"I'm not taking your money, Mama," Zoe said firmly, repeating an oft-voiced refrain.
Mama crossed her arms. "I do not see why not," she said. "It is green like everybody else's money."
"Because I want to do this on my own, that's why. I want to build something that's mine, the way you and Papa Molinari—"
"May God rest his soul," Mama murmured, and all three women crossed themselves, even Zoe, who wasn't Catholic.
"—did," Zoe finished.
"Papa and I did it on our own because we had no family in America to help us. You—" she lifted her right hand chest high, fingertips together and made a quick flicking motion toward Zoe "—have family."
"Yes, I know." Zoe reached across die table and patted Mama's arm. "And I'm grateful for that. I can't even begin to tell you how grateful. But I'm still going to do this on my own."
"But you do not do it on your own," Mama pointed out, with what Zoe was sure the woman considered extreme reasonableness. "You take someone else's money to help you. This Signora Sullivan—" she sniffed disdainfully, in full martyr mode now "—you are willing to take her money."
Zoe shook her head in exasperation. "That's business and you know it," she said, refusing to let herself be manipulated by her feelings. "Just like getting a loan from a bank."
"Pah, banks," Mama scoffed. "Usurers. Family is better."
"But, Mama, you got a loan from the bank three years ago when you renovated the apartments upstairs," Gina said sweetly. "Remember? You didn't go to Uncle Nunzio or Cousin Robert for the money, even though they would have been happy to help out."
"They would have been happy to stick their nose into my busi—" Mama began huffily, then snapped her mouth shut as she realized what she'd said.
Zoe's eyes sparkled, but she had the presence of mind not to laugh. "My point, exactly," she said, permitting herself a small smile of triumph.
Mama tsked and lifted both hands this time, fingertips together and pointed upward as if entreating the Almighty to give her patience. "Have it your way, then." She sighed loudly and dropped her hands. "I give up."
"Thank you, Mama." Zoe rose and went around the table to kiss her on the cheek. "I knew you'd understand."
"Eventually," Gina muttered under her breath.
Mama Marcella narrowed her eyes at her grandniece to let her know she'd heard the muttered remark, then lifted her hands to cup Zoe's cheeks and hold her at eye level for a moment. "And what are you going to do about this Reed Sullivan and his private detective, hmm?"
"Nothing," Zoe said.
Mama let her go. "Nothing?"
"Not a thing. He's having me investigated the way I assume he would anyone his great-grandmother wanted to loan money to. That's fine. That's business."
And only business, from now on.
She refused to let it be anything else.
* * *
6
« ^ »
Zoe considered nearly every article of clothing she owned before finally deciding what to wear to the meeting Monday morning. Even after she began to dress, though, she wasn't completely sure she'd made the right choice. The problem was she didn't have any real business clothes, no nine-to-five, going-to-the-office, I'm-really-serious-about-this type business clothes. She only owned one suit that even came close to that ideal. Maybe.
It was a deep eggplant-purple in a light-weight gabardine, with a peplum jacket and long narrow skirt, circa 1945. She'd bought it at a little antique clothing store in the South End. It wasn't exactly a business suit, not by current standards, but the more conventional little dress-for-success suits available at mainstream stores just didn't fit her—not her body, not her personality and definitely not her wallet. The purple number had been more in line with what she was willing to spend, and it had been designed at a time when fashionable women where allowed to be considerably curvier than they were today. With very little alteration, it fitted Zoe as if it had been custom-made for her.
In any case, all of her other clothes were even less suitable for a business meeting. Everything in her closet was either a one-of-a-kind flea market find or a funky piece from some out-of-the-way boutique, with an occasional basic from the Gap thrown in just to keep things from getting too predictable. She didn't own a traditional blazer, plain pearl studs or a pair of classic navy pumps, and she wouldn't have worn them, anyway, even if someone had given them to her.
So her only choice, really, was the eggplant suit. She made it more businesslike by wearing simple amethyst drop earrings and eschewing the enameled, pink flamingo pin that would have jazzed up the lapel. She wound her hair into a modified French twist and stepped into her most conservative pumps, which were plain black suede with a deep V-shaped vamp and three-inch heels. A boxy little black lacquered purse with a clear Lucite handle, just large enough for essentials, took the place of her oversize tapestry bag.
As she gazed at her reflection in the mirror, she had to admit the outfit looked pretty darn good, even without the flashy jewelry she usually wore with it. The jacket lay smoothly over her breasts without any puckering or pulling around the row of tiny jet buttons that ran, single file, down the front. It nipped in neatly at the waist, formfitting without being the least bit tight, then flared slightly to cover her hips. The straight skirt fell to midcalf with a discreet slit up the back to make walking possible. The ensemble cried out for seamed stockings, of course, but that would have been a bit much for Boston at nine o'clock on a Monday morning. Zoe had settled for sheer black hose, instead. If she had a briefcase and a jaunty little hat with a feather, she thought, she'd look like Joan Crawford or Rosalind Russell in one of those classic forties career-woman films—ready to take on the world and any man who dared get in her way.
With a final approving nod at her reflection, she exited her apartment, head high, purse firmly in hand, confidence soaring. Nineteen-year-old Tony Umberto at the dry cleaners next door whistled at her when she emerged from the alley between the two buildings, confirming her opinion.
"Lookin' good, Zoe," he hollered. "Lookin' real good." He kissed his fingers to her. "Bellissima!"
She grinned and sent him an airy wave, then turned and hurried on down the street at a brisk, confident clip to hail a taxi at the corner.
* * *
The Sullivan Building was located on Commonwealth Avenue
in the Back Bay section of Boston, just one block from the Public Garden. Unlike many of its neighbors, with their Italian marble, French friezes or fussy Victorian trim, the building boasted a plain brick facade with no gargoyles or fancy ironwork to distract from its stolid, substantial lines. It reeked of wealth, respectability and chilly good taste, a monument to puritan restraint and well-bred Brahmin affluence.
If she had been more easily intimidated, Zoe would have turned tail and run. But she was Rosalind Russell today, so she lifted her chin and made her way across the wide Parisian-inspired sidewalk and up the steps to the double doors. A uniformed security guard opened them for her, bowing smartly when she smiled her thanks.
As financial institutions went, it was certainly impressive and even quite attractive in its own formidable, banklike way. The hum of commerce was very low-key and highbrow. Rockefeller would have felt right at home. Zoe felt like a stranger in a strange land. She took a deep, steadying breath, squared her shoulders beneath the fine wool of the eggplant suit and walked over to the information desk, determined to behave as if she trod the hallowed halls of high finance every day of her life.
"Could you tell me where I can find Reed Sullivan's office?" she inquired jauntily, still pretending she was the imperturbable Rosalind Russell.
"Take the elevator, over there." The clerk smiled and pointed to a little nook hidden behind a lush, potted palm. "All the way up to the top floor. The receptionist will direct you from there."
Predictably, the executive floor was even more impressive than the lobby had been. The marble floors became gleaming hardwood covered with gently worn Persian ru
gs. Glossy, hand-rubbed mahogany wainscoting ran halfway up the walls, then gave way to pale blue watered silk that had faded just enough to avoid being ostentatious. A tasteful grouping of small water-color landscapes graced one wall. A larger oil depicting Boston Harbor at the turn of the century hung opposite them. Decorative brass wall sconces, neither too plain nor too fanciful, provided ambient fight. A shaded Tiffany lamp sat on a corner of the receptionist's rosewood desk. The receptionist herself, in a gray cashmere twin set and a single strand of pearls, was as classy and elegant as the room.
"May I help you?" she asked in dulcet tones, as subdued as the pastel carpet under her desk.
Zoe's confidence slipped a notch, but she tightened her fingers on the Lucite handle of her lacquered purse and told herself to settle down. She'd made it this far without disaster; it would be silly to let nerves get the best of her now.
"Zoe Moon," she stated in her firmest, most businesslike manner. "I'm here to see Reed Sullivan. The fourth," she added hastily, in case numbers one through three were still around somewhere.
* * *
Reed paced the width of his office, waiting for his secretary to buzz him. When she did, he nearly jumped out of his skin. "Steady there, Sullivan," he admonished himself. "Get a grip." He leaned across his desk from the far side and pushed a button on the phone. "Yes?" he said, as calmly as if he'd been sitting there, reading the month-end reports for the various Sullivan business concerns.
The voice on the other end wasn't the one he expected.
"This is Karla, sir. At reception? I'm sorry to bother you, but Mary Ellen isn't at her desk at the moment and I was instructed to let your office know the minute Ms. Moon arrived. She's here, sir. Shall I send her to your office or should I wait for Mary Ellen to come back or…?"
Sullivan company policy clearly stated that no visitor was to be left to wander the halls alone. It also stated that the receptionist was not to leave her desk unattended.
"Ask her to have a seat, Karla. I'll be out front to collect her in a minute."
He released the intercom button and rubbed his palms together, dismayed to realize they were actually sweaty. He hadn't gotten sweaty palms over a woman since … he had to stop and think about it for a moment … since the time Janice Hawkins had agreed to leave the Harbor Club dance with him one hot summer night and go strolling down to the deserted boathouse in the dark. He'd been seventeen, she was nineteen, and by the time they'd finally left the boathouse—barely making it back to the clubhouse for the last dance—he'd been head-over-heels in love, as only a seventeen-year-old boy who'd just lost his virginity to an older woman could be. Two months later she'd broken his heart by dumping him for a fraternity boy from Yale.
He wondered uneasily if Zoe Moon was going to break his heart, too, and then dismissed the thought as ridiculous. He'd been little more than a boy back then, too young and unsophisticated to realize that what he felt for the accommodating Miss Hawkins wasn't love but lust. He was all grown up now. Now he knew the difference.
What he felt for the luscious Miss Moon was very definitely lust. Primal, basic, uncomplicated lust the likes of which he couldn't remember feeling for any other woman before. He had no starry-eyed illusions about being in love with her, not the way he had with Janice Hawkins. He wasn't picturing her veiled in antique lace with ribbon-tied lilies in her hands. He wanted Zoe naked in his bed, every glorious inch of her exposed to his eyes and hands and mouth. White lace didn't enter into the picture at all, unless it was some scrap of nothing meant to hold up a pair of silk stockings.
And that, apparently—just the thought of that—was quite enough to make his hands clammy.
He opened a door to the right of his desk and stepped into his private bathroom to rinse his hands at the old-fashioned pedestal sink. He checked his hair while he was at it, leaning forward a bit to peer into the antique oval mirror as he skimmed his fingers over the top of his head. Was that a bit of gray there at the temple, mixed in with the brown? A few seconds of closer inspection assured him that it wasn't and, satisfied, he straightened, tweaked the knot on his silk tie into more perfect alignment, shot his cuffs so that the correct one-and-one-half inches of snowy Egyptian cotton showed below the sleeves of his suit coat, and tugged at the hem of his vest as if all those little adjustments were actually necessary.
They weren't. His suits and shirts were custom-made by one of the finest tailors on the Eastern seaboard, his housekeeper was scrupulous about keeping his wardrobe cleaned and pressed, and Reed himself was naturally fastidious about his grooming. He never left home less than perfectly turned out, and he never thought about how he looked or what he was wearing once he stepped away from the mirror in his bedroom.
Usually.
He met his own eyes in the mirror over the sink, smiling bemusedly as he realized that Zoe Moon had managed to make him nervous. Him! Nervous about seeing a woman. That hadn't happened since the Janice Hawkins debacle, either.
"Reed?" He heard a light tap on the outer door of his office. "You in there?"
He stepped out of the bathroom at the sound of his secretary's voice. "Right here, M.E. Come on in. I was just about to head down to reception and collect our guest."
"No need. I've got her," Mary Ellen said as she ushered Zoe into his office. "I came across her on my way back from the ladies' room. Karla said she'd already buzzed you to let you know she was here, so I brought her on back with me."
Something resembling a lightning bolt shot through him at the sight of his great-grandmother's gorgeous protégée, but he managed to smile graciously—as if every nerve ending in his body wasn't sizzling!—and stepped forward, offering his hand like the gentleman he'd been raised to be and the savvy businessman he instinctively was. Besides, he wanted to touch her. Desperately.
"Zoe. Welcome to Sullivan Enterprises," he murmured, hoping to hell his palms hadn't started to sweat again, laughing at himself for even worrying about it.
Lord, how could the woman tie him up in knots just by standing there?
She was wearing a dark, purplish suit that succeeded in looking prim and sexy at the same time. It had a long concealing skirt that ended well below her knees. The jacket was buttoned all the way up to the soft hollow at the base of her throat and had some kind of little flounce that covered the enticing swell of her hips, but it hugged her impossible waist and outlined the mouthwatering shape of her full breasts. She'd come up with yet another hairstyle, too, one that confined all but a few curling tendrils of her gorgeous red hair in an upswept do that made his fingertips itch to take it down.
"I'm sorry for the wait," he apologized, as cool and urbane as if he wasn't wondering just how many buttons he'd have to unbutton to get her out of that elegant little suit—and what would be under it when he did. Seamed stockings, he decided, and black lace garters. And one of those frilly Victoria's Secret corsets meant to fuel men's fantasies. "I was unavoidably delayed."
"Yes." She smiled her teasing gypsy smile and glanced toward the open bathroom door. "I can see that."
Unaccountably, Reed actually felt his cheeks warm.
He backed up a step, reaching behind him to pull the door closed. "Would you like coffee?" he offered, ignoring her comment, and what might or might not have been a blush. "Tea? A soft drink?"
Zoe could have kicked herself for making such a juvenile remark, nerves or no nerves. Apparently, proper Bostonians didn't allude to such earthy subjects as bathrooms in casual conversation, even teasingly. She didn't either, usually, but the words had popped out before she'd had a chance to censor them. Her words had an unfortunate habit of doing that.
"I'd love a cup of coffee," she said politely, trying to show him she really did know how to behave in public.
"M.E., would you see about getting us come coffee, please? And something to go with it." He looked at Zoe. "Croissant? Bagel? Danish?"
"I should say bagel, shouldn't I? But…" She shrugged and patted her hip lightly, disparagingly.
Reed's gaze automatically tracked the fluttering movement of her hand, his eyes all but glazing over as he imagined his own hand caressing that sweet swell of flesh below her waist. She had lovely, rounded, womanly hips, fashioned expressly for a man to hold on to in bed. He swallowed—hard—trying not to salivate at the thought of being that man.
"I'd … uh, really love a croissant," Zoe said haltingly, conscious of somehow having made yet another verbal gaffe. Apparently, judging by the carefully blank look on Reed's face, members of polite society didn't joke about their physical flaws, either. She probably ought to just keep her mouth shut unless he asked a direct question.
"Coffee and croissants, M.E." Reed swallowed again, then lifted a loosely curled fist to his mouth and coughed softly to clear the slight huskiness from his voice. "And don't carry the tray yourself. Get someone else to do it."
His secretary rolled her eyes. "I'm pregnant, Reed, not crippled."
"Eight months and counting," he said, as if she needed reminding. "Get someone else to do it."
Mary Ellen smiled and shook her head. "Yes, boss." She executed a snappy salute that had him smiling in return, despite his preoccupation with his guest. "I'll get someone else to do it."
She closed the door behind her, leaving them alone.
Zoe looked around the office with feigned casual-ness, determined to be cool, determined to be professional and aloof despite the way her heart was fluttering against the wall of her chest. It was going to be harder than she thought to maintain the businesslike facade, because Gina was absolutely right.
The man was gorgeous.
And she most definitely, without a doubt, had the hots for him.
She'd never been much impressed by men in suits before, especially three-piece, pinstriped suits. They usually looked pompous or pretentious or just plain uncomfortable to her. Reed looked like Pierce Brosnan in Golden Eye, only better; like Cary Grant in every movie he'd ever made. He was sophisticated male elegance personified—at ease, in charge, elegant, devastatingly sexy. She wondered if it was merely coincidental, or if he knew the dark charcoal-gray material of his oh-so-proper suit made his brilliant blue eyes look even bluer in contrast.
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