TOO HOT TO HANDLE

by Robin Kaye

  Becca smiled her you-are-so-busted smile, and Annabelle felt like smacking her. Obviously, the jig was up.

  Rosalie walked right up to Annabelle and wrapped her arms around her. "I understand why you didn't tell Mama and Pop, but you could have told me and Richie. I'm so sorry you didn't feel you could talk to me. Oh God, what you must have gone through."

  Annabelle looked over Rosalie's shoulder at Becca's satisfied smile. Right now, she wanted to kill her. "Ro, I'm fine." Becca's fake cough did nothing to help the believability value of Annabelle's assertion, nor did it do anything to help her escape from forced familial affection.

  "Becca showed me the painting of Chip. I can't believe the resemblance." Rosalie pulled away a little, giving Annabelle a small margin of breathing room. Rosalie held her shoulders and looked at her with wide eyes. "Mike isn't built exactly like Chip was, is he?"

  What is it with people? "Mike has a much bigger dick, if that's what you're asking."

  Becca stuffed her fingers in her ears. "I so don't want to hear this." She began singing to herself and driving Annabelle closer to the edge. Rosalie just looked relieved.

  "Maybe you should go home and be with Nick. I'm sure I'm not his favorite person now, and I don't want to cause marital problems."

  Rosalie finally let her go. "Nonsense. Nick just knows Mike is hurting. He doesn't know the whole story."

  "And you do?"

  Rosalie nodded. "Becca filled me in."

  She didn't know whether to kill Becca or thank her, since she wasn't sure how much more explaining she was capable of. She couldn't even control her tears.

  Becca watched Rosalie comfort her sister and couldn't help but feel a little jealous. Still, it was good for Annabelle, and as soon as Rosalie told her husband about everything, it would be good for Mike. At least she hoped it would. She'd been racking her brain for the last twenty-four hours trying to come up with a way to get the two most stubborn people in the world back together. It wasn't until she talked to the Fairy Godfathers and remembered hearing how close Mike and Annabelle's brother-in-law, Nick, were that the plan came together. All it took was a call to Rosalie, and everything fell right into place.

  Poor Annabelle didn't know what she was up against. Rosalie was a master.

  "You need to take some time and think about what you want. Call that boss of yours, and tell him you're going to take some more time off. Tell him you're considering your options."

  "I don't know, Ro. Then I'll just have more time to think. Thinking hurts."

  Becca stepped closer. "You need to pull out your paints again. Painting always made you feel better."

  Rosalie lit up. "Yeah, that's a great idea. Why don't you go back to the beach house? Just take a week, paint, think, and enjoy the beach. The last thing you need is to be stuck at work with Ben, or worse, get a visit from Mama."

  Annabelle groaned. It was clear she'd do just about anything to avoid her mother.

  Within an hour, Annabelle was packed, stuffed in Rosalie's VW Beetle, and on her way to the Hamptons.

  Damn, Rosalie was good. She called Nick to pick her and Dave up and left Becca alone at Annabelle's with the promise to keep in touch. After seeing Rosalie at work, she had no doubt about Rosalie's ability to somehow get Mike back to the beach house and together with Annabelle in record time. Now all Becca had to do was deal with her father.

  Chapter 20

  The last place Annabelle wanted to go was the beach house, but she didn't feel like explaining that to Becca and Rosalie. She never actually told them she'd go. She just smiled, nodded, and left. There was only one place Annabelle could go where Mike had never been. She took the Manhattan Bridge over to Ben's apartment above the gallery. Ben was out of town, and he'd given her an open invitation to use his guest room in case she wanted to crash there instead of taking the subway home late at night. Since she couldn't stay home with Becca, the amateur psychoanalyst, and she wasn't up to driving all the way to the beach house, where she'd be haunted by memories of Mike, Ben's place was her only hope to escape thinking about him. Unfortunately, she wasn't sure she'd be successful. He'd taken up residence in her head.

  She let herself into Ben's apartment, tossed her suitcase in the guest room, grabbed a water out of the refrigerator, and studied the selection of frozen dinner entrees. Ben always cooked for himself but stocked her favorite Lean Cuisines in case she couldn't get out for lunch or dinner and there were no good leftovers in his fridge to microwave. Nothing looked good to her. She closed the freezer door and decided microwaving was just too much trouble.

  Eating real food made by Mike had spoiled her. Still, going back to two-minute meals wasn't nearly as depressing as the thought of going without sex for the rest of her life. And after what she'd been through with Mike, she didn't think she'd ever have it in her to start dating again.

  Annabelle was antsy and couldn't stand the perfection of Ben's apartment. Everything he did, he did perfectly. Dressed, decorated, cleaned, cooked—he annoyed the hell out of her. She couldn't imagine living here with him, even platonically. She unpacked and found Becca had included the sketch pad and pencils Mike had given her. She took them to her office.

  Since she couldn't beat the memories of Mike, she decided to embrace them. She curled up on the couch and fingered the metal coil at the top of the pad, took a deep breath, flipped open the cover, and, holding a pencil, closed her eyes and pictured Mike lying in bed on his stomach, a pillow pulled under his arms while he watched her.

  An hour later, she had a half-dozen sketches of Mike on the beach, in the kitchen chopping vegetables, in bed, in the water, but the one picture she wanted, she didn't have.

  Sliding off the couch, Annabelle pulled one of the prepared canvases out of a bin, set it on the easel, and, with charcoal, did a quick sketch before uncapping the oils for the first time in years. She looked down at her clothes and ran back to Ben's to raid his ragbag. He threw his dress shirts in there the second they showed the slightest bit of pilling from his beard, or God forbid, weren't as white as he deemed acceptable. Annabelle slid her arms into the sleeves, rolled up the cuffs, and returned to her office. She twisted her hair into a topknot and stuck the end of a paintbrush through her makeshift bun. Once she turned up the music, she dove right in.

  For the first time in years, she felt grounded. It wasn't as if she didn't hurt—she hurt like hell—but she wasn't swimming in it. She worked through the pain instead of running from it or ignoring it. Maybe Becca and Rosalie were right after all.

  Annabelle worked the way she once had before Chip's death—with total concentration—and was thrilled with the image that appeared on the canvas. At first, the brushes felt foreign to her hands, and the smell of the oils seemed somehow stronger than she'd remembered, but after a few hours, it was as if she'd never stopped painting. Her brushstrokes had the same intensity, the colors she mixed were just as true, and night slid into day without her noticing.

  Mike finally got a call in the middle of the night and spent the rest of the night at the hospital. The next morning, he answered a cryptic page from Nick asking him to meet at the coffee shop across the street from the hospital. He cleaned up, left his lab coat on, and ran across the street. He spotted Nick and sat across from him in the booth.

  Nick looked over the rim of his coffee cup. "You look like shit."

  Mike turned over his coffee cup. "I feel like shit." Like clockwork, a waitress appeared out of nowhere with a full pot of coffee.

  "I hear congratulations are in order."

  "For what?"

  "I'm told you're a very rich man now that you have your father's money."

  Mike shrugged. "For a guy who supposedly has everything, Larsen seems pretty miserable."

  "So your sister said."

  "You've been talking to Becca?"

  "No, but Lee has. She heard some scary stories about your 'family.' Becca's mother makes Mrs. Ronaldi sound like the freakin' mother of the year or something. No kidding." Nick
stretched his long arms along the back of the booth. "What are you going to do about the old man? Go to work for him and join a country club or something? Hey, maybe you can take up golf, meet some high society broad, and be just as miserable as your old man."

  "At least I'd be a hundred miles from Annabelle."

  "So you two are done? Over? Kaput?"

  "Yeah. She doesn't love me, man. Annabelle was just looking for a replacement for my dead brother, and I looked the part. It makes me wonder if Larsen is doing the same thing. He even called me Chip."

  "That sucks about you and Annabelle. You really loved her, huh?"

  Mike nodded and nearly lost it right there in the diner.

  "Yeah, been there, done that. The time Lee and I were on the skids was the worst month of my life. Which is why I called you. I found out something I think you ought to know. My wife is probably gonna kill me for tellin' you, but sometimes us men have to stick together."

  Mike didn't need any more bad news. "What is it now?"

  "Did you sleep at all last night?"

  Mike shook his head. "No, why?"

  "I'm wondering how bad you're going to freak when you find out, that's all."

  "Nick, I'm done. Nothing you can say will even surprise me, no less cause me to lose it."

  "You sure about that?"

  Mike rolled his eyes. He would give his eyeteeth just to be left the hell alone. Though really, he was alone. There was no one else who gave a shit. Even his mother threw him out. "I'm sure."

  Nick pulled his wallet out of his pants pocket, took out a twenty, and threw it on the table.

  "What's that for?"

  "The bill. Just in case I have to chase you out of here."

  Mike took a sip of his coffee and stared at Nick. That's when he started to worry.

  "Annabelle's boss proposed to her."

  Mike slammed his cup on the table and broke it. Hot coffee burned his hand, and he was out the door of the diner before it stopped dripping. He didn't bother saying anything. Nick ran after him. Mike crossed the sidewalk, put his coffee-soaked fingers to his lips, and whistled for a cab. He had the door opened before the cab stopped.

  Nick practically jumped over the trunk to get in the other side and slammed the door as the cab sped off. "What are you going to do?"

  Mike relaxed his grip on the seat back in front of him and spared Nick a glance. "You mean besides kill Ben Walsh?"

  "Yeah, besides that."

  "I don't know."

  Nick rearranged his feet the best he could with almost no legroom. "It's not like Annabelle said yes … yet."

  After that crack, Mike considered killing the messenger, too.

  "Mike, you gotta take a minute, man. Think about this. What's Annabelle gonna think if you go walking into the artsy-fartsy gallery and mess up her boss? Does that say 'I love you' to you?"

  Okay, maybe Nick had a point. But Mike didn't want to say I love you to Annabelle. He wanted her to love him. His love was never in question. He sat back. Pushing the front seat forward was not making them move any faster, it was just making the cab driver nervous.

  "After the way you left things with her, you got some major ass kissing to do to get back into her good graces. Beating the shit out of her boss will make you feel better, but it's not going to do a whole hell of a lot for your relationship. What's more important, that you kill him or that you keep him from marrying your girl?"

  Mike sank into the seat and stared out the window. "What's it matter? She doesn't love me."

  "Yeah, right. Lee said Annabelle was willing to give you up so you could have some kind of storybook family with your father, mother, sister, and trust fund. She didn't want to come between you and your long lost dad."

  "What?" He turned his attention back to Nick. "That's not why we're not together. I found out she loved my brother, not me."

  "Come on. Lee told me that Becca even said that trust-fund baby brother of yours was kind of a schmuck and didn't treat Annabelle right. As a matter of fact, Becca said that if he hadn't been dying, he and Annabelle would have never stayed together. She was just a kid. Once he got sick, she couldn't dump his ass, could she?"

  "She could, but she wouldn't." Mike scrubbed his face with his hands. Not Annabelle. She was loyal to the end, heck even after the end, which was the problem.

  "She stayed, and she grew up a whole lot. She went through hell and back. I got to hand it to you." Nick tapped him on the shoulder. "You were right about her. She's special. Lee found out that Annabelle took care of your brother until he died, all while his parents treated her like shit. She knew your dad would never accept her with you either, so she bowed out. Who could blame her?"

  Mike sat up a little straighter. "I'd never let anyone mistreat her."

  "I know that, and you know that. But it sounds as if that's exactly what your brother did. Becca told Lee that Annabelle came home traumatized. That's why she let her mother stick her with that putz Johnny DePalma. I was wrong about her. So are you."

  When the cab pulled up in front of the Benjamin Walsh Gallery, Mike still wanted to kill Ben, and then he wanted to talk to Belle. If Nick was right … shit, if Nick was right, Mike had really screwed the pooch.

  He got out of the cab. Nick told the cabbie to wait and followed Mike out.

  "If you know what's good for you, you'll talk to her before you go near Ben. If it doesn't work out, I'll hold this Ben dude down while you beat him, okay?"

  Mike took a deep breath and let it out, his temper firmly under control. "I'm good."

  "Are you sure? I'll have hell to pay if I have to bail your ass out of jail."

  Mike nodded and got a slap on the back from Nick.

  "Oh, I almost forgot." Nick pulled something out of his pocket. He handed Mike the ring box and the keys to the Mustang. "Vinny caught Little Mia wearing this ring. She found it after you left for the interview. He thought you might need it once you screwed your head on straight. Oh, and the Mustang is parked around the corner."

  "Thanks, man." Mike shoved the keys in his back pocket, took the ring out of the box, and stuck it in his front pocket before tossing the box back to Nick. "Hold the box for me, okay?"

  "Sure. Now go get the girl. I'm going to try talking my wife into playing hooky."

  Mike had no choice but to walk toward the car and make believe he was going straight to the Hamptons to see Annabelle. He figured once he knocked Ben into next week, he'd have plenty of time to drive to the beach house and beg forgiveness before Ben came to.

  After he was sure Nick's cab pulled away, he snuck back to the gallery to take care of Ben.

  Tossing the brush into a jar of turpentine, Annabelle stretched her aching back and stepped away from the canvas. She was happy with what she saw. She wanted exactly what this painting portrayed. "If only it could be like that."

  The intercom on her phone beeped, disrupting her thoughts. "Um … Annabelle. Could you please come down here?" Her assistant, shit. She checked her clock and noticed the time. Great, she should have been down there a half hour ago. Kerri wouldn't have buzzed her if there wasn't a problem.

  Annabelle reached over the desk and buzzed Kerri back. "I'm on my way." She wiped her hands on her smock and couldn't imagine how she looked. She was wearing a pair of plain black yoga pants, a black T-shirt under the smock covered with paint, and she hadn't brushed her teeth, but she didn't have time to do anything about it. She popped a few Altoids in her mouth and ran her tongue over her teeth on the way down in the elevator. The door opened, and she understood the problem.

  Mike.

  He waited in the middle of the gallery, and he was royally pissed about something. He stared at her chest, and when she looked down to see why, she noticed Ben's monogram on the shirt. Shit.

  "I need to speak with you. Alone."

  Oh God. She really was in no shape to deal with him. She hadn't slept in days, she hadn't showered or even had coffee, and as much as she hated it, all she wanted was to crawl into hi
s arms. She was a total weakling. "This is really not a good time."

  "Too bad. You either invite me up to your office, or I'll make a scene."

  "You will not. Besides Kerri is here—"

  "And she thinks I'm really romantic. Are you going to invite me up?"

  "No, and I'm not going anywhere."

  "I wouldn't bet on that."

  Before her muddled, caffeine-starved brain registered what he was doing Mike had picked her up and thrown her over his shoulder. She screamed and pounded on his backside, but it didn't seem to faze him.

  "You have one more chance to change your mind."

  "Put me down!"

  "Are you going to invite me up?"

  She reached beneath the waistband of his jeans and yanked on his underwear.

  "I'll take that as a no. Well, it's your choice."

  He stomped to the elevator and pressed the Call button. Annabelle strained to see her assistant, who looked as if she were watching Rock Hudson and Doris Day in Pillow Talk. "Call my brother, and tell him I'm being kidnapped!"

  Kerri smiled and waved—a co-conspirator. Fabulous. All the blood flowing to Annabelle's head made it pound with every beat of her heart, and with Mike's arm wrapped around her thighs, she couldn't even kick him. He stepped into the elevator, turned, and from the reflection in the mirrored walls, she saw him wave to Kerri, the traitor. She also noticed the hand prints of paint all over her smock-covered butt. She just hoped there was sufficient paint on her front to ruin his shirt.

  "You're kidnapping me."

  "No. I'm keeping a promise."

  "What promise?"

  "I promised I wasn't going anywhere without you. And right now, I'm going to your office, so you're going with me."

  "I can't believe you're doing this."

  "Babe, you're not giving me a choice here. I'm not going to give up on you, and I'm not going to give up on us—ever."