She glanced up at Quincy. “Interesting things always seemed to happen to that girl.” Then she continued reading. “Oh, well, how Greg and I met is another story. The bottom line is, I credit the good fortune of meeting my husband to my good luck charm, Harry. So, following the agreement at Angie’s bachelorette party in college, I’m passing Harry on to you in hopes that he will be your good luck love charm. Take care of him and he’ll take care of you. Fondly, Lana. P.S. If the directory is out of date and you’re already married, please pass along to your sister, or to a single friend.” She stopped reading—Angie she remembered, as well as the bachelorette party. But she had no recollection of any agreement having to do with a man named Harry.
“She sent you a man in a box?” Quincy asked, his eyebrows drawn together. “Was she voted Most Likely to Be a Serial Killer?”
Rebecca eyed the box warily, then crossed herself.
MICHAEL PIERCE PULLED HIS ball cap lower to fend off the rain. Damnable stuff. As if this week hadn’t been terrible enough, what with the divorce being final, then being forced to close the restaurant to regroup. The driving rain, while appropriate, amounted to salt on his open wounds. He used the armful of employee uniforms as a shield and tried to ignore the tight, achy feeling in his head and chest. Must be getting a cold—par for the course.
At times like this, Florida sounded appealing. As did playing guitar for impromptu crowds with a lot of pocket change.
The restaurant had been Sonia’s idea, and for some reason, that woman had always been able to talk him into anything. He’d been so crazy about her when they were married six years ago, he would have done anything to make her happy, including sinking his life savings into a restaurant. Sonia had loved the social aspect of running an eatery, but refused to bend to the financial demands—she would think nothing of comping an eight-hundred-dollar table if the people were friends of hers. Her bubbly personality was her greatest asset, and his greatest weakness. And because he gave in to her every whim, their personal and business bank accounts were nearly drained.
Still, he’d grown to enjoy the restaurant business, struggles and all. But he’d been completely blindsided by Sonia’s request for a divorce six weeks ago. She had taken a lover, it seemed, a wealthy real estate king who frequented the restaurant—of course, now Michael knew the man hadn’t been coming back for the sea bass. The news of the affair had cut to the quick because as stunningly beautiful as Sonia was, she’d never been that interested in sex. Oh, she would never turn him down when he initiated intimacy, but he always had a feeling when they made love that she was preoccupied, the way a woman might let her mind wander during a physical exam to bide time until it was over.
Over the past few weeks, his emotions had shifted from hurt to anger, and he had now reached the vengeance stage—not the best time to make decisions affecting his future. But smart or no, he’d borrowed against his retirement savings and planned to make the restaurant a success…somehow. To prove something to himself? To stay busy? Maybe a little of both.
What he needed, his brother Ike had told him, was a fling to help him get over her. Ike should know—he’d been divorced four times. All his brothers had lousy track records with marriage, and Michael had been determined that he would be different. It was mind-boggling to think that his marriage could be dissolved in less time than it took for them to plan the wedding. It took six weeks to get a doctor’s appointment, for heaven’s sake. A magazine subscription. A pasta maker from an infomercial.
Maybe his brother was right, maybe a fling would take the edge off the hurt, but the thought of going to a bar to pick up a one-night stand made his stomach cramp. The awkwardness, the diseases, the morning-after scene—stuff nightmares were made of. Despite their less than electrifying sex life, he’d never wanted to sleep around, never even thought about it. So to suddenly start looking at women again as potential lovers would take some practice. There were lots of pretty waitresses at the restaurant, but he drew the line at fooling around with an employee. Customers? Too risky considering right now he needed the business more than he needed the sex.
No, he had too much on his plate to consider complicating his life even further with an affair. In fact, he vowed silently, for the next six months, he was swearing off women. No sex, no flirting, no looking.
Well, maybe looking was allowed, as long as it didn’t lead to sex.
His mother, a devout Catholic, was a big believer in signs. “Michael,” she’d say, “after you make a decision, be alert for a sign from the heavens that you’ve made the right one.”
Michael sighed, then pushed open the door to Anytime Costumes and came face-to-face with a nun.
Apparently heaven wasn’t being subtle today.
CHAPTER TWO
REBECCA STRAIGHTENED AND smiled at Michael Pierce, the longtime object of her fantasies. The contents of the mysterious box would have to wait while she got her thrill for the day. “Hello, Mr. Pierce.”
The Incognito restaurant was one of her best accounts. Mrs. Pierce made most of the costume decisions, but occasionally Michael Pierce dropped by to pick up or drop off something. His uniform of jeans, T-shirt, brown leather bomber jacket and ball cap was in sharp contrast to his wife’s always-coiffed appearance. Although the casual attire suited him immensely, she’d bet he would look smashing in a dark suit. Or that Zorro costume she’d mentally reserved for him when it arrived a year ago.
His mouth turned up in amusement. “Rebecca, is that you?”
She nodded, feeling a flush coming on. He probably thought she was a kook, always dressed up in some outlandish garb. “It’s me. Um, Quincy, would you mind putting the box in the storage closet?”
Quincy frowned because he was dying to know what was inside. “Sure. How are you doing, Mr. Pierce?”
Michael gave Quincy a friendly nod and dropped a pile of garments on the counter—loose pants and shirts, long twill skirts, big-sleeved peasant blouses.
“More mending?” she asked.
“Afraid so. Rips, buttons missing, et cetera.”
Quincy waved on his way out the door. “See you, Rebecca, Mr. Pierce.”
Michael lifted his hand. “Thanks, Quince, for letting me know that Rebecca was closing early today.”
Rebecca frowned—she wasn’t closing early.
“No problem. I wouldn’t have wanted you to wait and maybe miss her.”
Michael turned to the counter and Quincy gave her a pointed look behind the man’s back. She shook her head in the tiniest—and firmest—indication of “are you out of your freaking mind, this man is married.” “Goodbye, Quincy,” she said through clenched teeth.
“See you tomorrow,” he said with a sublime expression, then left.
She manufactured a smile for Michael, praying he’d missed that exchange. “I can have the mending back to you the day after tomorrow.” She wondered about the smudges under his brown eyes and the pinch between his thick, dark brows. Not that either took away from his all-American good looks. Michael Pierce was big, solid and sexy with a boyish air, and eminently male. She had always allowed herself to spin absurd schoolgirl fantasies about him because one, she was contentedly engaged, two, he was oblivious to her existence outside of providing costumes for his business and three, he was married to a woman so gorgeous she made Rebecca feel like a boy. Okay, so now they were down to two out of three, but Michael Pierce was still handily off limits and therefore…safe.
“Actually there’s no hurry,” he said. “I closed down the restaurant for a couple of weeks to remodel.”
“Oh, that’s exciting—what are you going to change?”
He sighed, then pushed back his Cubs cap. “I’m open to suggestions.”
The anxious tone in his voice caught her off guard. She gave a little laugh. “Oh, you don’t want my ideas.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You have ideas?”
She blushed and realized how presumptuous she sounded—just because she’d often thought of how she
might change Incognito if given the chance didn’t mean that her ideas had merit, or that the Pierces would be interested. “N-no, I—”
“Because if you do, I’d like to hear them.”
Michael had to be the most handsome man she’d ever seen up close. His features were large and well formed—broad forehead, strong nose, wide cheekbones, square jaw. His hair was the color of tarnished brass and he wore it cut close to his head. But it was his brown eyes that she found so compelling that she had difficulty maintaining eye contact for more than a few seconds. She stepped back to stuff the costumes he’d brought into a large cotton bag under the counter.
“The restaurant needs a new look,” he said. “Something to get the public’s attention. We were hoping to have a grand reopening in two weeks, but frankly, we’re running a little short of ‘grand.’”
“Well,” she said in a little voice. “I, um—” she cleared her throat “—do have a few c-concepts that could be, um…different.”
“I’m listening.”
She took a deep breath and gestured to the bag of costumes. “These costumes and the Lone Ranger masks aren’t…special. Maybe you could dress the servers in more elegant costumes, like vampires, or flamenco dancers. And speaking of dancers—” She stopped and bit into her lip. Had she said too much?
“Go on,” he urged.
“Well, maybe you could take out some of the tables and build a stage, then have dinner dance shows. I was thinking flamenco, but Middle Eastern and African dances can be just as provocative.”
“Provocative? I don’t want to turn the place into a men’s club.”
“I was thinking of couples dancing.”
“Oh.” He shifted. “Well, maybe we can spice up the costumes a little, but honestly, Rebecca, I don’t see anything elegant or provocative about a vampire costume. I wouldn’t want it to turn into a Halloween party.”
“But that could be fun,” she said, her excitement building. “Invite patrons to wear their own costumes—the name of the restaurant is Incognito. Capitalize on it. You could put on an elegant masquerade party every night of the week. So instead of just a great meal, dining at Incognito would be an experience.”
He simply looked at her for a few seconds, his face unreadable. Her heart pounded nervously—why had she said anything at all? Her ideas sounded silly and superficial even to her own ears, and she couldn’t bear it if Michael laughed at her.
“It sounds like a lot of work,” he said. “Costumes, a stage, dancers.”
“It would be,” she admitted. “But you have me as your resource for costumes, a stage would be a matter of getting a permit and installers and there are several dance troupes in the area.”
“It sounds like you’ve been giving this some thought.”
She swallowed and shrugged mildly. “Entertainment is my life.” And she’d taken a special interest in the business of her favorite customer.
He scanned her nun’s habit, then pushed his cheek out with his tongue. “Yeah. Thanks for the ideas, Rebecca. I’ll give them some thought.” Michael walked to the door. His six-foot-plus frame took up most of it. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Audrey Hepburn?”
He walked out the door into the rain, leaving her blushing to the roots of her hair at the end of the longest conversation she’d ever had with the man.
What had come over her to be so bold as to tell him how to run his business? He probably asked only to humor her, not thinking that she’d practically whip out a business plan. She covered her face with her hands. Michael would probably have a good chuckle with his wife over her wild ideas. And they’d never stop laughing if they knew she had a wild crush on Michael.
Rebecca sighed and came back to earth.
The next hour of business was typical off-season Monday traffic—returns of weekend rentals, and a few shoppers. A teen pop star named Baby something or another had made pink gloves all the rage—she’d sold four cases to date. A fortyish couple came in under the guise of renting an animal costume for their child’s birthday, but wound up buying a French maid costume, complete with feather tickler.
She went through the motions of waiting on customers with a smile pasted on her face, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Michael Pierce and that little pinch between his eyebrows. Or the way he moved his big body. Or that sexy ball cap. He was married, she knew, but if Dickie could take a mistress, why couldn’t she indulge in an innocent fantasy about Michael Pierce? She likened it to fantasizing about a celebrity—the chance of sleeping with that person was nil, so it was harmless, right?
The phone rang, breaking into her musings. Remembering to be grateful for any customers—even late ones—she picked up the phone. “Anytime Costumes, Rebecca speaking.”
“Hi, sis.”
She smiled into the phone at her sister Meg’s comforting voice. “Hi, yourself.”
“How are you doing?”
“Oh, all the wedding and honeymoon arrangements are canceled, but I still have a few more gifts to return.”
“I asked how you are doing?”
She exhaled. “I’m fine. I think my pride is hurt more than anything. Dickie and I just weren’t right for each other, and I guess he recognized it first. I think Mom is taking it harder than I am.”
“Well, you know that Mom wants us both to have the kind of marriage she didn’t have.”
“I know—I feel like I let her down.”
“You let her down? You didn’t ask Dickie Montgomery to take a mistress and impregnate her. Even if things weren’t working out, there are honorable ways to end a relationship.”
“I just feel so foolish, Meg. Why didn’t I see it?”
“You and I don’t look for trouble. We want things to be…peaceful, sometimes at our own expense.”
Hearing the odd note that crept into her sister’s voice, Rebecca said, “I hope that my situation hasn’t caused tension between you and Trey.”
“Oh, no. Trey is just as solid and dependable as always.”
“Are you two any closer to setting a date?”
“I’m not going to rush him into a commitment.”
Rebecca wanted to point out that after five years of dating, Meg wouldn’t exactly be rushing the man, but considering the state of her own love life, she decided to keep her opinion to herself. “Well, I guess I won’t be taking you away from him after all to run the shop while I’m on my honeymoon.”
“Actually I was sort of looking forward to the break.”
“After the semester ends, why don’t you come anyway?”
“I might, just for a change of scenery.”
“Meg, are you sure everything’s okay?”
“Absolutely—don’t worry about me. And there’s Trey at the door. Sorry to run.”
Since Dickie had dropped the bomb, Meg seemed almost apologetic that she had a man in her life. “That’s okay, really. Thanks for calling, sis.”
“Call me if you want to talk.”
“I will.” She hung up the phone, grateful that her sister cared enough to call, but wishing everyone would stop worrying about her. People got their hearts broken every day—she wasn’t so special.
Rebecca locked the front door, added the day’s receipts, then lowered the lights, frowning because there was something she’d been meaning to tell Meg, but couldn’t remember what it was. She decided it must not have been important, then carried the trash past the dressing rooms and through the workroom to the back door. The parking lot was deserted except for her van and the Dumpster where she tossed the garbage bag. The sky was still drizzling rain, and the temperature was bone-chilling. A good night to stay in and catch up on a few special projects. She returned to the workroom to survey her current work-in-progress.
The purple velvet hooded cape hung benignly on the dress form, begging her to bring it to life. This was her favorite part of owning the shop—assembling just the right components of a costume. She wheeled the dress form around the workshop, poking into huge w
ire bins of hats, masks, shoes, shirts, blouses, pants, wigs, lingerie, shoes and countless accessories. If something caught her eye, she held it up to the cape. If it worked, she moved on. She had abandoned the idea of a jeweled sash and thigh-high boots for a more seductive vampire look—a black leather renaissance corset, G-string, garters, hose and black heels. With the outfit decided, she discarded one mask after another, finally choosing a black sequined model that covered only the eyes.
She walked into a changing room, a familiar warmth growing in her thighs, along with a familiar guiltiness. At times she felt just as naughty as some of her customers, dressing up for the mirrors. She blamed it on her background in drama and dance, this penchant for sensual costumes that took her out of a small shop in North Chicago and set her down in ancient Greece or medieval France or Victorian England.
Donning the clothes reminiscent of times gone by was the closest she would ever come to having magic in her life. Few women would understand her delicious little pastime, but surely no man. Dickie? She laughed softly. Dickie had no idea that his mousy little Rebecca was a hundred different women, all of them yearning to pleasure him. He had directed their lovemaking, which had been sparse and no-nonsense.
No, they hadn’t been perfectly compatible physically, but she cared about him. He was intelligent and attentive and successful. In the three years they had dated and the year they had been engaged, she had been content. Sex was not the mainstay of a relationship.
Or so she’d thought. She wasn’t sure what hurt the most—the fact that he’d gone elsewhere for fulfillment, or the fact that she hadn’t been confident enough to expect it herself in their relationship. Maybe if she’d been more assertive…
It didn’t matter now. Dickie was off to greener pastures, and she was alone with her fantasies. Mere weeks before her wedding and she was starting over. When tears threatened, she pinched herself hard on the back of her hand. The only way she’d gotten through this miserable humiliation was by designating a “crying zone” between 10:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m. During those hours she wailed and flailed and listened to sad songs and went through a tree’s worth of tissues. Then she’d pull her dehydrated self together enough to face customers the next morning.
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