Robin Kaye Bundle

by Robin Kaye

  She took another bite of salad, wondering what they used to make fake crabmeat and if it was naturally that shade of orange, or if she was ingesting carcinogenic dye in the name of losing weight. A soft knock sounded, and Gina poked her head in.

  “Rosalie . . . can we have a minute?”

  We? She pushed aside the lifeless salad and the spreadsheet she’d been studying, slipped on her jacket, and stepped into her pumps.

  “Come in.”

  Gina walked in carrying a file, followed by Sam, her brother-in-law the cop. From the look of the two, Rosalie knew something was wrong.

  “What’s the matter? Is my family all right?”

  “It’s nothing like that. Everyone’s fine.” Gina was halfway to the desk before she realized Sam was still standing in the doorway. She laid the file on the desk, turned around and posed, hands on hips, head cocked. Rosalie could very well imagine Gina’s expression. It had the desired effect. Sam, the big bad homicide detective, looked as if he wanted to run crying for his mommy. Rosalie knew the feeling well and had the urge to cross herself and thank God Gina hadn’t pointed that look at her.

  “Do I really need to be a witness to what is obviously a private family matter? I have a lot of ground to cover . . .” Sam was squirming, the poor guy. “ . . . not that it isn’t always a pleasure to see you, Sam.”

  “Sam.” Gina stomped her foot and pointed at Rosalie. “Tell her.”

  “Tell me what?” Rosalie slid forward in her chair.

  Sam closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose before letting out a sigh worthy of old Mrs. Goldstein, Rosalie’s neighbor. All he was missing was the “Oy vey.”

  Sam straightened and stood, shoulders back, chest out, head held high. “Gina, give me a break here. I did what you asked. I’m done.”

  For the sake of all New Yorkers, Rosalie hoped his intimidation routine worked better on the perps than it did on Gina. She walked right up to him, grabbed his tie, pulled him into the office, and pointed to a chair in front of the desk. “Sit.”

  He sat.

  The fear-factor wielded by the tiny woman was amazing. Sam stood over a foot taller and outweighed her by a hundred pounds, but she had him well trained. Rosalie expected Gina to pat his head and say, “Good boy.”

  It was time for diversionary tactics. Poor Sam looked as if he wanted to disappear, he was so embarrassed. “Gina, what’s this all about?”

  “Nick.”

  Whoa, hold on. “My Nick?”

  “So he’s your Nick now, is he?”

  Uh, oh. Rosalie winced. Gina had turned on her.

  “You don’t even know his last name yet. Do you?”

  Rosalie looked toward Sam and then scowled at Gina. It was a waste of time. Gina was the pushiest woman Rosalie had ever met, and she always spoke her mind, however inappropriate.

  “Gina . . .” Rosalie growled. She didn’t take the warning.

  “I worry about you, Rosalie. I asked Sam—”

  Sam guffawed. “You mean threatened—”

  Gina speared him with a look of boredom and a wave of her hand. “Whatever.”

  She turned to Rosalie, sympathy rolling off her in waves. Oh, God. Gina was beginning to scare her.

  “The only person working at Romeo’s whose name is Nick and fits the description you gave me is Dominick Romeo. The Dominick Romeo.”

  Rosalie laughed as relief swept through her. “Right, I’m sure Dominick Romeo was driving around in a wrecker Sunday night on his way to a costume party at some chichi Westside Club and thought he’d stop to tow a car. Why not? It makes a great prop.”

  “Here’s proof.”

  Gina picked up the file she’d placed on the desk and tossed it in front of Rosalie. She opened it. There were copies of several pictures of Nick, each with a different woman on his arm. In most of the pictures, he wore a tuxedo. Nick at the Tony Awards with a Broadway starlet, at a charity event with a blonde anorexic, at a benefit concert for hurricane victims with another tall, blonde, and busty Barbie clone.

  Then she pulled out a piece of paper with notes scratched on it and stared at the underlined words. 1990 juvenile arrest—nonviolent crime. Record expunged. Rosalie couldn’t believe Gina had done this. And Sam. What was he thinking?

  “You ran a check on him? Sam, how dare you invade his privacy like that? Isn’t it against the law?”

  Sam squirmed in his seat. “Gina was worried.”

  “Gina, I told you to leave it alone. Didn’t I? How could you do this?”

  “You’re angry at me? I’m not the one lying to you.”

  Rosalie remembered Nick’s scowl when she’d teased him about . . . well, being him. And the way he’d looked when he asked if she was out to land a rich guy. No wonder he’d let her think he was a mechanic.

  “Now that I think about it, Nick never lied to me. He is only guilty of failing to correct my false assumptions. So, he’s a sneak. But knowing his reputation and how women talk, can you blame him?”

  Rosalie wasn’t mad. Nick didn’t seem malicious. He was trying to protect himself. It wasn’t as if he knew her. How would he know she wasn’t a money-hungry bitch? Especially after that crack she’d made about him being Brooklyn’s version of Donald Trump, who could blame him?

  She threw her salad in the trash and straightened her desk. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. Our relationship is casual. What do I care if he’s loaded? It’s not as if I’m after him for his money.”

  Gina shook her head and laughed. “No, you’re in it for the sex. I knew something was different about you on Wednesday. You did more than eat dinner and watch hockey with your Romeo, didn’t you?”

  Sam stood and backed away. “Um . . . okay, well, I guess I’ll let you girls do whatever . . . um, my lunch hour ended ten minutes ago, and my partner . . . well, I gotta go.”

  Sam all but ran out the door, the lucky bastard. Gina stared at Rosalie as if she’d lost her mind.

  “What do you want me to say, Gina? Do you want me to tell you I slept with him? Give you a blow-by-blow? Well, too bad. I don’t have to explain my sex life to you or anyone.”

  “You’re my best friend, and I worry about you. I know the type of guys you’ve gone out with. Dominick Romeo is way out of your league. Be careful, Rosalie.”

  Her head snapped up at that one. “Be careful of what?”

  “He’s a Romeo, chica. If he had a dollar for every heart he’s broken, his net worth would rival that of Bill Gates. The man is notorious.”

  “You know me, Gina. I’m not looking for a relationship. I already told him that.”

  “You gave Dominick Romeo the talk?”

  “Of course. Monday I told him I was interested in good company—a monogamous, temporary relationship with no strings and no commitments. I said that if he was looking for more, he shouldn’t waste his time with me.”

  “And you believe this load of crap?”

  “What do you mean? Of course, I do. You know me. I don’t have a problem keeping things simple. I don’t like being tied down. I’m not the relationship type.”

  “Did you ever think that maybe that’s because you’ve only dated losers? Seriously, Rosalie. Who could fall for a guy like Joey?”

  “Hey, he wasn’t that bad.”

  “Yeah, as long as you don’t mind a total lack of substance and personality.”

  What could she say? Gina was right. Dating Joey was like dating an android.

  “You know Lana, my friend who works at the Shubert Theater? She told me Dominick Romeo dated What’s-Her-Name, that Broadway Babe. There’s a picture of them in that file. Lana’s roommate, Liz, is a wardrobe mistress there and said Mr. Romeo was a fixture in What’s-Her-Name’s dressing room. He was hot and charming, and Broadway Babe was walking around with her head in the clouds and a stupid grin for a few months. She started talking about the lease on her apartment coming up, and she was thinking of moving in with him.”

  “Gina . . . is this going to take much
longer?” Just because she wasn’t interested in being his significant other didn’t mean she wanted to hear all the skinny on the women he dated.

  Gina shot her a disgusted look. Rosalie mentally started filing her nails.

  “No. Anyway, after the show one Friday, Romeo knocks on Broadway Babe’s dressing room door and asks Liz to give them a minute. Liz took off, but she left her stuff because she still had to get the wardrobe ready for the Saturday matinee. . .”

  “Gina. . .”

  “Don Juan . . . I mean, Romeo, was there for awhile and left alone, which wasn’t unusual. None of the cast goes out Friday night, because it’s hard to stay up all night and do two shows Saturday.

  “The point, Gina?”

  “The point is, Liz went in to finish work, and Broadway Babe was lying prostrate with grief, crying so hard, she couldn’t breathe. He’d dumped her. There she was, thinking everything was all hunky-dory, they’d move in together and get married or something, and he dumped her.”

  “That’s too bad for her, but it makes no difference to me. Nick and I have a deal. We agreed not to do love and commitment. We’re going to keep it light, have a good time, and when it isn’t a good time, we’ll walk away. No harm, no foul. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Yeah, Rosalie, you keep telling yourself that. Remember, there’s always a first time for everything, and since you’ve changed your MO, there’s an even better chance you’ll end up checking into Heartbreak Hotel.”

  “Changed my MO?”

  “Your modus operandi, your usual way of doing things.”

  “I know what it means, Gina. What I don’t know is how my MO has changed.”

  “You’re not dating a loser this time. Romeo is a hot, rich guy who has a reputation for keeping his woman happy until he breaks her heart and moves on to his next victim.”

  “The same could be said for me. Well, except for the hot part, and the rich part, and maybe the happy part. But the breaking hearts and moving on parts are true enough.”

  Rosalie set aside the file of information on Nick and watched as Gina put her hands on her tiny hips and did her Wicked Witch of the West laugh. Gina knew Rosalie well enough to know she was dying to see what other juicy gossip was in that file, but she wasn’t about to admit it.

  “So, what are you going to do to the lying, scheming, dirty, son-of-a—”

  “Enough already. I’m going to do nothing. It doesn’t matter if he’s Nick Romeo or Nick Cage. Think about it. His money has to complicate his relationships. Who could blame him for keeping it to himself? Think of all the women in New York whose only goal in life is to marry rich. He must feel objectified.”

  “Dominick Romeo, the poor little rich boy.”

  “Look Gina, he’ll tell me when he’s ready, or not. I’m not going to say anything, and if you ever meet him, neither will you. Do you understand me?”

  “Fine, but don’t expect me to join the Dominick Romeo Fan Club. I still object to what he’s doing, even if you don’t.”

  “Fine. Now, would you take off your overprotective best friend hat and put on your loyal and able assistant hat? If you do, we might get through the books before tomorrow’s meeting.” Rosalie blew her hair out of her eyes and shook her head. “I almost wish Nick would tell me who he is. I could really use his industry know-how.”

  Nick ended the call with his banker and beeped his assistant. “Lois, has anyone called?”

  “Not since the last time you asked.”

  “I was on the phone—”

  “And you told me to interrupt you if Ms. Ronaldi called. She did not.”

  “Did you get the reports from Saunders? They were supposed to be on my desk by noon.”

  “They were, and as far as I know, they still are. The third quarter reports are in the file labeled “Third Quarter Reports.” And before you ask, the file you’ve been keeping on Premier Motors is in the folder labeled “Premier Motors.” The takeover strategy and feasibility reports are on top. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes, call the employment agency and get me an assistant without an attitude.”

  “As if anyone else would put up with you. If that’s all, the other line is ringing.”

  Nick hung up the phone, focused on the paper in front of him, and realized he was looking at the report he’d asked Lois about. Damn, he was losing it.

  He couldn’t believe he was sitting around, waiting for Rosalie to call. The worst part was that he’d been waiting for three days and driving everyone around him nuts.

  He returned the reports to their files and threw them in his briefcase. He was shrugging on his suit jacket when his cell phone rang. “Hello.”

  “Having a bad day, Nick?”

  “Lee?”

  “It’s Rosalie.”

  “How are you doing? You sound different.”

  “I’m well. You?”

  “Fine.”

  “Look Nick, my meeting broke for a minute, and I have to get back, but I needed to call—” She coughed and cleared her throat.

  “About tomorrow night?”

  “Well, yes, that, and you have my car. You said someone took it to Romeo’s. I thought you would drive it over on Tuesday, but . . . well, I got sidetracked and forgot to ask about it.”

  “Sidetracked, huh? Is that what you call it?”

  “Nick, tell me you have my car.”

  “I have your car.”

  “Good. Do you still want to get together tomorrow night?”

  “Sure. Dinner and movie?”

  “Could we do takeout and a rental? I haven’t been home all week, and Dave is feeling neglected. Besides, I’m working on less than five hours sleep in the last two days, and tonight promises to be another late one.”

  “No problem. You pick the menu. I’ll pick up a movie. What do you want to see?”

  “Anything that’s not depressing.”

  “Done. I’ll see you about eight at your place. Don’t stay out too late. You don’t sound so good.”

  “I have a cough and a sore throat, but it’s no big deal. I need sleep.

  Nick heard someone call her.

  “I’ll be there in a minute. Thank you, Gina.” She coughed again. Her cough sounded awful.

  “Look Nick, I’ve got to run. See you tomorrow.”

  He heard the dial tone before he could say good-bye.

  Nick stood in the drama section of the video store, trying to pick out a chick flick Rosalie might like. He grabbed the one with shoes in the title. Cameron Diaz was hot, and he’d never met a woman who didn’t have a sick fascination with shoes that he’d never understand. He got the movie of that Broadway show what’s-her-name had been in while they’d been dating. Damn, he hoped the movie was different from the play. He’d seen the play a dozen times. And a comedy—couldn’t miss with Monty Python. He picked up a box of microwave popcorn, Goobers, and Raisinettes and drove the Mustang to Rosalie’s.

  Nick stopped to pick up a box of condoms and a bouquet of flowers in the market down the street from her place. All he needed was wine and takeout, and the evening would be complete. He rang Rosalie’s apartment and saw Dave barking at the front window, but Rosalie didn’t buzz him in. He checked his watch. He was right on time. Dave continued to bark. A man walked out the security door, and Nick caught it before it closed. He went down the hall and knocked on Rosalie’s door. Dave whined, and Nick knocked again. He turned the knob. She’d left the door unlocked, so he poked his head in.

  “Lee?”

  The place looked as if someone had tossed it. That didn’t bother him, but Dave did. He sat beside the door, whining.

  “Lee, it’s Nick, can I come in?” No answer. What to do? Aw, the hell with it. He walked in, prepared for Dave to jump all over him, but Dave turned and ran to the bedroom. Nick followed and found Dave lying on the bed with his head on Rosalie’s lap, and Rosalie sound asleep, looking like someone who’d been dead a week. She wore a ratty T-shirt and held a box of tissues under h
er arm. Used tissues littered the bed all around her. A bottle of cough medicine sat on the bedside table next to an empty glass. Dave whined again.

  Nick dropped the bag and sat beside her. When he brushed the hair from her forehead, her eyelids fluttered open. She was burning up.

  “Nick?” Rosalie coughed for a minute. Damn, she sounded like she had pneumonia. “What are you doing here?”

  “We had a date, remember? DVDs and takeout? Sound familiar?”

  “Didn’t you get my message? I called your cell . . . hey, how did you get in here, anyway?”

  “Dave let me in.”

  “Oh.” Her eyelids closed.

  “Lee, wake up.” She didn’t move. Nick picked up the tissues, tossed them in the trash can, and took her glass into the kitchen. She needed juice and something to bring down her fever. He opened the fridge and found it emptier than his. There was one egg, three beers, a yogurt, expired milk, and the usual condiments. He grabbed a beer, opened it, and took a long pull. He filled a glass with water, got the bottle of acetaminophen out of the cabinet above the sink, and wondered where she kept her thermometer. He checked the medicine chest, but all he found was Midol and girl shit. No thermometer.

  Nick sat beside Rosalie and gave her a good shake. “Wake up. Time to take your medicine.”

  She opened her eyes. “I hate pills.”

  “I know. Take these anyway. You have a fever.” He popped them in her mouth and handed her the water. “I’m going out to get dinner. Where are your keys? I’ll need to get back in.”

  Rosalie took the pills. “I don’t know . . . there’s an extra set in the drawer next to the sink. But Nick, you don’t have to do this. I’m fine. I need a little rest, that’s all.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You rest. I’ll be right back.” He kissed her forehead, and she mumbled something about being tired. He stood and looked down at her. What had he gotten himself into?

  Rosalie awoke in the middle of the night, coughing. Nick sat, as he had all night, with her between his legs and her back leaning against his bare chest. He’d been going back and forth, trying to decide what he should do—take her to the hospital, or wait for morning and get her to a doctor. Her fever was high, and the medicine wasn’t helping.