“He rescued him?” I am in love. This humane side of Carlo is very appealing. He’d saved a poor starving cat from God knew what. My imagination takes over. I see us saving hundreds of cats and setting up a sanctuary for those lost or about to be euthanized. We will be the savior of animals. We will open a business together.
“Shall I tell Mr. DeAngelo you’ll take care of Bacci, then?” his assistant asks.
“Sure.”
I have no plans yet for the Christmas holiday, except for dinner, and a cat can be left for an hour or two. While caring for a cat is not in the plan, I can make this work to my advantage.
I have a sudden brainstorm. “Tell you what,” I say. “Tell Mr. DeAngelo I’ll take care of Bacci in my own home. Can someone bring him to me?”
“I’ll discuss that with Mr. DeAngelo and get right back to you,” Alexandra says before hanging up.
Someone above is definitely looking out for me. Carlo DeAngelo’s long list of jobs will more than make up for any business Service Not Incidental steals, or so I hope. At least I know he will pay me well.
Adrenaline pumping, I return to my e-mails. That one call gets my creativity going, and now I am thinking up numerous promotions to keep and bring in customers.
While I am narrowing down those that can easily be implemented, the phone rings again. Maybe this is even better news.
“Hello.”
“Roxanne?” A sexy baritone fills my ear.
“Yes?” I am sure I know who it is. No one else calls me Roxanne. But it has been months and I can’t be sure.
“It’s Max.” Maxwell Porter is the hotel director on a popular cruise ship.
“What a nice surprise,” I say, meaning it.
Max and I had been seeing each other off and on this summer whenever his ship was in town. Unfortunately, in the fall the cruise line had taken on a different itinerary and Max had pretty much disappeared. Not that that was unusual.
“I’m in New York until the holidays are over,” he announces, sounding chipper, “Came in to be with my girl.”
He couldn’t possibly be talking about me. I hadn’t seen him in months. I tried for flip.
“Sounds serious. Don’t tell me love has finally struck the elusive Max. Who is she?”
His deep-throated chuckle warmed my heart. “You’re my girl, silly.”
I wanted to ask “since when” but didn’t. I might be his New York girl but I strongly suspect Max has a woman in each port. Ours has always been a sexual relationship and we’ve lived in the moment. I know enough about Max not to have any expectations. He is charming and says all the right things, but don’t ever expect a commitment.
Max is tall and resembles Shemar Moore. He can also charm the pants off the most devout woman. When you’re with him you think you are all that matters, and when you’re not, count on it, some other woman has his attention. But at least you can be assured a good time. Max spends money freely and seems to have plenty of it.
“I want to see you,” Max insists. “How about you and me having dinner and then going dancing? There’s a new restaurant on the Upper East I’d like to try.”
“Where are you staying?” I ask. I already know this is a bed invitation.
“The Hyatt, midtown.”
That means Max expects me to come in to New York City. He senses my hesitation because then he says, “I’ll send a limo for you. Does seven o’clock sound good?”
I have no plans this evening and could use a night on the town. And I don’t mind riding in style. Max is easy to be with and there is no mystery as to how the evening will end. There will be no false expectations beyond getting together the next time he’s in town. That works for both of us.
“So what do you say, Roxanne?” he prods.
“I’ll be ready at seven.”
“Good. Wear something slinky and sexy. I’ve got gifts for you,” he tempts.
Max always comes bearing presents. It’s part of his makeup. Usually it is lingerie from some exotic part of the world. He has this thing for lace tap pants and skimpy thongs. And he’s been known to throw in a French maid’s uniform for good measure.
I hang up thinking this is good. I really need my ego stroked and my engine revved. What I need even more is the mind-blowing sex that he can provide.
I need to focus and return to the business at hand. I’ve spent four years building a company I can be proud of and I’m not about to let two upstarts move in on my territory. Nor will I allow them to steal my customers. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I will pull out all the stops if I have to.
The holiday season provides lots of opportunity. I can come up with a unique gift for my customers if I have to; something they wouldn’t ordinarily buy for themselves. I must go one better than the free service the competition is offering. Maybe if I offer a service guarantee; one hundred percent of your money back if not fully satisfied—that might do it.
Yes, it’s risky and I am opening myself to every scam artist in town and some. But it is worth a try, and if I throw in an additional bonus, then I will keep my existing customers happy and pick up a few new ones, as well.
I begin typing, adding thoughts no sooner than they pop into my head. Nothing is too bizarre or outrageous to be dismissed. I am starting to feel pretty good about things when the phone rings again.
“Ms. Ingram?”
“Yes, Alexandra.”
I recognize X’s assistant’s voice right off. She has the same slightly accented tones as he has. It speaks of foreign shores and sultry, romantic nights.
“Mr. DeAngelo is pleased you will consider caring for Bacci in your home,” Alexandra says.
“Great. How old is the cat?”
“She is, we think, maybe fifteen.” Alexandra fills me in on the cat’s likes and dislikes. “There is one condition,” she adds.
I hold my breath, waiting.
“Mr. DeAngelo wants to see where Bacci will be living. I’ll need your address. Your home address, not your PO box.”
My tongue practically trips me up when I give Alexandra the details. Carlo DeAngelo is coming to Malverne to see me? Things will never be the same. He will walk into my little Tudor house and look around. I need to call my cleaning service right away. The dust bunnies under those beds need to disappear.
Beds. My mind has already taken a quantum leap. We are already sharing one together. He and I are snuggling.
“What day did Mr. DeAngelo plan on visiting?” I ask. An image of me and Carlo tangled in satin sheets dances in my head.
“I’ll check his schedule and get back to you.” Alexandra hangs up.
I am still dazed. I wonder why Carlo has not delegated the property inspection to her. I’d think he had better things to do than to come out to Malverne unless…maybe it’s me he really wants to see.
So far two nice things have happened today. Max is in town and out of the blue Carlo is coming to visit me. Things really are looking up.
A plan for a marketing promotion now takes root in my head, but it might mean hiring a graphic designer. If I sent out e-cards to my preferred customer base this might drive business. With a little bit of luck I can acquire new customers and at the same time one-up Service Not Incidental. By hook or by crook I am going to come out ahead.
I take a break to check on Vance and Lydia. Satisfied there are no issues that can’t wait until tomorrow, I decide a manicure, pedicure and wax will be my treat. If I have time afterward I’ll stop by Roosevelt Field Mall again and buy a new outfit. Comfort shopping.
Thinking of my child, I sober immediately. After Christmas, Lindsay is off to Paris and I already miss her. Some people eat their heartbreak away, not me, I’ve always shopped.
Later that evening and another session of retail therapy, I dress in my brand-new fitted black skirt with a broad belt cinching my waist. I’m wearing a champagne silk top and a cashmere shawl draped over the shoulders. I’ve used a sparkly pin to pull the whole thing together. And I am tapping m
y foot impatiently waiting for the limousine to pull up.
Like magic, a gigantic black Hummer slides to the curb; a Hummer limousine at that. The blinds at the neighbors’ windows shift. They’re a nosy bunch and nosier now that I am single. The minute I walk out my front door every phone line will light up. They’ll be speculating I have a new man and a wealthy one at that. They get a kick embellishing what they don’t know.
I put on my coat, grab my purse and hop into the back of the limo. I decline the wine the driver offers me and sink into the comfortable leather seats. I close my eyes and consider taking a nap. Max Porter will require all of my energy later.
“Miss Ingram. We’re here.”
The chauffeur’s voice barely penetrates my haze. A hand on my shoulder gently shakes me awake.
“Mr. Porter’s waiting inside at the table.”
I have no recollection of how we’ve gotten into the city. I give my hand to the driver and step out onto the sidewalk. Using the other, I rummage through my purse.
“The gratuity has been taken care of, Ms. Ingram,” says the bald driver with the midnight skin who reminds me of Michael Jordan. He leaves me under a striped awning and is back behind the steering wheel before I can protest.
I mince toward the smoked-glass doors of the restaurant. The same boots I wore to speed dating are beginning to pinch. The door opens before I can reach for the brass knob.
A ramrod-straight maître d’ greets me. “Do you have reservations, madam?”
While he waits for my answer he positions himself behind the podium and peers into a book. A Tiffany lamp casts a golden glow over his face.
“I’m the guest of Maxwell Porter,” I say.
I know Max is already here. He’s always on time and if I know him he would have made reservations.
Predictably the maître d’ says, “Mr. Porter is already seated. May I check your coat, ma’am.”
“Certainly.”
I leave my coat with the coat-check person and am whisked upstairs to a velvet upholstered banquette. Max is already working his way through a bottle of wine. Good wine, of course.
“Roxanne,” he says, standing.
He is impeccably dressed as always. He kisses me on the lips, and that kiss leaves even my toes tingling.
“Just look at you, girl,” Max says, twirling me around. “Girl, you are hot.”
The $450 I’ve plunked out for my outfit is worth every dollar. Not that it will be on long, anyway.
Seated in the banquette I say, “It’s good to see you, Max. You’re looking good yourself.”
Max is one of those buff elegant men that wears a T-shirt well but looks best in a tuxedo. Tonight, a navy suit sets off his caramel-colored skin to perfection. He has thick curly hair and hazel eyes that are sometimes hidden behind dark glasses. When he smiles, two dimples appear.
He reaches across the table and takes my hand. I am his.
“Miss me?” he asks.
“Of course I miss you.”
I always miss Max. He is an easy person to be around and he is bright and engaging. I can talk to him for hours about anything. But I also know Max is one of those elusive types who hates being tied down. I knew that from the moment I met him on a cruise right after my divorce. What he did for me during that week, no psychologist ever could. And I will always be eternally grateful to him.
Max pours me a glass of the red wine he is drinking. The waiter hands us menus.
“You really look wonderful,” Max says, after we’ve both made our choices. “What’s keeping you looking so fine?”
“Hard work. Angst.” I explain about Service Not Incidental and the ungrateful ex-employees. I omit mention of X and his being my savior. He is not a topic Max needs to know about. I tell him about Lindsay leaving for Paris and about my plans for the holidays.
Max tells me about his travels. I hang on his every word, enthralled by tales of exotic places.
“You can beat those two at their own game,” Max says when the appetizer is served. “You’re smart and savvy.”
“Thanks.”
He talks about the change in the ship’s itinerary and how the Mexican Riviera is a change from the Caribbean. He tells me he is getting burned out and looking for a job on land. I am thinking he is stringing me along.
Duck, wild rice and asparagus tips are on my plate, salmon on his. He always did eat healthily.
The tip of Max’s shoe nudges my ankle. We are playing footsie. The mating ritual has begun.
“You are spending the night.” It is a statement.
Because I’ve anticipated something like this, I’ve stuffed a clean pair of undies and toiletries into my purse.
“I can.”
“Good. We have a limo driver at our disposal so we can go anyplace that you want.”
He manages to wedge a muscular thigh between mine. I am already flustered. Flustered and consumed by warmth. The red wine has nothing to do with the heat in my cheeks or me suddenly feeling dizzy.
“What’s the plan? Are we still going dancing?” I ask. We’ve already passed on dessert, and the espresso and latte before us are getting cold.
“Your choice,” Max answers, throwing it firmly back into my court.
Dancing, though tempting, is only going to prolong the inevitable. I am just as horny as he is. It has been months since we’ve been together and Max’s citrus cologne is drawing me in.
“I am a little tired,” I admit, smothering a yawn. “Why don’t we just head back to your hotel?”
“Okay. We’re out of here.”
Max signals for the check and slaps down a credit card. He whisks me out of the banquette before the ink on that credit card slip is dry.
In the backseat of the Hummer I lay my head on his shoulder and let Alicia Keyes soothe me. He hums along while nibbling on my ear.
And then the most absurd thing happens. I see Carlo’s face clearly. It is him I am seated next to, it his teeth nibbling my earlobe and it his accented voice whispering in my ear.
I let the fantasies take over. Tonight I’ll be making love to Carlo and not Max.
CHAPTER 8
In less than an hour we are at it.
“You’re the best, baby. The best,” Max grunts, as his thrusts increase and I writhe under him.
I dig my nails into his back and quickly slip over the edge.
“Yes!”
What seems an eternity later, Max stirs under me. “Gotta go to the bathroom, babe.”
He leaves to take care of business and I curl into a ball, nude and satisfied. He has always been a phenomenal lover. Good sex is exactly what I needed tonight.
When Max comes back I wash up and then slide back under the covers. We make love again. I fall asleep knowing that I’ve been well taken care of in every area.
Next morning we have another leisurely romp and share a breakfast tray. Max gives me my gifts which are a sexy pair of red thong panties that play “Jingle Bells” and a set of black silk lounge pajamas with diamond cut-outs on the side. I model them for him and we make love again. Then it is time to leave. He walks me out to the Hummer and we make plans to see each other soon.
Time to return to the real world. I turn my cell phone on again. There are a number of messages waiting. Vance can’t find the keys where a client said he’s left them, and the poodle he is expected to walk is stuck inside whining. Hopefully Vance has called the client’s emergency number.
Margot is on the verge of hysteria and needs to talk. Earl isn’t returning her phone calls. Who can blame him? Another client needs me yesterday. His tenant is having plumbing problems and he is out of the country. I need to take care of the situation. That at least is an easy fix, I can call a plumber.
The graphic designer I’d left a message for has finally returned my call. He’s excited about designing a singing greeting card and anxious to go to work. I return the call, discuss colors, copy, pricing and tell him just to be creative.
There are messages from pot
ential clients inquiring about my services. These are good calls. I’ll get back to them later. Then I hear my baby’s voice and I come instantly alert. This child I live for.
“Plans have changed,” Lindsay says. “I’m leaving for Paris as soon as school’s out. I’m not going to be able to spend the Christmas holiday with you, sorry, Mom. Call me.”
I am counting on Lindsay to be there with me. She is my family, the only relative I have in New York. My mother is remarried and lives in California with her new husband. My father abandoned us a long time ago. And you wonder why I have trust issues?
I now hit the redial button. The phone just rings and rings. Lindsay better be in class, but then why didn’t she turn her phone off? I want to kill that child. I need her to get through the holidays. It is a depressing time for single people.
All the way back to Malverne, I think about why Lindsay wants to leave for Paris so soon. The ride from Manhattan goes quickly, with me getting more morose the closer we get. We are going against traffic so there is little stop-and-go. Soon, I am home.
I’ve enjoyed my evening out and needed it, but coming home is good. There’s nothing like having your own bathroom and space. I’ve always thought that was another reason why relationships fail.
I wish the limo driver an early Merry Christmas and he takes off. I wander up the walkway, fumbling through my purse looking for my key. When I look up, I notice my front door is slightly ajar. Does that mean Lindsay has driven down from Skidmore to talk to me in person? That child is so impulsive and can be careless at times.
“Lindsay?” I call, sticking my head through the open doorway.
What I see inside brings me to my knees. It is pure destruction. My heart pounds and my breakfast lurches in my stomach. My house has been vandalized. I’ve been violated. The pillows from my sectional couch are strewn on the floor. Drawers from my sideboard have been emptied and items thrown on the carpeting.
I have an alarm system. I pay for monthly monitoring. Why haven’t I gotten a phone call to alert me my alarm went off? Because I shut off my phone after retrieving some of my messages. Lindsay’s message had thrown me for a loop and I’d prematurely exited voice mail.
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