“You know, the rightness of things, the proper behavior.”
“I’m not big on proper behavior,” he said. He made it sound like something dirty. He straightened and raised his hand in farewell. “Have fun, Miss Manners.”
Chiara gritted her teeth at his departing back. She gripped her purse, ready to fling it at him. She swallowed. That man’s ass, tight and just full enough, brought her to the brink of the scream she held in her throat. She exhaled and rolled her head one way, then another, hoping to release some of the knots.
“Mommy,” Max whined as he ran up. “I miss Daddy. I want to go home.”
“Okay, sweetie, let’s get your brother.” Her stomach rolled. Oh God, what was she doing? She couldn’t possibly divorce Phil. The boys would be devastated. She took Max’s hand and they walked over to some bushes Danny and his friends had a little fort in.
“Danny, time to go,” she called.
“No,” he shouted from somewhere within the leaves and branches.
“I’m counting to five,” she said.
“Don’t care.”
She counted anyway. No movement. “Danny, come out of there now or I will drag you out.” She clenched her teeth to keep from yelling and smiled at the Youngs, who passed by. Faint rustling.
“Mommy,” Max whined. She gripped his hand.
“Danny!”
He emerged, his eyes full of hate. “Dad never yells at us,” he said.
Chiara swallowed. She was a bug, squashed under that boy’s size one sneaker. Danny crossed his arms and shuffled, rigid and silent, to their car.
The next day, Chiara curled up on the sofa in the silent house. A peaceful quiet rather than the tense silence yesterday after church. The boys attended camp and Phil was at work. She had plenty she should do, but she grabbed a pillow and hugged it before leaning into the back cushion. She shut her eyes and dreamed, of a fine Italian man who kissed her like the world was about to end and made her believe they were the only two left on the planet.
Chapter Eight
Rocco spent the first few days of the week with a grin on his face. He let his hopes walk with him, unchained and unchecked. Chiara riled him--that much he knew--but all the same it was a stirring feeling. Combined with her other charms, he was left like putty, warm and malleable. That wasn’t such a good feeling. Kind of like the weather on Wednesday morning, muggy but not hot, uncomfortable but not unbearable.
He went out to his truck to grab a wrench. Pulling his navy bandana from the pocket of his Dickies, he wiped the back of his neck. A woman’s heeled sandals clicked along the sidewalk. He glanced over and swallowed. Chiara sashayed toward him, though she studied the trees across the street. In her jeans and bright deep blue tee, she looked luscious enough to sink his teeth into, juicy as a ripe Santa Rosa plum. They greeted each other and she handed him a paper lunch bag. He opened it: homemade biscotti. How did she know those were his favorites? He was about to look up at her when she spoke.
“I felt like baking but Phil doesn’t like these.”
His wide smile faded. What was he, some kind of dumping ground? “Why don’t you bake something he wants?” He handed her the bag.
Her eyes roamed the street, sparking and frowning. She met his stare. “I made them for you,” she shot out, plopping the bag on the hood of his truck, as if it was full of dog shit. She turned and he grabbed her arm. She straightened like a post, stiff and uncompromising.
“Thanks. Let’s go get a coffee,” he said.
She studied him. His cheeks broadened with his smile. She relaxed in his grip and nodded. He held her elbow and opened the door of his truck for her. She slid a hand along the door as she climbed in. He called to the guys then hopped into his seat.
“Not going to rag me for owning a truck, huh?” he said as he drove over a speed bump.
“Why would I?”
“You drive a Prius.”
“That’s Phil’s car. I drive a Ford Escape, though that was his choice too.”
“You let him make decisions for you?”
Her head whipped around and she stared at him. “To make a marriage work you have to compromise. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
Her marriage hadn’t worked either, or at least that’s what she claimed. But he didn’t want to argue with her. He watched the road while he waited at a red light. Grey clouds filled the sky.
“What kind of coffee do you want?” he asked as he pulled into the parking lot of the Peets on the corner. He glanced at her when he turned off the engine. She still stared at him, a little crease between her angry, hurt eyes. “I assume you don’t want to come in with me.”
She shook her head and faced the coffee house, as if looking at it would help her decide. “A small mocha, please.” She scooted up and fished in her pocket. He tightened his hold on the door handle, wishing his hand could join hers. “Here,” she said, handing him some folded ones.
He shook his head. “I’ll get it. You made me biscotti. It’s the least I can do.”
She shrugged and thanked him, folding the bills in her hands.
“Be right back,” he said.
Usually he waited casually in line, glancing around at the other people, the cute girl behind the counter, or just enjoying the rich coffee smells, but now he shifted and kept an eye on the door, absently placing his order. When he jogged out to his truck, his smile returned. She still sat, watching him. Rain pattered on his head but he shook it off and opened his door, handing Chiara the tray of coffees. He jumped in.
“I didn’t expect rain today,” she said.
“Don’t like the unexpected?” he said.
“I’m not prepared, that’s all.”
“I thought you liked getting wet.” He grinned at her as he pulled out. The car approaching honked. Keep your mind in the game.
He turned on the windshield wipers, which squeaked before keeping a steady rhythm with the increasingly heavy rainfall.
“I used to like to run in the rain when I was a girl.” Her voice was quiet, maybe a little sad.
“And play in the mud? Mud never stopped me from playing ball.”
“A dirty boy? We would’ve made a pair.”
He stopped the truck in front of the jobsite and took two coffees out of the tray. “Be right back,” he said.
His hair dripped and his shirt was damp when he jumped back into the truck.
“I have towels at my house if you want to dry off,” she said. She twisted her hands together. Her ringless hands.
“I’ve got it.” He stretched his arm and found a towel on the backseat. “How come you don’t wear a wedding ring?” He rubbed his hair, which would no doubt stick out at odd angles-- he was due for a haircut.
“It doesn’t fit anymore. I never got it resized.”
He grinned at her. She reached out and hovered her hand near his temple, as if she feared getting scalded. Then she ran her fingers through his hair, smoothing it. Her touch at once set him on fire and made him feel warm and heavy as if he’d been sitting in front of a crackling blaze. He held her hand.
“Where have you been all my life?” he said. Christ, he’d never used that tired old line. But with her it wasn’t. He grabbed his coffee and gulped some down.
“A few miles away.” Her finger traced his knuckles.
“Maybe I should’ve been more friendly with your brother Santo.”
“Wouldn’t have helped. Santo and I don’t get along very well.”
“We should form a club.”
“The dirrty club?” She sipped her mocha.
He chuckled. The way her tongue rolled over that extended r sound…he licked his lips. “Sounds good. Share your dirty secrets?”
“I have a thing for Chevy trucks. Yours is particularly powerful. The longer length must enhance the package.”
He laughed. She could tease. “It serves me well. Let me guess, your first boyfriend had a Chevy.”
She studied him, a sly grin eased out the corners of
her full lips. “You’re smarter than you look.”
“Ouch. Hitting too close to home?”
“No comment.” She put both hands around her cup and rubbed them along the surface.
“I think your sister’s coming to Sunday dinner at my parents’. I notice she’s a talker once she gets a few glasses of wine in her.”
“Now who’s taking a low shot?”
“I like to play dirty.”
She opened her mouth briefly before smiling. Her eyes sparkled again, a playful twinkle. He squeezed her hand back into his.
“What do you want to know?” she said.
“The answer to my question.”
She studied his face before she began. “My best friend, Jenny, was a little wild, in a good way. We’d been friends all our lives and she was over at my house almost every day. She lived with her grandparents and had no siblings. We were sixteen and I’d been dating this guy. Santo caught my boyfriend and me…” She looked out the window.
“In a compromising position?”
She fingered his hand and leaned back. “Mm-hum. My parents didn’t like him anyway, so that was the excuse they needed. For my seventeenth birthday a month later, Jenny gave me a box of condoms, which my mom, ever the snoop, found in my dresser drawer. I’m sure you can imagine the reaction.” They studied each other, eyes alight with amusement.
“Probably not much worse than when I didn’t go to college and then got my girlfriend pregnant.”
“Your parents seem more reasonable. Mine didn’t care that I hadn’t used any. I caught him with another girl the day before my birthday. I may have said some nasty things to my parents, mostly about how they couldn’t criticize since they only got married because my mom got pregnant with Santo at sixteen. I kind of blasted him too. There were a few more incidents and they were more than glad to see me go to San Diego for college. They worried about my influence on Isabella--she’s five years younger. They said I had a dirty mouth and worse behavior. Jenny tried to defend me, but they didn’t want to hear it. She couldn’t stand Santo for nicknaming me dirty girl when we were little, among other things. She said he was the dirty pig. I loved her like a sister.”
He almost laughed about Santo, but Chiara’s far away look stopped him.“You keep in touch?”
“She died at twenty five. My parents wouldn’t come to the funeral. There was hardly anyone there. Just me, a few other friends and ex-boyfriends of hers.”
“The anti-family thing?”
She nodded. He pulled her into him and she leaned on his chest.
“Sorry,” he said.
Her head nestled close to his heart. Their hands intertwined.
“Thanks. I guess I ruined the mood.”
“Was there one?” Rocco said.
He closed his eyes and inhaled. The air, her scent, filled his lungs, almost oppressive but heady, with citrus, spice, and sex mingled.
“I guess I should get home,” she said.
He listened to their breathing, in and out in time with each other. A knock tapped on her window and she gripped his thigh with a quick, low gasp. He turned the key and rolled down the window. He leaned across her. The rain had stopped, just a few droplets dripped from the trees.
“Hey Rocco,” Juan said, “Warren needs help with that pipe.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
She reached for the door handle as he closed the window.
“I’ll drive you home.”
“It’s only a few blocks. I can walk.”
He pulled away from the curb before she could open the door. “Which house?”
“On the corner of the next block, other side.”
He made a U-turn when he got there and stopped in front of her car parked in the driveway. His stomach gripped. “Lunch next week?”
“Where?” she said.
“I’ll call you.”
She nodded and scooted close to him. Their eyes locked. She placed her hand, trembling, on his cheek and kissed him. Before he could think, his arms slid around her and pulled her so close he felt her nipples harden. Her hand eased onto his inner thigh as they kissed. He pushed away and rubbed his forehead.
“I’ve got to get back,” he said. He sounded like he used to when he smoked too many cigarettes, raspy and dry.
“Have a good day. Talk to you later,” she said. She smiled as she left the truck. She waved before she went into her front door.
He couldn’t smile. His neck bristled with cold sweat. He tightened his hold on the steering wheel and leaned his head on it. He shut his eyes but he still saw her, still felt her presence. Shit. He faced forward and shifted the gear into drive. The curtains of her window twitched. He thought she stood there, waving. He held up his hand then drove down the street. He shouldn’t call. He should end this now. Or he should get her into bed, to prove she was just another woman who didn’t mean any more to him than the rest.
His body clenched as the truck bounced forward in his sudden stop. He threw it into park and jumped out, slamming the door. He took a deep breath. The moist air cooled him but he had to remind himself to breathe and take the steps into the house. A minute later, he came out again. He’d forgotten his tools. He shook his head. Something had to change or he’d go off the edge. Wrong, he was already there, hanging on a jagged cliff top with his fingers, scrabbling to keep hold. He shut his eyes. Below him, below the cliff, was a deep, clear blue lake. Chiara swam then rolled onto her back and floated, naked, calling to him. He let go.
Liquid warmth flowed through him as he walked back into the job, toolbox in hand. He would change things, all right, even if he had to play dirty to do it.
Chapter Nine
Chiara watched Rocco from the living room window. He leaned his head on the steering wheel of his truck for a moment. Her throat tightened. Did he not want to leave or did he regret meeting her? He drove away. She licked her lips. She could still taste the strong Italian roast coffee he’d drunk.
She laughed and twirled. Then she sat down, dizzy from her movement and their kisses. Just remembering them, her head lightened--she wondered if she could float off the couch. Maybe it was possible to trust someone who also made her feel on fire and like the sexiest woman she could be. She’d never told anyone, not even Phil or Isabella, how she felt about her family calling her dirty girl or about Jenny. Isabella probably knew anyway, but Phil didn’t know her parents ever called her that. He’d probably wrinkle his nose at her if he did.
Unbridled hope and passion toward Rocco coursed through her. She needed to talk about him, or hear about him. But there was no one. She wouldn’t trust even Isabella with this secret. She rose and ambled into the kitchen. What to do about dinner? She had some chicken in the fridge. Mrs. Buffone’s lemon chicken was delicious--the boys would love it. She could call and get the recipe and if she happened to ask how the family was and Mrs. Buffone happened to mention Rocco…Chiara ran to the phone.
Mrs. Buffone answered cheerfully and Chiara was at once put at ease while butterflies flitted in her stomach. “Why don’t you join us for lunch, dear,” Mrs. Buffone asked. “Sabrina, you remember, my younger son Rocco’s daughter, agrees. We’d love to have you over.”
Chiara’s smile widened. “If you’re sure…”
“Of course.”
“Thanks, I can be there in ten minutes. May I bring anything?”
“No, thank you. See you soon. You remember the address?”
“Yes, thanks.” Chiara said goodbye before she started babbling.
After hugs and greetings were exchanged, Sabrina and Mrs. Buffone left Chiara in the living room for a moment to check on lunch. She sat on the wide navy blue sofa. Turning, she noticed a grouping of family photos on the table behind her. Her eye was drawn to one of Rocco. She picked it up and studied it. He smiled broadly, very young, but sexy in his baseball uniform. His son bore a strong resemblance to him, his younger self, who had a kinder, more open face. An expression she saw sometimes in Rocco’s smi
le. She touched her finger to the photo before quickly replacing it when Sabrina walked in. Chiara clasped her hands in her lap and glanced at the young woman.
“Would you like iced tea or lemonade?” Sabrina asked, motioning to her that they were ready.
Sabrina led her into the kitchen, as warm and inviting as Chiara remembered. The table was set with cream colored dishes, silverware, blue cloth napkins, glass tumblers, a chopped salad, fruit salad, rolls, and brownies. Sabrina poured Chiara some iced tea and they all sat. Mrs. Buffone asked about the boys and Chiara explained their camp schedule and asked about Mrs. Buffone’s grandsons, who were also attending summer camps, except Sabrina’s brother, of course.
Ready for You (A San Francisco Brides Book) Page 6
