by Joan Hohl
With a flourish Moe ushered them to a table, telling them menus wouldn’t be necessary as he and Jeanette had completely planned the meal from appetizer to dessert. When a small wiry waiter walked up to their table carrying a silver bucket containing a bottle with a foil-wrapped head, a happy grin spread across Moe’s face.
“For my compare and his beautiful bride-to-be”—his hand grasped the neck of the bottle, lifted it to reveal the Dom Perignon label—”nothing but the best.”
In frozen silence, a strained smile cracking her pale face, Helen heard the muffled pop of the cork as it was forced from the bottle by Moe’s hand, hidden beneath a towel. Watching the golden liquid as it cascaded, bubbling, into the tulip-shaped glasses, Helen thought frantically: Now is the time to speak, put an end to this pretense.
In cloying panic she had the uncanny feeling that if she did not speak before the toast was given she’d be trapped into a situation from which she’d never get free. That’s ridiculous, she told herself scathingly, casting about in her mind for light, joking words that would correct Marsh’s statement of the week before without putting a damper on the party. She knew, already, that she was going to really like Moe and Jeanette and she didn’t want to begin a friendship with a lie.
Unable to find the proper words, Helen’s mind went blank. The glasses were passed around, and Moe and Jeanette lifted theirs. Surprisingly it was Jeanette who offered the toast. Her smile, her entire face, revealing the affection she felt for him, she looked directly at Marsh.
“To our favorite man, who deserves the best.” She then looked at Helen, drawing her into the circle of affection. “And to his woman, who obviously is.”
“Bravissimo, cara,” Moe applauded as he lifted his glass to his lips.
“Grazie.” Marsh replied simply before leaning across the table to kiss Jeanette’s smiling mouth.
Self-schooled to show as little emotion as possible, Helen had listened to the toast, observed Marsh’s reaction to it, and stared openly as the two men embraced each other, with a growing sense of wonder. Did these people always display their feelings this openly? Then all conjecture was sent flying as Moe’s amazingly gentle lips touched hers. Startled, about to pull back and away, Marsh’s chiding voice saved her from making a fool of herself.
“Enough already, you greedy Sicilian. It’s my turn.”
The gentle lips were removed, replaced by an equally gentle pair. And yet there was a difference. A difference so electrifying, Helen felt the shock waves reverberate through her entire body. He must have felt it too for he lifted his head too swiftly, breathed, “Later, love,” and turned a smiling face back to Moe and Jeanette.
The toast over, Helen relaxed and, before she was even aware of being drawn, found herself laughing and talking with Moe and Jeanette as if she’d known them for years. The minute they’d finished their after-dinner liqueur and coffee, Moe stood up, his grin directed at Marsh.
“Come with me, paesano, I got to show you my new ovens.”
Marsh rose but stood still when Jeanette placed a staying hand on his arm. Turning to her husband, she sighed exaggeratedly, “Marsh doesn’t want to see your ovens, Moe.”
Moe’s eyes, as soulful as a scolded cocker spaniel, shifted from Marsh to Jeanette, then back to Marsh.
“Tell the heartless woman you want to see my new ovens, Marsh,” he pleaded petulantly.
His lips twitching, Marsh stared into Jeanette’s laughing brown eyes and said seriously, “I want to see Moe’s new ovens, heartless woman.”
Jeanette’s carefully controlled features dissolved into laughter. Waving one hand dismissively, she cried, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, go admire the new ovens, you two lunatics.”
Shaking her curly black head, Jeanette turned back to Helen with a grimace that quickly turned into a smile. “I swear, sometimes I think that man loves his kitchens more than he loves me.”
“Kitchens?” Helen queried.
“Yes,” the black head nodded. “He has three restaurants, even though this place, being the first, is his favorite.”
“Does he do any of the cooking?”
“Lord, yes!” Jeanette exclaimed. “Here and at home. And what a cook!” She placed closed fingertips to her lips and kissed them. “I have to starve myself during working hours or there would be a lot more of me.”
“Well, if he cooked tonight’s dinner,” Helen said laughingly, “I can understand your problem.”
“You know, Helen.” Jeanette’s tone went low, serious. “When Moe came home raving about Marsh’s beautiful woman, I thought, yeah, just another in a long line of beautiful women. But five minutes after we met, I knew you were not just a beautiful woman in any man’s life. You’re special, and that makes me happy, because Marsh is also special and his happiness is very important to Moe and me.”
What could one possibly reply to a sentiment like that? Feeling anything she’d say would be vastly inadequate, Helen nevertheless began an attempt to tell Jeanette the truth.
“Jeanette, I don’t know quite how to say this, but—”
“By your solemn expression, love,” Marsh inserted, “I have a nasty suspicion my best friend’s wife has been telling tales out of school.”
“Every chance I can,” Jeanette retorted. “We girls have to stick together if we hope to keep you guys in line.”
The moment for taking Jeanette into her confidence was past, and Helen felt an odd relief at Marsh’s interruption. Strangely she hated the idea of disappointing Moe and Jeanette.
* * *
Chapter 6
It was close to midnight before the party broke up. It seemed to Helen that they talked nonstop, one minute laughingly, the next seriously. There were even a few friendly arguments, which nobody won, ending happily with everyone agreeing to disagree. Helen amazed herself with her own participation. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d entered into a free-for-all conversation so effortlessly, and she enjoyed every minute of it
When the last of the other dinner patrons had left, Moe, Marsh, and a few of the waiters cleared a small area of floor space by moving several tables together, and Moe found some slow, late-night music on the stereo-FM radio behind the bar.
He then came to Helen and, with a courtly, old-world bow, requested the honor of the first dance. Moe was a good dancer; in fact he was the next thing to expert. Never very proficient herself, Helen found it hard to relax. When the music ended and was followed immediately by another, slower, number, Helen swirled out of one pair of arms into another.
Although he moved smoothly, evenly, Marsh was not nearly as expert as Moe and as his steps were less intricate, Helen followed his lead easier. As one song followed another and the tension of concentration seeped out of her body, Marsh’s arms tightened. His steps grew slower until, locked together, they were simply swaying to the music, oblivious of the knowing smiles of Moe and Jeanette, the shadowy movements of the waiters as they unobtrusively cleared the tables.
On the way home, still in a mellow mood, Helen tipped her head back against the headrest and softly hummed one of the tunes they’d danced to.
“You like my friends?” Marsh’s quiet tone blended with her mood, and she answered without hesitation.
“Very much.”
“I’m glad.” He was quiet a moment, then added softly, “Maybe you’ll introduce me to some of your friends sometime.”
The mood was shattered, and Helen sat up straight, alert and wary. Now she did hesitate, for although his voice was soft, his tone had tautened.
“Maybe,” she said, hedging, “sometime.”
His soft laughter mocked her but he didn’t pursue the subject. Instead he taunted, “Did you miss me this week?”
“Why?” Helen asked blandly, innocently. “Were you away?”
This time his laughter filled the car, scurried down her spine.
“That’ll cost you also,” he purred warningly. “You are racking up quite a bill, woman. And I fully intend to make
you pay in toto.”
“I don’t have the vaguest idea what you’re talking about” Helen managed a light tone, despite the lick of excitement that shot through her veins.
“Oh, I think you do,” he mocked. “Now answer my question. Did you miss me?”
“Well, maybe a little.” She returned his mocking tone. “Like one might miss a persistent itch after it’s gone.”
“Deeper and deeper,” he said, chuckling. “You’re going to need a ladder to get yourself out of the hole you’re digging.”
He parked the car on the lot close to the building and grinned when she turned to say good night.
“Save your breath, I’m coming up with you.”
“But, Marsh, it’s late and—”
“Save it.” He cut her off. “I’m coming up with you, Helen. That almost kiss I got early this evening wore off long ago. Besides which, I thought you’d offer me a nightcap or at least a cup of coffee.”
“Coffee! At this hour?”
“You forget, I’m still young,” he teased roughly. “Coffee never keeps me awake. Now stop stalling and let’s go.”
They went, Helen at an irritated, impatient clip, Marsh at a long-legged saunter beside her. She only glanced at him once on the way up. One glance at his twitching lips, his blue eyes dancing with devilry, was enough to send her blood racing—with anger?—through her body.
Inside the apartment she flung her coat and bag onto a chair and stormed into the kitchen. His soft laughter, as he carefully hung up her coat, crawled up the back of her neck, made her scalp tingle.
She was pouring the water into the top of the automatic coffee maker when he entered the room, and after sliding the glass pot into place, Helen turned, eyes widening. He had not only removed his topcoat, but his jacket and tie as well, and had opened the top three buttons of his shirt. Turning away quickly, she pulled open the cabinet door, shaking fingers fumbling for cups. Damn him, she thought wildly, trying to concentrate on getting the cups safely out of the cabinet. How can I hope to keep him at arm’s length when he’s already half undressed? And how in the world do I handle a man that simply laughs at me and refuses to be handled? More to the point, how do I handle myself when I know that what I want to do is finish the job he started on his shirt, feel his warm skin against my fingertips?
Angry with him, with herself, with everything in general, she slid the cups from the shelf and banged them onto the countertop. Glaring at the coffee running into the pot, she snapped, “Make yourself at home.”
“I intend to.”
She hadn’t heard him move up behind her, and she jumped when his arms slid around her waist, drew her back against him. When his lips touched her cheek, she cried, “Marsh, the coffee’s ready.”
“So am I,” he murmured close to her ear, his hands moving slowly up her rib cage. “God, I missed you,” he groaned. “You may only have missed me like the absence of an itch, but this is one itch that is going to persist until you have to scratch. Helen.”
Helen’s mouth went dry and her eyes closed against the sigh of urgency he put into her name. She gasped softly when his teeth nipped her lobe, then her eyes flew wide as his hands moved over her breasts.
“Marsh, stop.”
Her words whirled away as she was twirled inside his arms. His hungry mouth, covering hers, allowed no more words for several moments. Feeling her resolve, her determination, melt under the heat of his obvious desire, Helen pushed at his chest, head moving back and forth in agitation.
“Marsh, the coffee.”
“The hell with the coffee,” he growled harshly. “Helen, I’ve barely thought of anything but this all week. Now will you be quiet and let me kiss you?”
“No.” She pushed harder against his chest. “Marsh, you—you wanted the damn coffee and you’re going to drink it or you’re going to go home.”
He sighed, but his hands dropped to his sides. “All right, I’ll drink the coffee.” He gave in, qualifying. “If you’ll join me.”
The room crackled with tension as she filled the cups, placed them, along with cream and sugar, on the table. Sitting opposite him, sipping nervously at the brew she didn’t want, Helen could feel the tension like a tangible presence. When he spoke, the calm normalcy of his tone struck her like a dash of cold water.
“Were you very busy this week?”
“Yes.”
Try as she did, she could not come up with any other words. The silence yawned in front of her again, and her head jerked up when he blandly asked, “What’s that you say? Did I have a busy week? As a matter of fact I did.” His eyes bored into hers. “Even though I seemed to spend as much time in the air as on the ground. Altoona, Harrisburg, Pittsburgh.”
He stopped abruptly, his eyes refusing to release hers. But he had achieved his purpose, he had reignited her curiosity about his work.
“Your grandfather’s building and construction firm extends throughout the state?”
The blue gaze softened and he smiled.
“No, but he does have business interests not only throughout the state but along the entire East Coast.”
“I see.”
Helen sipped her coffee, staring into the creamy brew. She really didn’t know any more than she had before. When she looked up, she was caught by the waiting stillness about Marsh, the hint of amusement in his eyes. He’s not going to volunteer a thing, she thought, frustrated. He’s going to sit there, silently laughing at me, and make me ask. The hell with it, she fumed, and him. I don’t even care what he does.
With elaborate casualness she got up, walked to the counter, and refilled her cup with coffee she wanted even less than the first cup. When he held out his cup to her, his lips twitching, she refilled it and handed it back to him, fighting down the urge to upend it over his head. She was going to ask. She knew she was going to ask and she resented him for it. Why was it so important to her anyway? The less she knew about him the better. Right?
“Do you handle all your grandfather’s interests?” Well, at least she’d managed an unconcerned tone, she congratulated herself.
“Mostly,” he replied laconically. “But I wasn’t on Cullen’s business this trip. I was on my own.”
Helen glanced up hopefully, but he was calmly drinking his coffee, his eyes mocking her over the cup’s rim. Damn him, she thought furiously. Why is he doing this? “Because he knows,” reason told her. He knows how much I hate this need to know everything about him. God, can he read my mind? It was not the first time she’d wondered about that, and the idea, as ridiculous as it was, made her uneasy. Placing her cup carefully in the saucer, Helen sighed in defeat
“What is your business, Marsh?”
“Now, that hardly hurt at all, did it?” Marsh mocked softly. Then all traces of mocking were gone, but the amusement deepened, danced in his eyes. “I’m an accountant.”
“An accountant!”
At her tone of astonished disbelief his laughter escaped, danced across the table and along her nerve ends. “An accountant,” he repeated dryly. “Don’t I look like an accountant?”
“Hardly.” Helen had control of herself now. Her dry tone matched his. “Does King Kong look like a monkey?”
“Do I look like King Kong?” His laughter deepened and Helen felt a strange, melting sensation inside. Her own eyes sparkling with amusement, she answered sweetly, “Only when you’re angry.”
He was up and around the table before Helen even finished speaking, and still laughing, he pulled her out of her chair and into his arms.
“You want to play Fay Wray?” He grinned suggestively.
‘To an accountant?” Helen taunted.
“Ah, but you see, love,” he said in the same suggestive tone, “accountants know all about figures.” His hands moved slowly down her back, over her hips. “And you’ve got one of the best I’ve ever handled.”
“And you’ve handled so many?” Helen shot back, annoyed at the twinge of pain the memory of Jeanette’s words about Marsh�
��s women sent tearing through her chest.
“Enough,” he admitted lazily. His arms tightened, drawing her close to his muscle-tautened frame. “Helen,” he murmured urgently. “You’re driving me crazy.” His mouth was a driving force that pushed her bead back, crushed the resistance out of her.
Feeling her body soften traitorously against him, Helen sighed fatalistically. She had missed him. She had missed this. Her hands, imprisoned between them, inched to the center of his chest. She heard his sharply indrawn breath when her fingers began undoing the buttons still fastened on his shirt, and when she paused, heard him groan, “Good God, love, don’t stop.”
His lips left a fiery, hungry trail down her arched throat; his hands moved restlessly over her shoulders, her back, her hips. His lips back tracked to the sensitive skin behind her ear. His voice was a hoarse, exciting seducement. “I love you. I love you. It’s been such a long week. Helen, don’t send me home, let me stay with you.”
“Marsh, oh, Marsh.” Helen could hardly speak. Her breath came in short, quick gasps through her parted lips. The shirt was open and she felt him shudder when her fingers tentatively stroked his heated skin.
“More, more.” His mouth hovered tantalizingly over hers. Her hands pushed away the silky material of his shirt as they slid up his chest, over his shoulders. With a low moan his mouth crushed hers in a demand she no longer could, or wanted to, deny.
The ring of the wall phone, not three feet from Helen’s head, was a shrill intrusion of reality. It was a call she couldn’t ignore, and on the second ring she struggled against him. Cursing softly, Marsh released her reluctantly.
With shaking hands Helen grasped the receiver, drew a deep breath, and huskily said, “Dr. Cassidy.”
“Sorry to waken you, Doctor,” the voice of the never-seen person who worked for her service said apologetically. “I just had a call from a Mr. Rayburn. He said his wife’s labor pains are ten minutes apart and she’s spotting, and he is taking her to the hospital.”