by Shirley Jump
To Michael, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why she'd gotten drunk and flirted with him. Why she'd flopped against him in the booth, murmuring something about wanting to be sure before she tied the knot. But he had a feeling she wasn't quite ready for the whole truth yet. “So, you want to know what happened that night?”
“I don't remember much of it.” She flushed. “I don't think I've ever been that drunk before.”
“You don't seem the type to get hammered on a regular basis.” She didn't ask what type he thought she was, so he went on. “You were sitting alone when I came in. I was supposed to meet a client, but at the last minute, he canceled because his kid got sick. Anyway, you were there alone, and I was alone at the table beside you. And then you spilled your chowder, and that's how we met.”
“I spilled my soup? On you?”
“Not all of it. Just the clam and potatoes part.”
“Oh God, I'm so sorry. I remember that now.” A memory of lurching to her feet, soup bowl in hand, to get a sprinkling of oyster crackers from the buffet table came to mind. She put a hand to her mouth. “The margaritas made me a little clumsy. I thought if I ate, I wouldn't feel so drunk.”
“It's a good idea to eat before you drink, rather than after the fact. It's a little late then.”
“Yeah, I know that now.”
He smiled at her. “You kept trying to clean the soup off my suit and sort of, well, tumbled into my lap.”
“I did?”
His smile widened. “It'll be a hell of a story to tell our grandchildren.”
Where on earth had that come from? Grandchildren, hell, marriage, wasn't what he intended here. A few dates to get her out of his system, convince her not to marry the mortician, and that would be it.
Marriage was not in his plans. Not now. Not ever. And not even with her.
Either she hadn't heard the grandchildren comment or she'd chosen to ignore it. “Then what happened?”
“Well, you kept apologizing for spilling chowder on my suit and insisted on paying for my dinner. I asked you to join me, and that's how we ended up together.”
He didn't elaborate on why he'd asked her to dine with him. This lonely, empty feeling he'd been having lately was a temporary glitch, nothing more. Thirty was only a year away and that milestone was making him feel like a racehorse who hadn't hit his stride in a while. That and the string of dates with women who had been about as satisfying as a shot of whipped cream for dinner.
She twisted at the ring on her left hand. “How many margaritas did I have altogether?”
He waggled three fingers at her.
She flopped back against the leather seat. “Plus the two I had with Rebecca and Maria, before you arrived.” She closed her eyes. “Did I do anything humiliating?”
He shook his head. “No, not at all,” he lied.
She eyed him, one brow arched in a question, as if she knew he'd held back a few details. “Then how did I end up in your apartment?”
“You were pretty drunk and I thought about bringing you home or putting you in a cab, but—”
“What?”
“You kind of passed out.”
“In the cab?”
“In the restaurant. I roused you enough to help you stagger out to my car.”
“Oh, God. I'll never eat there again. I probably drooled on the table, too.” She closed her eyes again. “Why not look at my license and drive me home?”
“I saw the diamond on your hand.” He gestured to the simple, half-carat pear-shaped gem she wore, “and I wasn't sure if you had a jealous, homicidal fiancé waiting at the door.” And there'd been something about her, so fragile and vulnerable, that had compelled him to take her home with him. Some deep-rooted sense of chivalry had sprung to life in him, like a latent gene.
“So you kept me overnight instead? Wouldn't that have been worse for me when I went home?”
“To be honest I didn't expect you to sleep so long. I dozed off on the couch waiting for you to wake up.” He didn’t tell her how he'd first spent a few minutes watching her sleep, curled up against his pillow, seeming so pure and sweet lying there in his four-poster.
So unlike anyone he'd met in a long, long time.
“Thank you.” Her quiet gratitude extended like an olive branch between them.
“It was nothing,” he muttered. “You just needed someone to take care of you that night.”
“No, really, you didn't have to do that. Any other man would have—”
“Taken advantage of you?”
She nodded.
He laughed. “I'm not exactly Sir Galahad, but even I wouldn't take advantage of a woman who was drunk. That's not to say I wasn’t tempted. It was... you were...” He shook his head. “Anyway, you had that ring on and you were snoring. Those are pretty good stop signs for a guy.”
“Well,” she said, letting out a gust of relief, “at least no one knows about that night.”
“Except us.”
“Yes, and I want it to stay that way.” She eyed him like a parent laying down the law.
“Maybe forgetting it isn't such a good idea.”
“Are you crazy? I'm getting married soon. I don't need this kind of complication.”
He turned to face her, draping his arm over the back of the seat. “But you're interested in me.”
“I am not.”
“I know interest when I see it.” He leaned closer to her, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes. “And when I taste it.”
The memory of his lips on hers came rocketing back to Candace, hot fast. “That was a momentary lapse of judgment. It won’t happen again.”
“Oh, really?”
“Really.” Her vocabulary had been reduced to playground level.
“So, if I leaned forward right now”—and he did just that, coming closer to her, within an inch of her mouth—“you wouldn't be the least bit tempted to kiss me again?”
“No, not at all.” She managed to say the sentence without stammering.
“It wouldn't make you remember that amazing kiss in my apartment?”
She swallowed, then shrugged. “Already forgotten it.”
“And you wouldn't lean forward just a teeny, tiny bit,” he drew out each word, making them sound like a slow tease, “wanting to kiss me even as you said you didn't?”
“Are you going to kiss me again?”
“Do you want me to?” he countered.
She thought of Barry and Bernadine back in the shop. Of the diamond on her finger, the wedding she should be planning. In a couple of weeks, she'd be Barry’s wife. And Michael Vogler would be nothing but a pleasant memory. That should be enough, but for some reason, she felt like she would be missing out on a part of her life by not kissing him again. Those were crazy, insane, marriage-ruining thoughts, she knew. “Why are you so interested in me?”
He leaned back a little. “You're different.”
“Different as in from another planet or different as in a mental asylum escapee?”
He smiled. “Different as in someone who doesn't bullshit their way through life. Who looks at things in black and white. In my field of work, everything's gray. There is no line between truth and fiction. It all gets blurred in the name of advertising and marketing.”
“Oh.” She wasn't sure how to respond to that.
“And that interests me. But at the same time, it makes me want to tease the hell out of you.”
“Why?”
“Because I love the way your eyes get wide and your cheeks flush whenever I get too close.”
“They do not.”
He invaded her side of the car again. “Oh, but they do.” He drew a finger along her cheek and even she could feel the heat in her face. “See?”
Her plan for confronting him, made in a hasty run out the back door of the shop, hadn't extended beyond prying the truth out of him about that night so she could...
What?
Candace had no idea. No careful
ly laid path came to mind. And with him touching her, all her brain activity seemed to have ceased. “I shouldn't be here.”
He moved back, resting his arm again on the seat. “You're probably right.”
“I'm getting married.”
“Why?”
She let out a chuff of frustration. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“It's an important question, don’t you think?” When she didn't answer him, he went on. “Just tell me one thing.”
“What?”
“If you can sit here and look me in the eye and tell me, honestly, that Barry Borkenstein is the man for you, I'll leave you alone. Forever.”
In the passenger mirror, she glimpsed a mushroom cloud of fuchsia exit the back door of the shop. Bernadine. She shut the door, then stood against the brick wall, rooting in her oversized purple purse. Candace slumped down in the seat, hoping she hadn't been seen. Bernadine found what she was looking for—a package of lady's cigars and a floral lighter. She smiled, a big, wide, help-is-here smile, and lit up, smoking the cigar in rapid draws.
How was Candace going to get out of the car? Bernadine would undoubtedly see her. Candace glanced in the mirror again and saw Bernadine drag in nicotine, then release a cloud of smoke. How long did it take to smoke one cigar anyway?
“Candy?” Michael said.
She turned to him. “What did you just call me?”
“Candy. As in short for Candace.” He cocked his head and studied her. “Don't you have a nickname?”
“No. I'm not really a nickname kind of person.” Well, when she'd been a kid, there'd been the inevitable “Four Eyes,” fixed with a pair of contacts, and “Braniac,” her peer reward for acing a test. But no one had ever shortened her first name, not even Della.
“I think it fits you. Perfectly.” The way he said the words made her feel like she'd slipped into a mink coat. “Candy,” he said again, soft, slow, deep. “Sweet, sweet Candy.”
That pulsing, twisting need for him began again in her veins, teasing in her chest, tugging at the nether regions of her body. She swallowed, trying very hard not to think about that kiss, telling herself his deep blue eyes did nothing for her, that she didn't want to run her fingers through his ebony hair and forget that Barry ever existed.
It was animal instincts, nothing more. Hormones and a long weekend with Barry out of town. That was all. Once she and Barry got back into their regular routine of dates on Tuesdays and Fridays and reading the Sunday paper together, everything would be fine.
“Candy,” he said again, quiet as a caress. “Kiss me.”
She opened her mouth to say no, but the word refused to come. It stayed in her throat, a defiant child. The silence stretched between them. One second. Two. With each passing tick, Candace felt her resolve unravel like a thread with too much tension on it.
“I'm marrying Barry,” she said, then burst out of the car before she forgot why.
When she did, she realized too late that she had forgotten something else. Something large and pink and just looking for a reason to hate Candace.
Bernadine turned at the sound of the car door opening. Her mouth dropped open, the cigar dangling from the left side, held in place by saliva. She glanced at Candace, then at the Lexus. Her eyes narrowed, her mouth closed and she harrumphed. She stubbed out the cigar and went back into the shop before Candace could come up with a reasonable excuse.
Behind her, the Lexus—and Michael Vogler—still waited. Ahead of her was the shop and Barry. Candace hesitated for a moment, then ran like hell for the door.
1/2 cup flour
2 tablespoons cornstarch
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 cup water
2 bananas
vegetable oil for frying
Chocolate Sauce
3/4 cup sugar
1 cup water
1/8 cup cocoa powder, sifted
Pinch of ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
Heat 1-1/2” of oil in a pan to 350 degrees. Ah. Nothing's better than fried food—except fried food served up by a naked, single and rich guy. Whisk together the dry ingredients, then add the water until smooth. Strip the bananas (ooh lah lah) and slice them into thirds. Coat them with the batter. Carefully drop them into the oil and cook, turning occasionally, until they're Coppertone gold (about two minutes— faster than a spray-on tan). Remove and drain on paper towels. There. You've just made them much healthier and lowered the calorie count. One hearty jaunt in bed should work off a couple of these (just be sure to first check your intended bed partner for a ring. No sense wasting those calories on a man who's already attached).
Fried bananas are all well and good, but fried bananas in chocolate are even better. Be patient—it's almost time to eat. Stir sugar and water over low heat until the sugar has completely dissolved, then bring to a boil and let it rock and roll for one minute. Take the pan off the heat, and add the cocoa, vanilla and cinnamon. Whisk, then reheat.
Now fill your belly—and your soul—until you feel better. If you want, ask your company to spend the night; put on a little mood music; a lacy, see-through negligee; and if he proposes, you'll be totally satisfied.
CHAPTER 7
Candace wanted to be alone. Retreat into a ball of self-pity in her apartment and nurse the headache that had started radiating out from her left temple about the same time Barry had returned from his trip and Michael Vogler had planted all those doubts in her mind again. How had he managed to do that? No wonder he worked in advertising. Those were the kinds of guys who did screaming ads for beards in a spray can, who'd say anything to get you to buy into their spiel.
She lay on her couch and burrowed her head into the pillows. Trifecta came up and placed her paw on Candace's back, as if atoning for her earlier infidelity.
Candace flipped her head and looked into the dog's wide brown eyes. “Now you're sorry.”
Trifecta whimpered a bit and snuggled closer.
“Barry is a nice guy. Why don't you like him?” The dog had never quite warmed up to Barry, no matter how hard he tried to ply her with baby talk and biscuits.
Trifecta didn't answer. Just closed her eyes and kept her paw on Candace's spine.
“Good choice,” Candace told the dog. “I don't want to talk about men right now, either.”
Candace decided to lie here for the rest of her life, overdosing on Ho Hos and E! True Hollywood Story, forgetting about the evil eye Bernadine kept throwing her way after she'd returned to the shop, and definitely forgetting that conversation with Michael in the Lexus. All bad moments, best left in the recesses of her memory.
But her watch told her it was only twenty minutes until her scheduled shift at the animal shelter. Once a week, she spent a few hours at the Paws a Minute shelter, helping the staff bathe the animals, tend to the sick ones and design what she hoped were eye-catching ads that would get every stray in the city a good home.
She closed her eyes and sighed. She had enough time for a ten-minute pity-fest if she broke the sound barrier when she drove over there.
Then a flurry of noise sounded at her front door and her mother burst in, carrying Percy and a slew of shopping bags. “I'm so glad you're home! I went shopping today and got you a proper trousseau.”
Candace groaned and rolled into a sitting position. Trifecta shot Percy a glare, then wandered off to the bedroom. Smart dog. “What do you mean 'a proper trousseau'? I've got everything I need already.”
“Candace, I've seen what you wear to bed. You can't spend your wedding night in a T-shirt and sweat socks.”
“Mom, I don't want to shock you or anything, but I'm twenty-seven. I'm not a virgin anymore. Barry and I have had sex. Many times. The wedding night thing isn't exactly a big surprise for him.”
“You still need something fancy.” She wagged a finger. “Keep his eye on you or his eye will stray.”
“Not Barry's eyes, trust me.” Candace curled into the corner of the couch.
“Any man can be turned by a pretty face,” Della said. “Not to mention a doctored ass and breasts.”
Candace shook her head. There were days she didn't think she and her mother were on the same planet, never mind in the same family. “I already bought something for the wedding night.”
Her mother dropped Percy to the floor. “Something lacy?”
“Lace irritates Barry's skin. He's very sensitive.”
“Oh.” She glanced at the bags in her hands. “Are you sure? What about feathers?”
“Feathers?”
“Yes, as in a boa?” Her mother withdrew a hot-pink feather boa from one of the bags and draped it around her neck. “See? Sexy.”
“You look like a flamingo on steroids.”
Her mother made a face. “What about leather? Does Barry like leather?”
“He's allergic. And he feels it involves unnecessary animal slaughter.”
“It also makes most men hot as a team of horses.” She peeked in one of the bags. “How about fishnet? Does he have something against fishnet?”
“Uh, I don't—”
“Good. This will be perfect, then.” Her mother tugged something long, black and the consistency of dental floss out of her bag. Percy yelped and ran into the kitchen.
“What the hell is that?”
“It's a body stocking.” She held it up by the shoulders. Candace could see the very lean shape of a body in it, if she squinted. Della started poking a finger between the legs. “It's even got a convenient opening right—”
“Mother!” But even as she protested Della's show-and-tell, a traitorous part of her mind told her Michael Vogler would like that body stocking—and the convenient opening—very, very much. He'd probably also like lace. Definitely leather. And if she closed her eyes right now, she knew she'd imagine his reaction to her in the boa. And nothing else. “I'm not wearing that thing. My relationship with Barry isn't based on sex.”
Their relationship defined dependable. Barry showed up exactly at the time he said he'd be there, remembered when her car was due for an oil change, and never let a month lapse without balancing the checkbook. He was all the things she'd never had in her life—security, reliability and quiet.