Toby waited. When she said nothing, he prompted, “Yes?”
Melanie stopped adjusting her skirt and met his eyes. “I know how you make your living.”
He paused, waiting for her to say more. When she didn’t, he asked, “Does that have anything to do with the favor you’re about to ask?”
“Heavens, no!” She patted the back of her hair nervously. “I’m just worried for my daughter. I don’t want her to get…well, she has this thing for pirates and I’m afraid she’ll view you as someone romantic and dashing when, in reality, that’s simply a skill you’ve acquired in order to earn a living.”
He’d acquired romantic, dashing, swashbuckling skills to earn a living as a corporate raider? Hardly. He’d used his engineering background to help analyze high-tech companies for acquisitions and mergers. A career he might still be proud of if a single-mother’s letter—painfully recounting how a merger he’d orchestrated cost her her job and forced her to parcel out her own children—hadn’t dredged up the painful reality of his own upbringing. He’d quietly investigated other families’ dilemmas, then systematically given away his own money to help the families whose lives he’d almost single-handedly turned upside down.
Which left him essentially with no money. Which meant he needed this new job tomorrow night.
But instead of voicing his thoughts, Toby smiled kindly at Mrs. Corrigan. The core issue was that she was worried about her daughter, just as he’d seen his own mother worry numerous times over her own children. “You needn’t worry about your daughter,” he said gently, “except when she walks backward.”
A puzzled look flitted across Melanie’s face before she again looked serious. “So you understand?”
“Yes.” I understand you love your daughter and want to protect her. Too bad Kate doesn’t understand that.
Melanie, looking visibly relieved, stood. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.” She walked primly to the door, but stopped before exiting. Looking back at Toby, she asked, “Do women really go for that getup?”
Toby glanced down at his attire, then back at Melanie. “Except for the slippers, Bab liked the rest, it seems.”
“Please!” Melanie held up her palm in a stopping motion. “Say no more. It’s a world I want to know nothing about.” And with that grand pronouncement, she strode out of the room.
KNOCK-KNOCK.
Toby, still befuddled as to why Mrs. Corrigan wanted to know nothing about some “world,” also wanted to know what a man had to do to get a couple of uninterrupted hours. He had a dinner to produce, a proposal to finalize, a job to nail down.
He got up and opened the door.
Verna, dressed in a long black shift, smiled demurely. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
Verna tilted her head a little. “May I come in?”
Toby stepped back and ushered her inside, wondering if this conversation was going to be about dashing, romantic pirates or Toby’s “getup.”
Verna glided in as he shut the door. When he turned around, she was at the window, looking outside. “Such a lovely, lovely, lovely day,” she said.
For her, maybe. His could be labeled The Wild One, and it wasn’t getting much better.
Verna met his gaze. She appeared to be in her mid-to-late thirties, but had the appearance of a grown-up Peter Pan. Maybe it was that short blond hair or the youthful twinkle in her eye.
“I want to ask you a favor.”
He should have joined Kate in the garden when he had a chance. “If this has anything to do with how I earned my living, let’s just say I did my undergraduate degree at San Luis Obispo, followed by graduate work at San Francisco State—computer science. That software engineering background I plan to use in my next job, which I plan to get tomorrow night no matter what dogs, men or women try to stand in my way.”
Verna’s eyebrows pressed together. “It’s been a stressful day.”
And to think it wasn’t even noon yet. “Yes, it’s been rather stressful.” He’d been discovered in bed, lying on top of Kate, by her mother. He’d been caught by the police breaking into his home. He’d succeeded, only to overhear his girlfriend making love on his stove with some animal-trainer-wannabe. And then he’d forced some no-good, non-bill-paying bum into settling his debt with Kate. In between all of these things, he’d managed to squeeze in some bizarre conversations with different members of the opposite sex. “Yes, it’s been stressful,” he repeated, “but at least I’m dressed.”
Verna’s eyebrows shot up this time and her lips formed a small O. “Yes, indeed you are.” She dabbed at her forehead with the sleeve of her shirt.
“You wanted to ask for a favor?”
“Yes.” She stopped dabbing. “Would you like to go out to dinner?”
Now his lips were forming a little O. Verna was nice, but not really his type.
“With my friend?” Verna smiled sweetly. “I was supposed to have dinner with her, but I have to cancel. I figured you might go instead. It’s already paid for. One of those prepaid dining-out things.”
Prepaid dining-out things? “I—I don’t have the right clothes…unless it’s a restaurant with a flamenco theme.”
Verna made a not-to-worry gesture. “You look perfect, perfect, perfect.” Her voice cracked a little on the last “perfect.”
He doubted he looked that perfect. Besides, it had been a rough day. He needed a quiet evening to himself. Time to reflect. Think about his conversation with Free. Decide what to do next. “I think I’ll have to pass.”
“Oh, no!” Verna shook her head vehemently. “There’s no one else. If you don’t go, we forfeit the dining experience. Lose all that money. And my friend will be…devastated. It’s imperative you go.” Verna tilted her head and looked at him imploringly. “Please?”
He had balked at “imperative,” but that pleading “please” was almost more than he could stand. Good ol’ responsible Toby felt himself giving in. He was needed. It was imperative. Well, after a questionable-looking sandwich, it would be nice to eat identifiable food. Besides, maybe this dining-out would be at an Italian restaurant. One with red walls so he’d blend in. “All right,” he said, “I’ll go.”
Verna clapped her hands. She looked so happy he thought for a moment she might fly, just like Peter Pan.
“Wonderful! She’ll pick you up at six.”
So happy, he grew immediately suspicious. “Where?”
“Here. Your room.”
“Who?”
“Why, Kate!”
6
KNOCK-KNOCK.
Toby stopped his pacing and eyed the door. Had to be six o’clock. And it had to be Kate. An unexpected aching heated his insides at the thought of being close to her again.
From across the room, he checked his reflection in the large oval mirror over the bathtub. A stubble shadowed his jaw. He scratched the whiskers. He could have asked one of the ladies for a razor, but something inside him liked his new roughness. He perused the red shirt that fell open almost to his navel, the tight, black leather pants that hugged his muscles, toned from daily jogs.
Hell, he liked his new look. Responsible, businessman Toby Mancini liked finally ripping loose, being the man he usually kept a tight lid on. Being his secret self—wild, dangerous. What had Kate called him?
A pirate.
He turned toward the door. When had he crossed the line from engineer to exotic? He grinned to himself. When he first crossed the threshold of Beau’s Bed-and-Breakfast.
The pirate opened the door. For a moment, he thought some of the room’s color had seeped out and onto Kate. She wore a red T-shirt that matched her pants. A silky scarlet shawl—embroidered with miniature turquoise, yellow and blue flowers—draped her shoulders. Plus she’d glossed her mouth with a cherry-tinted lipstick that made her full lips look plumper, juicier.
“Do I look all right?” those plump, juicy lips asked.
All right? Does a goddess look “all right“? “You
look okay.” Okay? Had he lost his mind? That was like telling Céline Dion she sang okay. “Fine. Good. Great.”
Kate smiled demurely, but her cheeks flamed. He wondered when a man had last complimented her. “Verna said you’d be ready by six, so here I am.” She started to do a small wave but stopped herself.
“Well, I didn’t exactly need to get ready, considering my entire wardrobe consists of a towel or this outfit. Both come with black corduroy slippers.”
“I thought you were going to bring other clothes from home.”
“Yeah. I thought so, too. But there wasn’t time.” He clenched his jaw, not wanting to explain further.
Kate paused, obviously aware she’d treaded on a sensitive topic. “You look great!” she finally blurted.
She’d skipped the “fine” and “good” and gone straight to the “great.” Was she flirting with him? Kate? That hot ache filled him again as he stared at the cherry-red lips that moved in a delightful sequence of curves and puckers. Then they stopped.
“What?” he asked, realizing she’d been talking and he’d missed every single word.
“I said, if we’re both ready, let’s go. Reservations are at six-thirty. It’ll take us that long to walk there.” Kate tugged at a strand of her dark hair.
Good. Walking distance. Driving in North Beach could test one’s sanity, something he and Kate didn’t need after the events of the day. “Since we’re walking, I’ll wear my glasses.” He retrieved them from a table and put them on. “And let me make sure…” Out of habit, he patted his back pocket and felt only flat, smooth no-bulging-of-a-wallet leather. It was difficult to remember he only owned the shirt on his back. Well, technically, off Raymond’s back. But Verna had said this was some kind of prepaid dinner, so Toby didn’t need to sweat being responsible and carrying money. “Let’s go,” he said.
As they headed down the stairs, the inn seemed abnormally quiet. “Where are the other guests?” Toby asked.
“The Pirate checked out around noon…after skipping breakfast.”
“I can’t imagine anyone wanting to miss Verna’s meals.”
“It happens sometimes, especially with the honey-mooners. We’re used to it.”
Honeymooners. Sex. He glanced at Kate and caught a look in her eyes, something heated that matched his mood. She quickly looked away, suddenly immersed in watching her feet walk down the stairs.
As they ambled down the staircase, she pointed back toward the upper floor. “And it’s quiet because the other rooms are empty. Melanie’s staying in the Pollyanna room—the one with the teddy bear on the door—but she’s busy baking brownies in the kitchen. And The Wild One—” Kate’s finger swerved along the upper landing to a door with a small silver trophy attached to it “—is available, just no takers yet.”
The Wild One. Walking behind her, Toby had the chance to let his gaze slip unnoticed down the back of Kate’s formfitting red T-shirt to her red pants. They fit her comfortably, falling loosely over her rounded behind. But not too rounded. Just enough so the curved outline was discernible. His gaze traveled down those long, long legs to a pair of red sandals with rhinestone trim. Red, red and more red. He knew she meant The Wild One room, but tonight, it should be Kate.
Or he wished it would be Kate.
“Good evening,” said a woman’s familiar voice, followed by a small gasp.
Toby had just stepped off the bottom step and into the foyer when he looked up. Melanie stared at him with eyes so wide, her false eyelashes spread out like miniature fans.
“Good evening,” Toby responded.
Melanie blinked those fans, then turned her gaze to her daughter. “What are you doing with…him?”
“Melanie,” Kate said, shooting her a glance, “you’re being impolite in front of company.” Kate adjusted her shawl. “And you thought I was incorrigible,” she said under her breath.
Melanie neatly folded a dish towel she’d been carrying. “Guess I momentarily forgot my manners.” Her gaze shifted to Toby. “And I’ll momentarily forget them again. What are you doing with my daughter?”
When had Kate’s mother gone from being appalled at her daughter to being protective of her? “Walking down the stairs?” He felt like adding, “At least I’m not lying on top of Kate or traipsing around naked with her.” Just the thought of doing either suddenly made him wish his pants had more breathing room.
“We’re going out to dinner,” Kate explained.
“Are you paying for him?” Melanie asked sharply.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Br-r-ring-br-r-ring.
Kate looked over her mother’s shoulder at the swinging door into the kitchen. “Melanie, the phone’s ringing. Would you mind answering the one in the kitchen?”
Br-r-ring-br-r-ring.
“It’s your father.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s been calling every ten minutes. So punctual, I can time when the brownies are done.”
Br-r-ring-br-r-ring
“You’re still not taking his calls?”
“I want him to think I’m busy. Kicking up my heels.” Melanie pursed her peach-lipstick covered lips as though debating whether to continue. The incessant ringing seemed to encourage her to explain further. “It’s about time I lived my own life, and not his. Not at his beck and call, so to speak.”
Kate paused as the ringing stopped. That was the most definitive answer she had yet received as to why her mother decided to land in Kate’s life with this surprise visit. Was this the mother who always had a box of Bisquick on hand in case Max had an urge for pancakes? The woman who dutifully sewed buttons on shirts and patched holes in socks?
This was too much to ponder on an empty stomach. Kate grabbed Toby’s arm. “Well, we’re off to do some heel-kicking of our own. See you later,” she called, pulling him toward the front door.
Once outside, Toby said, “You know, I feel a little sorry for her.”
“Why?” They had turned the corner and were walking down Stockton. Wisps of fog threaded the air. In the distance was the faint call of seagulls.
“For a moment,” Toby explained, “she reminded me of my mother.”
“She avoids her husband’s phone calls, too?”
“Not her new husband. If anything, she runs to the phone whenever he calls. But there was a time, growing up, when my mother had a wistfulness about her, something I also saw on your mom’s face tonight.”
Kate waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. As they walked in silence, she wondered if he felt any wistfulness, any regret over leaving Free. What had happened between them? At that time, Kate had been heading back to the inn, wondering if Toby was stroking Free’s commercial-shampoo hair and forgiving her. But considering he’d come back to the inn so quickly, something entirely different must have occurred.
“So,” Kate said, changing the conversation, “according to Verna, this restaurant opened just a few weeks ago. One of Verna’s pals is the owner. She said to just give her name—everything’s set up.”
“Italian restaurant?”
“California Moroccan. It’s a mixture of two cuisines, like Tex-Mex.”
“California Moroccan,” Toby mused. “Sounds like the waiters will be wearing swimsuits and fezzes.” He blew out a gust of breath. “Maybe I’ll blend in.”
TOBY STARTED TO LOWER himself onto the portly tapestry pillow, then stopped in a bent-over position.
“Something wrong?” Kate asked, who’d easily sat cross-legged on her own floor pillow. She was playing with the brightly threaded mat that lay on the table in front of her.
Toby placed his hands on his knees and shot her a look. “How about if I eat standing?” he mumbled.
“Why don’t you sit down?” Kate asked.
“Because I can’t fold in two.”
“Your pants…are too tight?” Kate whispered urgently, leaning forward. “I’m sorry. I failed you. You’re the kind of man who needs extra b
reathing room.”
Two matrons at the next table stopped talking and looked over, their gazes traveling along Toby’s no-breathing-room black leather pants. One of the women winked. He quickly looked away. “Yes,” he hissed, “I’m missing any extra breathing room, but we don’t need to broadcast it.” He could sit in Kismet because all he had to do was roll sideways onto the red lounge chair. But sitting on a Californian-Moroccan floor pillow required a bit more agility than rolling.
“Something the matter, sir?” asked a genial male voice. A slender man in his thirties, dressed in what looked to be a flowing caftan, stood next to the table, a look of professional concern etching his face.
“My back’s acting up,” Toby said.
“His pants are too tight,” Kate said at the same time.
Squeezing shut his eyes, Toby toyed with walking out of the place right now, except that would mean he’d be eating another questionable-looking sandwich for dinner. Not that that was a bad thing, it’s just that he could use a change of taste.
“Leather stretches,” Kate offered, looking hopeful. “Maybe if you just forced yourself to sit down.”
“Or I could get several of the chefs out here and we could lower you,” the man offered, holding his hands together as though he were praying. “Or maybe they could spritz you with water and we could stretch the leather—”
“No!” Toby barked. “No lowering or spritzing!” Several heads turned, interested in the hubbub. “Rubberneckers,” Tony mumbled. Levelheaded, responsible Toby was doing something he never did—cause a commotion.
Maybe that’s because he wasn’t his old levelheaded, responsible self anymore. He’d become an adventurous, dangerous pirate…who couldn’t sit down because of his adventurous, dangerous leather pants. Who was going to be lowered or spritzed any moment if he didn’t do something, fast. “I’ll force myself down,” he said between clenched teeth. He quickly sat, accompanied by a ripping sound.
The man’s eyes widened. “Lowering or spritzing would have prevented that.”
In Bed with the Wild One & In Bed with the Pirate Page 23
