Robin Kaye Bundle

by Robin Kaye

  The next thing she knew, they were face-to-face and moving, but not going anywhere. He held her so close, she felt the vibration of his humming in her chest.

  “What are we doing?”

  “We’re dancing.” He kissed her temple, and she rested her head on his shoulder. Frank sang “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” and she couldn’t help but chuckle at the warning, but like Frank, she couldn’t resist. She kissed him.

  She brushed her lips over his when “Night and Day” began, and they didn’t come up for air until well after the song ended. Nick held her, and she wondered how he could kiss like that and dance at the same time. She had a hard time standing.

  “I’m taking you home.”

  His words may have said “I’m taking you home,” but his eyes said, “I’m taking you.”

  So much for rule number two.

  Chapter 4

  “YO, VIN, IT’S NICK.”

  “Nick? What the hell time is it? Five? Who died?”

  “Nobody. How come you’re not up?”

  “It’s Tuesday. Nino always opens on Tuesday.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m up now. What do you want, and who the hell is snoring like a freakin’ freight train?”

  “Dave.”

  “Who the fuck is Dave?”

  “Rosalie’s dog.”

  “Ah, so that’s why you’re whispering. I can’t believe you get laid after you give ’em your first-date talk. I guess Sinatra’s still your lucky charm, eh? So, is she as hot as she looks?”

  “Lee’s a nice girl.”

  Nick had promised himself a long time ago he wouldn’t do anything he’d regret the next morning. No matter how badly he’d wanted to take the delicious Rosalie up on her offer last night, he knew he couldn’t have taken the look he’d have seen when she remembered she’d gotten drunk and allowed him, no, begged him, to take advantage. That was the reason he was on the phone with his cousin while he had an erection hard enough to pound rock salt. The same problem he’d had since he undressed her and put her to bed—alone.

  “And for your information, Lee gave me the first-date talk. If I hadn’t been so surprised, I would have taken notes. Her style was ingenious.”

  “No shit. She must know your rep and be pullin’ that reverse psychological shit. I tried it on Mona—didn’t work.”

  “Vin, she doesn’t know who I am. I picked her up on the way home the other night. I drove a wrecker, and her car had broken down on the expressway. She thinks I’m a mechanic.”

  “Ha! You’re shittin’ me!”

  “No, man. She thinks I’m Joe Schmoe. It’s nice.”

  “Yeah, she looked real nice wrapped around your leg.”

  “Watch your mouth, Vin.”

  “You’re lucky Sonny didn’t catch the same show I did.”

  “Yeah, I know. I wasn’t thinking.” He couldn’t remember a time when he’d had so little control. Okay, there was that time with Rich’s girlfriend, but hell, he’d been a drunk kid. When a hot older woman promised to show a fifteen-year-old boy his way around a custom king, there’s no way he’d say no. Hell, if Janet Reno had propositioned him, he’d have thought twice before turning her down. Nick hadn’t turned Rich’s girlfriend down, and he lived to regret it.

  “Look, Vin, I need you to do me a favor. We left Lee’s car in front of Mrs. Ragusa’s house. Could you bring it to the dealership today? The keys are in the register drawer at the bar.”

  “Sure, but it’s gonna cost ya.”

  “Okay, what’ll it be this time? Are you going to borrow the new Chrysler, or are you going for the Mustang? I’ve been driving one lately. It’s pretty hot.”

  “What about the Viper?”

  “No way you’re driving my Viper.”

  “No, why aren’t you driving it?”

  “I’m a mechanic, remember? Mechanics don’t drive Vipers.”

  “Oh, right. Okay, I’ll bring her car in. What does she drive?”

  “It’s a yellow Beetle.”

  “Christ, Nick, I can’t drive that. I’ll never live it down.”

  “Ask Mona. She’ll drive it over. It’s a girly car—she’ll love it.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of. She already wants one. If I let her drive Rosalie’s, I might as well have you special order a pink one for Mona. There’s no way I’m gonna buy a freakin’ fairy car. Why don’t you have one of the shop guys drive it in?”

  “Can’t. It’d be the talk of the dealership. I’m sure Trudy’s already having a field day telling everyone how we argued last night. Lee insisted on paying for the tire and spare I replaced.”

  “No shit? She’s the independent type, huh?”

  “Yeah, I never met a girl who didn’t want a guy to take care of her. I thought independent women were an urban legend. Turns out it’s no legend—it’s a pain in the ass.”

  “I’ll get the car to the shop for ya, but you owe me big. Tell Ronny I want a Chrysler 300C with all the bells and whistles.”

  “Done.”

  Nick put the phone back on the sofa table. Stepping over the pile of stuff he’d had to move off the couch to make room to lie down, he went in search of aspirin. Christ, the place was a mess. He walked to the bedroom and checked on Rosalie. She still slept hard, and so did Dave, from the sound of him. Nick had no trouble finding the glasses in the immaculate kitchen, though he cursed when he saw she only had a non-aspirin painkiller. He poured himself a glass of orange juice, popped a couple, and looked around. Weird, you could eat off her kitchen floor, but it looked as if a bomb had gone off in the rest of the place. Not many things surprised him when it came to women, but Rosalie—she was a freak of nature.

  He went back to the couch to lie down, wondering why he’d chosen to stay. He pushed Dave off the pillow he’d snagged from Rosalie’s bed when he poured her into it last night. Clearing his throat, he tried to erase the vision of Rosalie in bed, all warm and wanton, teasing him while he did his damnedest to behave. It didn’t help that she wore lingerie that would tempt a eunuch, or that she filled it out better than anyone had a right to.

  He turned the pillow over to avoid dog slobber, and ignoring his raging hard-on, tried to get some sleep.

  Rosalie thought she was going to die, but she was sure that surviving was worse. Her head pounded, her tongue felt like a shag carpet, and it hurt to focus her eyes. She should never have had that last sambuca, but Nick had looked so cute playing bartender, she’d had it anyway.

  After finger combing her hair, she tried to remember what had happened the night before. She remembered Nick kissing her—a lot, and really, really well. But after that last drink, everything got fuzzy. She didn’t know how she’d gotten home and into bed, wearing nothing but her bra and panties, without her knowledge.

  Rosalie knew that Dave must have his legs crossed, since she couldn’t remember taking him for a walk last night, either. She stumbled out of bed, happy she could stand without her head exploding. It was unfortunate that she stood on the spiked heels she’d worn the day before. Ow. Stepping on them hurt even more than wearing them. She didn’t call them Benito Mussolinis instead of Bruno Maglis for nothing. They might make everything look great, but they did it by using torture.

  She groaned and wondered where Dave hid. Both he and her nightshirt were absent. She found her nightshirt under a pillow and pulled it over her head, wanting nothing more than to return to her nice warm bed. She hoped Dave wouldn’t mind watering the garden by himself, because she so wasn’t up for a trek outside.

  Rosalie went to look for her furry friend and found more than one. Dave slept on one side of the sectional sofa, sharing a pillow with none other than Nick, who looked like he slept naked—not that she could tell for sure, more’s the pity. The quilt she’d left thrown over the back of the sofa covered everything below the waist. Even feeling as if she should be on her way to the mortuary, looking at him stirred her imagination. Fantasies took shape—the very shape
of Nick. She didn’t know how long she stared at his broad, flat chest. His muscles were ripped, but not bulging, and he had a dusting of dark hair that trailed over six-pack abs and disappeared beneath the damn quilt. She imagined how it would feel to tangle her hands in his chest hair, to feel the scrape of his stubbled chin against her skin, her breasts. Oh, and his mouth. What the man could do with his mouth.

  She must have groaned aloud, because Nick awoke in an instant. She’d never seen anyone awaken so quickly and totally. She pulled her nightshirt down to cover her big butt and backed up a step.

  “Sleep well?” He pushed the quilt down and stood with his back to her. He wore boxers. Damn, foiled again. He stretched, the muscles of his back and shoulders rippling, then pulled on his pants and shirt, turned, and looked at her as if he expected something. Um . . . oh, right, an answer.

  “Yeah, I think.” That was the best she could do, considering she remembered nothing.

  He nodded. God, what could he be doing here, and how could he look so incredible first thing in the morning? There should be a law against it.

  He walked though her apartment as if he owned the place, got a glass out of the kitchen cupboard without having to search, filled it with water he knew she kept in the fridge, and took out the painkillers she had stashed over the sink. What? Had he done an inventory of her kitchen while she slept?

  Nick strode barefoot toward her, his shirt hanging open and the waistband of his pants unbuttoned. After having seen him shirtless and wearing only boxers, she didn’t know whether to cringe or celebrate her good fortune. The man didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. There were no love handles, no rolls, nothing but skin, bone, and muscle. He was the picture of male perfection . . . well, except for that pushy attitude, but looks-wise, yeah, pretty much perfect. She wished she could say the same for herself. She tugged her shirt down again as he placed the tablets in her hand.

  “Take these and drink all the water. It’ll help. You’ll survive, though you might not want to.”

  Yup, there was that pushy attitude. She would have said so, if she hadn’t needed something to stop the pounding in her head.

  “Thanks.” Rosalie backed down the short hallway toward her room. “I . . . I’ll get dressed.”

  “Lee? Do you remember anything from last night?”

  Oh, God, what had she done? “Um, yeah, I remember dinner, that last shot of sambuca, dancing, and um . . .”

  “Coming home?”

  She shook her head. Mistake, big mistake. She groaned, ducked into her room, and closed the door. Nope, she didn’t remember a thing.

  Rosalie walked past her dresser on the way to the bathroom. She needed a shower, oh, and about a gallon of coffee to clear her head. As she passed the mirror, her reflection caught her eye, and she stifled a scream. As a rule, she wasn’t a vain person. She always tried to look her best, but once she had the prerequisite makeup on, she didn’t powder her nose every five minutes. She couldn’t believe Nick had seen her looking like this and hadn’t run screaming from the apartment.

  She groaned. “Note to self: never go to bed without removing makeup.”

  Rosalie took the world’s fastest shower and brushed her teeth for five minutes while obsessing over how one should act when she doesn’t know what happened the night before—a first for her. By the time she realized she couldn’t hide the fact that she was clueless as to what had happened, she’d dressed in the only clean suit she’d found in her closet and made a mental note to hit the dry cleaners on the way home. Before facing Nick again, she took a deep breath to prepare herself. She had no idea what she’d done, but she prepared to be embarrassed to no end. She remembered she’d left her shoes in the dining area. She pictured them under the table . . . the table covered with mail, newspapers, and the stuff she needed to take to the post office but never got around to. Shit! Her place was a wreck. How long had it been since she’d cleaned? Rosalie couldn’t remember, and she had a very good memory, which meant it had been a long, long, long, long time.

  Sign her up at the local community college. She now qualified to give lessons on how to impress a man. On your first date, fight with him, make out in a public place, get caught by a member of his family while you’re humping his leg . . . oh, yeah, and let’s not forget the all-important get drunk so he has to drive you home. But don’t let it end at the door . . . somehow, make sure he comes inside your pigsty, um, place. That’s the ticket. Works every time.

  Both Nick and Dave were gone. Rosalie thanked God for the temporary reprieve, though she felt even worse. Poor Nick not only had to take her home, but he also walked her dog.

  After stepping into her purple pumps, she started straightening the apartment when a thought hit her. Nick had already seen the disaster she lived in, and there was no way, in the time it took to walk Dave, she could make a noticeable improvement without the use of a front-end loader. She’d be better off spending the time hiding the ravages of too much alcohol, too little sleep, and abject embarrassment. She needed all the help she could get.

  Ten minutes later, Dave ran into the bathroom as she finished applying mascara. She tried not to wince or poke herself with the wand, a difficult feat on her best day. The throbbing of her head kept time with Dave’s tail banging against the built-in metal clothes hamper, sounding like a big brass drum.

  She kissed Dave’s head, fluffed her hair, and followed him to the kitchen. Nick had bought coffee and pastry from the bakery down the street, Fiorentino’s.

  Rosalie looked at the box of pastry and couldn’t help but wonder what she’d done last night to deserve breakfast . . . oh, and coffee. Yes, Nick had great taste in baked goods, as well as being the picture of male perfection. And let’s face it, a man who gave her coffee scored big points. Coffee and chocolate were her weaknesses, and he’d brought both.

  Any man worth his salt knew the fastest way into a woman’s pants was the combination of chocolate and a legal addictive stimulant—caffeine. Hmm, maybe she hadn’t done anything after all, well, at least, nothing sexual. If she had, he wouldn’t be trying so hard. All’s fair in lust and war, but why, of all the bakeries in Brooklyn, did he have to pick Fiorentino’s?

  Mrs. F. and Rosalie’s mother had gone to Erasmus High School together. Erasmus High School not only produced musical legends the likes of Paul Simon, Barbra Streisand, and Neil Diamond, but also gossip legends the caliber of which were unparalleled outside the borough of Brooklyn.

  The phone rang.

  Rosalie didn’t have to look at her caller ID to know it was her mother. She knew it instinctively. Just as she knew Mrs. Fiorentino had waited on Nick and called Mama the second he’d left.

  She’d have rather eaten glass than speak with her mother, but listening to the phone ringing was worse. Plus she wanted to make sure Nick didn’t hear the message her mother was bound to leave.

  “Morning, Ma.”

  Nick turned and raised an eyebrow.

  “Rosalie Angelina Ronaldi, you should be ashamed of yourself! You spit on the good name of your family. One day after breaking the heart of a fine man, you’re sleeping with a bum.”

  “Ma, this isn’t a good time.” Nick handed her coffee and smiled. She took a fortifying sip as Mama continued her spiel.

  “ . . . ungrateful, puttana of a daughter. I thank God my sainted mother is dead, God rest her soul, because if she saw what you’ve become, it would have killed her. As it is, she’s rolling over in her grave.”

  “Ma, I can’t talk now. I gotta go to work.”

  “You’ll come to dinner so I can talk sense to you. Maybe Joey Manetti will forgive you and take you back.”

  “Sorry, Ma, I can’t. I’ve got a date.”

  “A date with who? The bum who walked that big horse of yours? The bum who bought you breakfast and coffee at Fiorentino’s bakery? The bum who doesn’t shave? That cafone? He’s more important than making peace with the family?”

  “Mama, I refused Joey’s proposal. If you’d hea
rd it, you’d have refused, too. It has nothing to do with the family, and you know it. I have no need to make peace with anyone, and I would sooner die an old maid than marry Joey Manetti.”

  Rosalie sipped her coffee while Mama said a prayer to the Virgin Mother and sighed. “Is this cafone gonna give you a home, children? You’re so smart with your college degree and big office. Think about what you do, Rosalie. Think hard. And for God’s sake, go to confession.”

  “I will. ’Bye, Ma.”

  Nick had somehow unearthed the dining table. A plate of pastry and bagels sat in the center. He’d even poured orange juice. Rosalie had never had a man serve her. Now she was sure she hadn’t done anything involving Tab A and Slot B . . . or Slot A for that matter—well, kinda sure, anyway, since Nick wasn’t just any man. No, typical he was not.

  Nick pulled out a chair and took the box of tampons off the seat. Damn, she’d wondered where those went. He nudged her into the chair and put the tampons on top of the pile of stuff he’d taken off the table. Could a person die of embarrassment?

  “Mangia tutto. Eat, it’ll make you feel better.”

  Sitting at her table with Nick across from her was strange, intimate. This was as strange to Dave as it was to her. She’d never had guys stay over. If for some reason they ended up at her place, they took off after the obligatory five minutes of cuddling. Not that she minded. Who wanted to sleep with a guy who snored and hogged all the covers and most of the bed? And don’t even mention the nightmare of sharing a bathroom. If she and Nick had sex, why had he slept on the couch? No guy she’d ever known would leave a comfortable bed and move to a couch unless he was forced. But if they hadn’t had sex, why had he stayed? Rosalie took a sip of juice. “Thanks for breakfast.”

  “It was the least I could do.”

  That second sip of juice went down the wrong pipe. She turned red, but it wasn’t only due to the coughing fit, and Nick, the smug bastard, knew it. There was a reason she never had men spend the night. She caught her breath and started to recover.