by Jane Heller
“Because?”
He shrugged. “A couple of reasons. For one thing, my father’s been married three times—and that’s not counting my mother, his first wife. He isn’t the best role model when it comes to stable, committed relationships, obviously, so I guess I just steer clear of them. Plus, dear old Dad has to pay alimony to all four exes. I never want to find myself in his position, financially speaking.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” I said, thinking it couldn’t have been easy for Tony to have grown up amid such chaos, never mind all those stepmothers. “What’s the other reason you haven’t found the right woman? You said there were two.”
“Yeah. The second thing is that I think women are only interested in the idea of me.”
I laughed. “The idea of you?”
“Hang on. I didn’t mean that to sound arrogant. I only meant that they have this image of me, and the reality never lives up to that image.”
“What’s the image?” Other than of a grouchy, moody, high-maintenance author, which, of course, was my image of him. Most of the time anyway.
“They think I lead the same kind of exciting and dangerous life as Joe West, my intrepid hero; that I’m this thrill cowboy or something. They’re disappointed when they find out I spend most of each day at a computer.”
“But you do go the extra mile to research your books,” I pointed out, remembering what Connie had told me. “You’ve interviewed hit men and hookers and all sorts of rough trade to make your characters authentic. Why wouldn’t a woman find that exciting? Even a little dangerous?”
“Because I don’t tell them about it. I don’t reveal my sources and I don’t discuss the specifics of my research—ever. It’s confidential. That’s the only way I get access to these people. You understand that, because you’re in the publishing business, but most of the women I’ve met don’t. So they imagine that they’re going out with Joe West, badass burned-out cop, and instead they get Tony Stiles, badass computer geek.” He paused, put down his wineglass. “Speaking of sitting at the computer,” he said after a noisy yawn, “I won’t be much good tomorrow if I don’t go home and get to bed. It’s a school night.”
I glanced at my watch. It was only 9:30. “But it’s early, Tony. You just got here.” He couldn’t leave yet. I wouldn’t let him. We hadn’t established enough of a friendship for me to lay my little favor on him. “Stay a little longer, huh? Tell me more about yourself, more about your background, for instance.”
“You wrote my bio. What can I possibly tell you that you don’t already know?”
“Plenty. Yes, I know the basics—that your full name is Hamilton Stiles and you were born in London and your parents moved to New York when you were two.”
“See?”
“How about brothers and sisters?”
“I’m an only child. Well, except for various half siblings.”
“I’m an only child, too, so that’s another thing we have in common. Did you like being the only kid in the house?”
“Not at all. I used to camp out at my friends’ houses, the ones who had big broods, and pretend I was just another one of the kids. There was something wonderful about the ‘normality’ of their situation. Or at least that’s how I imagined it then.”
I smiled wistfully, remembering all the afternoons I’d spent at Tara’s wishing I were a member of the Messer household so that I might catch a whiff of her self-confidence.
Tony and I continued to chat about his family and mine. He ended up staying another hour before rising from the sofa and announcing that it was time for him to go.
“I feel terrible about reneging on dinner,” I said as I walked him to the door.
“You didn’t renege,” he said.
“Sure I did. I called you up and invited you over for a meal, Tony, not for some wine and cheese. I didn’t make good on my invitation.”
“Not true. You said you wanted us to get to know each other better, and that’s what we’ve done. I have a whole new picture of you after tonight. A much clearer picture.”
Not as clear as you think. “Same here,” I said. “You’re pretty easy to talk to when you’re not biting my head off.”
He smiled, and I found myself noticing his mouth again. Not because of what he was saying, but because of how expressive it was. “Is that what I do? Bite your head off?”
“Usually.”
“Then I’ll watch myself from now on.”
He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. It was just a quick peck, nothing with any heat behind it, but I was ecstatic about the display of affection—from, a strictly goal-specific point of view, you understand. Perhaps I had won him over enough to ask him to help me out with Tara.
I was about to bring up the subject, when the power came back on, as if by a stroke of magic. The apartment lighted up and the kitchen appliances hummed, and I looked at Tony and shrugged. “Some timing, huh?”
“At least I don’t have to walk down ten flights of stairs to the lobby,” he said. “I wasn’t looking forward to that.”
He turned to go, but I couldn’t let him leave. Not without hitting him with the favor.
“Wait,” I said, tapping him on the shoulder. Actually, it was more than a tap. I sort of pulled on his sweater.
He turned back around. “What?”
“Well, I was just—” Come on, Amy. Spit it out, I urged myself. Suck it up and ask the guy already. “There’s something else I’d like to say to you.”
“Actually, there’s something else I’d like to say to you, too.”
“Oh? Then why don’t you go first.”
“Okay.” He looked me straight in the eye, but his gaze was warm, not the usual chilly glare. “When you first invited me for dinner tonight, I confess that I thought you had an ulterior motive.”
“An ulterior motive?”
“Yeah. Call me a conspiracy theorist, but I was convinced that you were out to wine and dine me so I’d do something for you in return.”
Oh God. Was I that transparent? “Do something for me in return?” I laughed and waved him off, as if to suggest that the very idea was absurd and that I was not completely flipped out by his insinuation, which, of course, I was. “Like what?”
“Like get me to appear at some function that I don’t want to appear at. You know how I hate being trotted out like a show dog, just for the sake of impressing complete strangers. I thought maybe your dinner was about softening me up so I’d agree to do it.”
Swell. So he hated being trotted out. So he thought I was softening him up in order to impress complete strangers. So he was right on all counts, and now there was no way I could ask him what I desperately needed to ask him.
“But I see I was wrong,” he continued, because I was too dumbstruck to speak. “There was no hidden agenda, and I appreciate that, Amy. Very much.”
I nodded, trying to mask my frustration. I almost had him. I know I did.
“Now, your turn,” he offered. “What was it you wanted to say to me?”
How the hell am I supposed to pay back Tara if you won’t cooperate? That’s what I want to say to you, you jerk. “Just that I hope to see you again soon,” I said instead.
“Right. I’ll pop my head in your office the next time I meet with Connie,” said Tony, who took his sexy but ultimately useless self away from my door and disappeared down the hall to the elevator.
11
“Sohedoeshateyou,” said Connie the following morning. She had dashed into my office before a meeting, dying to find out how my evening with Tony went.
“What?”
“I said, So he does hate you.”
“No. We got along fine, and I think he likes me better than he did before he came over. But I decided that he’s not the right guy for this assignment.”
“This ‘assignment.’ Listen to how you talk, Amy. Maybe that power failure last night was a wake-up call, telling you to turn out the lights on your plan to pay Tara back. When you first told me what she
did to you, I wanted to pay her back, too. But now? I dunno. Maybe you should just get over it and move on.”
“Get over it? Connie, would you get over it if you walked into your bedroom and found me doing the nasty with Murray?”
She bared her teeth. “I’d kill you. Either that or I’d hire someone else to do it.”
“See? You have the same need for revenge that I do. It’s only natural. The only difference between us is that I knew and trusted Tara much longer than you’ve known and trusted me, which makes what she did to me even more disgusting. Plus, my impulses aren’t as violent as yours. I don’t want to kill her. I want to humiliate her, the way she humiliated me. Originally, I felt cornered when I ran into her on the street, so I stretched the truth a little. But now that she’s one of our authors, I have to keep the lie going. And if I’m going to keep it going, I might as well make it a winner, which means producing a fiancé who will drive her crazy with envy.”
She nodded. “I hear you. It’s sick, but I hear you.”
“So I’ve got to go back to the drawing board and think of other men to approach—men who aren’t necessarily associated with L and T.”
“What about trying one of those professional matchmaking services?”
“Too expensive. I want to humiliate Tara, but not if it means bankrupting myself.”
“An Internet dating site?”
“Too risky. I could end up with a nutcase.”
“A blind date set up by your mother?”
“Never again. The last guy she fixed me up with was the son of one of her friends from Arizona, and he was a clown.”
“Why? Because he didn’t call you again?”
“No, because he was a clown. Like in a circus. He showed up for our date in costume, for God’s sake. I need a guy who will impress Tara, not honk his big red nose at her.”
“I’m out of ideas, Amy. Besides, I’ve gotta run. Lemmeknowhowitgoes.”
“What?”
“I said, Lemme know how it goes.”
Since my lunch date bailed on me, I decided to use the time by grinding out a press release on Tara’s book. I was in the process of describing one of her keys to a simply beautiful life—“According to the author, it’s important to maintain a positive attitude, even when you break a nail, or misplace your keys, or, God forbid, find yourself at the supermarket without your shopping list”—when my phone rang. Scott was out for lunch, so I picked up the phone myself.
“Publicity,” I said, grateful for the distraction.
“It’s Tony Stiles,” said the male voice.
I sat up straighter in my chair. “Tony. Hi.” I was surprised to hear from him in the middle of his writing day, but then I realized he was probably taking his own lunch break and calling to thank me for the nondinner last night.
“Hi,” he said, sounding rushed, tense. “I’m here with a dealer.”
A dealer? As we’d discussed at my apartment, he was a stickler when it came to researching his mysteries, which usually meant going undercover and hanging out with lowlifes, but was he actually in the midst of interviewing a drug lord? Had he gotten himself into serious trouble this time? Did he need my help?
“I need your help,” he confirmed.
I couldn’t figure out why he was calling me instead of the police, but I would do whatever he asked. “Of course I’ll help. Where are you?”
“With the dealer,” he repeated, then exhaled loudly, as if he might be at wit’s end. “I’m standing here with the guy right now.”
“Okay, but what can I do? Should I send someone?”
“Send someone? Hell no.”
“But you said you needed my help.”
“I do. I’m about to buy a ‘65 Ferrari from a guy who specializes in antique and classic cars, and I need you to talk me out of it. You’re the only one I could think of who might understand the temptation.”
I relaxed. Sort of. “So you’re about to shell out big money?”
“If I’m not careful. The object of my affection is the two seventy-five GTB. Short nose. Three carb. Open shaft. Red exterior, tan interior. It’s in pristine condition, just gorgeous. What do you think?”
“What do I—Well, I think you have to go for it. We’re not talking about a car. We’re talking about a work of art.” Sounded good to me.
“I knew you’d understand,” he said excitedly. “I’ll have to sell one of the others—maybe the ‘72 Maserati four-point-nine-liter SS coupe.”
“Yeah, I’d sell that one,” I agreed. Just as long as he held on to one of his chariots long enough to whisk us up to Tara’s place in style. Yes, he was back in the running for the position of decoy fiancé, as far as I was concerned. His phone call was a sign.
“Thanks, Amy. I’ll catch you later.” Click.
Or maybe not a sign after all.
That night, I was home watching the Jim Carrey movie Liar Liar and sympathizing with the main character when the phone rang.
“Hi. It’s Tony Stiles.”
I hit the mute button on the TV. “Hello again,” I said, wondering what it was this time. Maybe he was thinking about buying a vintage Winnebago and wanted my opinion on that.
“I was wondering if you’d like to go out,” he said.
“Go out?” I was stunned.
“I don’t mean right now, because you’ve probably got company. I mean whenever you’re free.”
Whoa. Talk about changing his tune. For three years, the man couldn’t stand the sight of me. Now, after a little wine and some cheese and crackers at my apartment, he wanted to go out? Had my boning up on the New York Rangers been even more effective than I could have predicted? “So you want us to get together, Tony?”
“I know, I know. You’re thinking, Why should I spend time with a guy who only twenty-four hours ago admitted he doesn’t trust women?”
“It’s a fair question.”
“All I can tell you is that you’re very easy to be with. You have no illusions about what I do for a living. You don’t have some unrealistic expectation about me. I don’t have to explain myself to you, because you understand writers.”
“I see,” I said. Well, this was an amazing turn of events. Tony Stiles was actually making a case for why we should become buddies. Was this too perfect or what? And to think I had already crossed him off the list.
“And then there’s the fact that we have so much in common,” he continued. “Hockey, wine, cars, and who knows what else. We’re compatible, you and I.”
“We are,” I said, my hopes mounting. Yes, we were about to become friends—good, old-fashioned “We can tell each other everything” friends. The next time I saw him, I would definitely ask him to play my fiancé and he would definitely oblige, because friends help each other out.
“Of course, it doesn’t hurt that there’s chemistry between us.”
Huh?
“Chemistry, electricity, heat,” he mused. “Whatever you want to call it, it’s there.”
What in the world was he talking about? Friends don’t have chemistry. Friends have movie dates and meals together and heart-to-heart talks.
“Come on, Amy. You know there’s chemistry. What do you think all our fighting’s been about?”
“I thought it was about my eagerness to promote your books and your unwillingness to promote your books.”
“That’s part of it. But the other part is that you and I have been hot for each other ever since we met three years ago.”
“What?” My face flooded. I was so flustered, I could hardly speak. I had never given Tony Stiles the slightest indication that I had anything but a grudging respect for his literary accomplishments. Was he confusing my aggressive efforts to publicize his books with some sort of attraction to him? What a joke! If he only knew how mercilessly and often Scott and I made fun of him! Okay, okay. So he did have a few appealing physical characteristics. But the notion of my harboring a long-simmering passion for him was so ridiculous, I couldn’t even finish my senten
ce. And as for his attraction to me, well, if he’d had one, he’d sure kept it to himself.
“Look, I didn’t realize it either until I left your place last night,” he said, “but, like it or not, there’s chemistry on both sides. Chemistry and compatibility.” He laughed. “Although I suppose it could turn out that we’re a disaster in the bedroom.”
Now I was really speechless. For some reason (probably because seeing Tara again had completely distorted my ability to think like a rational person), I had imagined reeling Tony in as my fake fiancé but hadn’t counted on our having a relationship that was anything other than platonic. I’d certainly never considered the necessity of sleeping with him in order to one-up Tara. Even I wasn’t that desperate.
“Hey, I’m kidding, Amy. About the bedroom stuff. Well, unless you beg me otherwise.” Another laugh. “We can take it slowly, if that’s what you want. Should we have dinner tomorrow night and find out where it leads?”
So Tony had taken the bait, and with an urgency I could hardly have anticipated. My plan had worked. I was on the verge of getting him to help me make a fool of Tara the way she’d made a fool of me. He was about to become the person who would bring me justice, sweet justice.
Then why were my hands so clammy? Because I was feeling guilty about pretending to be able to tell the difference between a ‘65 Ferrari and a Ford Taurus? Because I didn’t know zilch about zinfandel? Because I wasn’t the person Tony thought I was? Or was it because of this new wrinkle, this sex thing? I mean, yes, he was cute and not a complete jerk after all, as I’ve already admitted, but this game of mine was supposed to be about Tara and me, not about some man and me. What’s more, I’d promised Connie I was not out to seduce her precious author, only to become his chum. And furthermore, why would I get involved, sexually or emotionally (they are the same to me; I am not one of those women who can sleep with a man without becoming attached to him), with a certified commitment phobe, a notorious bachelor who was probably only bringing up our supposed chemistry as a come-on?