FIANCÉ FOR HIRE

by Pamela Burford

  A trio of young men threw open the door on their way inside, letting out a gust of warm air that reeked of fried food and tobacco smoke and stale beer. She heard raucous conversation and the crack of billiard balls colliding.

  Amanda located the door to the upstairs apartments between the tavern and the party supply store next to it. She double-checked the gold-and-black stick-on address numbers to verify this was indeed home sweet home. It was. She'd looked him up in the Astoria phone directory.

  Two dented steel mailboxes, belonging to Apartments 1

  and 2, were bolted to the brickwork inside the doorway overhang, as was an intercom with two buttons. Amanda peered at the little labels identifying the tenants. Someone named C. O'Leary lived in Apartment 1

  . Apartment 2

  belonged to N. Stephanos.

  The pair of zippered plastic garment bags hanging over her right arm grew progressively heavier as she stood there wondering whether to push the button or hightail it back to her brand-new hunter-green Jaguar XKR, parked around the corner. Finally she hefted the bags to her left arm, which caused the slim chain- and-leather strap of her Chanel purse to slide off the shoulder of her sky-blue wool crepe suit jacket. She yanked it back up and pressed the intercom button. And waited.

  Nothing happened. Amanda stabbed the button three times in rapid succession. She was about to lean on the thing when Nick abruptly demanded, "Who is it?" She'd never heard him sound so gruff. It took her a few moments to realize that his voice hadn't issued from the intercom.

  "I said who's out there?" he barked.

  Amanda stepped back from the doorway and blinked up at the second-floor windows, one of which had been thrown open.

  "Amanda?" Nick leaned out of the building. His hair appeared disheveled. He was shirtless. "I wasn't expecting you."

  "I … I should've called. I can come back some other—"

  "No problem. Come on up, boss."

  "Don't call me— Oh, the hell with it," she muttered. He'd already disappeared. Moments later the nerve-grating door buzzer sounded. Shifting the garment bags again, she grabbed the door handle and let herself into the cramped stair landing, spookily lit by an old-fashioned milk-glass ceiling fixture.

  Nick appeared at the top of the stairs, near the open door to Apartment 2

  . He was still bare above the waist, his jeans zipped but the brass button unfastened, as if he'd hurriedly stepped into them. He was barefoot.

  "Intercom's on the fritz. Here, let me help you with that." He met her halfway up the stairs. Gratefully she relinquished the bags. "I can guess what these are," he said.

  "And I'm sure you'd guess right." Hunter and Raven's Halloween party was tomorrow night. After work, Amanda had gone to a party rental place near her home to pickup the costumes she and Nick would wear.

  "Didn't we agree that I'd swing by your office tomorrow to get my costume?" He preceded her up the stairs and held the door to his apartment open. "You didn't have to make a special trip."

  Amanda hesitated on the threshold. Music drifted from the apartment, an intriguing, high-energy violin piece that toed the line between Latin and Celtic. "Well, I figured it was a nice night for a drive, so what the heck." That was her prepared excuse. In truth, she was more curious than she had a right to be about where her phony-baloney boyfriend hung his hat.

  She knew she hadn't fooled him for an instant when he said, "Well, now that you're here…" and jerked his head toward the doorway.

  "I—I really shouldn't. I didn't intend to disrupt your evening, I just figured I'd give you the costume and, you know…" Amanda shuffled back from the doorway.

  "Then why did you haul both of them up here?"

  "What?"

  He indicated the bags he held. "Mine and yours."

  "Oh, I just thought you might like to see mine. The two of them together. You know, before tomorrow night." She tugged ineffectually at the bag that she knew held her costume. "But it's really not that—"

  "Come on in, then. Let's take a look at them."

  Nick took hold of her elbow and propelled her inside the apartment. Then Amanda could only stare in wonder at her surroundings. Whatever she'd expected of an over-the-tavern blue-collar bachelor pad, this wasn't it. The furnishings were eclectic, understated pieces in warm neutral tones. An unusual Asian rug of bold geometric patterns partially covered the pale, pickled-oak floorboards.

  She saw a futon sofa, a coffee table of distressed steel and glass, a pair of leather butterfly chairs and an exquisitely crafted long, low cabinet of some sort of reddish-toned burled wood. All the furnishings were low to the floor, giving the impression of an inviting space where comfort and relaxation reigned.

  The walls were pure white. A double row of framed black-and-white photographs hung at eye level over the cabinet. The pictures featured such diverse subjects as a Lower East Side pickle merchant proudly displaying his wares, a straight-on view of New York City's Flatiron Building, a trio of children climbing an enormous boulder in Central Park, and a kilt-wearing street musician playing bagpipes on a Manhattan corner.

  A rough-textured tapestry, obviously hand-woven, took up most of the opposite wall. Angular images of wolves and birds were repeated in a primitive design that had a distinctly South American look.

  The lighting was low and warm and welcoming.

  Amanda had assumed that the apartment would be pervaded by smells and noise from below, but all she heard was the violin music coming from the stereo speakers. And the only odor her nose detected was the soapy, steamy scent of a recent shower. Nick's short, black hair spiked every which way, as if he'd just toweled it.

  Nick laid the garment bags on the sofa and turned up the nearby floor lamp for extra light. He unzipped the top bag and pulled out a clothes hanger draped in froths of sheer teal-colored material shot through with gold threads. Beneath it hung a long, slinky dress of a paler teal with gold trim. There was also a bag of accessories, including such seductress essentials as a gold circlet-type headdress and several wide bracelets.

  Amanda watched him examine the outfit. He rubbed the filmy fabric between his fingers and held the dress up to the light. It was low-cut and sleeveless. And it looked even smaller and flimsier in his big hands.

  Suddenly she wished they'd gone with her first choice, Bonnie and Clyde. But Nick had objected to dressing like a 1930s gangster. The costume would be too hot in a crowded party setting, he'd insisted, and besides, what was so special about a pin-striped suit and fedora?

  "Fine," she'd said, "if you don't want to be overburdened with clothing, let's go as Tarzan and Jane." A loincloth—nice and cool. They'd compromised on Samson and Delilah.

  Nick held her costume up to her. He wore an impish grin. "You going to model it for me?"

  She snatched it out of his grasp and stuffed it back in the bag. "You'll have to wait till tomorrow. Let's check yours out."

  The first thing Nick pulled out of the other bag was a long wig of wavy brown hair twisted into ropelike strands and tied back with a leather thong. "I told you." He tossed it on the sofa. "No wig."

  "Just try it on." Amanda picked up the wig and tried to place it on his head, but he was having none of it. "It's not at all feminine looking," she said. "It's very macho—I mean, Samson's strength was his hair, right? Just give it a try. Please?"

  "This isn't a macho issue for me. It's about comfort. I'm not going to go the whole night with that heavy, itchy thing on my head."

  "But you're Samson!" She shook the wig in his face. "How can you be Samson without hair?"

  "I have hair." He smoothed down his own damp strands and gave her a canny look. "I have about as much as Delilah left him with."

  Amanda mulled it over. "You want to be Samson after she's lopped off his hair? Who's going to get that?"

  "Everyone will get it if you wear a big pair of scissors on your belt."

  "She used a knife. They didn't have scissors back then."

  "Creative license—our Delilah ha
d scissors. How about this? I'll find you a big, showy pair of scissors between now and tomorrow night."

  "A blunt, fake pair. I don't want to end up sliced and diced."

  "I'll find them somewhere."

  "But if you're Samson after his haircut, you'd be in chains." She smiled. "And an itty-bitty loincloth."

  "Loincloth, huh? Now we're back to Tarzan."

  "You know what I mean. I don't know what it's called. One of those little slave getups that just cover the bare essentials. Don't you go to the movies?"

  "You're really itching to see me in a loincloth, aren't you?"

  Amanda didn't dare tackle that one. Even now, she was making a heroic effort to keep her gaze directed at Nick's face rather than the delicious expanse of muscular male flesh on display between his chin and his waist.

  "And another thing," she said. "If Delilah's already done her dirty work, you'd have to be blind. They put out Samson's eyes once his strength was gone. Haven't you read the Bible? Or seen the miniseries? So you might want to rethink the wig."

  "Blind?" he said. "Cool. I'll wear my shades."

  "A biblical character in sunglasses? Nick, come on—work with me here!"

  "I'll find some wrist shackles between now and then," he said. "See? I'm working with you."

  Amanda lifted Nick's costume out of the bag: a short-sleeved, belted tunic of dark red cloth, suitably biblical looking, especially when paired with the short togalike robe of a slightly darker hue that draped one shoulder. She rummaged in the bottom of the garment bag and located Samson's accessories, including leather sandals and a headband.

  "Looks like we're set," he said. "I'll pick you up at eight?"

  Before she could answer, a female voice called out from the back of the apartment, "Nicky?"

  Amanda's heart jumped into her throat. Her first thought was He's cheating on me! In the next instant, reason prevailed and she realized with dismay that she'd interrupted some intimate scene.

  But it sure felt like he was cheating on her.

  As Amanda verbally stumbled over an attempt to get the hell out of there, her face flaming—damn it, she never never never blushed!—Nick nonchalantly gestured for her to stay put and disappeared into what she could only assume was his bedroom.

  Amanda stood there feeling like a world-class fool and listening to the muted sounds of conversation. She couldn't make out what Nick was saying to his lady friend. Probably something along the lines of Believe me, baby, it's just business! Give me a minute and I'll get rid of her.

  She could only wonder why he'd even let her into the apartment.

  The answer came like a punch to the solar plexus. Because it's just business. Because you have no place in his personal life, so what does it matter if you drop by while he's entertaining a girlfriend?

  Amanda cleared her throat. She called out, "Nick? I'm, uh, just gonna get going now."

  "Wait a sec!" More unintelligible conversation, followed by the trill of feminine laughter.

  Amanda zipped her garment bag so fast a bit of teal fabric got caught in the teeth. She pulled hard on the zipper tab and yanked ferociously at the delicate material.

  "Whoa." Nick's hands took over the task. She hadn't heard him come up behind her. He'd donned a gray T-shirt and running shoes, she noticed. "You're gonna end up shredding this outfit—and there's not that much there to begin with. Damn," he muttered when his gentler efforts proved fruitless. He looked past Amanda and asked, "Are you any good with this sort of thing, Mrs. K.?"

  Amanda followed his gaze and found herself staring at a tiny, ancient woman with a cap of snow-white curls.

  Nick made the introductions. "Amanda Coppersmith, Mrs. Konstantopoulos, my landlady."

  Amanda felt dizzy with relief. She told herself it was relief at being spared the ordeal of an Awkward Situation, and nothing more.

  Unfortunately, she still wasn't very good at believing her own lies. She'd have to work on that.

  "It's very nice to meet you, Mrs. Konstantopoulos." Amanda held out her hand.

  Nick's landlady took it, clearly surprised and pleased at hearing her name pronounced correctly by someone she'd just met. Her seamed face spread in a wide grin. Putting names to faces, and getting those names right, was a skill Amanda had cultivated for business reasons. Nothing was so sweet to a person as the sound of his or her own name. The old woman's hand was gnarled and bony, the knuckles misshapen. Amanda shook it very gently.

  As Nick and his landlady continued their lively conversation, in Greek, Mrs. K. shooed his hands away from the garment bag and applied her arthritic fingers to the chore. It took her about three seconds to free the fabric from the zipper.

  Facing Nick, she gave him a fierce scowl. "E'na mi'nas," she said, holding up one finger.

  Nick's expression was pleasant as he shook his head and countered with two fingers. "Di'o."

  Amanda didn't need anyone to tell her there was some serious negotiating going on.

  Nick gesticulated toward his bedroom as he made his case, whatever it was. Listening to him speak a foreign tongue made him seem even more exotic and removed from Amanda's world—and, she was forced to admit, more fascinating than ever.

  Which, all things considered, was not a good thing.

  Amanda could tell that Nick had won the argument when Mrs. K. flapped her hand at him and grumbled. "Ne, di'o, di'o." She buttoned her plaid wool coat over her flowered housedress, then extracted a small object from her handbag and painstakingly unfolded the accordion pleats to reveal one of those clear plastic rain bonnets Amanda thought they'd stopped making around 1965.

  "Mrs. Konstantopoulos," Amanda said, "it's not raining. I was just outside." Not a cloud in the night sky.

  As the old woman snapped the bonnet under her chin and picked up her long, black umbrella, Nick sent Amanda a look that told her not to bother with reason. Clearly Mrs. K. was set in her ways. She bade Amanda "Andi'o," before shuffling out the door on Nick's arm.

  He signaled Amanda that he'd be back in a minute, then escorted his landlady down the stairs. Amanda crossed to the street-side window and watched the two emerge from the building, watched Nick help Mrs. K. into the driver's seat of a parked Taurus. Then he stood on the sidewalk and flinched as the old woman tore out into traffic amid the squeal of tires and honking of horns.

  When he returned, Nick said, "I've been trying to get that woman to give up her driver's license for I don't know how long. She's a menace on the road."

  "How old is she?"

  "She admits to eighty-nine. Add a decade."

  Amanda smiled. "She seems like a real character, but a sweet old lady underneath it all."

  "That 'sweet old lady' has some unfortunate habits—such as letting herself in here with her master key, without warning. Tonight she only rousted me out of the shower. Her timing's been worse on occasion."

  Amanda's imagination filled in the blanks. She pictured this virile man burning up the sheets with some girlfriend, only to have his elderly landlady barge in on them. When Amanda realized the girlfriend in this imaginary scenario looked just like her, she jettisoned the image from her mind. "What were you two haggling over?" she asked.

  "I did some carpentry work in the bedroom, at her request. Built-in bookshelves. I asked for two months free rent in exchange. She only wanted to give me one. It's worth three months easy, but Mrs. K. thinks bread still costs a quarter." His shrug said What are you gonna do?

  "So you're handy with a hammer and nails."

  "Didn't I tell you I'm a man of many talents?"

  "Do those talents extend to photography?" Amanda indicated the row of framed photos.

  Nick nodded. "Sometimes I'll spend my whole day off just wandering around the city snapping pictures. Nothing's more relaxing."

  She stood in front of a picture that appeared to have been taken in Harlem. Two girls twirled a pair of ropes while a third did some fancy double Dutch jumping. The photo captured the sense of movement and the girls' raw exhila
ration.

  "These are excellent," Amanda said, and meant it. "Have you ever sold your photos?"

  "Then it wouldn't be relaxing, it'd be work." He came to stand next to her; Amanda felt the heat radiating from him. "No," he said, "this is just for me."

  He was too close. She couldn't think when he was this close. The music stopped and she took the opportunity to step away from him. Strolling to the stereo in the corner, she said, "I've never heard violin playing like that. Who is it?"

  "Eileen Ivers. Do I make you nervous?"

  "No. Of course not." She flashed him a small smile to bolster the lie.

  His eyes saw too much. Amanda's gaze scampered away. She looked around the living room. "I have to admit, this place isn't what I expected. You know. From the outside."

  "Can I get you something to drink? I'm fresh out of jasmine tea…"

  She smirked. While Nick had learned early on that jasmine tea was her hot beverage of choice, she doubted he'd ever brought any into his home. He favored black, caffeine-laden coffee, the stronger the better.

  "No Pellegrino either," he continued. "I've got beer and orange juice. Oh, and a couple of cans of ginger ale. Not diet, though."

  "Thanks, but I really can't stay. I just wanted to—"

  "To bring the costume by. I know." He leaned against the low cabinet and crossed his arms. "So what were you expecting when you came up here? Peeling paint on cinder-block walls? Furniture I beat the garbagemen to? Pizza boxes stacked up? A pyramid of empty beer cans in the corner?"

  Amanda took a deep breath, torn between diplomacy and honesty. One look at Nick's perceptive eyes, now the color of bittersweet chocolate, settled it.

  "Something like that," she admitted. She spread her arms. "Nick, this place is really nice. You've obviously gone to some trouble to make it that way. How can you stand to live over a bar?"

  "What's wrong with living over a bar?"