An Offer He Can't Refuse Read online

  “She’s not here,” Johnny said. His voice still sounded tense. He pulled Téa forward, his fingers icy on hers. “I believe my associate, Cal, was going to drive her home when she finished her—” he hesitated, “—measuring.”

  “She said she had some work to do here today,” Beppe replied. “Is that right, Téa?”

  “Sure. Yes. I’m giving her more responsibility. Rachele’s such a hard worker, you know.” It wasn’t up to her to spill the news that his darling daughter was in love. Not to mention, as Joey had pointed out so often, she was chicken.

  Rachele’s father grunted. “Then maybe she went back to the office to do something there. I was worried when she didn’t get home for dinner.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be there any moment, Beppe.”

  He nodded, then looked from her, to Johnny, then back again.

  Téa took the hint. “Johnny Magee, this is Guiseppe Cirigliano, Rachele’s father. Beppe, this is one of my clients, Johnny Magee. Beppe recognized your blueprints, Johnny. He did the rockwork that created your lagoon before he retired.”

  The two men shook hands. Johnny cleared his throat. “I’m certain Cal will see your daughter home safely.”

  The older man nodded. “Then I shall return the favor and see Téa safely to her car, since her…measuring here appears to be done as well.”

  Hello, reality.

  “Good-bye, Johnny,” Téa said.

  No sense in being silly, anyway. This wasn’t going further between them. One dance, he’d said. Meaning her one night with him was over.

  Twenty-three

  “Just One More Chance”

  Dean Martin

  Dean Martin Sings (1953)

  It took Johnny a few days to make it back to the tiki room. He’d sent the cleaning crew to retrieve the barware, but he’d avoided the place himself.

  He didn’t know why he was here this afternoon, he thought, sliding onto one of the stools. But he’d been restless and distracted since the night Téa had left him.

  She hadn’t been back either.

  Rachele had come by, ostensibly to take additional measurements and to show him some sample books, but more accurately to flirt with Cal. Their relationship had this curious clandestine vibe to it.

  The night Rachele’s father had startled the bejesus out of Johnny, he’d covered for the young couple without really thinking about it. Téa had too, he remembered now. Maybe he would have asked her about it if she’d come within shouting distance.

  She hadn’t.

  And he didn’t know what to do about it. He didn’t know what he wanted to do about it.

  There were all the same reasons not to get further involved with her. And the other night he’d achieved his goal of recouping a measure of his self-respect by making her come before he did, like any gentleman would. So he could leave things as they were in good conscience.

  Not to mention she appeared to want nothing more to do with him.

  It didn’t rankle.

  “Johnny?”

  He swung around to find Cal lurking at the entrance, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He was wearing baggy flowered shorts, a plaid shirt, the ubiquitous black hi-tops, and…

  “Is that a tan?” Johnny asked. He couldn’t have been more surprised if the other man had shown up with an eyebrow piercing like his girlfriend’s.

  Cal lifted an arm and squinted at it through his glasses. “Maybe. We haven’t been working as much as we usually do.”

  Guilt gave Johnny a little jab. For a few hours each morning, he’d been reading the sports pages and perusing the tech-heads’ reports, but without his usual attention to detail or requests for additional data. Though he’d daily been calling in the bets his people were to play, the fact was he’d been sleepwalking through the decisions.

  With a sigh, he looked at the papers in Cal’s hand and gestured him inside. “Is that what you have there? Work?”

  Cal stepped into the tiki room, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. “Holy Don-the-Beachcomber, Batman,” he said, handing over the stack of reports. “So this is the hidden room you found.”

  His father’s hidden room. Johnny spread the papers on top of the bar and pretended to be interested in them. His father had supposedly built this room for a woman he’d claimed to love. A woman unknown to Johnny, who might be able to tell him for sure if his father had become a hit man for the mob.

  He still couldn’t believe it was so. Though they’d only had those annual visits, Johnny was sure he’d known his father. He thought his father had loved him. Could a man love his kid and be a killer at the same time? Could a kid love a man who was a killer? Jesus. No wonder he couldn’t sleep.

  He didn’t know anyone else plagued by such hellish questions, except…

  “Téa,” he thought, murmuring the name aloud. “Téa.” Maybe that was the source of their chemistry. Maybe that was why he couldn’t get the woman out of his head.

  “About her.”

  Johnny jerked his gaze toward Cal. He’d forgotten the other man was in the room. “What? What about Téa?”

  “I remembered what your half-brother said.”

  Half-brother. More guilt poked at Johnny. He’d been an asshole to Michael that day at his bar. “My brother doesn’t know anything about Téa.”

  “He told you to be careful of the Caruso connection. I asked Rachele about it.”

  Johnny slid a look at Cal. He was wearing a dogged expression, the one that said he’d swum up from his usual realm, fathoms-deep in nanodigits and quartiles. It meant he wasn’t going to be put off easily. “Yeah? So?”

  “The Carusos are the first family of the California Mafia,” Cal said. “But I guess you know that.”

  Johnny shrugged.

  “And maybe your brother was right to warn you off an involvement with Téa.”

  He had no “involvement” with Téa. She wasn’t even speaking to him, damn it.

  “Especially now that the leadership is in question.”

  “What?” Johnny stared at Cal. “What are you talking about?”

  “Rachele told me Téa’s grandfather is the head of the family, but he’s announcing his retirement soon. Rachele also said that in the last few days Palm Springs has been crawling with mob goons jockeying for position in the coming new order.”

  Johnny rolled his shoulders. None of this mattered to him. It was the Mafia of the past that concerned him, not its future.

  “They’ve been dropping by the design office.”

  “What?” Johnny frowned. “Who?”

  “The goons. They come in and try kissing-up to Téa.” He plucked his cell phone from his belt and peered at the screen. “Rachele sent me a text message a few minutes ago and told me another couple of them were hanging around even though Téa said she was busy.”

  Johnny half-rose from the stool, then forced himself back down. She was a big girl. And not his girl, so it was none of his concern. He shuffled the papers in front of him. “We’ve got work to do.”

  Cal came closer and slipped one sheet from the rest. “These are the games we have to decide on today.”

  “Right, right.” He tried focusing on the list of Sunday matchups and their current odds while Cal wandered about the room. Which ones should the syndicate put their money on?

  The Raiders vs. the Chargers, the Chargers favored by 13½ points.

  Johnny might have managed to find out about Cosimo Caruso retiring, but he’d been brooding for the last few days instead of doing anything to uncover the truth about his father. Not to mention that he’d let Téa slip through his fingers. Téa, his hunch, Téa his one and only real connection to the California Mafia.

  From the corner of his eye he saw Cal come around behind the bar, and he bent his head over the papers and tried to concentrate again.

  The Jets vs. the Dolphins. Would the home field advantage give the New York team at least a 10-point win over Miami?

  “Hey, a boombox,” Cal said.

/>   Johnny glanced up to see him reaching out a skinny arm. “No—” But it was too late.

  “The Girl from Ipanema.” Guitar strings plucking out a samba beat. The silvery sound of a metal brush stroking a snare drum.

  And then Téa. He was getting damned good at this flashback thing. Because suddenly she was in his mind, in his arms, her skin hot, her mouth molten, her sweet ass full and pushing into his hands. Thank God for that darkness. If he’d seen what he’d touched he would have been lost once again, too impatient to wait for her. He would have taken what he wanted.

  What he wanted now. Again.

  Johnny scooped the papers into a pile. “Cal.”

  The other man was frowning down at his cell phone. “More goons,” he said.

  Johnny stood, the legs of the stool screeching against the linoleum. Goons kissing-up to Téa. His hunch. His woman. “I’m going over there.”

  Cal’s voice caught him halfway across the room. “The matchups, Johnny. You have to decide on which matchups.”

  Sighing, he stalked back to pluck the handful of mechanical pencils out of the other man’s pocket protector. “Now hold the list against the wall,” he told Cal.

  To give his friend credit, he didn’t quibble or quiver as Johnny aimed for the makeshift dartboard with the pencils. All five found a place on the page, held fast by the bamboo lining the walls. “Now you have your matchups,” he said, turning again to leave.

  With the exception of one private matchup that he was going to play today.

  Magee vs. Caruso.

  He was betting on himself to win.

  Twenty-four

  “Oh Me! Oh My! Oh You!”

  Doris Day

  Tea for Two (1950)

  Téa barreled out of the front door of her office and into a man’s arms. She gasped and clutched her purse tighter. Not again. She’d just sent one pair of long-lost “cousins” packing and she wasn’t yet ready to steady her nerves and steel her spine to face another Italian male who wanted something from her.

  She forced herself to look up. Oh. “Johnny.” Relief sluiced through her, then she remembered the last time she’d been in his arms. You’re drunk on sex, he’d said.

  Just looking at him brought it all rushing back. Face going hot, she stepped away, and tried to tell herself it didn’t matter that she was wearing a very casual long denim skirt, chambray shirt, and her scuffed clogs. “What are you doing here?”

  He blinked as if he wasn’t sure of the answer, then forked a hand through his blond hair. “I…wanted to see you.”

  She gestured with her hand. “I’m on my way out.” Before anyone else could corner her in her office. Her mother had warned her the wolves would come sniffing and they had done more than that. Every day a Dominelli or a LaScala or a Pastorino dropped by and then set up camp in her reception area until she made it forcefully clear she wasn’t saying yes to breakfast/lunch/drinks/dinner or whatever else they suggested as a way of conoscerci—getting chummy. Either her estrangement from her grandfather wasn’t widespread news within the ranks of the families of the California Mafia or the dark-haired, dark-eyed men trying to get close to her didn’t believe it. “Can we make an appointment for another time?”

  “It’s not an appointment I want with you.” His hand scraped through his hair again.

  Huh? Téa tilted her head, trying to figure out what he meant. Now would be a good time for her mind-reading imagination to kick in. But it didn’t, and then, over Johnny’s shoulder, she saw a car cruise the street, a black, ominous Escalade. There was no concrete reason—other than her Mafia “cousins” seemed to go more for show than subtlety—for her heart to trip and tumble, but better safe than sorry.

  She brought her purse to her chest and crossed her arms over it. “Look, Johnny, I’m sorry, but I really have to go.”

  “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

  She shook her head. “I’m going to the swap meet in Riverside,” she told him, then instantly regretted it. A trip to a swap meet wouldn’t sound urgent to him, she was sure, but to her it was imperative that she get out of town for a few hours. She needed a break from the unpleasant sensation of the wolves’ hot breath on her back.

  Johnny frowned. “A swap meet?”

  See? She’d known it wouldn’t make sense to him. She licked her lips, and then tried to sound reasonable and professional. “It runs on the weekends as well, but today’s the day for the best selection at the music dealer I want to visit. I’m going on a search for your project, as a matter of fact. He usually brings an extensive collection of exotica LPs.”

  Johnny nodded. “Rachele showed me your new sketches.”

  Téa had proposed framing vintage album covers for the room that was going to be his office. “She said you approved the idea.”

  “I did. I like it.”

  Then why wouldn’t he get out of the way so she could get on her way? Something was up with him and she couldn’t fathom what it would be. His posture was stiff and he was staring at her mouth as if…as if…

  No. She wasn’t going to read anything into his sudden appearance or his odd tension. They’d had their “one dance” and that’s all there was to it.

  That’s all he’d said he wanted.

  Movement down the street caught her eye and her head jerked right. Damn. The Escalade was back, cruising slower this time. She had to get out of here before she pulled the Loanshark book out of her purse and confessed all to the next mobster who showed up on her doorstep.

  “I have to go, Johnny.” Okay, so she sounded like a kid with a bathroom issue, but that wasn’t so far from the feeling of anxiety building inside her.

  His hand took hold of her elbow. “Then we’ll go together.” Already he was guiding her toward his silver Jag, parked on the street just a few feet away.

  “What?” Frowning, she looked up at him. “Why?”

  His expression was as indecipherable as before. “I’m the client, aren’t I?”

  Before she could even think of a way out of the situation, he had her in the passenger seat and was pulling away from the curb. As she gave him the requested directions, she tried to figure out why she felt hustled. And she tried to figure out why he wanted to accompany her to a swap meet, of all places. Johnny Magee wasn’t a swap meet kind of guy, not in those European-cut slacks and that collarless shirt.

  Sliding a glance his way, she caught him sliding one at her. Their gazes caught. A hot flush washed from her hairline to her toenails.

  I want you again. I want you drunk on what I can do to your body.

  She swallowed hard and clenched her thighs together. It sounded like Johnny’s voice, it looked like that’s what his gaze was saying, but it couldn’t be. He’d wanted that one time. He’d said so. And she’d promised herself to be content with that. Plenty of women survived one-night stands.

  They didn’t feel the need the day after, and the day after that, to be in their lover’s arms again, his hot palms cupping her bare behind, his hard chest beneath her lips and tongue. She squirmed against the leather seat.

  “Did you always want to be an interior designer?” he asked abruptly, his gaze shifting back to the windshield.

  Téa blinked. “What?”

  “An interior designer. How did you hit upon that as a career?”

  Well, that just went to show how inexperienced she was in the ways of men and mornings-after. Or, more accurately, days-after. He wanted to talk about her work. She flounced against the seat, annoyed with herself. It drove a woman to think about starting to date again. Even if it meant more grandsons and great-nephews, at least she might gain a modicum of expertise on this whole man-woman thing.

  But the grandsons and great-nephews wouldn’t be Johnny and it would be a waste of time, anyway. Her mob past meant she wouldn’t be getting serious with anyone.

  “Téa?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she muttered.

  He shot her another unreadable look.

  She pretend
ed not to notice. It was a waste of time trying to interpret it.

  “Téa?”

  “My job. I know, I know.” With a silent sigh, she leaned her head against the backrest and thought back. “Before I even knew anything about a career in the design business, I was driving my sisters nuts by rearranging our bedroom.”

  “You shared?”

  “Always. My mom’s idea, I think, as a way for the three of us to feel, no, to know we were sisters. Equal sisters. When Eve came to live with us, my mother accepted her with her whole heart and she wanted to make sure that none of us ever forgot that.”

  “Special woman, your mother.”

  “I see that now, of course. But the truth is, I don’t remember a time without Eve, so whatever difficulties there were at the beginning—if there were any—I don’t know.” Because though her mother was special, she was private, too. They all kept their pain and their secrets well hidden, every single one of Salvatore Caruso’s women.

  “So you were shoving beds and dressers around the room from the tender age of—?”

  “About nine, I’d say. And also sewing curtains and bedcovers whenever a new whim struck.”

  “You sew?”

  She shot him a baffled look. “It’s not a disease.”

  He was shaking his head. “You don’t strike me as the sewing type. Women who sew are…I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman who sews, actually.”

  “I feel a stereotype in the offing,” she said dryly.

  Though his attention was still directed out the windshield, he grinned. “Sorry. But my idea of a sewing woman is a plain-Jane homebody wearing pincushions on each wrist and who spends her nights with one of those dressmaker dealies instead of a date.”

  “They’re called dummies. Dressmaker dummies.” She owned two. One in the plus size she used to be and one with the more streamlined curves she now laid claim to. And, as humiliating as it would be to admit, she was a plain-Jane homebody. Though Johnny didn’t seem to think so.

  She sat up a little straighter. “So I, um, don’t fit your image of a woman who sews, is that right?”