knew him there. Someone would let the cat out of the bag. But it was an afternoon game, so it should be over by three or four. “How about Saturday night?”
“That sounds good. I'll call you.”
She'd call him!
Rosalie looked around her new office at Premier Motorcars and picked through the unappetizing salad she ate at her desk. Why did she always relegate herself to eating salad when she started dating someone new? It was useless, because by the time dinner came around, she was starving and ate everything in sight. Even the fact she hadn't stopped at the store wouldn't help, since ordering in and eating an entire pizza in one sitting wasn't out of the realm of possibility. Why did she do this to herself?
She took another bite of salad, wondering what they used to make fake crabmeat and if it was naturally that shade of orange, or if she was ingesting carcinogenic dye in the name of losing weight. A soft knock sounded, and Gina poked her head in.
“Rosalie… can we have a minute?”
We? She pushed aside the lifeless salad and the spreadsheet she'd been studying, slipped on her jacket, and stepped into her pumps.
“Come in.”
Gina walked in carrying a file, followed by Sam, her brother-in-law the cop. From the look of the two, Rosalie knew something was wrong.
“What's the matter? Is my family all right?”
“It's nothing like that. Everyone's fine.” Gina was halfway to the desk before she realized Sam was still standing in the doorway. She laid the file on the desk, turned around and posed, hands on hips, head cocked. Rosalie could very well imagine Gina's expression. It had the desired effect. Sam, the big bad homicide detective, looked as if he wanted to run crying for his mommy. Rosalie knew the feeling well and had the urge to cross herself and thank God Gina hadn'
t pointed that look at her.
“Do I really need to be a witness to what is obviously a private family matter? I have a lot of ground to cover…” Sam was squirming, the poor guy. “… not that it isn't always a pleasure to see you, Sam.”
“Sam.” Gina stomped her foot and pointed at Rosalie. “Tell her.”
“Tell me what?” Rosalie slid forward in her chair.
Sam closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose before letting out a sigh worthy of old Mrs. Goldstein, Rosalie's neighbor. All he was missing was the “Oy vey.”
Sam straightened and stood, shoulders back, chest out, head held high. “Gina, give me a break here. I did what you asked. I'm done.”
For the sake of all New Yorkers, Rosalie hoped his intimidation routine worked better on the perps than it did on Gina. She walked right up to him, grabbed his tie, pulled him into the office, and pointed to a chair in front of the desk. “Sit.”
He sat.
The fear-factor wielded by the tiny woman was amazing. Sam stood over a foot taller and outweighed her by a hundred pounds, but she had him well trained. Rosalie expected Gina to pat his head and say, “Good boy.”
It was time for diversionary tactics. Poor Sam looked as if he wanted to disappear, he was so embarrassed. “Gina, what's this all about?”
“Nick.”
Whoa, hold on. “My Nick?”
“So he's your Nick now, is he?”
Uh, oh. Rosalie winced. Gina had turned on her.
“You don't even know his last name yet. Do you?”
Rosalie looked toward Sam and then scowled at Gina. It was a waste of time. Gina was the pushiest woman Rosalie had ever met, and she always spoke her mind, however inappropriate.
“Gina…” Rosalie growled. She didn't take the warning.
“I worry about you, Rosalie. I asked Sam—”
Sam guffawed. “You mean threatened—”
Gina speared him with a look of boredom and a wave of her hand. “Whatever.”
She turned to Rosalie, sympathy rolling off her in waves. Oh, God. Gina was beginning to scare her.
