by Arlene James
“This is lovely,” he said, lightly stroking the rim of one cup.
She had the grace to blush. “Thank you. The, um, coffee’s flavored. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” he said, surprised to find that it was so. Normally he hated the pretentiousness of flavored coffees, but nothing about this particular woman was pretentious in the least, just the opposite, in fact. He indicated the pot. “May I?”
“Of course. Help yourself.”
The aroma of amaretto seemed to fill the small room as he poured a steady stream of hot black coffee into one of the cups on the table. He moved the spout over the second cup and looked up in question. Smiling, she nodded, and he poured a cup for her.
“Take anything with that?”
“Just a touch of milk.”
He tilted the tiny milk pitcher over the cup and let a few drops trickle in, then stirred the brew to a rich brown before passing cup and saucer to her.
Reaching for a puffy chocolate muffin, he looked around for a chair. She had placed one at a slight angle, facing away from the drawing board to which it obviously belonged. She herself was hovering over a stool on rollers next to her sewing machine. He placed the muffin on a plate and handed it to her. She flashed him a smile of surprise. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” Choosing a sticky bun for himself, he pulled the chair close and sat down. The coffee tasted surprisingly rich and only faintly flavored. “Excellent,” he said, placing the cup on the saucer and picking up the sticky bun. To his surprise he was ravenous, and he ate half the bun in one bite, polishing it off with the next. Swigging coffee, he looked over the serving platter again, torn between a strawberry tart and a little cake frosted with smooth white icing and decorated with a plump raspberry. He went for the tart, laughing when strawberry filling oozed out as he set his teeth into it. Cassidy laughed, too, and set aside her own goodies to come to his rescue with one of those absurdly delicate handkerchiefs. He wouldn’t let her touch him with it, shaking his head and twisting aside as he licked the fingers that held the tart.
“You’re going to get it all over you,” she scolded playfully.
He grinned at her. “I’m a big boy. I can play with strawberry goo if I want to, one of the privileges of adulthood.”
She laughed at that, too. “You may be grown-up, but you look like a little boy caught with his fingers in the jam jar.”
He couldn’t help himself. Dropping the tart to his plate, he reached out with his sticky hand and wiped strawberry “goo” onto the tip of her nose, chin, and cheek. Her mouth dropped open, and she danced back out of his reach before suddenly doubling over with laughter. Setting aside both plate and saucer, he went after her, catching her easily in one arm as she squealed and tried to defend herself with the handkerchief.
“This, Miss Penno,” he teased, “is how little boys play with jam!”
Laughing and struggling, she twisted her body against him. Playfulness fled before a very adult surge of lightning-hot desire, and he found himself looking down into her upturned face, marveling, as she grew still, at how attuned she seemed to be to his every thought and mood. He pushed away the knowledge that he had no right to secure this young woman’s affections and very deliberately wiped his sticky fingers across her mouth before lowering his head for surely the sweetest kiss he’d ever known. Her arms slid around his waist, holding him lightly as he forced her head back, licking and tasting and finally swirling his tongue around the inside of her mouth.
Gradually she pulled away and cleaned her face with the handkerchief. He saw in the bleakness of her moss green eyes that she knew what a foolish, pointless thing he had just done. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, retreating to his chair.
“It’s all right,” she said softly, offering him another hanky.
He took it this time, smiling wryly. “No, it isn’t.”
She sighed. “Whatever you say.”
He retrieved the cup and saucer, but had lost his appetite for the pastry. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I usually have better sense—and manners.”
“You’re probably just feeling trapped,” she said offhandedly, wavering between her own disappointment and compassion for his obvious misery.
“You know don’t you? I suppose William told you everything.”
She shrugged. “He told me that your grandfather set up his will so that you have to marry a certain woman.”
“Betina,” he said bitterly.
“Betina of the Halloween costume party,” Cassidy reminded him gently.
He smiled in spite of everything. She had such a way about her, this tall, slender, angelic woman. Meeting her had been the bright spot in the dark sky of his future, the oasis in the desert that had become his life, but that’s all she could be, momentary, transitory, just a short stop along his way. She was right, of course, about him feeling trapped, and no doubt that had colored and intensified his every response to this woman. It wasn’t fair, not to her and not to him and not to the marriage that he was obligated to try to build with Betina, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t enjoy his moments with Cassidy Penno. He had a right to that much, didn’t he? So long as he didn’t step over the line again. Mentally he drew that line boldly for himself: They could laugh together, talk together, work together, but there it stopped. He would not kiss her or touch her in a “romantic” fashion again. That gave him something to look forward to in the coming weeks but at the same time protected them both. His smile broadened. He drank his coffee and watched her drink hers.
Finally she set her cup aside. “We’d better get to work,” she said, reaching for a blue plastic measuring tape, which she draped about her neck. Next she found a sheet of paper with a silhouette of the human body and lined brackets representing different measurements printed on it. She fixed the paper to a clip board and slid a pencil behind one ear, then positioned her stool in the center of the floor and motioned for him to stand before her. He did as she indicated, spreading his blue-jeaned legs slightly.
She wrapped the tape around his waist and snapped it apart again instantly before snatching the pencil from behind her ear and scribbling a notation on the paper. She measured his hips, legs, arms and shoulders in the same manner. “Man, you’re good at this,” he said, chuckling.
“Part of the job,” she replied, then clamped the pencil between her teeth. “Wif oo ahms.”
He laughed. “What?”
She took the pencil out of her mouth. “Lift your arms.”
“Ah.” He lifted his arms, and she wrapped the tape around his upper chest, pulling it tight in the center, her body moving close to his. The tape parted and slid free, but before she stepped back, he let his arms drop around her. She froze, and then she simply dropped down to the floor.
“Almost through,” she said, as if he had not just tried to hold her.
Disappointment, relief, embarrassment and frustration percolated through him all at the same time. He ground his teeth. Obviously she had more sense and wisdom that he did. Just as obviously he couldn’t trust himself with her. He waited for her to finish, but seconds ticked by and she made no move. When finally he looked down, it was to find her head bowed, her hands and the tape on the floor. Before he could say anything, she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and brought up the tape. As her hands rose slowly toward his groin, he realized in a flash that she had yet to take his inseam. In an instant he was hard as stone.
Catching her hands in his, he sank down with her on the floor. Placing her hands on his shoulders, he took her into his arms. Unresisting, she leaned forward awkwardly and laid her head on his shoulder. He placed his cheek against the top of her head and closed his eyes.
For a long while, he simply held her. The sudden rush of desire gradually faded, leaving in its place an odd sort of contentment tinged with sadness. He sighed and kissed the top of her head, saying, “I have no right to this. I can’t change anything. The business is at stake, and my whole family’s depending o
n me.”
“I know,” she whispered.
He ran his hands over her back, feeling the sharp little bumps that defined her delicate spine. Her breasts felt surprisingly heavy against his chest, given her small frame. He closed his eyes again, imagining her long, slender body lying alongside his. He could almost feel the jut of her hipbones, the softness of her flat belly, the firmness of the little mound at the apex of her thighs, her long legs tangling with his. “I wish I’d met you a long time ago,” he said.
She lifted her head. “Before the affair, you mean.”
He winced, loosening his embrace. “Will didn’t leave anything out, did he?” He smiled at himself, at the irony of this whole thing, and teased gently, “I’ll have to speak to him about that mouth of his.”
She gasped and pulled away. “Oh, no, don’t! He’ll never understand. Please, Paul, don’t—”
“Hey! It was a joke. I’m actually glad that he told you everything.” His smile twisted wryly. “I’m not sure I could have. I think the temptation not to would have been too great.”
He saw a spark of pleasure in her soft green eyes before she bowed her head again. Her fingers picked at the tape. “You just think that now. Probably if you didn’t have this thing hanging over your head, you wouldn’t even notice me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is,” she insisted quietly. “It’s all right. I’m used to it. I’m just not the sort men notice.”
He laid his hand against the side of her throat and neck, feeling her pulse quicken. “What about Charlie Chaplin?”
She made a face. “Tony’s not interested in me,” she said firmly. “He just thinks that because I’m a virgin I must be frustrated enough to eventually give in if he keeps at me.”
A virgin. Paul gulped. Heaven help him. When had he last met one of those? When had he even wanted to? What an utter fool he’d been, what a complete and total ninny to waste his time on experienced, sophisticated women when all this sweetness languished here. He’d played games when he might have had honesty and simplicity. He deserved just what he was getting. He deserved manipulative, scheming Betina. And Cassidy Penno deserved someone free to love and treasure her as the prize she was. He said, “Promise me you won’t throw yourself away on the likes of that little imposter.”
Her eyes grew round and then she burst out laughing. “On Tony Abatto?” she said. “I’d rather join an order of nuns!”
He chuckled. “Don’t do that, either.”
She sobered and told him solemnly, “Can’t. I’m not Catholic.”
They both erupted at that, laughing until their sides ached. Finally he got to his feet. When she started to do likewise, he pointed a finger at her. “You stay right there. Give me that measuring tape.” Her gaze questioning but trusting, she did as he said. He pulled the tape through his fingers to the end, then placed the end at the place where his groin met his thigh. Pointing at the floor, he asked, “What does that say?”
She read the number, reached for the clip board and scribbled on it, muttering, “It says that you have very long legs.”
“So do you,” he said, imagining those legs wrapping around him. He cleared his throat, turning off the vision and said, “Okay, what’s next?”
She took the tape from him and got up from the floor. “Fabric. We have to pick out fabric.”
“All right,” he said, caught up again in forbidden fantasies. He shook his head and belatedly added, “But, uh, not today. I, um, I have to get out of here. Go, I mean. I have to go.” He glanced at his watch, trying to make it sound reasonable. “How about, um, Monday?”
She nodded, then said, “Listen, we don’t have to drag this out if you don’t want to. I can pick out the fabric and sew everything up, and we’ll just do a single fitting, if you want.”
He didn’t want. He wanted every moment with her, but maybe she was too smart to let him have it. He shrugged, surprised by how much it cost him. “Whatever you think best.”
She looked away, pretending to be busy with the clipboard and pencil. “Oh, well, I usually prefer for the client to pick out the fabrics.”
“Is that what you want,” he asked carefully, “for me to pick out the fabrics?”
She turned her head one way and then another, looking at the figure on the paper, and then she dropped the clipboard and lifted her gaze to his. “Yes.”
A giddy smile split his face. “Monday, then?”
She smiled, too. “Monday.”
“What time?”
She bit her lip. “I close about six.”
“Six,” he repeated. They should have dinner. He wanted to have dinner with her, but he knew it would be stupid, beyond stupid, even risky, potentially devastating. He took a deep breath. “Would you like to have dinner with me afterward?” So much for being sensible. “I’ll behave myself, I promise. Well, I’ll try.”
She gave him a slow, shy smile. “It would have to be someplace public, and maybe you wouldn’t want to be seen—”
“I know just the place,” he interrupted quickly. “It’s nothing fancy, but the barbecue is great. You like barbecue?”
“I love it.”
“Great! Okay, it’s settled then. Monday at six; fabric first, then barbecue. I’ll look forward to it.”
“Me, too.” They stood a moment, sharing the anticipation, before she said, “I’ll walk you out.”
He was careful not to touch her as they wound their way through the darkened shop again. At the front door she took his coat down and handed it to him. He slung it on and waited, telling himself that he simply could not give in to the impulse to kiss her goodbye. She slid open the dead bolt and turned the lock, depressed the thumb tab at the top of the curved handle and pulled open the door. The rain had ceased, but a chilly breeze gusted, blowing discarded paper and crisp leaves along the curb. He stepped out into dreary afternoon and turned back to face her.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
She merely smiled and slowly closed the door. He turned and poked his hands into his pockets, inhaling deeply, breathing in and holding these last moments of freedom. He knew what he had to do and what it would cost him, but he also had Monday and perhaps a time or two after that. It would be difficult, even dangerous, and no doubt in the end he’d wind up with a broken heart, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t take every moment she’d give him. She deserved better, he knew, but he was cad enough to let her settle, in this case, for just what he could give back: some smiles, laughter, a little careful flirtation, the bittersweet knowledge that someone wanted her even if he couldn’t have her. He wouldn’t let it go beyond that. He would protect her from more, knowing that one day a man more deserving than he would gratefully receive all the treasure she had to give. He hated that unknown man already, but at the same time he wanted him for her.
God, who’d have thought straitlaced, uptight old Will could have a kid sister like Cassidy? He shook his head and strolled away in the direction of his car, content for that moment just to be amazed at the small ironies of life.
Chapter Three
They didn’t waste any time with the fabric selection. Cassidy had put together several color-coordinated options, detailing how each fabric in each set would be used. She had them laid out on a table in the sewing room, alongside pencil-colored pictures showing how the costume would look. Paul glanced over them all and asked, “What’s your favorite?”
She pointed to a particular combination of earth tones, blues and reds. He studied it about five seconds.
“Oh, yeah. That’s definitely it. Let’s go eat. I’m starved.”
She laughed. “You’re always starved.”
“Lately,” he said, realizing that his appetite had shown significant improvement during the past week. “Where’s your coat?”
She went to a small door in one corner, opened it, and took out a man’s navy blue wool, military-style, double-breasted coat. He hurried across the room to take it and hold it open for her to
slip her arms into the sleeves. A name had been written on the inside label in red ink.
“C. Marmat,” he read. “Who on earth is that?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know. Some sailor who owned this coat before it went to the Army-Navy Store.”
She buys her clothes secondhand at the Army-Navy Store, he marveled. Betina wouldn’t touch even designer clothes on consignment. When he realized that he had actually compared the two of them, he shut down ruthlessly on the impulse. He had determined early that morning after a night of restless tossing to keep the two separate in his mind. Betina was his future, however dreaded. Cassidy was... his friend. He caught her by the hand and dragged her toward the showroom. Laughing, she tugged away, ran back to the closet and retrieved a minuscule purse on a long, thin strap. She slung the strap over her shoulder and ran back to him, placing her hand in his once more. Together they hurried through the store and out the front, which Cassidy locked with two separate keys.
Paul’s car was waiting at the curb. He unlocked the passenger door and ushered her inside, then hurried around to slide beneath the wheel. The night was clear and pleasantly cool. As he drove them toward the barbecue place, Cassidy settled back into her corner and looked at him, one jeaned knee drawn up slightly so that the ankle of her burgundy boot lay against the edge of her seat.
“So, how was your day?”
He chuckled because it was the kind of thing long-term couples said to one another. “Okay. How was yours?”
“Oh, mine was fine,” she said with a smug little smile. “I was Goldilocks today, and I made Tony be the baby bear. He was a very pouty baby bear.”
Laughter spurted out of Paul’s mouth. “Just how does a baby bear dress?” he wanted to know.
Cassidy’s smile was sublime. “Well, he wears a bear suit, of course, and a pacifier on a ribbon around his neck and a diaper and a great big baby bonnet.”
She painted a lovely picture, lovely enough to keep Paul laughing all the way to the restaurant, if restaurant was the correct word. The place where Paul took her on lower Green-ville Avenue was more of a supper club. The building was slightly dilapidated with a neon sign out front that flashed and buzzed, “Hoot Man’s BBQ & Music Club.” Even at six-fifteen in the evening, a scratchy recording of jazz blared over the loudspeaker by the door and a line of people snaked around the side of the building. Paul parked at the side of the building and pulled Cassidy by the hand around to the back by the hand, where he pounded on a door labeled, Deliveries.
