by Robin Kaye
“What is this? The world's longest date? I'm not going back to the hospital, and the only doctor I know is a gynecologist. I don't think she'd be much help.”
“I called a buddy of mine—Mike. He's a pulmonolo-gist. Lungs are his specialty.”
An hour after they returned from the doctor's appointment, Nick stormed into the bathroom like a boxer jumping into a ring. Rosalie almost put her eye out with the mascara wand. What was with him? Hadn't he ever heard of knocking?
She calmly put the mascara wand back in the tube. “Damn.” She rubbed the big black mark under her eye with the corner of a washcloth. As if the rings under her eyes weren't dark enough.
Nick filled the bathroom with barely controlled rage. “You are the most hardheaded, stubborn woman I know.”
“Yeah, and your point is?” Rosalie tossed the washcloth in the sink and walked past him into the bedroom. She began searching her drawers for a pair of stockings. There were no longer clean laundry piles lying around. Sometime while she was in her pneumonia-induced coma, Nick had not only washed, folded, and put away the dirty pile, but he had folded and put away the clean pile, too. Rosalie had no idea where her clothes were. She should have been embarrassed. Instead, she was annoyed.
“You're not well enough to work. Mike said…”
She turned and spoke through clenched teeth. “Mike doesn't have a meeting with the Board of Directors. My clients don't care if I have a cold…”
She'd thought she was on the mend; she thought she'd be fine to go into work for a few hours. But after dragging herself out of bed, showering, and dressing, all she had the energy for was sleep.
Nick stepped into her personal space and stared down at her. She had to admit, his stare was pretty effective. “You have pneumonia.”
She ignored the urge to step back, did her teenage eye roll, and stood her ground. “Whatever. I have to make a report to the Board of Directors.”
“Okay. You go in; you give them your damn report; and you come home. I'll drive.”
They were nose to nose, and she was running out of steam. “What are you? My mother?”
“No, but I'll call your mother…”
“You wouldn't dare!”
“Wanna bet?”
“Fine, you drive me and bring me home, but then you're outta here. I appreciate your help, but, Nick…”
“Lee.” His voice had gentled. Nick wrapped his arms around her and hugged her against him. Damn, he felt good. She rested her head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat while he rubbed her back. “I'm just going to drive you to work and back, and then I'm going to make dinner. No more chicken soup. You're up to real food. Besides, you're almost well enough to finish our date. I brought movies.”
“You did?”
“Yeah.”
Of all the businesses in trouble, why did Rosalie have to turn around Premier Motorcars? The one dealership Nick had spent his life coveting, the one dealership he'd been unable to buy, the one dealership he'd targeted for a hostile takeover. Damn.
Nick must have hid his shock well when he'd dropped
Rosalie off in front of the familiar building. She hadn't asked what was wrong or said anything when he offered to wait in the car. After he'd slid the Mustang into a parking space down the block, he was tempted to bang his head on the steering wheel. What a mess.
When Nick was eight-years-old, he'd wanted to see a Ferrari. He'd heard that people owned such things, but never having seen one in Brooklyn, he was skeptical. Supposedly, there was a car dealership in the City that sold cars worth so much money, the door handles were made of solid gold.
One hot summer day, Nick had stolen two tokens from his mother and hopped the subway into the City. He'd spent a couple of hours with his nose pressed up against the cool glass of the showroom, checking out cars he'd only seen before in his Matchbox collection. He'd been eyeing the solid-gold door handles when Mr. Lassiter snuck up behind him and put his hand on Nick's shoulder. Nick had thought for sure he was going to be run off. Instead, he'd been invited in. That's when he'd fallen in love for the first and only time.
Walking though the big glass doors of Premier Motorcars had been a life-altering moment. He'd only experienced a few—walking into Premier, getting arrested, finding Rosalie asleep in the emergency room and thinking she was dead. Nick shook his head, trying to erase that image. He didn't want to think about what it meant.
From the moment he walked into Premier, he'd loved everything about the business. The air-conditioning that sent a chill though his whole body; the sound of shoes tapping across polished marble; the smell of the place— a combination of coffee, cigarettes, leather, and new car.
That was the first time he'd looked under the hood of a brand-new car. The fact that the car was a Ferrari had only made the experience that much better. The owner of the dealership, Mr. Lassiter, had even let him sit in the driver's seat. It was the first time Nick's butt had ever touched leather.
Mr. Lassiter had been good to him when he'd gotten out of Juvie and asked for a job. Nick had nothing to feel guilty about. He'd worked his ass off for the man and would still be if he hadn't been replaced by Mr. Lassiter's Ivy League son.
Jack Jr. was the stereotypical trust fund baby. He worked as little as possible, drove expensive cars, and spent money like it was going out of style. But that wasn't enough for Jack. What the trust fund didn't buy him, he didn't mind taking by force. Like most bullies, Jack only preyed on people weaker than himself. One evening, Nick walked into his office after hours and caught Jack forcing himself on the new receptionist. When Nick pulled Jack off her, her dress was ripped, and she was in tears. Nick saw red. Jack Jr. had gone crying to daddy, told him God only knows what, and the next day, both Nick and the receptionist were out of a job.
Before Nick left, he'd warned Lassiter that Junior would ruin him. Was it Nick's fault he'd been right? Anything Nick had done only hastened the inevitable. So he'd made a few calls, mentioned a concern or two to a high-ranking loan officer. So what? He'd done nothing too underhanded, certainly nothing illegal, and there was no paper trail. Unfortunately, no matter how much Nick told himself he had nothing to feel guilty about, he still heard Father Francis's voice in his head, telling him he was going straight to hell. And as if that wasn't bad enough, Rosalie now stood between Nick and the one thing he'd wanted since he'd had the innocence to dream. Premier Motorcars.
Chapter Eight
Nick turned off the TV and DVD player. He and Rosalie had been watching Life of Brian. No, he'd been watching—she'd fallen asleep ten minutes into the movie. One minute she was laughing that great laugh of hers, and the next, she was dead to the world. Good thing they'd been watching in bed.
It was almost eleven. Not too late to call Mike and find out how Rosalie was doing medically. He still couldn't believe she'd told him that her condition was none of his business. Hell, he was the one who'd made the damn appointment with Mike in the first place. If it wasn't his business, whose was it?
Rosalie was asleep on top of him. It took a minute for Nick to slide out without waking her. She was a piece of work. When she was awake, she was always so careful about not touching him. It was as if she were afraid they'd look as if they were together, which they weren't. He knew that, and it was obvious she knew that. What difference did it make if she touched him? The minute she fell asleep, though, she was all over him like cotton on silicone in a wet T-shirt contest.
Nick stood and reached for his sweats, tiptoed out of the bedroom, and shut the door. He didn't want Rosalie to know he was checking up on her. Nick called Mike's pager and punched in his cell phone number. Ten minutes later, his phone vibrated.
“Hello.”
“This is Dr. Flynn. You had me paged?” “Mikey, it's me, Nick.”
“I thought that number looked familiar. So, how's our patient?” Nick groaned. “That good, huh?”
“She's impossible, Mike. Do you believe she went to work today?”
“No
kidding. How'd she get there?”
“I drove her. If I hadn't, she'd have taken the damn subway.”
“I heard from the dayshift nurse that Nurse Gus had to threaten to sedate her to keep her from climbing over the side of the bed to escape. He said you pulled a he-man stunt and carried her into the ER.”
“She wasn't going to go in otherwise.”
“Dr. Jansen asked about you.”
“Dr. who?”
“The attending. Tall, blonde, gorgeous. You know— Pamela Anderson with a brain. She also asked how long you and Rosalie have been engaged.”
“Hey, I had to tell her something. She was more interested in checking me out than in helping Lee.”
“Yeah, I know. I got a date with her.”
“Mikey, when are you going to stop picking up my throwaways?”
“When you stop throwing them back. I've been trying to get a date with Deena Jansen since she started her residency. Hell, if I'd known all I had to do was tell her I'm in tight with the great Romeo, I'd…”
“Christ, do you have to start that again?”
“No, I don't have to, but I will. By the way, you never did tell me what's with you and Rosalie. She's not your usual type.”
“What do you mean?”
“She's normal—not like the shallow, self-involved, dimwitted women you usually date—the ones who think the earth and sun revolve around you. As a matter of fact, she didn't seem impressed with you at all.”
'And you call that normal? That's what you think. Did you know she curses in three languages?”
“I caught that. She didn't think I spoke Italian. When I told her, she started with Greek.”
“Make that four.”
“She's got an amazing personality, a great job—”
“Yeah, you're not going to believe where I drove her.”
“Premier Motorcars. I know. Nick, tell me you're not seeing her as some kind of kinky corporate espionage.”
“What are you, nuts? No. I just found out about her connection to Premier today when I drove her to work. Christ, Mike, what kind of asshole do you think I am?”
“Hey, this is me you're talking to. The one who listened to you rant and rave about how you were going to take over Premier Motors if it was the last thing you did. You've wanted that place since we were kids. I know you, Nick. Nothing gets between you and what you want. Especially not a woman. Make sure whatever you do to her doesn't make her hate you so much, she won't date your best friend, okay? So, how long have you been seeing her?”
“A little over a week. Why?”
“I want to make sure my calendar is free when you throw her back. I'm looking forward to catching her.
She's got one hell of a body. Let's see, I give it another month and a half, which puts us into—”
“Hold on. What do you know about her body?”
“Enough to know I look forward to getting better acquainted with it.”
“The only thing you're going to get better acquainted with is my fist, if you don't stop talking about her like that.”
“Nick, man, I didn't mean—”
“It doesn't matter. Besides, she doesn't like doctors.”
“All women like doctors. They just don't like seeing us professionally. Didn't you get the memo? Doctors are prime marriage material.”
“No, I must have missed that one. Now you have two strikes against you in Lee's book. She's not into marriage, either.”
“Right.”
“Look, I'm calling because Lee wouldn't tell me what you said. And I want to make sure she's okay.”
“Nick? You feeling all right? Suffered a recent blow to the head?”
“Oh, you're a laugh riot, Mike. Look, I'm staying at her place and taking care of her, and I need to know if she's well enough to, you know, resume normal activities.”
“Oh, I get it. You want to know when you're gonna get laid.”
“No. Well, okay, yes, that, too. But I also want to know if she should be going to work, and if I should be leaving her alone.”
“Okay, look, I don't think I'd be breaking doctor-patient confidentiality to tell you that, no, she shouldn't be going to work yet—maybe late next week for a few hours a day. As for sex, well, I'd hold off on that, too. And, yes, you can leave her alone, if you think you can trust her not to go to work or have sex without you.”
Nick waited for Mike to stop laughing. “You know, Lee could be right. Maybe you did get your medical license out of a box of Cracker Jacks.”
Dave whined and stuck his nose in Nick's armpit, almost knocking the telephone from his hand.
“What was that?”
“Dave, Lee's dog. I have to go.”
“You're taking care of the dog, too?”
“Yeah. What of it?”
“Oh, nothing. I'm picturing you walking a shih tzu, that's all. Thanks, you made my day.”
“Yeah? Why don't you come over and make a house call? I'm sure Dave would love to take a chunk out of your ass. Dave eats shih tzus for breakfast. Don'cha, boy? Look, Mike, I've got to go. Give me a call sometime next week. We'll have lunch.”
“Take good care of Rosalie. Oh, and give her my number when you dump her, will you?”
“Dream on.”
Nick hung up and grimaced. Damn, it'd been over a week since he and Rosalie were together, and he knew he was a selfish bastard, but he'd been hoping Mike would say she was up for recreational activities. Christ, he wasn't sure how much longer he could go on sleeping with her body plastered against his. He hadn't been sleeping much at all, and tonight was going to be another long one.
Nick shrugged his coat on and stepped into his running shoes. Maybe a nice long walk in sub-zero temperatures would take the edge off. Lord knows, cold showers weren't cutting it.
“Come on, Dave, I'll take you out one last time tonight. But if you take another dump, you're on your own.” Nick grabbed Dave's leash. “Someone should invent a way to attach a bag to your ass. The pooper-scooper law sucks.”
At least Dave had the decency to look embarrassed.
Monday morning, Nick disengaged himself from Rosalie's grasp and slipped out of bed. It was only five-thirty, still fully dark, and Nick wondered if all those stories he'd heard about blue balls were true.
He'd been awake and trying to fall back to sleep for over an hour. He'd come to the conclusion that sleep wasn't going to happen. Typical. Maybe he'd go to the office and stretch out on the couch. Rosalie's couch was too close to Rosalie, and the way he felt right now, if he didn't leave, he'd either attack her or go crazy. She was too soft in all the places he was hard; she was too comfortable; she smelled too good; and damn, the way she wrapped herself around him was enough to tempt a saint. Nick was no saint.
He hit the bathroom, showered, and dressed in jeans and a sweater. He'd change into one of the suits he'd hauled to the office since staying at Rosalie's. It was faster than going home to change and then to the dealership. Sure, his secretary was giving him funny looks, but that was nothing new. Lois had been doing that for the last ten years. He was used to it.
Nick fed and walked Dave, made coffee for himself, and set the pot to brew automatically for Rosalie. It didn't take long for him to learn that coffee was necessary to Rosalie's survival, as well as everyone else's. Being around Rosalie before she had coffee was like waving a red cape at a Brahma bull—not a bright idea. The woman was downright vicious. Nick grabbed his briefcase, keys, and phone, and patted Dave's head.
“I'll be back with lunch. You take care of Lee for me.”
He went to the door to get his coat and he the oddest feeling he should stay—an ominous feeling. Nick shook his head. Talk about melodramatic—he heard organ music playing in his head. Da-da-duh-dum. He was being ridiculous. Rosalie was fine. Her breathing was back to normal; she hadn't wheezed all night; and her cough was under control. In short, she was sleeping like a babe. A very sexy, hot, arousing, desirable babe. Damn, he had to get the hell out of there, o
r all his good intentions would disappear. She'd definitely be better off without him hanging around wanting to get her all excited and breathing heavy.
He adjusted himself, pulled his jacket on, and checked to make sure it covered his bulge. He didn't want Henry and Wayne getting the wrong idea if he passed them on the way out. Grabbing his briefcase, he took a deep breath, pushed the bad feeling aside, and left for work.
Nick crashed for a few hours in his office and spent the rest of the morning going through the motions. He knew that he spoke to people, had meetings, and made decisions, but he did it all by rote. His mind was on Rosalie. He couldn't get past the feeling that something was wrong.
“Earth to Nick.”
Nick looked up from the ad copy he'd been staring at for the last half hour. Lois was looking at him as if she wanted to commit murder.
Nick had the urge to get out of his chair and step out of her reach. He'd hired her because she was a real hard ass. A single mom with five boys, only one of whom was still at home, the woman could give a Marine Drill Sergeant lessons on how to be one of the few, the proud… Hell, the Marines could use her as a secret weapon. She looked harmless enough, but as Nick had found out early on, she was more dangerous than a nuclear bomb. Until now, she had never directed her rage at him. It was okay if she directed it at the press or pushy salesmen, but he'd thought he was safe because he signed her paychecks. He'd been wrong.
“What's the matter with you?”
“Me?” Nick sputtered. “What do you mean? Nothing's the matter with me.”
“Okay,” Lois threw up her hands, “don't tell me. I don't care, but let me tell you something. You've been acting strange since the beginning of last week, and you're walking around here with your head up your ass. You came this close to losing our biggest client today. Mr. Ackerman was going to take his business elsewhere. Do you know how big a fleet his company has? How many cars, trucks, and vans he purchases from us annually? How much he spends on repairs and maintenance each year?”
“I do not have my head up my ass—”
“Oh, really? Is that why you slept through your breakfast meeting this morning? Do you realize that's the second time you've stood him up? You didn't even have the decency to cancel.”
