He tweaked her nose, smiled and stood, reaching out a hand. “Will you still have dinner with me?”
The look in her eyes said she knew what she’d just missed, and didn’t like the realization.
But she understood his actions, just like he did. Their daughters had gone through a lot during their divorce. Steps toward anything resembling reconciliation involved a whole lot more than a middle-aged, used-to-be-married couple with really great memories of early life between the sheets. Or on the rug. And there was that delightful tryst in their old kitchen, when his late-night supper became a non-entity because she looked way too good in hot pink shorts and some kind of orange and pink flowered bathing suit top, her hair thick and damp from the pool.
She sighed, pouted, glared, then stood, shrugging her purse up on her shoulder. “I don’t think so.”
He moved closer, feeling her breath against his chest, wondering if her heart fared better than his, knowing a down-soft bed with great pillows lay just a few feet due south. “Please?”
“No.”
He smiled and leaned in, crowding her space. “Pretty please?”
“Umm...No.”
“Pretty please with sprinkles and nuts and chocolate sauce?”
“Umm...” The ‘umm’ sounded less definitive, but she held her ground like a trooper. Almost. “No. I think.”
Conor grinned and nuzzled her cheek, her hair, her ear. “With sprinkles and nuts and chocolate sauce and whipped cream?” he whispered.
She groaned, batted his chest with her right hand and took a step back. “You don’t play fair.”
“I know.” He smiled down at her. “Have supper with me, just the two of us, Leash. No expectations, no rules, just two people who shared a lot of life, the good and the bad. No pressure.”
She waved a hand toward her clothing. “I came here for dirty laundry, not a date.” Her mouth pursed right before she sent him a rueful look. “I’m not exactly dressed for Benedetti’s.”
He gave her a once-over that made her draw a deep breath. Her chest rose and fell with the action, the fit of the silk turtleneck taking him back in time. This time it was Conor who sucked a breath. “You look wonderful.” He tilted his chin down and arched a brow. “Supper with an old guy? Whaddya think?”
Her smile told him enough, but her answer frosted the cake. “Yes.”
Princeton’s streets glowed amber in the late-winter twilight, the mellow radiance softening the smudge of salted pavement and leftover snow. Alicia’s hair bounced the light, casting a hint of copper into the night. He longed to touch those curls, weave his hands into the tumble of hair he’d first noticed thirty years before as she stepped into a D.C. coffee shop with a friend.
Despite his best efforts, which were pretty well practiced at the time, she held him at bay for weeks back then. Their banter became a game, one with high stakes. He knew she recognized the inherent danger of falling in love with him. Citing his former relationships in alphabetical order, she made herself perfectly clear.
But Conor was born persistent and something about Alicia’s manner magnetized him. Were they a perfect match? In some ways, yes. While many stood in awe of his brains, Alicia stood her ground, never cowed, toe-to-toe, step by step. Unafraid to challenge his committed beliefs, she nudged open the door to a reality check that Conor sorely needed at that point in his life.
Then again about twenty years later.
Dear God, he missed her.
He longed to swing an arm around her, draw her close as they walked, grip her shoulder through the layers of jacket and shirt.
Would she slip her arm around his waist? Allow the freedom? Or punch him?
Uncertainty made him hesitate and smile. She’d kept him uncertain back in the day, too. He’d forgotten how delightfully frustrating time with her could be.
He reached ahead to pull open the restaurant door. She turned, her face near his, her mouth way too close. Without allowing time to consider the action, he dipped his mouth to hers. Warmth seeped through him at the sweet taste, the scent of his wife, her skin on his. Her mouth softened with his kiss and he found it difficult to pull back, but since there was little choice, he did. “Thanks for coming out with me.”
She sent him a long, slow look that made him cave on the spot. “How fast can we eat?”
Conor gawked, then grinned, still holding the door. “We could skip dinner altogether.”
She pretended to mull his offer, then shook her head as she stepped inside. “I’m hungry.”
“Then we can order food to go,” Conor negotiated, glancing at his watch to underscore his thoughts. Negotiations were, after all, his forte. “We could be back to my suite within twenty minutes.”
She tapped a finger to her mouth, musing. “But then
they might hurry my steak, and you know I like things...” The finger at her lips lost speed, the movement deliberate, nerve wracking and delightfully Alicia. “Done slow.”
Conor jumped in to play a game he’d missed for too long. “Sometimes.”
She glanced away, her smile teasing. “Well...”
Conor laughed and gave her a half-hug. “I’ve missed you, woman.”
She met his gaze, her expression bemused. “Me, too. And just so you know, feeling that way almost makes me want to take the bridge because I’ve spent a lot of years wishing you gone. I mean, really gone.”
Conor thought of how she almost got her wish one Christmas Eve, how close he came... “And now?”
“Déjà vu, Memory Lane, however you’d like to analogize this—”
“Love? Affection?”
Alicia rolled her eyes. “Mid-life crisis, most likely.”
“Ouch. You still know how to quash a mood.”
“Wealth of experience.”
Conor leaned in, his mouth to her ear. “Still, I do recall an innate ability to overcome objections in a timely fashion.”
She blushed and stayed unusually quiet as they were seated. Once he slid her chair in, he let his hands linger on her shoulders a few beats longer than just friends.
She arched him a brow as he took the seat next to her. “You’re still smooth.”
“Yet unpracticed.”
“Right.” The look she sent him told him she didn’t buy that for a minute.
“Believe what you will, Mrs. Bradstreet, I’m not the guy you think I am.”
“Rich, spoiled, headstrong, obnoxious?”
“Flattery will get you no where.” Conor frowned and rubbed his temple. “Do you have aspirin with you?”
Alicia reached a hand to his face. “Are you okay?”
He nodded, then shrugged. “Headache. Started yesterday, off and on. Now it’s most definitely on.”
Alicia rummaged through the purse that Conor knew held at least a small drugstore of interesting items. “Here.”
He eyed the bottle. “That’s not aspirin.”
“Ibuprofen. It’s stronger.”
He grinned. “Right. About that: I recognize ibuprofen, honey. Slattery Pharmaceuticals, remember? I think that’s how I bought your house, actually.”
She nodded. “How could I forget? You slept with the opposing lawyer.”
“Not until after the case,” Conor pointed out as he moved toward her. Might as well have this out now. “And it was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, Alicia. I have no excuses but plenty of regrets.” He palmed her cheek with his hand, the feel of silk-soft skin stirring a pot of swimming emotions. “Forgive me. Please.”
She contemplated throwing the stupid pills into his face before storming out the door, thoughts of that time beating against her brain.
But other thoughts invaded as well, the times she shut him out for working hard, turned away because he wasn’t home more.
She never once went to meet him in the city without whining and complaining about the traffic, the noise, the smells, the people. And here were both her daughters, beautiful, bright, Princeton-raised girls, eagerly embracing careers in th
e city, time with their father, life in the fast lane while she sat stuck in second gear, about to become a prosaic owner of, of all things neutral, a bookstore.
Conor eyed her, waiting, his brow lightly etched in concern or pain, she wasn’t sure. Reaching over, she handed him the ibuprofen and a small confession. “I wasn’t exactly a perfect wife, Conor.”
When he started to protest, she pressed three fingers to his mouth, silencing him. “I know that now. I’ve had lots of time to consider the situation. And maybe we would have made it if Jon hadn’t gotten sick. Maybe we’d have turned things around because I don’t think we ever stopped loving each other. I think we just got sidetracked.” She drew her lower lip between her teeth, thoughtful. “Then we got blindsided and the rest is history.”
“Then let’s leave it history. We’ve come a long way, Leash. The girls are grown, they’re amazing young women. You did a great job with them.”
“Oh, Conor.” She rubbed a finger across the condensation filming her water glass, then gave him a wry smile. “We did a great job, Conor, once you put your foot down and became ‘Dad’ again. The girls adore you.”
“And rightfully so.” He rubbed his forearm against hers, the feel of his sport coat smooth and rough, all male. He was close enough that she could count the mixed weave of the wool. One gold, one gray, one sage, one slate. Repeat. One gold, one gray...
The dark gray turtleneck he wore beneath the jacket kept him deceptively casual and distinctly urbane. Total Conor. He encroached on her space just a little bit more. “How about their mom? Think she can start to like me again? A little?”
“A little?” His eyes had her heart somersaulting in her chest, his scent had her wishing him closer, his touch made her think of things quite impossible in a restaurant unless you were Julia Roberts with Richard Gere, in which case...
She paused, took a breath and ordered her emotions into pause mode. “Maybe a little.”
He smiled as if reading her thoughts. “A good start.”
He downed the pain relievers, then opened his menu, eyes crinkled in merriment. “Pick whatever you’d like, honey. It’s on me.”
“You’re such a dork.”
“I know.” He rubbed her calf with the inside edge of his foot, watching for a reaction, smiling more when she gave none. “But lovable.”
“That remains to be seen.”
His expression changed. Moving back, he withdrew his cell phone and scanned the display before answering. “Yes?”
His professional voice. Of course. She should have known that dinner with her didn’t rank high enough to turn his phone off. She pushed back the urge to grab the intrusive instrument and launch it into the nearest sewer, with Conor right behind. What kind of man conducted business on a... well... not a date, exactly, but what could have been a really nice evening with an ex-wife. Despite the contradiction of terms.
“Yes, absolutely. Thanks for keeping me informed. I’ll tell my... Mrs. Bradstreet.”
Tell her what? Alicia cocked a brow his way.
“Sarge is doing fine so far,” he reported as he set the phone aside. “They’re re-hydrating him with warm IV fluids, administering antibiotics, and they have warming blankets on him, but he seems to be responding to treatment.”
“Already?” Alicia didn’t know a lot about dogs. Judging from the animal’s condition earlier that day, Conor’s report bordered on miraculous, but that was quite impossible. She’d stopped believing in miracles a long time ago.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Conor swiped his hand to his forehead, his expression less than comfortable. “Leash is it hot in here?”
She reached out a hand to his forehead. “You’ve got a fever.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He shook his head. “I don’t get fevers.”
“Uh huh.” She rose and held out a hand. “We’ll do dinner another time. Let’s get you back to the hotel.”
“Alicia.” The look of regret on his face said the rest. She took his arm and headed for the door.
“You can seduce me another night. Maybe. Right now, you need to lie down and let the ibuprofen work some magic. You’re not having chest pains or anything, are you?”
He shook his head. “Probably flu.”
She sent him a look of unfeigned irritation. “Great. Keep it to yourself. I’ve got a bookstore to open and a wedding to organize. No time for flu.”
“Did you have your shot?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should be fine. Except...”
“Except what?”
“I had mine, too, and I still got it.”
“If this is the flu.”
“Does the flu make you feel like death all of a sudden, like a freight train just ran over your body and every major organ is screaming resistance?”
“Accurate description.”
“Then I’m going with my first guess and the anomaly of getting the flu despite the shot. What else could make someone feel this bad, this fast?” His foot caught the edge of the doorway as he spoke, almost tripping him.
Alicia held tight. “Conor, you’re scaring me. Can you make it back to the hotel? Shall I go get my car? Call an ambulance?”
“The car... might be... nice... but then... I’d have to wait... alone...”
He half-shuffled along, his shoulders curved in, his chin down. From the look on his face, it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other.
“I’m calling an ambulance.”
“Nonsense.” Conor took a deep breath, turned a shade of green formerly unknown to civilization, straightened his shoulders and pushed on. “I just need to lie down.”
Long minutes later she got him into his hotel room and out of his jacket. He sprawled on the bed, the gratitude in his eyes showing the difficulty of the two-block walk back to Palmer Square. “I’ll be fine, Leash. Just need some...”
He closed his eyes and was gone.
Alicia contemplated the man before her, and her choices. Should she hang around in case he needed her, or leave him to sleep his way through?
Having raised two girls, she knew how quick a nasty virus could take hold of the body. Conor’s timing on this went way beyond awful, but maybe that was for the best. Flirting with fire, the way they’d done tonight, might not be a great scenario for all concerned, although she’d have a hard time explaining her logic to an over-anxious libido whose hopes had risen throughout the day.
Torn, she eyed Conor. Sound asleep, feverish, but resting, and the ibuprofen should take care of the fever in short order. Just in case he had none, she drew a glass of water and left it and her bottle of pills on his bedside table. Breathing deep with decision, she turned and walked out the door.
Chapter Fourteen
The choking cough pushed Conor to fight for air, his chest heavy with the pressure of... something. Working his eyes open, the room swam before him like crazed mirrors at a theme park, wavy and distorted.
Silence greeted him. No Alicia. A part of his memory saw her, felt her presence beside the bed, but his eyes took in the empty room, the still, night air.
Chills racked his body, but the weight of the blankets seemed too painful a compromise. Still...
He reached for the covers he’d cast aside. Another coughing spasm shook him to the core, leaving him breathless and pain-filled.
He needed help. Whatever was wrong with him was not simple or easily tackled by a few doses of ibuprofen. He understood that now, in the darkness of his hotel room, his body on fire, his brain half-addled.
He reached for his cell phone but only managed to knock the skinny thing to the floor and the floor seemed too far away. Conor sank back into the pillow, exhausted and frustrated. He’d rest a bit, then tackle the distance to the phone in a few minutes.
Huddled under the covers, long, violent shivers quaked his body. His head pounded with the fierceness of an African drum, his hands arched, numb and useless, his spine sore and his chest crushed li
ke his lungs supported the weight of the world, only twice as heavy.
Alicia.
He needed her. He needed help. She’d get it for him, if only she were here.
Alicia.
Dry, parched lips couldn’t say her name. The syllables blurred, his tongue thick, his mouth uncooperative. There was no way she could hear him, no way she’d know he was in trouble, calling her name.
A sense of panic seized him. What if this was it? The big one? The final chapter in the oh-so-notable life of Conor Bradstreet?
Could he die without saying what he should, telling her how he felt? Could he leave her thinking he hadn’t spent the last years thinking of her, wanting her, wishing they could recreate the life they foolishly wasted?
Words jumbled in his brain, the heat inside him scorching his skin, his mouth. Tiredness stole over him, a welcome reprieve. He’d give in to the blanket of weariness, let it drift him away, at least for a while. Then he’d tell her.
*
Alicia woke just after three A.M., certain something was wrong.
Conor.
His name flooded her senses. She slapped back the feeling, sleep-riddled and still half-drunk with how she felt in his presence hours before. The guy was a total self-absorbed jerk. Wasn’t he?
But sick. Remembering that, she climbed out of bed and grabbed up her phone to call his cell number.
Nothing.
She tried again.
Same thing.
Conor always answered his cell. A guy like him never knew what might be going down in Tokyo or Beijing or London. Random hands on clocks meant nothing to the Conor Bradstreets of the world. He used to ask her to tag along on business jaunts, quick trips to fanciful places scattered in various hemispheres.
She refused while she was raising the girls, citing all sorts of reasons, but mostly to make him think twice about being away from home.
She tried his cell one more time, jabbing the tiny numbers as if force at her end would produce an answer on his.
Nothing.
A stab of worry pushed her to the pile of clothes she’d shed the night before. Throwing them on, she didn’t bother warming the SUV, just hopped in and drove the short distance to Nassau Street, realizing that the last time she’d worried this much about Conor was that ill-fated September morning in 2001, when terrorists attacked the twin towers nearly adjacent to Conor’s workplace. She’d stared at the television, her heart in her throat, hands clasped, praying despite herself, studying the screen to discern the shape of Conor’s building in the varied shots of the financial district, knowing that a number of Princeton families earned their living in those esteemed towers. Despite their rough history, her thoughts went to Conor. His safety. His well-being.
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