“Nah, I’m fine. But if you want to make yourself something, go ahead.”
“I’m fine, too.” She glanced around the living room, which seemed a bit messier than the last time she’d been there. Newspapers were piled up on the floor and a ratty old afghan lay crumpled by Michael’s feet. “So, what have you been doing to entertain yourself?”
“Watching The Wild and the Free. Reading.”
“What do hockey players read?” she asked. “No, wait, I know. Your favorite book is . . .” she closed her eyes, deep in concentration, “Of Ice and Men.” Her eyes sprang open. “Favorite play? The Iceman Cometh.”
“Is that your idea of hockey humor?” Michael asked in a voice laced with pity.
“It was pretty good for off the top of my head.” She grinned.
“Well, it’s funnier than Happy Gilmore, but it’s no Slap Shot.”
“Thank you,” Theresa said. “I think.”
“So, what brings you to Park Slope?” he asked, his eyes quietly searching her face.
“You.”
“Uh huh,” Michael replied cautiously, his expression giving away nothing. “You have some restaurant stuff we need to go over?”
“I already handled it with Anthony.”
Michael stiffened in alarm. “You talked to Anthony?”
“Just briefly. I told him the local cable show Italian Cooking and Living wants him as a guest chef. He said he has no interest.”
Michael closed his eyes, sighing. “Don’t listen to him. He’ll do it.”
“What are you going to do, put a gun to his head?”
“Just trust me on this, okay? Get me the details, and I’ll make it happen.”
“Okay,” Theresa replied dubiously. She shifted her weight, fearful she might slip off the edge of the couch onto the floor. “This might sound nosy, but does Anthony have a girlfriend or anything?”
Michael’s eyes slowly opened. “Why?” he asked harshly. “You interested?”
“What?” Theresa exclaimed. She tried to picture herself even touching Anthony and burst out laughing. “Are you nuts?”
Michael looked suspicious. “Then why do you want to know?”
She stopped chuckling. “Because he seems so self-contained. Alone. I just wondered if he had anyone.”
“Other than the Virgin Mary? No.” Michael scratched absently at the stubble on his chin. “There was this hostess at the restaurant for a while named Loretta. He had a crush on her, but I don’t think he ever did anything about it.” He frowned. “What can you do? That’s who he is.”
“I guess,” she concurred. And I think I’m starting to figure out who I am. I think.
Discomfort crept onto Michael’s face. “So, you’re here because—?”
“I needed to talk you.”
“About—?”
“Last Saturday night.”
“Okay.” His tone was guarded.
Fearing she might end up nervously kneading his toes, Theresa got up, strolling his living room as she spoke. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said when you put me in the cab—you know, that stuff about me denying who I am.” She looked at Michael: “I think you’re right. That’s what I’ve been doing.” She paused, turning over in her hand a battered old puck she found atop one of his bookshelves. “I’ve been afraid of getting close to someone with a background similar to mine, since I’ve spent my adult life trying to get away from that whole Italian thing.” She looked to him uncertainly. “Do I sound nuts?”
“No more than usual,” he assured her.
Theresa smiled. “Good.” Her grip around the puck was tight. “I know I’ve behaved like a complete schizo—” She caught Michael’s amused grin and shyly smiled back. “And I’m sorry. But if you’re willing to give me another chance, I would love to spend some more time with you, Michael. Because I really like you.”
There. Speech done. Surprised to see her hand was trembling somewhat, she put the puck back down and waited for him to say, “Sorry, but I already have a deranged brother and I don’t think I can handle another lunatic in my life.” Instead, all he said was, “C’mere.”
Theresa looked at him. “What?”
He patted the couch beside him. “I said, c’mere.” Theresa walked towards him and sat down. Taking her right hand, Michael tightly laced his fingers through hers. “Of course I’d like to spend more time with you. What would you like to do?”
With that, he gently brought her hand to his lips and tenderly kissed it, the warmth of his mouth climbing like a slow fever through her body.
No one had ever raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it before. No one. She felt like a fine, beautiful, medieval lady being courted by the most honorable and chivalrous of knights. What had she done to deserve this kindness? This patience?
“I . . .” She swallowed, struggling to collect herself. “Do you like to dance?” she blurted.
Michael reared back slightly, insulted. “Excuse me, but you seem to forget all the women were fighting to dance with me at Ty and Janna’s wedding. All except you, of course.”
“That’s right,” Theresa murmured, pinking with embarrassment as she remembered her repeated refusals to dance with him. She recalled watching him, surprised someone their age was so good when it came to the old, slow dances. Most guys were lucky if they could execute a basic box step.
“Can you dance?” Michael asked pointedly.
“Yes,” Theresa replied, pretending to be miffed.
“Then let’s do it. Ever been to the Rainbow Room?”
Theresa smiled and shook her head. “Only for work. Never for pleasure.”
“Then that’s where we’ll go.”
The Rainbow Room. Theresa nearly swooned. Ever since she was a little girl, she had dreamed of going there on a date—not that she’d ever admit it to any of her friends besides Janna, since they would tease her mercilessly about it being “So bridge and tunnel.” But any time she’d been there for a PR function, she’d been entranced. There was the slowly spinning, circular dance floor . . . couples dancing the night away in each other’s arms . . . and the twinkling lights of Manhattan viewed from the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was wonderful, maybe too wonderful. Theresa frowned.
“Don’t you have to make reservations weeks in advance?”
“Not if you’re Mikey D. Just tell me if it’s where you want to go.”
Theresa could barely find her voice. “It is.”
“Then it’s a date.” There was no mistaking the meaning in the directness of Michael’s gaze. “Right?”
Theresa returned his gaze with a genuine smile. “Right.”
CHAPTER 11
She had to be dreaming.
Theresa had been to the Rainbow Room before, but nothing prepared her for the sensation of stepping out of the elevator on the sixty-fifth floor of Thirty Rock with a handsome man by her side, one who was clearly looking forward to doting on her all evening. She found herself transported to another world, one of glamour and sophistication. She was back in the days when women in gorgeous, glittering gowns were tangoed, dipped and twirled by men in ties and tails.
Holding Michael’s hand, she took it all in as if viewing it for the first time: The floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking, panoramic view of the city; the glossy, parquet patterned, revolving dance floor with its starburst design in the center; the mirrored pillars reflecting back the image of the diners, dancers and the twelve piece orchestra. Awestruck, she remained silent as a captain in tails conveyed them to a table for two on the edge of the dance floor. When a waiter arrived and asked if they wanted drinks, Theresa barely heard him; she was too busy staring at the giant sparkling crystal chandelier hanging above the dance floor.
“Theresa?” Michael gently prompted.
She tore her gaze from the ceiling. “Hmm?”
Michael looked amused, probably because she was still starry-eyed. “Would you like anything to drink?” he asked.
“Champagne
would be wonderful,” she murmured.
Michael looked up at the waiter. “Bring a bottle of Piper-Heidsieck, please.”
The waiter nodded and left, leaving Theresa alone with her amazement and the man who had made it possible. “It’s so beautiful in here. I’d almost forgotten.”
“Isn’t it?” Michael glanced around the room admiringly. “Here, come with me a minute. I want to show you something.”
Intrigued, Theresa rose, following Michael’s lead as they slowly made their way around the ring of windows circling the room. The night winter sky was clear and beautiful. From this high above the city, they could see down to the Battery and up through Central Park. Theresa had never paid much attention to the Empire State Building before. But viewed from the Rainbow Room it looked beautiful, almost mystical, bathed in colored lights which gave it a magic all its own.
“Impressive, huh?” said Michael.
“Amazing,” Theresa whispered.
They returned to their table, awaiting the arrival of their champagne. Theresa was struck by how she and Michael seemed to be the youngest ones there. Most of the couples were her parents’ age or older. Many of the older men wore tuxes. Theresa turned to Michael, appraising his attire. He looked quite handsome in his jacket and tie, although Theresa had a feeling that given the choice, the tie would be off in five seconds.
“You look nice,” she told him.
Michael nodded appreciatively. “So do you.”
Theresa allowed herself to bask in his compliment. She’d picked what she wore carefully, making sure it was not too sexy but not too conservative, either. Alluring yet modest. Judging by Michael’s reaction, she had chosen correctly.
“So I have to ask you something,” she began.
“Shoot.”
“Have you brought other women here?” Seeing the discomfort that flashed across his face, she hastily added, “It’s okay if you have, I swear. I’m just curious.”
“Just one,” he said stiffly. “A long time ago.”
Theresa nodded. “Okay. That’s all I wanted to know.”
The waiter returned with their champagne and two menus. Theresa was about to bring her flute to her lips when Michael stopped her. “Wait,” he said.
“We need a toast,” Theresa finished his thought. “You do it.”
“Hmm. Let me think.” His demeanor turned serious as he contemplated what to say. When he finally had it, his expression softened. He was not a man prone to stoicism, Theresa noticed. Everything he felt, everything he thought was telegraphed across his face.
“Hold up your glass,” he urged.
Theresa held up her glass.
“To here and now,” he said quietly.
“To here and now,” Theresa thoughtfully echoed, clinking her glass against his before taking a sip. Michael was right. There was only here and now, second by wonderful second. All she could do was savor it, because it would never, could never, come around again. It was a feeling she vowed to hang on to.
As if on cue, the orchestra, fronted by a buxom, curvy female singer, began playing. Theresa concentrated, sure she recognized the tune. Then it came to her: It was “Begin the Beguine,” a favorite of her grandmother’s. Recognition brought a lump to her throat as she remembered her Nonna, now long gone, listening to old records while cooking Sunday dinner for the family. Here and now, Theresa reminded herself. Be here now.
Her gaze drifted to the dance floor, where couples were dancing, their expertise obvious. Theresa watched in mute admiration as a man who had to be at least seventy executed some fancy footwork with his wife. She turned to Michael, mildly panicked.
“We can’t go out there. We’ll embarrass ourselves.”
“Gedouddahere,” Michael scoffed, teasing her with his wiseguy voice. “You’re with Mikey D, the Dancing Wonder.”
“But you’re with Flat Foot Falconetti, who’s lucky if she can get through her kick boxing class without falling over.”
“Just relax,” Michael soothed in his regular voice. “You’ll be fine. People always worry that other people are watching them.” He looked comically to the left and then to the right. “But the truth is, no one gives a damn what anyone else is doing.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Mercifully, he waited through a rumba and a lindy before offering her his hand and taking her out to the dance floor for a slow torch song. She was stiff at first, the feeling of his large hand resting against the small of her back generating a small fire within her that was completely unexpected. But as the dance wore on, she allowed him to guide her and began relaxing enough to enjoy being so close to him. Michael was light on his feet, his movements fluid yet commanding, filled with confidence.
Theresa looked up into his eyes, which were fixed on hers with a tender gentleness that brought the lump back to her throat. When was the last time anyone had looked at her like that? Come to think of it: Had any man ever looked at her like that? She cleared her throat, eager to cover the emotion she was feeling. “Confession time,” she said as he twirled her past the orchestra. “Where did you learn to dance?”
Amusement sparkled in Michael’s eyes as he shook his head. “It’s a secret.”
“Anthony?” Theresa teased.
“My mother.” His hold on her tightened ever so slightly, sending a small rush of pleasure through her body. “My dad hated to dance and my mom loved it, so she would dance with me and Anthony.”
“Anthony can dance?”
“You should see him samba.”
“Get out of here!” Theresa couldn’t believe it. What was next? Talking cats?
Michael, though, that was another story. She could imagine a pint-sized version of him being led around the living room and loving it. In fact, she could imagine him pushing his mother to teach him everything she knew, and the poor woman being exhausted. A smile crept over her face that did not go unnoticed.
“What?” Michael asked.
“I was imagining you as a little boy, demanding that your mother teach you all the dances she knew.”
Michael chuckled. “That pretty much sums it up.”
When the song ended, Theresa did her best to cover her disappointment. The night was young, after all, and there was champagne to drink, caviar to relish, filet mignon to eat—and dancing, hours and hours of it in his arms, where she hadn’t realized she wanted to be until she was out of them.
“Are you having fun?” Michael asked her over dessert, his face lighting up with delight when she said yes. Here and now, she kept reminding herself. Here and now she was sharing a meal with a good man whose strikingly handsome face she longed to caress in the flickering candlelight. Here and now she was dancing with a man capable of making it seem as if the room around them had faded to lavender mist and it was only the two of them out there on the slowly revolving dance floor, their contented sighs saying more than words ever could. Theresa didn’t want it to end, this sense of wonder and timelessness that had enveloped her. Enveloped them.
And so, when the restaurant closed, she asked him if he wanted to come back to her place for coffee. Michael agreed.
“Nice place,” Michael noted approvingly, gravitating toward the windows looking out on the Fifty-ninth Street bridge. “Do you watch the marathon from here?”
“Actually, I run the marathon.”
He turned back to her, impressed. “You do? That’s amazing.”
Hoping music might take the edge off her nerves, Theresa switched on the television, choosing the “Singers and Standards” channel on Music Choice. “As Time Goes By” was on, Theresa quietly mouthing along “You must remember this/ A kiss is just a kiss . . .” as she adjusted the volume. She turned back to Michael, who stood on the plush oriental rug in the middle of the room. His expression was inviting as he held a hand out to her.
“Would you like to keep dancing?”
Theresa blushed. “Michael.”
“What?” He came towards her.
“I feel stupid
.”
“Why?” he asked as he wrapped her in his arms, swaying slowly in time to the music as he laid his cheek against hers. “No one can see.”
He was right. No one could see. Intoxicated by the nearness of him, she let him lead her around the living room in a slow, sensuous dance. Body melded against body as need, primal and urgent, made itself known to Theresa. When Michael stopped moving but did not release her, Theresa held her breath, want of him pumping through her system like blood, like oxygen, vital and alive. And when he whispered her name as he reverently let down her hair and removed her glasses, she felt herself tremble, conscious and needful of what she hoped was to come. His hands tenderly framed her face. Then he barely, almost imperceptibly, skimmed his mouth over hers.
Sighing softly, Theresa closed her eyes, desperately wanting to be taken wherever he cared to lead next. There was a split second of suspended silence before his mouth returned to hers, hot, drugging, insistent. Theresa’s mind reeled; it was surprising and new as a first kiss, pure in its desire yet desperately needy at the same time. Stirred by the demanding press of his mouth, and by the fluttering deep within the pit of her own stomach, Theresa opened her lips beneath his, a parched flower in need of rain and replenishment. Here and now, she thought, as his arms slowly twined around her and they staggered over to the couch, neither wanting nor willing to break contact.
Here.
Now.
The kiss deepened, Michael’s hands roaming the terrain of her back—soft, exploratory, his caresses leaving her wanting more. Long, so long it had been since a man had been so attentive, making her feel as if magic was indeed alive and well in the world.
And yet.
There on the dark edge of her consciousness . . . a shadow.
She pressed hard against Michael, wanting to lose herself in his taste, in his scent. Michael responded by moving his lips to her neck, planting a careful trail of hot, nipping kisses designed to torment. Theresa could hear his desire in his ragged breath, could feel it through the heat of his fingertips as they tenderly grazed her collarbone. She fought to respond in kind, to climb to the next level of burning, glorious need with him, but she couldn’t. Something was in the way, black, immovable, looming larger. This is Michael, she reminded herself desperately, body shivering as he playfully nipped at her earlobe. It’s not him. Not Lu . . . Relax. Relax, goddammit. Determined to control it before it controlled her, she wrapped her arms around Michael’s neck and in a move that surprised them both, let out a long, sensuous moan before biting his bottom lip, hard. Michael inhaled sharply, pain clearly mixing with pleasure as he read her signal and buried his face deep within her hair, serenading her with sweet murmurs. But for Theresa, there was only pain. The past that had hunted her down now had her in its grip, convincing her that any second now, kisses would turn to kicks and caresses to ravenous gropes and—
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