by Dana Ransom
“What’s wrong?”
“You tell me. What were you yelling about?”
“Oh. A parking spot,” he explained triumphantly as if that should make some kind of sense to her. She mouthed the two words, trying to slow the panic of her pulse rate. “You have no idea how hard it is to find a place to park downtown.”
“Parking? I thought we were going to be killed!”
“Believe me, people have been known to kill for a space this good. Damn! This is great!”
Charley glared at him. He was laughing and she’d almost had a coronary! She was about to scold him fiercely when he leaned across the seat to erase her frown with the quick, conquering press of his mouth on hers. Every thought in her head blanked completely. She was still sitting, as stunned as a stump, when he came around to open the door for her. He had to practically drag her up to the sidewalk. By then he was sweet-faced and contrite.
“I’m sorry if I scared you. Parking is like a religious experience to us city folk. We forget outsiders don’t understand.”
She smiled somewhat wanly and he laughed again, curling his arm around her waist for a good-natured squeeze.
“Let’s eat.”
The Berghoff was a comfortably noisy Old World-type restaurant with a bold black-and-white tiled floor and huge brass fans humming overhead. The scent of hearty German food and yeasty beer brought a sigh of appreciation from Jess. He ordered Berghoff beer from the tap for both of them, spicy brats and spätzle for himself, and a more conservative Dover sole for Charley from their tuxedoed waiter. When their steaming platter arrived, Jess inhaled and closed his eyes.
“God, I love good food! I may be on a liquid diet of Maalox for a week, but some things are just worth it, don’t you think?” And he dug in with gusto. Watching him, her chest thickening with emotion, she had to agree. Yes, some risks were worth everything. He finally slowed halfway through his second beer and looked across at Charley with an expression of incredible contentment. “Almost better than sex,” he sighed, then grinned at her blush and goaded, “How was it for you?”
She didn’t back down from the smoldering insinuation of his stare. “It was fantastic,” she returned in a tone so breathy his grin faltered and dwindled down into a strained smile. His gaze dropped to his beer. He reached out and began to lightly buff the pad of his thumb across her fingernails.
To keep from blurting out, I want you, Jess McMasters!, Charley grasped for something safe to say. “So, where are you from in Chicago?”
The fire eased in his eyes, but he continued the lazy caress of her hand. “The west side. Big Irish neighborhood. Right around the corner from Mayor Daly.”
“Do you see very much of your family?”
His hand stilled as he shook his head. “No,” he admitted softly and her fingertips became the aggressors, gently massaging over his. “After my divorce Mom got all puffed up with Catholic indignation. She thought I should have tried harder and told me Hell was going to swallow me whole.” He gave a sad, self-deprecating smile. “She was right.”
“What happened, Jess?”
“What happened? I don’t know. Whatever happens when two people fall out of love. She wanted lots of things and I wasn’t one of them.” He smiled crookedly down at his empty glass.
“Jess . . .”
He glanced up cautiously.
“She was a fool.”
He gave a soft little laugh, but his eyes were flat and his lips unsmiling. “The whole thing really, really hurt me, and I just don’t want to talk about it anymore, okay?”
“Okay,” she agreed quietly.
He pulled in a sharp breath and attempted a grin. “Are you still taking any medication?”
“No. Why?”
“You’re going to need a tranquilizer if you’re going to be my copilot while I drive down Michigan Avenue.” He signaled for the waiter and ordered her a Mr. Bs. When the drink came, Charley eyed it warily and took a sip.
“Oh, my! What’s in this?”
“About six liqueurs, cream, dark chocolate, espresso, and coffee.”
“Oh, my,” she murmured again, then obediently drank down every drop of her medicine.
And as soon as he pulled out into traffic, she was grateful for the anesthesia. While a sane and fairly careful driver in Michigan, something about the streets of his hometown turned Jess McMasters into a fierce, type-A aggressor. He drove as if he had an irrevocable right-of-way and the car was armor-plated to see he got it. He zigzagged across lanes, dodging buses and cursing at the cabbies who were about the only ones ruder behind the wheel than he was as the Els, the elevated rapid transit trains, rumbled overhead. Charley held on tight and prayed to Chicago’s God of Parking that they wouldn’t have to go around too many blocks.
He turned onto Michigan Avenue and Charley forced herself to study the scenery rather than their proximity to the other cars. Block after block of galleries and small shops existed behind old weathered brick and Victorian facades, standing shoulder to shoulder with soaring walls of reflective glass-fronted office spaces. Police officers in checkerboard caps gestured to the traffic and maroon liveried hotel staffers held umbrellas to assist guests from limos to canopied walk. Bridge construction forced vehicles to funnel into one lane, and Jess maneuvered for a spot with deft skill and colorful adjectives.
“Welcome to the Mile,” he told her with the flash of his grin. He seemed to be enjoying the chaos of bumper-to-bumper traffic. She returned his smile faintly.
“Are we having fun yet?”
He laughed and swerved to avoid a bold jaywalker. He pounded on the horn. The pedestrian responded with a provoking hand gesture that had Jess lowering his window.
“Jess! For heaven’s sake!”
He took in the alarm-widened eyes and smiled sheepishly. “Habit,” he explained. “I was just going to suggest that he and his mother—Oh, never mind.”
She sat grumpily in the passenger seat, forcing him to behave himself. Finally he turned off on a side street, and within a few blocks they’d reached the lake. It was a rough, slate gray fading hazily into the horizon. Charley shivered instinctively as a group of skimpily-clad joggers trotted along the side of Lake Shore Drive. Jess went down several blocks and made a turn, angling sharply into a public parking structure. He found a rare space and cut the engine.
“You can open your eyes now.”
Charley expelled her breath audibly.
“What do you want to hit first? Saks, Neiman-Marcus, Bloomingdale’s, Cartier, Marshall Field?” At her rather dazed expression, he took up her hand, entwining just their fingertips. “Come on. Let’s spend some serious cash.”
As soon as they stepped out of the shelter of the parking garage, Charley discovered it wasn’t called the Windy City for nothing. Cold, damp air sliced right through her old raincoat, making her think more of a lingering winter than the approach of spring. Snug in his leather, Jess didn’t notice her discomfort. He was too busy soaking up the familiar scents and sounds of the city. Grimly she squared her shoulders and vowed to be a happy camper if it killed her.
“Warm enough?”
Huddled down inside the thin folds of her coat, Charley nodded bravely.
“Now who’s a liar. Let’s walk. The pace of the city will warm you up quick enough.”
She didn’t understand what he meant just then, but after several blocks she began to notice a different cadence, a faster heartbeat to the streets around her. It was noisy. It was hurried. It was crowded. It was exhilarating. Shoppers rushed by in their bright nylon jogging suits with umbrellas tilted into the wind. A vivid blue tarp flapped about the edges of the corner newsstand it covered. They were the only sources of color on the drab, rain-splattered walks. The streets were lined with evenly-spaced trees and wrought-iron fenced flower plots that were still barren. She
could see why Jess would have thought that concrete was the natural order of things.
“We’ll start at Water Tower Place,” Jess was saying as they reached a corner. The walk sign was on, so Charley stepped off the curb. He casually reached out to snag her about the waist, hauling her up just in time to keep a cab from hitting her. She pressed back against him, startled by the brush with disaster. And it felt so good that he kept her there, tucked close. She must have thought so, too, because she didn’t pull away.
If first impressions meant anything, Charley knew she was going to be awed by the cluster of shops anchored by Marshall Field and Lord & Taylor. From the street side lobby, escalators rose through a verdant jungle complete with waterfalls and emptied out into a soaring cylinder of exclusive shopping. She stared, overwhelmed.
Jess bumped her impatiently. “Don’t just stand there gawking like a tourist. Let’s start at the top and work our way down.” He towed her toward twin glass elevators, and she assumed he meant to start at the top floor. But he didn’t push seven. Seeing her confusion, he murmured, “Trust me,” and followed it with a smile that would have charmed her into anything.
Almost anything.
She dug in her heels. “What are we doing here?” She glanced nervously at the Vidal Sassoon logo repeated in stark black on white throughout the interior of the salon and at the woman in spiked orange hair filing her inch-long nails at the counter.
“Start at the top,” he reminded her with a smile as he dragged her inside. He showed a lot of white teeth to the receptionist, and she was instantly alert. “We need the works,” he confided in a husky tone. “Who’s your best available?”
“No appointment?” She arched a penciled brow.
Jess smiled wider. “No. Sorry. Can you work something out?”
She looked him over and smiled back. “Let me see what I can do.” She clicked back into the monochromatic depths of the salon.
“Jess,” Charley whispered uneasily. “This place has got to cost a fortune. I don’t need a cut.”
He reached up and let his fingers sink into her fine, unstyled hair. His gaze caressed her face with a discomforting intensity. “You have no idea how beautiful you are, Charley. You will.”
And at that moment, if he’d suggested she shave her head bald and paint stripes on it, she would have numbly agreed.
The receptionist returned and her bright smile foiled any hope Charley had that they couldn’t take her. “You’re in luck. Our creative director had a last-minute cancellation.”
Charley’s restless gaze caught on a black-enameled plaque listing the salon services, priced by the experience of the stylist. The creative director was the top of the hierarchy. A cut was outrageous. Everything else was extra. Her jaw dropped. Her last haircut had been done by beauty academy trainees. The works had cost twelve dollars.
“If you’ll come back with me, we’ll get started by testing the tensile strength of your hair.”
Charley cast a desperate glance in Jess’s direction, but he smiled and waved, letting the woman lead her off like a reluctant lamb to the fleecing room.
Several hours later she found Jess lounging on the black leather sofa. A mutilated Styrofoam cup was on the glass tabletop in front of him next to a half-consumed roll of Tums.
“What do you think?”
He looked up from the issue of GQ he’d been thumbing through, and his gaze was arrested. After a couple of very long seconds he said, “Yeah. Oh, yeah,” in a hushed voice.
Charley flushed. She knew it looked nice. For several hundred dollars it ought to look nice! “The works” had consisted of a rinse to burnish in soft highlights, a body perm to add lift, and a cut that was feathered and full and flattered the delicate structure of her face. At the warming approval in Jess’s eyes she turned and drew from her supply of cash, paying without a thread of regret. Some things were just worth it.
Jess was right. Her credit-card limit wouldn’t have allowed her to survive beyond the first level of shops. She never would have guessed a man would be fun to shop with. Alan hated to be bothered with anything even faintly resembling the female domain. But Jess looked comfortably, confidently male among the silks and sequins, and his grin and sense of style made him popular with the clerks who waited on them. He knew exactly what he liked and coaxed her to express her opinions. He made it a sensual game, grabbing something off display, holding it up in front of her, making her close her eyes and feel the fabric against her skin. Then he’d create an image of her wearing it, some of his stories silly, like wearing a twenty-five-hundred-dollar beaded evening gown barefoot down a beach, some steamily suggestive, like walking down Michigan Avenue in a particularly supple suede coat with nothing on underneath it. He made her laugh and relax, and sometimes just the way he ran his hands over a garment was enough to encourage her to buy it. Because she could imagine, too. Imagine how it would feel to have his touch on the outside when she was on the inside. After she almost went in to shock upon seeing the cost of a simple blouse she liked, he made a habit of keeping his thumb firmly over the price tag until after she made her choice. Then he’d obligingly lay out the appropriate piece of plastic and hoist the package.
Then Charley caught sight of Victoria’s Secret. She started toward it eagerly, then the thought of looking through lingerie with Jess stopped her cold.
“You want to look in there?”
“Not with you.”
He studied the window display with interest. “Are you sure? I’d be more than happy to have you model some of those things for me.”
“No!”
He made a noise of weary disappointment. “I’ll wait.”
She gave him a grateful smile and dashed inside.
Jess paced. Graphic images of garters and scraps of black lace knotted him up into a dry-mouthed frenzy. When she came out of the store, his gaze was riveted to the parcel she carried.
“What did you buy?” Was that him speaking? He sounded as if he were talking through gravel.
“Silk,” she said with maddening brevity.
Jess stood, paralyzed for a long second. Then he reached for the bag. “Can I see?”
Charley placed it out of reach behind her. “Have you some unhealthy fondness for ladies’ underwear, Mr. McMasters?”
“Only when the ladies are still in it, Miss Carter.”
“Then there’s nothing in this sack that should interest you.”
He studied the forbidden package and released a slow, wide smile. “You can show me later.” Shifting the shopping bags to one hand, he put his arm in an easy loop about Charley’s shoulders. And was devilishly pleased to feel her trembling beneath it.
Eleven
HER FEET THROBBED. Her head ached from the intense lighting and vivid colors. She was hot and drooping. And never had the first level looked so appealing.
“You fading on me, baby?” Jess followed that soft question with the brush of his forefinger along her cheek. She tried to rally an energetic smile but failed miserably. He made a sympathetic sound. “We have time for two more stops. Think you can make it?”
“Oh, Jess,” she moaned wretchedly, slumping against his shoulder. “I don’t want to see another dressing room for as long as I live.”
“Poor baby,” he soothed. “How about I get you a little reward for being such a trooper?”
“Does it involve sitting down?”
“If you show me what’s in that sack.” He nudged the lingerie bag with his knee.
“No.”
He groaned in resignation, then steered her toward the up escalator. That made her groan.
“Back up?”
“It’ll be painless.”
When they reached the proper floor, Jess blocked her view and said, “Close your eyes and take a deep breath. What do you smell?”
; She did. “Chocolate?”
He put a hand dramatically over his heart. “Oh, don’t say it like that! We’re talking chocolate of the gods here. Just the thing to perk you up.”
Charley was disbelieving until, seated at a small café table, she had her first taste of Godiva chocolate and knew heaven. They sat silent, sipping foamy cappuccinos, sampling the rich chocolate, watching the crowd of shoppers pass outside the store’s window. Everyone from teased-haired old women in high heels carrying fancy shopping bags to a group of rowdy sailors still in uniform. Charley sighed, reveling in the moment, in the man at her side.
Jess canted a look up at her profile. She was so damn beautiful it made everything swell shut inside his chest. She looked happy, relaxed, and weary. Her smile was just a slight curve, but it wrapped itself around his heart and squeezed big. And there was nothing he wanted more in that moment than to snatch her up and drag her off to the closest private corner to make fast and furious love to her until he’d exhausted what little strength she had left. But that would be one big mistake. Because come Monday she was never going to want to see him again. Why give her more reason to hate him by taking advantage of her blissful ignorance? Charley Carter wouldn’t want to make love to a man who’d lied to her from the moment he met her. How clearly he could still recall Robert Carter’s words. Don’t ever lie. He was trying—trying so hard it hurt!—to give her some good things to remember when she thought of him. But it was a precarious balance. He’d never been very good at living up to what people thought he should be. Especially those he’d loved. And Charley wanted so much!
It was his fault. He’d encouraged her to want, to dream. When she’d looked up at him first thing this morning, it hit him squarely. All her dreams were wrapped up around him and what she thought she saw. A nice guy. A man she could trust. A man she could depend on. And he’d criticized Alan Peters for using her. At least all she had invested in Alan was time. She’d sunk a hell of a lot more into him. Why was he even trying to make amends for something that was going to devastate her? Did he really think a little charm and a guided tour of Chicago’s couturiers would make up for breaking her faith and possibly her heart? What he was doing was wrong. There could be no crossing the line between professional and personal, and he was so disoriented that he didn’t even know what side of it he was standing on. What was he doing? Begging for her forgiveness before she even understood why he needed to ask for it? Trying to convince her, or himself, that there was some good in him?