An Offer He Can't Refuse Page 14

  “It’s baggy, but warm, Contessa,” he said, angling into a nearby parking spot. “Come on, honey, wrap up.”

  She stepped out of the car as soon as he stopped, his sweatshirt a bulky gray paper bag from her neck to her knees. Maybe because she looked like a little kid, maybe because he hated the way the security car’s revolving light washed red, red, red, over her face, but something about her made his chest ache.

  Ignoring it, he slammed his door shut and grabbed her hand. It was cold and so damn small he took it between both of his and rubbed it as they walked toward the knot of people outside her office.

  The circling light flickered across their faces, illuminating some he didn’t know, and some he did—Téa’s sisters, Eve and Joey, and…Cal? What the hell was The Calculator doing at Téa’s office?

  A small figure in dark goth-wear and facial piercings ran up to Téa. “It’s all my fault,” she said.

  Téa’s feet stuttered to a halt, and Johnny pulled her back against him to keep her upright. Damn, she seemed ready to break.

  “Rachele,” she said. “You didn’t have anything to do with this. It’s me. I—”

  “Didn’t need to bother coming after all,” Joey finished, charging over. She glanced up at Johnny, calculation gleaming in the red lights in her eyes. “You can blame Eve for that.”

  Eve strolled up with an elegant older woman who was Téa in twenty years, minus the mouth-drying curves. “You can blame Eve for nothing,” the blonde corrected, shaking her head. “Eve is on your contact list if the security company gets no answer at your numbers and the silent alarm goes off.”

  The older woman—Téa’s mother, obviously—reached out to place her fingers against her daughter’s cheek and then her forehead. “Cara, are you sick?”

  Téa struggled to break free of his arms and it took Johnny a moment to release his hold. “Not sick, Mom. I’m fine.”

  The one who was sick was him! Johnny thought, taking a belated step back. Christ, here Tea was, surrounded by family, and he was pretending to be her pillar of strength. But Mrs. Caruso was looking at him curiously, so Magee manners made it imperative he step toward the women again.

  “Johnny Magee, ma’am,” he said, holding out his hand. “A client of your daughter’s. I was with her when the call came.”

  Cool fingers shook his. “Then thank you for bringing her over.” She smiled.

  Johnny stared, aware he was holding her hand moments too long. But when she smiled, the woman beamed beauty rays that age couldn’t diminish. “I see where Téa gets her looks,” he heard himself mumble.

  Joey rolled her eyes, and elbowed the blonde sister beside her. “There goes another one. Doesn’t that just make you sick, Eve? Even when you’re standing here, with all your Miss Universe appeal, one look at Mom and it’s all over for the rest of us lesser mortals.”

  “Shut up, Joey,” Eve and Téa said together.

  Then Téa went on alone. “Now tell me what happened tonight. Was there a break-in or not?”

  “Or not,” Rachele said, fiddling with the ring piercing her eyebrow. “I came by to—to—”

  “Get something you left behind you told us,” Joey supplied impatiently. “And then you fumbled with the alarm keypad which set off the alarm.”

  “Which set off the calls to me and to Eve,” Téa continued, looking stronger by the second. “So it was all a mistake. But why is everyone here?”

  “I was hunting around town for you,” Eve said, “so I called Mom and found her and Joey having coffee in the spa’s bar.”

  “Okay,” Téa replied, looking at who was left in the crowd, the security officer and Johnny’s lead tech-head. She glanced back his way. “That means Johnny called Cal and—” Her voice trailed off as she peered over Johnny’s shoulder.

  Cal? He hadn’t called Cal. He opened his mouth to let her know, when an icy-white stretch limo pulled up to the curb.

  “—and Melissa Banyon?” Téa said, incredulous.

  “Hell, no!” But it was the actress all right, exiting the chauffeured car, leading with nine yards of legs and those killer fake tits. Still inside the limo, illuminated by the interior lights, was Raphael Fremont, beaming a killer glare at Johnny that didn’t look fake at all.

  “I just happened by and had to stop once I saw you,” the actress said in her baby voice. “Is there something I can do to help?”

  The crowd was silent, some stunned, some awed, some annoyed.

  “Sign an autograph I can sell on e-bay?” Joey put in, sotto voce.

  Since none of the others were taking up the conversation, Johnny felt obligated to step in. “No, no, thank you very much, but we’re fine here.”

  Despite his assertion, she moved like an armored tank with cone headlights, right for him.

  Johnny braced himself, wondering what else a man had to go through in one night.

  Then Téa stepped in front of him. He thought she bared her teeth.

  Melissa Banyon, all six feet and sixty-four ounces of silicone, stumbled. Her gaze fixed on Téa, she lurched back. With a morose little pinkie bye-bye to Johnny, the actress exited as fast as she’d arrived.

  Their little group was still silent as the limo glided off and another car took its place. A sleek black car this time. Téa stiffened, her mother backed away, and Eve and Joey exchanged pointed glances.

  A tinted window slid down to reveal a dark-haired, dark-eyed man. Not Cosimo, this guy was much too young, but he was definitely a wiseguy. “Téa, your grandfather wants to know if you need any help,” he called out.

  “No,” she called back, sounding falsely pleasant. “I don’t need or want anything from him.”

  Johnny couldn’t stop himself from touching her again, his palm stroking the shallow curve at the small of her back, wishing he could absorb some of the tension he felt there.

  The wiseguy slipped on an easy smile. “How about an espresso? He has a new machine in his kitchen and he insists that you see it tonight.”

  The asshole was handing out orders now. Johnny took a step forward to get rid of him, but Téa beat him to it. She leaned close to the open car window. “And I insist on refusing. You can tell Cosimo I don’t drink espresso in the evenings. It gives me nightmares.”

  She stepped back, bumping into Johnny’s body. He cupped the nape of her neck. After a pause, the car moved slowly along.

  Then Johnny remembered, so damn slow too, that he was supposed to be moving away from Téa as well. With a quick step, he put space between them. She turned toward her relatives, he turned toward Cal. After eliciting a promise from the other man to see her home, Johnny withdrew into the darkness and left.

  Sixteen

  “Gotta See Baby Tonight”

  Louis Prima

  Strictly Prima (1959)

  Rachele let herself into the house, the low glow from the den letting her know that her father was waiting up for her. “I’m home, Papa,” she called out, happiness bubbling over into her voice.

  “You have your backpack?” he asked.

  Guilt bounced right off her good mood as she walked into the room where her father was settled into his recliner, watching Jay Leno in the darkness. “I have it right here,” she said, holding it up. Retrieving the item left at the design office “by mistake” had been her excuse for getting out of the house in order to meet Cal. Her recent little white lies had made time for coffees and ice cream cones and kisses.

  From that first day in the Inner Life office when she’d seen Cal, she had known that he was meant for her. Call her crazy, but love had come to her just like that. What she hadn’t known was just how sweet and gentle Cal was, his absentminded braininess dropping away whenever he was with her. Then, the dark-lashed eyes behind his glasses focused, seeming to see past her hair dye, her facial piercings, and her exaggerated makeup to the secret corners of her heart.

  A geek with a sensitive side. What more could a girl—no, a woman—ask for?

  Her father broke into her thoug
hts. “You took long enough,” he grumbled. “I was starting to worry.”

  Rachele grimaced. Starting to worry? Her father had been worried, maybe downright depressed even, for as long as she could remember. “I ran into Téa, her sisters, and mother, and we chatted a while.”

  Her father’s head jerked toward her, the light from the TV giving his face a blue cast. Blue, like her father’s perpetual state of mind. “You saw Bianca? How’s she doing?”

  Rachele slid onto the couch. “She seemed fine.” Especially after Rachele had explained her goof-up with the security panel. What she hadn’t explained though, was that it was Cal kissing her silly that had caused her to nearly forget the alarm code and then fumble at the keypad. No one had appeared to catch on that they’d been together at the office. “They’re all fine.”

  Except maybe Téa, who had shown up with mussed hair and wearing a baggy sweatshirt. The boss never let herself look so disheveled. She never let a man touch her like Johnny Magee had been touching her either, Rachele thought, remembering how he’d been holding the boss’s hand between both of his. She grinned to herself and couldn’t help but bounce a little on the tweedy cushion. Love was in the air.

  She glanced over at her father, his attention back to the television. On the small table beside him was a framed photo of Rachele’s mother. Rachele dusted it herself twice a week, and Windexed it often to keep the protective glass streak-free. Her heart twisted, the exuberance inside her tempering a little.

  How lonely her father must feel with his wife forever out of reach. No wonder he tried to keep his only child under glass and close to him.

  But if he knew she’d found her soulmate, wouldn’t he relax his hold on her?

  “Papa,” she ventured, wondering if she could really bring herself to tell her father what was going on in her life, “how old were you when you married Mama?”

  “Twenty,” he said, still focused on Leno and the NASCAR driver he was interviewing.

  “I’m older than that,” she replied, not sure he’d believe it. “And Mama was only eighteen, right?”

  Her father grunted. “You’re stupid when you’re young.” His voice lowered, sounding almost bitter. “Even stupider when you’re in love.”

  Rachele grimaced, her upbeat mood fast deflating. Sighing, she toyed with the ring in her left eyebrow. Maybe tomorrow she should return to the Palms Piercing Parlor and get another beside it. Or perhaps a colorful tat somewhere on her neck or on her shoulder. Better yet, she could go into the bathroom right this minute and see about adding some peroxide streaks to her purplish, spiky bangs.

  But none of those would change her father.

  And there was already a man in her life who liked her just as she was.

  The laptop computer sat on the coffee table in front of her. She reached for it, then quickly folded her legs Indian-style and balanced it on her knees. The Instant Messenger screen opened in a blaze of colors.

  Papa wouldn’t approve of her making a call this late at night—nice girls wouldn’t!—but she could still make contact with Cal. He’d bring her back to bliss-level.

  If he was logged on.

  And there he was, YAUN4U—Yet Another Unix Nerd 4U—the #1 buddy on her list.

  REHI, she typed, knowing it would show up on his monitor along with her screen name, IT chick, for “Italian chick.” It was hi again, though technically they hadn’t even said—let alone kissed—a good night. The arrival of the security cruiser and the Carusos and company had put a kibosh on that.

  Her cursor blinked without pause for long seconds. Maybe he’d left his keyboard for a soda or a bowl of cereal or—

  HT

  His “hi there” seemed less than enthusiastic.

  MISS U, she typed quickly, needing reassurance.

  The pause was longer this time, and Rachele couldn’t hold out against it.

  R U THERE? She typed.

  HERE, YAUN4U wrote back.

  For some reason the four-letter word looked pissed off.

  Rachele’s fingers flew. WHAT? she wrote.

  WE CAN’T KEEP THIS UP.

  Her stomach clenched. THIS? she wrote back. WHAT “THIS?”

  SNEAKING. HIDING.

  PRIVATE! She protested, glancing over at her father. ALONE TIME!

  YAUN4U just repeated himself: SNEAKING. HIDING.

  Rachele replayed the evening in her mind. They’d met outside the office, and Cal had lifted her up and swung her around in his arms. She’d laughed and run her fingers through his Beatles-mop, then kissed the top of his head. As he’d brought her feet back to the ground, her chin had bumped his glasses askew.

  He’d looked so darn cute with them half-hanging off his face that she’d gone on tiptoe and planted a big wet kiss on his smiling mouth.

  And like every other time they’d kissed before, she’d felt that Cupid-wound over her heart reopen and spill that perfect mix of exhilaration and certainty through her bloodstream.

  But now Cal didn’t seem as certain as she.

  Was this the infamous electronic dump? A blow-off by e-mail was supposed to be bad, but via IM was ranked the lowest of the low.

  R U…Her fingers stumbled over the letters. R U SAYING LJBF?

  Let’s just be friends.

  NO. The answer came back with gratifying speed. I’M SAYING TELL YOUR FATHER ABOUT US.

  Tell her father? Rachele glanced over at him, lost in Leno, so lost to her. Could she break his concentration and break the news that his daughter had another man in her life?

  SOON, she typed. Soon she would tell him. But how would her father take the news? Would he see her finally growing up as a defection or a natural progression?

  She would hate to hurt him. Hate it.

  But Cal would hurt her if she didn’t come clean, because losing him would break her heart. And then she’d be glued to the daughter seat on the den’s plaid couch for the rest of her life.

  Seventeen

  “Let’s Sit This One Out”

  Vic Damone

  My Baby Loves to Swing (1963)

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Standing on the sidewalk outside Johnny’s front door, Téa jumped at the sound of his voice. Her fingers slipped off the tape measure’s lock. Its long metal tongue, extending more than twenty feet, recoiled, the end whipping back and forth as it was pulled back into its bright yellow housing. “I’m doing my job,” she said, trying to sound pleasant while not looking at him. “The one you hired me for.”

  There was no reason not to sound pleasant, she reminded herself, as she picked up the memo pad lying next to her briefcase to make a notation. Though their “date” on Friday night had ended abruptly—at least it felt that way to her—it didn’t have a bearing on this Monday afternoon and their remaining relationship. The professional one.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him across the pool and moving closer. Taking a quick sidestep, she pressed her ankle against her briefcase, keeping herself between him and the secret she’d hidden inside.

  The book. The Loanshark book.

  All weekend, as she alternated between brooding over Johnny’s abrupt abandonment of her outside her office—not to mention nary a phone call to apologize or to explain—and working at her sketchpad on designs for the house, the book had intruded on her concentration. Even now it seemed to call to her in a low, whispery voice.

  “And what the hell are you wearing?”

  This voice was crabby, abrupt, and much too close by. Téa jolted again, her startled movement knocking over her briefcase and spilling its contents. Pencils, an art eraser, a Modernism magazine, and a bulky black nylon makeup bag slid onto the pavement.

  Téa crouched to reclaim the items, reaching for the makeup bag first.

  Johnny was faster. His long fingers closed over the black nylon as he bent too. “Why are you dressed like that?”

  She didn’t need to look at what she was wearing. It was a simple, polished cotton shirt dress that wa
s fastened from knees to throat with snaps. So instead she stared at his hand, holding fast to her history, holding fast to her shame. Inside the bag was a Pepto-pink pre-teen diary, the kind that came with a little brass lock and key. Both were ineffective in really keeping away eyes interested in the confessions of a twelve-year-old, but the package made a perfect disguise for the grown-up secrets of a Mafia boss. No one, not in the mob or in the FBI, had ever suspected that the Loanshark book they wanted so badly to find had always been hidden in plain sight—in the room of Salvatore Caruso’s eldest daughter.

  Conveniently there, because Salvatore had given his eldest daughter the responsibility of all the record-keeping, from the entering of new names to the adding and subtracting of sums. The little job that had made her feel like his most important princess.

  “Téa?”

  Her heart stuttered inside her chest. She hadn’t seen a man’s hand holding that book in sixteen years. While she’d prayed for that time to come during the first days of her father’s disappearance, she’d prayed just as hard it wouldn’t happen in the many, many years since.

  “Téa.”

  Johnny’s bark brought her gaze to his face. And from there to the rest of him. She stared.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he asked. “You’re silent, you’re jumpy, it’s near ninety outside and you’re dressed in another of your nun-suits.”

  He wasn’t dressed at all. Elegant, urbane Johnny Magee, the one who she was designing a home for filled with sophisticated decorations like a George Nelson slatted bench and Joseph Blumfeld original wool rugs, had gone jungle on her, wearing nothing more than cut-off Levis, ratty tennis shoes, scruffy whiskers, and a sweat-dotted tan.

  “What have you been doing?” she replied, noting streaks of dirt across his arms and chest and a leaf in his hair. If she had to hazard a guess, she’d say he’d been working with the landscapers she’d seen about the property on her way in. In the parking area she’d squeezed her Volvo between two decrepit trucks with GUERRORO GARDENING painted on the doors and plywood walls extending the sides of beds nearly filled with palm fronds and half-decayed vegetation.