Where the Heart Chooses

by Tinnean

  “Actually, yes. We went to dinner at Casa del Vitello.”

  “The little Italian restaurant in Baltimore? They make an excellent veal saltimbocca.”

  “That’s what Nigel recommended. He’s eaten there before.”

  “And then?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “And then, what?”

  “Portia, dinner only takes a couple of hours.”

  “You know the drive to Baltimore is more than an hour. And that means the drive home is the same.”

  “That still leaves two hours unaccounted for.”

  I could have given him a hard time about answering, but I was feeling too good. “We went dancing at a club Nigel knows. It was just a three piece band, but they were fabulous.”

  Tony was more awake now, and his eyes narrowed as he took in my appearance. At one of the traffic lights, Nigel had glanced across at me, and then he’d thrown the car into neutral and pulled me against him. He’d slid his arms into my coat and tugged free the back of my blouse. His hands were warm over my slip and shoulders, but he’d made no effort to touch my breasts. And while Dean Martin sang something lush and romantic on the radio, Nigel drove me wild with his kisses.

  There was no traffic at that time of night, which was a good thing, since the light must have changed a number of times before he realized we couldn’t stay there for the rest of the night.

  I’d been totally unaware, which was unusual for me, but I couldn’t find it in me to care. I leaned back against the seat, watching as his elegant fingers enclosed the stick shift and threw the car into gear.

  Tony came closer, and his nostrils twitched. “Do I smell English Leather on you? Why do I smell English Leather on you?”

  I just smiled at him. He could wait as long as he chose for a response, but it was my turn to not say anything.

  He ran his gaze over me, and I turned away. I knew my hair was mussed and my lips had been kissed free of lipstick. I’d tucked my blouse into the waistband of my skirt, but I’d been too fumble-fingered to do a proper job of it.

  “Did something happen that I should be made aware of?”

  “Tony, you know I can take care of myself. Besides, I have a father—I don’t need a second one.”

  “Portia, Nigel Mann is a damned good operative—” I raised an eyebrow, and he hastily cleared his throat. “I meant to say cryptologist, one of the best we’ve got, but the man…Listen to me! The Antarctic is the Sahara Desert compared to him!”

  “What? Where did you get that idea from?”

  “Are you joking? Everyone knows Nigel Mann is the original Mr. Freeze.”

  I started to laugh at that absurdity, but then bit it off when an unsettling thought crossed my mind. “If that’s true, why did you suggest I go to dinner with him?”

  “I didn’t really suggest. I just…” He appeared uncomfortable, something I couldn’t recall observing in him.

  “I can only see two reasons, Tony, and neither of them make you look good. The first is that both of us having such a frigid temperament, we’d be a perfect match. The second is that if he were cold, you could trust him with your sister, because he wouldn’t try to get fresh with me.”

  “Portia…”

  “Which is it, big brother? Of course, if you have a third reason, I’d be more than happy to hear it.”

  “Get down off your high horse, would you? All I wanted was for the two of you to have a meal together, get to know each other as colleagues. I happen to think you’ll work well together. But having an affair…It just won’t work out, Portia. Trust me on this!”

  “Are you telling me this as my brother or as my boss?”

  “I’m telling you as someone who’s seen it happen.” He looked tired. “Having a relationship with a civilian doesn’t last longer than a few months, if that. Our job is just too demanding. As for getting involved with a colleague…” His face lost all expression. “You either wind up at each other’s throats, or one of you winds up—”

  Dead. I was aware of that. In this business, it was impossible to be anything but aware of it. I went to him and hugged him.

  “Try not to worry about it, all right?” I decided not to tell him just now that I was seeing Nigel again tomorrow evening. “Listen, I’m going to fix myself a cup of tea. Do you want one too?”

  “I’ll have Darjeeling. I don’t know how you can drink Earl Grey.” He followed me into the kitchen and took down the cups while I set the kettle to boil, and then put the tea leaves into two separate pots. “About Mann—”

  “If you don’t like Nigel, Tony, why did you practically throw me at his head?”

  “It’s not that I don’t like him, Portia. It’s just…He has that reputation for being cold. I’ve seen some of the women he’s taken out, and by the end of the night they were practically covered in frostbite. I’ll be honest with you. I never expected you to come home looking as if you’d been mauled!”

  “Hardly mauled, Anthony.” After all, that would have implied I hadn’t been a willing participant.

  “Well then, necking in the front seat of a car!”

  The kettle began to whistle, and I turned to it, grateful for the excuse to avoid his gaze. That was exactly what we had been doing, Nigel and I.

  He’d pulled up to the curb in front of the apartment building. I gathered my purse, and waited for him to turn off the engine and come around to open the car door for me. I glanced across at him to find he was staring intently at me. The next thing I knew, he had shifted the car into park, pulled me into his arms again, and had his hands buried in my hair, kissing me as if he were a starving man who had suddenly been offered a banquet. No one had ever kissed me like that before, not Jason Campbell, not even Folana Fournaise.

  I liked being kissed like that.

  I poured the water into the pots and left them to steep. “I don’t know where he got the reputation for being cold, Tony.” Perhaps in the same place as I did. Or perhaps his father was as devious as ours. “I’d like to follow this to its conclusion, whatever that might be. I’m not a child.”

  “No, you’re not. All right, Portia. I’ll stay out of it. But if he hurts you, I’ll kill him.”

  “Thank you. You’re such a good brother.” I didn’t tell him that he would have to stand in line behind me. “Here, have your tea. It’s getting late.”

  Tony glanced at the clock. “You have to be at work in five hours. You’re going to be like a dish rag in the morning.”

  “I’ve gone to work on less sleep and managed to do my job, haven’t I?”

  “Yes, you have. You’re a Sebring after all.”

  I gave him a clipped smile. “And I hope you’ll remember that.”

  * * * *

  Chapter 4

  For some time, the heat of that first evening wasn’t repeated, even after I moved out of my brother’s apartment to one a mile down the road. Nigel would see me to my door, kiss me chastely good night, and then leave once I’d entered my apartment. I could see the desire in his eyes, however, and so I bided my time.

  Going around in a state of semi-arousal was intriguing, but eventually it grew tiresome, interfering with work as it did, and I determined to put an end to it.

  I telephoned Nigel’s office. “Mr. Mann, would you mind coming to my office?”

  “Not at all, Miss Sebring.”

  I was at my desk, chuckling over another coded message Jefferson had managed to intercept from Sidorov, the KGB agent, this one using a reference to The Nutcracker, when Nigel walked in.

  “Thank you for being so prompt.”

  “I try not to keep a lady waiting.” And yet he had. “What can I do for you?”

  Take me to bed and make mad, passionate love to me? “I’m having a small dinner party this Friday evening, and I wondered if you’d care to attend. If you’re available, of course.”

  “Of course.” His stare was so intense my nipples tightened and my panties dampened. “I’d be delighted. What time did you want me?”

&n
bsp; “Shall we say around seven-thirty? We’ll have drinks and hors d’oeuvres. And we’ll dine at eight.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  * * * *

  Father had never seen any point in having me taught how to cook, and since Mother didn’t cook, she didn’t insist on it either. After all, once I married, that would be my housekeeper’s concern.

  But I didn’t want to poison Nigel, and so I borrowed Mrs. Plum, Mother’s cook.

  “Are you sure, Portia?” Mother asked when I told her I’d be dining with Nigel Mann.

  “I am.”

  She studied my eyes. “Very well. I’ll see young Henry drives Mrs. Plum into the Capitol on Friday afternoon.”

  “Thank you, Mother.” I was tempted to hug her, but that wasn’t done.

  “You’ll want to discuss your menu with her.” She pressed the buzzer that would summon a maid, who would be sent to summon Mrs. Plum.

  I could more easily have gone to the kitchen, but I didn’t even suggest it.

  * * * *

  “Cornish game hens will be the easiest thing, Miss Portia,” Mrs. Plum said after she’d arrived and I’d told her it was to be an intimate dinner for two. “I’ll prepare everything in advance and leave a list of directions on when to serve the hens and the side dishes. Hmm. Brussels sprouts, creamed asparagus, and mashed cauliflower?” But she was looking toward Mother.

  “No, this is Miss Portia’s dinner party.”

  I was startled. Mother had never deferred to me over anything before. I cleared my throat. “That sounds ideal.”

  “What kind of hors d’oeuvres would you want?”

  “Your tuna pineapple dip is always a big hit.”

  “Are you certain you want that, Portia?” Mother asked. “It’s served with potato chips.”

  “Yes. I don’t want it to be too formal.” But I didn’t want it too casual either. “And crab salad in puff shells, and perhaps a cheese fondue?”

  “With Jarlsberg and Gruyere? As you wish, Miss Portia.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Plum. I’ll see you on Friday. Mother, I must go. Tony has no idea I borrowed his Cadillac.”

  For a moment I thought she’d smile, but she didn’t. “I am pleased you’re not letting him browbeat you.”

  “Not likely. I know where the bodies are buried.”

  “Really, Portia! If anyone heard you, they would think your brother is a hooligan.”

  “I apologize, Mother.” I sighed. What had possessed me to tease her?

  She walked me out to the car. “Drive carefully.”

  “I will. Thank you again.”

  She offered her cheek, and the kiss I gave her was swift and brief.

  * * * *

  I looked through my record albums, not happy with what I found. None of them had the one song I was looking for.

  I called my brother Bryan.

  “Good evening, Bryan. It’s—”

  “Good evening, Portia. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. And how are you?” I’d seen him just the other day, but Mother had impressed on us the necessity of the amenities.

  “I’m as fine as I was on Tuesday.” He’d come to Arlington Hall to speak with Nigel, and really, how could my brothers think they could get up to something and not have me find out? For some reason they wanted me to date Nigel Mann. Fortunately for them, what they wanted and what I wanted was the same thing.

  “I’m so pleased to hear this. Now that we have that out of the way, I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Ask away, little sister.”

  “You have a very extensive record collection. Does ‘It Had to Be You’ happen to be on any of them?”

  “Hmm. I believe Billie Holiday did a version of it.”

  “Will you let me borrow it?”

  “Of course. When did you need it?”

  “You’re a lifesaver! I’m having a dinner party tomorrow. Do you mind if I stop by your place and pick it up?”

  “Not at all, but suppose I drop it off at your place? It will only take me a few minutes to get there.”

  “All right. Thank you. I’ll brew a pot of tea.”

  “That sounds good. I’ll pick up some pastries.”

  “Excellent. Bye, Bryan.”

  “Bye, Portia.”

  I went into the kitchen, put the kettle on to boil, and then set my table with placemats and the set of good china that Mother insisted I have.

  About twenty minutes later, Bryan knocked on my door. He handed me the album, which I put on the turntable.

  When I turned around, he was placing éclairs and napoleons on the plate I’d left out for them.

  I poured the Earl Grey, offered him the honey he preferred to take with his, and fixed mine the way I liked it.

  Then we sat down, and while Billie Holiday sang, we chatted of what was going on in our respective agencies, what was happening at home, movies, books, and, of course, music.

  We didn’t talk about our love lives. Bryan was my one brother who wouldn’t harass me about my plans. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; it was just that he was very contained. Sometimes I had the impression that he’d found his “one,” but it hadn’t turned out well for him.

  I hoped I was wrong.

  * * * *

  The doorbell chimed at the stroke of seven-thirty on Friday, signaling Nigel’s arrival.

  I gave a glance around my apartment. Everything was neat and tidy. Billie Holiday’s Music for Torching was on my console record player—there was just room for it, a loveseat, and a coffee table in my tiny living room—and I set the needle in the groove, leaving the stacker feature back so it would repeat.

  As “It Had to Be You” played softly in the background, I went to open the door.

  “Good evening, Portia.” Nigel wore a black overcoat, and in his left hand he held his hat, while his right held a bouquet of red roses.

  “Good evening, Nigel. Please come in. Let me take your hat and coat.”

  “Thank you.”

  I hung them up in my tiny closet.

  “I brought you these.” He offered me the bouquet.

  “Thank you. They’re lovely.” As was he. My mouth began to water. No other man, not even Jason, had caused such a reaction in me.

  “No lovelier than you.”

  “Thank you again.” I’d taken the day off, much to my brother’s displeasure, and had had my hair and nails done. Nigel had seen me in evening gowns before when we’d attended various functions around the Capitol, but this evening I wore a blue silk dress with a sweetheart neckline, sheer three-quarter sleeves, and a slim skirt that fell to mid-calf. Matching sandals with two-inch heels revealed my Lust-painted toenails.

  His eyes were hot and hungry, and I swallowed a smile. Whither now, Mr. Freeze?

  “Let me get a vase for these.” I went into my equally tiny kitchen, only then remembering I didn’t have a vase. Annoyed with myself, I began opening cabinets to see what I did have. Finally I found a pitcher in one of the upper cabinets, but even with the two-inch heels, it was just out of my reach.

  “May I help you?”

  “Nigel! Yes—” His arm encircled my waist, while his other hand encircled my throat, and I leaned back against him. He nuzzled aside the diamond and sapphire drops that hung from my ear and nipped the tendon in my throat. “Please.” But I didn’t know if I was pleading with him to help me or make love to me.

  A final nip, and he set me aside and took down the pitcher, watching, bemused, as I filled it with water and placed the roses in it. “Ah. Necessity, the mother of invention.”

  “Yes.” Fortunately, he didn’t seem to have noticed how my hands were shaking. I brought the impromptu vase out to the dining room and set it at the foot of the table.

  “Portia, there are only two place settings on your table.”

  “Yes. Didn’t I say it would just be the two of us?”

  “Somehow you neglected to do so.”

  “Do you mind?”

 
“Not in the least.”

  “I’m pleased. What would you like to drink?” I admired his navy suit, crisp white shirt, and the midnight blue tie he wore with it.

  “Show me where your liquor cabinet is, and I’ll make us both Manhattans.”

  “But you drink vodka tonic.”

  “And tonight I’m in the mood for something a little sweeter.” He’d never been in my apartment, and he looked around. “It’s…small, isn’t it?”

  I had to laugh. It was incredibly small, and I had the feeling this had been an effort on Tony’s part to alter my decision to move into a place of my own. What he hadn’t realized was that the apartment he considered miniscule was cozy for me.

  I pointed to the cabinet against a wall in the dining room. Within were bottles of whisky, sweet and dry vermouth, gin, vodka, brandy, port, and sherry. On top, glasses, mixers, and a bowl of ice cubes were ready. Perhaps I couldn’t cook, but I did know what was necessary to mix drinks.

  “While you’re making our drinks, I’ll bring out the hors d’oeuvres.”

  He caught my hand before I could step back, and drew me close to him. His hazel eyes were almost green, something I’d noticed only once before, and then I couldn’t see anything, because he was kissing me and my own eyes were closed.

  * * * *

  “Dinner was marvelous, Portia,” Nigel said as he raised his coffee cup to his lips.

  “I’m so pleased you enjoyed it. Would you care for another slice of cake?” It was a rich, German chocolate cake that had been drenched with sweetened, condensed milk. Hot fudge sauce had been poured over it and left to set, and then it had been topped with whipped cream and crumbled bits of toffee. I wasn’t going to tell him that it was called “Better than Sex.” Mrs. Plum had told me that in confidence, because if Mother ever learned of it, she’d refuse to have it served at Shadow Brook.

  “No, thank you. One more bite, and I’ll have to roll myself down the sidewalk to my car.”

  And we wouldn’t want that.

  “Cigarette?” I’d placed a cigarette case, a gold lighter decorated with an enamel spray of violets, and an ashtray, which was also decorated with violets on the table—how odd that Folana would send them to me, when I was the one who first gave violets to her—along with the coffee cups and dessert plates. Now I opened the case and pushed it toward him.