by Jo Leigh
Thank Christ for electric blankets. ’Cause Mike Donnelly, for all his bluster, was getting on. It would be good when Jake had the new shower finished. Nothing to step over, nothing his crooked hands couldn’t handle. Then he’d be able to jack up the heating bill to his heart’s content, shower three times a day if he wanted.
In the meantime, there was plumbing to do. Jake limped over to the laptop and continued the how-to. Two minutes in, his cell rang. It was Katy Groft, which was weird. They’d gone out, it had been fine, but Jake had been pretty damn clear about his intentions. He wasn’t one of those guys who said they’d call, then blew it off. None of that bullshit. “Hello?”
“Hey, Jake. Got a minute?”
“Sure.”
“I’m sending you a picture.”
“Okay.” His phone beeped a second later. “Hold on.” He clicked over to the photo, and what he saw surprised him even more than the phone call itself. It was…what’s her name, the Winslow who wasn’t called Winslow. Thorpe. That’s right. Rebecca Thorpe. Ran some kind of big foundation or something, was always in the papers, especially the Post. What he didn’t know was why Katy Groft would want him to see Thorpe’s picture. “Okay,” he said again.
“This is my friend Rebecca,” Katy said. “Interested?”
“In what?”
“Her. Going out with her. You know, a date?”
He stared again at the phone, at the picture. Rebecca Thorpe was a beautiful woman. Interesting beautiful. Her face was too long, her nose too prominent, but there was something better than pretty about her. Every picture he’d seen of her, didn’t matter who she was with, she seemed to be daring everyone to make something of it. Of her. Right now, looking at the overexposed camera phone photo, he had to smile. No choice. It didn’t hurt that she had a body that struck all the right chords. Long, lean, like a Thoroughbred. “You do realize you called Jake Donnelly, right?”
Katy laughed. “Yes. I’m very aware of who you are. And who she is. And I happen to believe you two would hit it off well. I’m pretty clever about these things. And don’t worry, she already understands you’re not in the market for anything serious.”
So this Thoroughbred wanted to go out with a quarter horse for a change of pace? “She knows I’m busted up, right?”
“Not a problem.”
He gave it another minute’s thought, then figured, “Sure. Why the hell not?”
“Great. How about the Upstairs bar at the Kimberly Hotel, tomorrow night at eight?”
It was his turn to laugh. “What is this, some kind of gag?”
“No. I swear. She’s great. You’ll like her. A lot.”
He’d have to wear something nice to the Kimberly. But he hadn’t worn anything nice in a long time. Before he got shot, that’s for sure. “I’ll get there a little early. Introduce myself.”
“Excellent. You’ll thank me.”
“I’m already thanking you. For thinking of me. Although I’m still unclear why.”
“You’ll see,” she said.
“Fair enough.” He disconnected from Katy, but stared at the picture on his phone for a while. God damn, she was something else.
Katy had been only the second woman he’d been with since he’d been put out to pasture. She’d been great, and if his life had made any kind of sense, he might have pursued more than a onetime thing. But the only thing he knew for sure at the moment was that he was a broken ex-cop without a plan in the world except for rebuilding the house he was born in so his father could live out the rest of his days at home. After that was anybody’s guess.
“Hey, Jake?”
He winced at the sound of his father’s voice, tinny over the walkie. “Yeah, Dad,” he said, his thumb finding the transmit button without his even having to look.
“How many cop jokes are there?”
He shoved his cell into his pocket. “Two,” Jake said. “All the rest of them are true.”
Laughter filled the mess of a bathroom, and Jake supposed that as far as problems went, having three lunatics telling him cop jokes all day was pretty far down the list.
2
REBECCA ARRIVED AT HER building just before 6:00 a.m. She needed coffee and lots of it. Facing her to-do list was not something she was looking forward to but there was no getting around it.
Her suite on 33rd was a behemoth. The size itself wasn’t the issue—it was the fussy ostentation that got to her, the image that nearly outweighed their purpose. There was an enormous fresh-flower display next to the huge mahogany reception desk. Warren, the receptionist, wouldn’t be in until eight-thirty, and Rebecca’s personal assistant, Dani, had been coming in at eight lately, an hour earlier than she had to. It was very, very still with no one else on the floor, but then that wasn’t unusual. The air of gravitas was nurtured like a living thing in this fortress.
Rebecca didn’t make a sound on the plush burgundy carpeting in the long hallway that led to her office. She swiped her key card, put her briefcase on her desk, her purse in her credenza drawer, and went to the small private room—the truest symbol of how much the founders had prized their creature comforts. She headed straight for the coffeemaker.
Once she’d finished with the prep and pressed the button for the machine to start brewing, she turned and leaned on the counter. There was a huge LED television mounted on the wall across from the deep and supremely comfortable leather chairs, museum-worthy paintings on the muted walls and a couch with such deep bottom cushions that it was more suitable to napping than sitting. Fresh flowers were here as well, replaced weekly by a service that understood decorum while making a point that when it came to the details, no expense was spared. It was as ridiculous as it was sacrosanct.
She was the first woman to ever run the foundation, and her ideas about modeling their business plan after the great philanthropic organizations like the Rockefeller Trust or the Carnegie Group continued to be an uphill war. Picking her battles had been one of her first and most important lessons.
That’s why she tried hard not to resent the time and money being spent on the donor dinner. The guest list included most of the Forbes top-fifty richest people in the world. They gave millions so that after all these years, their endowments were in the billions. She needed to remember that and just do the job.
Preparing her coffee in her favorite mug soothed her, letting her prioritize the next few unencumbered hours. It wasn’t until she took her first sip that her thoughts turned to Jake. And there was a problem.
Not her excitement, that was a pleasure and a rush. It wasn’t like her to want a man purely for sex. She was, in theory, at least to quote her mother, above that sort of thing.
Guess not, Mom.
When she returned to her desk, instead of clicking on her email, she got her purse from the credenza and took out Jake’s trading card.
Oh, yeah. She wasn’t at all sure why, but looking at him made her clench all kinds of important muscles. She hadn’t even met him and his face started a chemical spike inside her. The exact same reaction had occurred each time she’d sneaked a peek at his photograph. She refused to acknowledge how often that had been.
The problem was, with this level of excitement over the two-dimensional image, how on earth was the very three-dimensional living man going to measure up?
It was all about narrowing her expectations. She could do that. It wasn’t as if she wanted to fall in love with Jake or for him to love her. She hoped to like him, though, because she knew from experience that if he was a complete jerk, her attraction would vanish in an instant.
They were going to meet for drinks and that was to her advantage. She didn’t normally indulge to the point of feeling buzzed, but when she did, she became more forgiving. And, if it came down to it, she could probably get him to not talk at all.
She put his card away, determined not to look at it again until after work. Not only was she slammed for time, but she needed to get home early enough to go the extra mile with grooming. Oh, the
joys and pains of getting naked with someone new.
She clicked on her email icon, and the sheer number of new messages was enough to chase away any thoughts of sweaty sex. Especially when the first of the emails was from her father. That never ended well.
THE MORNING COFFEE WAS already made by the time Jake limped his way down the stairs. It was freezing outside. Sitting in the kitchen, his father was bundled up in a thick wool sweater and had a lap blanket tucked around his lower half as he warmed his hands on his old NYPD coffee mug.
“The weatherman says we’re in for a cold one tonight.”
Jake nodded as he fixed his mug. Two sugars, half and half. He didn’t drink until he slid onto the banquette in the breakfast nook. He needed to do something about the cushion covers. They were almost as old as he was and the regular washings had made them threadbare and pale. “I’m going to the city.”
“Yeah?” his dad asked.
“Yeah.”
“Date?”
Jake drank some coffee, sighing in satisfaction as it warmed him. “Yeah.”
“I’ll get Liam to spend the night, then?”
“Already cleared it with him. He’s bringing over DVDs.”
“Ah, shit,” his father said, putting his mug down on the counter, then turning his wheelchair a few degrees so he faced Jake. “That means another goddamn Bruce Willis festival. Swear to Christ, Liam has, a whatchamacallit, a bromance, going with that guy.”
“What’s it matter? Pete’s got a hard-on for his car.”
“Yeah.” Mike picked up his cup again. “Everybody’s got something. Except you. What do you got a hard-on for, Jake?”
“What the hell kind of a question is that?”
“Watch the tone. I’m still your father. I’m wondering, that’s all. You spent a lot of time wanting to be in vice, then all those years doing undercover work. I’m thinking there’s gotta be something else now. Something, please God, more interesting than Bruce Willis movies.”
Jake drank some more coffee, not sure how to answer the question. If he should answer at all. But no, he would. He and his dad had spent a lot of years being distant. What with the work, then with Mom dying of cancer, and Jake having to be so hush-hush about everything. He’d decided to fix up the house by himself because he wanted to know his old man. Wanted someone to know him in return. Now was not the time to back off. “I don’t know, Dad. I got nothing. Just the house.”
“That’s not gonna last forever.”
“Nope. But it’s something to do while I learn how to be a civilian.”
“I hear that.”
Jake nodded in tandem with his father. It wasn’t easy, this talking thing. But dying alone in a warehouse filled with drug dealers wasn’t easy, either. He could do this. The worst that would happen? He’d look like an idiot. He already did that without trying. “I’ve got a date tonight,” he said. “She a looker.”
“Good for you,” Mike said. “Nice woman?”
“Never met her. Comes highly recommended, though.”
“Yeah?”
“She’s a Winslow.”
“Those Winslows?” His dad settled his cup snugly on his lap as he wheeled over to the nook. “What the hell does one of those Winslows want with you?”
Jake laughed. “No idea. Looking forward to finding out.”
“Probably heard who your old man was. Couldn’t resist.”
“You keep telling yourself that. See what happens.”
Mike awkwardly put the cup on the table, and Jake held back his wince. It was getting harder for his father to hold the damn mug at all, as his fingers twisted and bent. But there was no use crying about it. There wasn’t a cure, and the medicines and physical therapy could do only so much. Retrofitting the house was what Jake could do, was doing.
“You know Sally Quayle? Three doors down, her husband was killed in Afghanistan last year?”
“Oh, no, Dad. Come on. We talked about this.”
“We did, and we agreed.”
“I’m not goddamn Santa and I’m not the neighborhood fixer. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m also busy.”
“There’s always time to do right. She’s worried about being alone. Thinking of buying a gun.”
“Ah, crap. You want me to go talk to her.”
“I do. We all do. She needs to know how dangerous that could be. Go over her house security. Make sure she’s safe, yeah?”
Jake sighed. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll go over this week. After I get a good start on the new shower.” Why was it the only time Jake sounded like he was from Brooklyn was when he was home? He’d had the accent scared out of him at St. Francis Xavier high school, but it always came back the moment he was in the neighborhood.
“This week is fine. And don’t start anything too big on the shower this afternoon. You need to look your best tonight.”
“I what?”
Mike sniffed. “You’re my only son. And a certified hero. She should know who she’s dealing with, this Winslow woman.”
What could Jake say? “Sure thing, Dad. I’ll shave and everything.”
REBECCA PAID THE CAB DRIVER, then got out on East 50th Street at the entrance to the Kimberly Hotel. She’d chosen it because the rooftop bar had spectacular views of Midtown. Also she liked the way they made their gimlets here with a very unique lime cordial. It didn’t hurt that their luxury suites were gorgeous, the feather beds to die for. Even if magic didn’t happen between her and Jake, she’d enjoy staying the night by herself, and if that happened, she already decided she’d be utterly decadent with room service.
With that in mind, she went inside, her gaze lingering on the lobby’s beautiful grandfather clock as she went to the front desk. She handed them her overnight bag and her coat to put in her room. Registration took no time at all and once her key card was in her purse, she went to the lobby restroom. She had to remind herself that whatever happened would be fine, that if he was an ass, she’d lose nothing but a fantasy. Still, she wanted that fantasy, so she freshened her lipstick, fluffed her hair, checked her breath and let her heart pump and her hopes soar as she caught the next ride up.
It was the express to the roof, not giving her much time to think, which was good. There were only three men in business attire aboard, none of them speaking, although she had the feeling they’d been in the same meeting. They all looked as though they’d been to the battlefield and lost and that drinks at the penthouse bar would be a just reward.
Her nerves hit what she hoped was their peak as they reached the thirtieth floor. It was all she could do not to take Jake’s trading card out of her purse and hold on to it like a talisman. Not that she wouldn’t recognize him. She’d practically memorized his face. He’d look good on the roof with the blue and white fairy lights under the glass domed ceiling, with the city skyline behind him.
Frankly, he’d look good in a crumbling boiler room. But as long as she was making this into some kind of romantic one-night dream date, she might as well have the proper setting.
Another thing she liked about Upstairs at the Kimberly was that the music wasn’t deafening. They catered to a more mature crowd and had some respect for eardrums. It was a bar made for getting to know a person.
The elevator opened at one minute past seven. There were several areas where Jake could be. On the main floor, at one of the tables, at the light-bedazzled bar itself or on one of the leather couches to either side of the bar. She ran her hands down her black sheath dress as she walked into the middle of the room. She glanced to her right, and there he was. He’d scored a hell of a table, one close to the window that looked out at the Chrysler building.
It was too dark to see the color of his eyes, but she could tell he looked pretty much as advertised. Dark scruffy hair, broad shoulders with a well-fitting jacket, a light button-down shirt tucked into dark trousers. He saw her and stood, and yep, he had slim hips and long legs. Even at this distance, he was hotter than hell, and please, please, let this not crash and burn in
the first five minutes.
She hoped he would be equally impressed as she crossed over to him. He took a few steps himself, careful to keep close enough to the table to prevent poaching. It wasn’t until the third step that she noticed his limp.
Katy hadn’t said anything. Meaning she didn’t deem it noteworthy. Rebecca had no problem with that. It was an interesting detail, something to discover by layers.
“Rebecca,” he said, and goodness, yes, that was a great voice. Deep and mellow and she thought about one of her recent not-so-wonderful blind dates that hadn’t been helped by Sam’s unfortunately high and sadly nasal tone.
“Jake,” she replied as she took his hand. It was warm and large, and the shake just firm enough. He also knew when to let go. Big plus. He almost touched the small of her back as he held her seat, giving her the best view.
He sat across from her. The candles on the table gave a hint of his eye color, but she’d need real lights for that. Later. Now was for talking. And drinking because her heart was pounding a bit too hard for her to ignore.
Before they had a chance to start the opening volley, a waitress came to the table. Rebecca ordered her vodka gimlet and Jake ordered a bourbon and water. Nice. Traditional. Masculine.
The second they were alone, he leaned a little toward her. “I’m never great with openings,” he said. “I’ve always thought there should be rules, a standard pattern that all blind dates have to follow. Like school uniforms or meeting the queen. It would make things so much simpler.”
She thought about her trading card, and how that had helped, and wondered if Jake knew he was on a card, if he’d approve. She thought, yes. “You’re right. It’s an excellent idea and should be implemented immediately. What say we start with the basics. The front page of the questionnaire. I’m Rebecca Thorpe, I live in Manhattan and work in the East Village. I’m an attorney although I don’t practice, and I was born and raised here in the city. I’ve known Katy for over a year, and she’s terrific, so I trusted her when she told me we might hit it off. I’m not looking for love, or for more than an interesting evening, which I hope is what you’re after, and…well. That’s about it.”