by Peggy Bird
“How about I pick you up? I don’t think my new dress would fare well on your motorcycle.”
“I’ll bow to your transportation preferences. But the Bellevue’s right around the corner from my apartment. I’ll walk over so you won’t have to look for a parking space.”
“Great. Maybe come by at five and have a drink before we go so we can catch up?” The offer slipped out before she could think about it. “I’m in suite 832.”
“I’ll see you at five.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Say hi to your mom for me.”
At her mother’s door, she dug around in her purse for the key, listening for the sound of Tony’s cycle taking off so she could relax. Her mother opened the door before Margo could get it unlocked. “Hello, dear.” She reached up and kissed her daughter. “Was that Anthony I heard?”
“Yes, Mom. He said to say hi.”
Dolores Keyes’ eyes lit up. “I’m glad you had a chance to talk with him. Did he say anything about the reunion? I hear he’s going alone.”
“He was, but we just made arrangements to go together.”
“Oh, good.” She pulled at her daughter’s hand. “How silly to stand on the doorstep talking! I like your hair. It’s a little longer than before, isn’t it?” She closed the door after Margo. “Oh, and don’t let me forget to give you the sticky buns I got for you.”
The evening had begun the way visits with her mother always did — a comment about her hair and a bribe of sticky buns. It continued in its usual trajectory with Margo talking about Portland and her mother talking about friends and family in Philadelphia.
There was no mention of what had obsessed Margo every time she thought about this trip. But then they never discussed that subject.
In the fall of her senior year of high school, her father had been arrested on federal racketeering charges along with some of his clients, members of the Philly mob. All through that year, as one trial after another hit the headlines, Margo and her mother had dealt with the humiliation of learning that Kenny Keyes was not the kind of lawyer they thought he was. He’d been convicted and sent to federal prison. Dolores Keyes hadn’t uttered his name since.
After they cleaned up the kitchen, Margo left, promising to join her mother and aunt the next day for lunch. But once at her hotel, she couldn’t settle down. She tried convincing herself it was jet lag or maybe nervousness about seeing people she hadn’t seen since high school. Eventually, she had to admit it was Tony keeping her awake.
Born a month apart to next-door neighbors, they’d been childhood playmates as well as high school classmates. His sisters were her best friends; she’d learned to dance with him when they were barely teenagers. He’d made sure she had fun down at the shore the summer after her father’s trial. They hung out when she was back in Philly between college and law school. But somehow they never got beyond a close friendship, dinner-and-movie dates and some unforgettable kissing.
Maybe it was geography. They had spent most of the past fifteen years on opposite coasts, after all. Maybe they were never in the same place in their lives at the same time. Whatever it was, she’d always told herself settling for a warm, affectionate friendship was a good thing. After all, a relationship between a police officer and the daughter of a mob lawyer probably wasn’t a match made in heaven.
Then his sister Mary Ellen got married.
Chapter 2
Her all-too-short night ended when the maid who wanted to make up the room knocked on the door. After a quick shower, Margo dressed and grabbed her messenger bag, heading downstairs to forage for caffeine and to make a stab at organizing her speech. A coffee cart provided her with her drug of choice; a phone call to her office should have gotten her the help she wanted. But her boss, Jeff Wyatt, wasn’t around, as he usually was on Saturday mornings.
Instead she got Kiki Long, her favorite paralegal and friend, who was making a rare weekend appearance at work. No help in the speech-writing area, Kiki kept asking why Margo sounded so sleepy. Rejecting jet lag as an explanation, Kiki decided that Margo had met a man on the plane and fallen into his bed when she got to Philadelphia where she’d spent the night having the best sex of her life. As she always did when Kiki speculated on her life, Margo let her ramble. Then she left a message for Jeff.
On her own to get her presentation started, she went through her files again and made a few notes before noticing the time. Breakfast coffee had run into the lunch date she had with her mother and aunt.
Pushing through the door to Broad Street, she was greeted with both temperature and humidity already in the nineties, normal for Philly but rarely seen in Portland and never in June. Rose Festival, the city’s annual celebration of all things floral, often took place in weather referred to as “June-uary.” Any self-respecting Portland rosebush, not to mention the Rose Princesses’ hairdos, would wilt in Philly’s June weather.
The restaurant where she was meeting her mom was near City Hall, a building she’d always loved, elegantly presiding over the crossroads of Broad and Market Streets. With a statue of William Penn on top and the forty-five-foot Oldenburg clothespin across the street, it outshone Portland’s more modest civic headquarters and its nearby elk statue. On the other hand, she could have done without the din of the six lanes of traffic adjacent to her path. Her adopted hometown’s narrower, tree-lined streets were quieter and much more gracious.
Sometimes, though, she admitted as she strode toward her lunch date at a very un-Portland-like pace, she missed the more intense energy Philly generated. Portland’s low-key, polite atmosphere sometimes made her grit her teeth. Sometimes laid-back was just a little too … well, laid-back.
Back in her hotel by mid-afternoon, she wondered where the day had gone. All she had to show for it was a credit card receipt for lunch and a bottle of her favorite Scotch. The nap she planned and a long soak in the tub afterwards would, she hoped, clear her head before the reunion.
After an hour’s sleep, she filled the tub and turned on the jets. The bubbling was soothing and she relaxed into the warm water, her head back on a folded towel. She was on the edge of another little snooze when the phone rang — Jeff Wyatt returning her call. They discussed ideas for her speech for long enough that, when she hung up, she saw she had only a half hour before Tony arrived. She hurried to get dressed, to get the papers tidied up in the living room of the suite and to get ice cubes.
Seeing herself in a full-length mirror after donning her new dress, she wondered if what had seemed like a good idea in Portland looked a bit sluttier than she’d intended. Cobalt blue to set off her dark hair and dark blue eyes, the dress hugged her body like a second skin on the way to a hem that almost brushed her knees. One shoulder, both arms and a good part of her back were bared. All she could fit under it, other than herself, was a pair of black bikini panties.
She shrugged. Too late to back out now. It was either this, court clothes or casual pants. After slipping on the black, peep-toe Manolo Blahniks, she tamed the layered waves of her hair with a brush, dabbed on makeup, made a pass at her lashes with a mascara wand, applied lipstick, sprayed on perfume, pushed an armload of silver hoop bracelets over her hand and called it good. She was putting on some dangly earrings when there was a light rapping at the door. She glanced at the clock. Five, exactly. Tony, as always, was right on time.
And, also as always, he looked gorgeous. In place of the denim of the night before, he wore cream-colored trousers and a black linen jacket, a white shirt open at the neck, and what she was sure were Italian loafers. His short, dark hair was brushed back from his face except for the cowlick where a part might be if he had one. A curl from the cowlick punctuated his hairline with the tail of a comma. She wasn’t sure if it was the curl or the spicy-sexy stuff he’d splashed on after he shaved, but something made her want to bury her hands in his hair and do things with his mouth she shouldn’t be thinking about.
Realizing she needed to say something, she got out, “Oh, hi.” She could feel her
self begin to blush. “I mean, come on in.”
He was so busy staring at her, he didn’t seem to notice her stumbling over her words.
“Holy Mother of God, Margo.” His voice was so low and hoarse she thought he might have picked up a cold since she’d seen him. “‘Fairly outrageous’ hardly does it justice.”
“Too much, do you think?” she asked, smoothing the dress across her hips.
“Absolutely not. Not from where I’m standing.” The kiss he gave her was definitely not perfunctory and made her wonder if he could read minds. Even more uncomfortable now, she moved away and walked to the bar.
By the time she got there, she’d regained some control. “I was just about to pour myself a drink. What would you like? I have a bottle of my favorite single malt Scotch and I have a mini-bar, your choice.” She brought out two glasses, removed the lid from the ice bucket and started putting ice cubes in the glasses.
But when she turned to get his answer, she felt the floor give way and with it, her control. He was leaning on the counter, looking at her with his pools-of-chocolate eyes as if she was the only thing he wanted to see.
Now if only she could remember how to put square ice cubes into round glasses.
“ … single malt?” His words began to come back into focus. “They must pay DAs better in Portland than they do in Philly.”
“Ah … no. No, not really.” Unsure what else he’d said, she grabbed onto the last part of his sentence. “But since I never seem to do anything except, you know, work, I splurge occasionally on good Scotch.”
“I’ll take advantage of your splurge, then.”
She finally managed to get both the ice and the liquor into the glasses, spilling only a little. When she’d handed his to him, she led him to the living area. He settled back at one end of the sofa while she sat at the other, sipping carefully at her drink, caught again by his candy bar eyes and hesitating to mix too much Scotch with all that chocolate.
“How was your day? You spend it with your mom?” he asked.
“Some of it. We had lunch, did a little shopping. Before that, I worked on a speech I’m giving next week. Didn’t get very far, but it was better than yesterday.”
“What happened yesterday? Bad flight?”
“The flight was fine. It was this Asshole in a Blue Blazer. He bugged me in the airport when I was drinking my coffee. Kept up such a racket on the plane I couldn’t work. Then, when I hauled my suitcase off the luggage belt, I accidently hit him with it, so he swore at me and pushed me aside to get to the taxi stand.”
“Yo, welcome to Philly.” He raised his glass in a mock toast.
“My thoughts exactly. But as long as he’s somewhere in the Delaware Valley other than here, I’m good.” She took another sip of her drink. “That’s enough about him. Tell me how your family is.”
For most of the next hour he entertained her with stories about the antics of his nieces and nephews and they talked about their jobs. Then, looking at his watch and their empty glasses, he said, “We’ve got time for a short refill. Want me to pour?”
“We may need more ice.” She went to the bar and checked. “If you’ll get some, I’ll pour. It’s down the hall to the right,” she said as she handed him the ice bucket.
After he left, she propped the door open, dumped the melting ice out of their glasses and pulled out the Scotch bottle. When he returned, she heard the door close and felt him come up behind her.
“You shouldn’t leave a hotel door open like that, Margo. It’s not safe.” He rested his hand on her back as he reached around her to put the container on the bar.
“Oh, I’m perfectly safe,” she said, tilting her head back so she could see him. “I know people in law enforcement.”
“Lucky you,” he said. With his forefinger he moved a few strands of hair aside and kissed her shoulder at the base of her neck. His mouth was still cool from the drink and it made her shiver. At least, that’s what she blamed. At first. But when he slid his hands around her waist, and her pulse spiked, taking her breathing along for the ride, it was obvious that it wasn’t just ice making her tremble. And she was sure if he did what she thought he was about to do, they’d never make it to the reunion on time.
“Maybe,” she said, “we should skip the second drink and leave?” She took a deep breath and faced him. “So we’re not late?” She could hear the lack of conviction in her voice and wondered if he could, too.
He touched the tip of her nose with his finger. “If that’s what you want, sugar,” he murmured, “we’ll go.” He leaned in and brushed his lips across her cheek. She was left holding an empty glass, surprised at how disappointed she was that he’d agreed and wondering why the hell she’d objected anyway.
Chapter 3
Two steps into the restaurant where the reunion dinner was being held and Margo was sure she’d gone through a time warp. The smells of tomato sauce, oregano, garlic and yeasty bread brought back long-forgotten pizza dates. Music she remembered from the senior prom was playing. The place was full of vaguely familiar-looking people with very familiar names on their nametags.
At the registration table, Joe delGiorno and Mary Margaret O’Brian delGiorno were checking people in. They’d married right after graduation and overseen every reunion, as well as a family of five kids, ever since. After Joe handed Tony his nametag and checked his name off a list, Tony asked “wine or Scotch?” and headed off for the wine she requested. Margo searched for her nametag in the middle of what was once apparently an alphabetized display, now not so organized.
“I’m sorry,” Mary Margaret said, offering a marker and a blank nametag, “you’ll have to make your own. Tony didn’t tell us he was bringing someone.”
“It’s Margo Keyes, Mary Margaret.”
“Oh my God! It is!” She tapped her husband’s shoulder. “Joe, look. Margo’s really here.”
Joe came from behind the table with her nametag, gave her a hug and said, “We were so happy to hear you were coming. And you’re with Tony? He never said.”
“Hey, Joe, nice to see you, too. It was a last minute thing. You know, Tony and I are old friends, practically brother and sister.”
“Tony’s never had a brother-sister date in his life,” Joe said, patting her arm. “Why would he start with you?”
Her not-so-much-brother returned and handed her a glass of white wine. Margo began to take a gulp, but had second thoughts. Instead, she swirled the wine around in the glass, took a small sip and followed Tony inside.
The cocktail hour was winding down as people began to find seats for dinner. Thanks to her date, the basketball-star/class-officer, Margo, the newspaper-editor/head-of-the-debate-team, was at a table with people she’d never hung out with in high school: the head cheerleader, the football quarterback, the class president, the prom queen. She was back in the high school cafeteria, except this time she was at the table with the cool kids.
Seeing classmates after fifteen years wasn’t as hard as she’d feared. Everyone asked about Portland. There were no awkward mentions of her father or the disaster he’d caused in her life. And, perhaps more immediately important, no one commented on Tony having his arm around her or the back of her chair any time he wasn’t actually eating his dinner. At the moment, Margo was more relieved about not having to explain that.
After the tables were cleared, a DJ played more music so they could dance. However, after a couple fast dances, a slow song came on and he started toward the table.
“Let’s sit this one out,” he said, rather abruptly, it seemed to Margo.
“Something wrong?”
“No, I’d like to wait for a song I like better.”
She thought she saw him glance across the room where his former fiancée and her husband were doing what, apparently, passed for dancing with them. And because what was playing had all the earmarks of an “our song,” Margo figured she knew why they were sitting it out. On an impulse, she reached for his hands. “Maybe it’s time you d
isconnected the song from her.”
“That’s not it,” he started. A look that somehow combined irritation and amusement played across his face. When he raised an eyebrow, his expression went completely to amused. “On second thought, do you think you and that dress could do something like that?”
“I’m willing to try, if you are.”
He held out his arms to her, she slipped into them and he drew her close. At five-feet- seven, and in four-inch heels she almost matched his six-feet-one height. Effortlessly he moved them across the floor in time with the music. At least, she assumed the song was still playing. With his arms wrapped around her and the smell of that damn cologne filling her senses, the only thing she could really hear was the sound of his heartbeat.
After a few moments of silence, he whispered, “You were right. I’m not thinking about the song at all.” His warm breath feathered over her ear, sending goose bumps down her neck to her arms and breasts.
“Good,” she managed, hoping he hadn’t noticed that her nipples had hardened into tight buds against his chest. She’d certainly noticed it. Just like she’d noticed the erection he had pressed against her. An erection that seemed to get harder by the second, even though it was trapped behind several layers of clothes. Clothes she was beginning to wish they could get rid of. Right now.
He slid his hand down her back; his hold tightened; her body instinctively arched toward him. Every inch of her body was aware of every inch of his. How was it possible to be so close to him and not stumble over his feet? Or — an even better question — how was it possible not to completely melt from the sheer pleasure of having his hard, muscled body pressed so tightly against her soft breasts and hips?
“This dress,” he said, “no zipper, no buttons. Are you sewn in?” He rested their clasped hands against his shoulder and with a slight increase of pressure on the small of her back led her smoothly in half-circles, first one way and then the other. It was as if they were one body, joined somehow. Stop. She couldn’t think about having their bodies joined. Not here, not in public.