She laughed. “You sound like you’re bribing me.”
He didn’t even smile, because that was exactly what he was doing. Except, he knew very well she was no longer a young girl to be tempted by a treat. “Come directly from work to my place." He drew a pad and pen from his jacket, scribbled his address on it, then tore the top sheet from the pad and handed it to her. “Seven-thirty all right?”
She gazed at the piece of paper in her hand. She had always been curious about Amarillo, his private life, where and how he lived, what he did in his spare time. But— “Wouldn’t it be easier to call Nico and tell him he overreacted, that I’m all right, simply overworked?”
“I’ll do that too.”
She shook her head, confused. “I don’t understand why you feel you need to take me to dinner.”
His lips twisted into a wry grin. “Maybe, Angelica, I don’t want to eat alone.”
“But I’m sure there’s someone, a woman, you would enjoy being with—”
“There is. You."
She gazed up at him, trying to decide what to do. All her instincts told her to remain firm. But how did she say no to this man? His jawline looked as if it had been sandblasted from granite; the golden color of his eyes drew, the secrets they seemed to guard enticed.
“Do you already have plans?” he asked. “Did you plan to eat at all?”
“Of course. Amarillo—”
“Give me a reason why not.”
“A reason?”
“Why not, Angelica?” he said, repeating the question. “Why not go to dinner with me?”
The shape and force of the words stirred the air around her. The power of the man overwhelmed her.
She wanted badly to go. One minute she was fighting the urge. The next she gave up with a light laugh. “I guess you’re right. Why not?” “Good,” he said softly. “I’ll see you at seven-thirty.” He bent and drew a computer printout from the wastebasket. “These may be the sales figures you were looking for. Try not to work too hard."
After he had gone, she gazed down at the sheet he had handed her. They were exactly what she had been looking for.
The phone rang. With a soft smile on her face, she walked to her desk to answer it. “Angelica DiFrenza.”
"Be a good girl and mind me. ”
She went motionless at the high-pitched, muffled voice. “Who is this?”
“Be a good girl and stay home, where you belong.”
She slammed the receiver into its cradle. Judith, her secretary, popped her head into the office. “Hi, I’m back from lunch. Is everything all right? That was a rather loud hangup.”
She ran her hand around the back of her neck and eyed the phone with the same distaste she would a snake. “Oh, it’s nothing. Some crank, that’s all. He called me last night too. I think he even said pretty much the same thing.”
And Nico had called immediately afterward, she remembered. Without realizing it, she must have sounded disturbed, and he had picked up on it.
“I don’t like the sound of a crank call. Is there someone we can notify? Make sure it doesn’t happen again?”
She shook her head. “No, no. It’s no big deal. It’s happened to me a time or two before. This guy will get tired of calling me soon. The others did.”
Two
Angelica slid out of her car, locked its door, then paused to survey her surroundings. The address Amarillo had given her was actually a large riverfront warehouse. Her interest heightened. And her nerves worsened.
She smoothed her hands down her slender leather skirt, straightened the matching jacket, and reflected with uncertainty that perhaps she should have changed. She often went on dates right from work, but then, this definitely was not a date—though she wasn’t entirely certain what it was.
Amarillo viewed this night as fulfilling some sort of commitment to Nico. In that light, perhaps she should simply look on this evening as a dinner with her brother’s best friend. A casual evening. Yeah, sure.
The rain that had fallen all afternoon had stopped, leaving the narrow blacktopped street slick, mirrored, and surrealistic. Angelica started toward the warehouse. Large windows lined its long side, but the only light she could see was a small yellow bulb over a door. She knocked several times, but there was no answer. Could she be at the wrong place?
Gingerly she stepped into the flower bed, worked her way to a window, and peered in. Large indistinct shapes loomed in the darkness. Startled, she jerked away. She had to be at the wrong place. She returned to the light and pulled the paper Amarillo had given her from her pocket.
“Hey, you!”
She spun and saw an elderly woman approaching. The woman was dressed in tan pants, an oversize red flannel shirt, and a brown felt hat pulled down tightly on her head.
“Is there something I can help you with?” the woman asked in a gruff voice. A long, thin cigarette dangled from her mouth, and she carried a brown paper bag filled with groceries.
Angelica held out a slip of paper. “I’m looking for the address written here."
The woman scanned it, then looked back at Angelica. “So you’ve come to see Rill, have you?”
“You know Amarillo?”
“Sure. He’s my landlord." She took a long draw from her cigarette, then nodded toward her grocery bag. “I had to go get some things to eat. Couldn’t stand his nagging anymore. He’s got a thing about regular meals. My own children couldn’t care less what I eat. Fat chance they’re going to get my money. They make pompous asses a fun crowd to hang around with.”
Angelica absorbed this. “Uh, does Amarillo lives here?”
“His place is in the back of the building.” The woman pointed toward the water. “My studio is here in front, facing town. But I don’t care what’s outside my window as long as I’ve got the space I need on the inside.”
Angelica thought of the huge shapes she had seen through the window. “Why is that?”
“I work here.” She put down her bag and held out her hand. “I’m Metta.”
Angelica took her hand as the name tripped something in her mind, but she couldn’t grasp what it was. Her memory was really slipping lately, she reflected ruefully. She hadn’t been able to recall last night’s dream either, but then, she reassured herself, most people didn’t remember their dreams. “I’m Angelica DiFrenza.”
The woman’s face magically cleared. "You’re Nico’s sister! Well, what do you know. And you're every bit as pretty as he said.”
“Thank you. You’ve very kind.”
Metta’s laugh sounded like a bark. “That’s certainly a new and novel opinion. Feel free to come around more.”
“She doesn’t give an invitation like that often,” Amarillo said to Angelica, coming up behind her. “In fact, almost never.”
Angelica turned. In the strange yellow light, his face seemed all angles and shadows, and his golden eyes appeared to glow.
“I was wondering what was keeping you,” he said softly, scrutinizing her every bit as closely as she was him.
She definitely should have changed, she thought. “I wasn’t sure I was at the right place. Metta saw me and—”
"You don’t have to say any more,” he said dryly. “I get the picture. Once Metta starts talking, it’s hard to get away.”
Scowling, Metta bent to pick up her groceries, but Amarillo beat her to the package, lifted it, and handed it to her. “I don’t know why I put up with you, Amarillo Smith. You’re lousy as a landlord. You’ve never once asked me for rent.”
He shrugged. “I keep forgetting.”
“Well, it’s a damned nuisance. Every month I have to track you down to give you the money.” “I’ve told you not to worry about it. ’’
Metta sent a glaring look at Angelica. “You can see the problem, can’t you? The boy doesn’t have a bit of business sense. And what’s more, if I didn’t water the flowers, they would die as sure as you’re standing there.”
“Who planted them?” Amarillo asked, count
ering her.
“So what if I did plant them? You look at them, don’t you?”
As far as Angelica could tell, Amarillo was totally unfazed by Metta’s fussing. In fact, both he and his tenant seemed to be enjoying themselves . . . immensely.
“Ummph. I’ve wasted enough time talking to you. I’ve got work to do." She inserted the key in her door, then paused to look over her shoulder. "By the way. Rill. I think you’ve finally got yourself a winner.”
“She's Nico’s sister.” “So?”
“It was nice meeting you, Metta,” Angelica said to fill the silence that ensued, but Metta had already gone Into her studio and shut the door firmly behind her.
“Interesting lady.” she murmured.
“She’s a complete eccentric and a great friend.” He took her arm and guided her away from the warehouse. “She’s also the finest metal sculptor in the New England area.”
“Really? There was something about her name that sounded familiar to me, but—”
“Metta is short for Mehetabel.”
“That was Mehetabel? Everyone’s heard of her work. I’m sorry to say, though, I don’t think I’ve ever seen any other than in art publications.”
“I have several pieces by her,” he said, “but I’m displaying only one at the moment.”
“I’d like to see it.”
He hesitated, and she sensed that he was about to turn her down.
But in the next moment he shrugged. "We can come back to my place after we’ve had dinner if you like.”
“I would.” They were walking diagonally across the street now. “Where are we going?”
“Le Maree Cramoisi.”
She gasped with delight. “I’ve been there, and it’s wonderful!”
He felt his pulse quicken as her lovely features became suddenly animated. She took his breath away. She always did, those times when he made the mistake of paying too much attention to her or of looking too long at her.
“I didn’t realize Le Maree Cramoisi was walking distance from your place,” she said, continuing. “It’s a very exclusive restaurant, and reservations are almost impossible to get.”
“That’s what I hear.” He steered her into an alley. “Hungry?”
“Starved.” She laughed and realized that her encounter with Metta had been so interesting, she had forgotten to be nervous with him. She hoped the feeling lasted. “What is this thing you have about feeding people? Metta said you nag her, too, about eating.”
“She gets so involved with her work, she forgets to eat. It’s not good for her." He smiled briefly. “I hadn’t thought of it before, but I don't think it’s really about feeding people. It’s more to do with seeing a situation that needs to be taken care of and taking care of it.”
Her high-heeled shoes clicked on the pavement of the narrow alley. “Is that what I am? A situation?”
His tawny gold eyes caught the light from a nearby doorway, causing them to glint strangely. “No. You’re Angelica."
His flat, emotionless tone left her disconcerted, but she didn’t have time to pursue it further, because he guided her toward the light, opened the door, and ushered her into a stainless-steel and white-tile kitchen where confusion seemed to reign supreme.
She blinked as a melody of rich scents and a cacophony of sounds assaulted her. “I thought we were going to Le Maree Cramoisi.”
“We’re here."
“Rill! ’Bout damned time you got here.” A big man dressed all in white and built on the order of a large, thick-trunked tree came striding toward them. “How can I plan a tour de force if I don’t know when you’ll get here?” he roared in a heavy Alabama accent.
And hearing the accent, Angelica understood why the restaurant was named Le Maree Cra-moisi, The Crimson Tide.
“Hell’s bells, Rill, you have no idea what goes into creating a perfect sauce.”
Amarillo grinned. “Are you saying you can’t handle it?”
“Of course I’m not saying that, you fool!” Amarillo turned to her. “Angelica, meet Beauregard Hamilton, the owner and chef of this fine establishment and our host for this evening.”
“Call me Beau.” He took her hand and exuberantly pumped it. “Angelica, prepare yourself for a feast. Tonight you will experience culinary delights you never imagined."
She found his enthusiasm contagious. “I’m sure I will, and I can’t wait.”
“That’s what I like to hear! Take a seat and well get you fed.” He hurried away and disappeared back into the confusion.
“Take a seat?” She glanced at Amarillo for guidance.
He pointed toward several high metal stools in front of a stainless steel counter. When her expression turned to amazement, he grinned. “I always eat in the kitchen. I like the atmosphere better than out front. Less stuffy.”
He’d rather eat in the kitchen, she thought, yet she had seen him at sophisticated social gatherings perfectly at ease and elegant in a tuxedo. And he shared a warehouse with a prickly sculptress, provided her with an obvious sanctuary, made sure she ate, and took rent from her only because she insisted.
After all this time she was beginning to learn some things about Amarillo. And she was enjoying herself immensely.
At the counter she hitched her tight skirt halfway up her thighs and began to lever herself onto the stool. He automatically reached out to help her, grasping her waist to give her a needed boost. She felt a flash of warmth in her stomach. If being with Amarillo in even the most casual of ways could bring this kind of excitement and heat, Angelica reflected, what would it be like to be his lover? Perhaps it was better, safer, not to know the answer to that question.
She slipped out of her jacket and laid it and her purse on the counter beside her. The air on her right side heated as Amarillo came down on the next stool over. Self-conscious and nervous again, she said the first thing that came into her mind. “I’m afraid I didn’t have time to change before I came.”
“You look fine, as always.” A muscle jerked in his cheek.
Angelica glanced at him, then away. He was irritated with her. She was irritated with herself. Why did he have to be the only person in the world with whom she became awkward and tongue-tied?
Food began to be served, a French version of dim sum first. She tasted everything from lobster in wine sauce to delicate veal in cream sauce and chicken breast stuffed with mushrooms and Gru-yfcre cheese. Complementing the entrees was a clear sherried beef bouillon with chives sprinkled on top, along with julienne carrots steamed with butter and tarragon, followed by bundles of green beans and straw mushrooms wrapped in strips of leeks.
And so it went, until finally Angelica put her hand across her stomach and groaned. “I’ll never eat again.”
“I say that every time I come here,” Amarillo said, “but it never quite seems to work out that way.”
Just at that moment Beau appeared, wheeling a cart that bore a huge chocolate confection. He presented it with a great flourish. “It is called Chocolate Angelica, in your honor, my dear, and will be introduced tonight in the restaurant for the first time.”
Angelica cast a helpless glance at Amarillo.
He smiled. “I did promise you chocolate.”
She’d seen him smile many times before, but rarely at her. She was captivated by the unexpected twinkle in his eye and the amused sensual curve of his lips.
“It looks superb,” he said to Beau.
“It is superb!” the big man boomed. “Of course it is! It couldn’t be anything else. I created it. Angelica, darlin’, I will explain. What you have here is a chocolate gateau with chocolate mousse piped on top, surrounded by strawberries hand-dipped in both white and milk chocolate and drizzled with crushed raspberries."
Amarillo reached for a spoon, scooped up a portion, and fed it to her. It melted in her mouth. “It tastes as if it were made in heaven,” she assured Beau, who had been watching her closely for a reaction.
“Naturally!” He smiled broadly and pat
ted her on the back. “This one is yours. Eat. Enjoy. Be happy.”
“Uh, Beau? I wonder if I could trouble you to wrap it up for me so that I can take it home and eat it later?” She saw Beau’s face begin to darken and she hastened to add, “I’ll eat it all. I promise. ”
“Shell have it for breakfast tomorrow, ” Amarillo said.
She couldn’t help but grin at him. He had read her mind.
They left the restaurant in silence, Amarillo carrying the gateau in a white cake box. As they neared the warehouse, she could see lights burning in Metta’s studio.
“Metta’s working late.”
“She enjoys working at night. Fewer people to bother her, she says.”
“I gather she’s not much of a people person.”
“No, but she liked you.”
They walked in the direction of the river, and soon they were at the warehouse and a door well hidden by shrubs. When he opened it, he stepped back to allow her to precede him. She hesitated and glanced up at him. Part of his face was concealed by darkness, but she had the sudden, strange feeling he would rather not have her in his home.
‘‘What’s the matter?” he asked softly.
“I don’t know.”
His lips quirked sardonically, as if he had read her mind, but with a wave of his hand he indicated she should enter.
She walked into a space of mammoth dimensions, and for a second she could only stare, amazed. Across the front of the building, two wide half-circle windows went from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. During the day the windows would offer a spectacular view of the river. As it was, she could see lights glinting in the dark water like fallen stars.
Her attention returned to the interior. The predominant colors of burgundy and hunter green created a dark, rich, intimate feeling in spite of the immense dimensions. The furniture was oversized and overstuffed. Tall bookcases served as dividers. Tapestries and prayer rugs hung alone, suspended from the tall ceiling and from the back of the dividers. Plants and room-size trees abounded. An ebony staircase led up to a large second floor loft—no doubt the bedroom area, she thought. And in a comer there was a huge bronze sculpture of a rearing horse, its mane flying.
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