When they arrived back at Cavelli Tower, Rob showed Leah to her new apartment. The one she’d stay in until Marco sorted her temporary work visa.
There were two large suites on the penthouse floor, which belonged to Rob and Marco. Marco also had his own home, ‘out by the Lake’, wherever that was, only using the penthouse when he was working in town, or romancing the ladies – which was about eight nights a week, from what Rob had said. No surprises there – young, fit, single and gorgeous. There was probably a waiting list of nubile wenches with crampons and ropes trying to scale the walls of the Tower. For both of the Cavelli men, she thought, feeling a tight clench in her gut.
On the floor below the penthouses were two plush guest apartments, kept ready for visiting VIPs – corporate partners, potential customers, politicians, overseas guests, investors. Random waifs and strays rescued from blizzards.
“Wow,” she’d said, grateful to be somewhere she could call home, at least temporarily. “This is plush. This must be for real reindeer bigwigs. Haven’t you got a broom cupboard somewhere in the cellar I could use instead?”
The place was stunning. Floor to ceiling windows with views across the tower-scape of the city. A sumptuous marble bathroom suite so decadent Marie Antoinette could have moved in. A TV bigger than a cinema screen. And a bed the size of a football pitch. A bed that would be totally wasted on her.
Rob had taken her in after Marco had gone off to his own rooms, shown her around, given her the keys. He’d stood in the doorway for a while first, his face dark and brooding, frowning as he watched her potter around, pressing buttons, opening cupboards and ‘ooh-ing’ and ‘aah-ing’ like a kid at the circus. Like she’d never seen anything as thrilling as a toothbrush glass before in her whole life.
She knew it was crazy, and she was definitely coming off as someone who might need Men in White Coats on her speed dial, but she couldn’t help it. Once they were alone, she wasn’t sure how to react, how to behave. She was nervous, on auto-twitter. Still cringing inside at the fact that she had, however unintentionally, got him arrested.
It had been a long and stressful day. A day that had wound its way slowly and inexorably to that point; almost midnight, near the top of a tower in the Windy City. The two of them there, together – with a bloody big bed winking at them, its silky sheets practically begging to be tumbled on. In days gone by, they’d have tumbled it to within an inch of its life, but things were different now.
No matter how much that bed was winking, she had to ignore it. A deal was a deal. Sticking to the deal, though, was costing a lot more than she expected. All she really wanted to do was to fall onto that bed with him, and sleep safe in his arms. Arms that were now off limits.
“Leah, you need to know that now I’m back here, I’ll be busy,” he said, still watching her from the doorway. “I’ve been away from work for almost two weeks, and there’ll be a lot of catching up to do.”
She nodded, appearing to be far more captivated by the remote control that opened and closed the drapes than anything he had to say.
“I’ll be heading to the office tomorrow, and I work long hours. Don’t expect to see much of me. If you need any help, I’ll make sure the concierge staff are on hand.”
“Great,” she said, barely looking up, concentrating instead on the whooshing sound the drapes made as they opened and closed. “Thanks. And I can always ask Marco if I see him around.”
A terse nod from Rob, a snap of suit fabric as he crossed his arms sharply in front of him. A distinctly peed off crease between his eyes, leaving her wondering what she had done wrong. It had been easy, when Marco was around, to keep her distance. To maintain her balance. Now, though, with just the two of them – well, she thought she might wobble over at any moment.
“I’m sure Marco will be only too pleased to help,” he snapped. “Goodnight then – I’ll leave you to stroke the soft furnishings.”
Oh God, she thought. I’ve offended him somehow. When really I just want to hide the fact that I’m feeling embarrassed and vulnerable and altogether out of my depth.
What is the right etiquette for this situation, she wondered? For living under the same roof as the man she’d been sleeping with for the last few days? The man who was insistent he’d had enough of that arrangement, and who’d now declared himself a sex-free zone?
The logical part of her knew he was right. To continue would be madness. And, she thought, looking around at her luxurious surroundings, she’d start to feel a bit like a prostitute, or at least a modern-day courtesan, kept in a gilt-edged cage in return for servicing her master. A bit like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, but about two foot shorter.
The sex in Scotland had been fantastic: the perfect time, the perfect place; both healing and distracting; a moment taken out of reality for both of them. Now, though, they were here, back in this very real world of his, and she needed to find the ‘off’ switch. He didn’t want her, he’d made that clear enough, and she, well, she only wanted him a little bit. Nothing she couldn’t control, if she worked really really hard at it. And concentrated on the remote control instead.
That was the theory, at least. And it was a good theory. The reality, though, was him, filling up that doorway. Dark eyes and silky hair and long, lean legs leading up to the world’s most perfect bum. Brooding away like an enigma wrapped up in a mystery wrapped up in the world’s biggest hunk. The reality was knowing he could scoop her up in his arms like she was nothing, hold her to the stone velvet of his chest, throw her on that stupidly large bed and treat her like a courtesan. That she’d cry and scream and moan and respond to every touch he chose to give her. And that afterwards, she could lie in his arms, feeling as warm and safe as a child.
How did she make the mental switch from that to just friends? Where was the self-help guide for that? Should she give him a peck on the cheek? Invite him for a coffee, in his own building? Lock herself in the walk-in wardrobe and say the Lord’s Prayer?
In the end Rob saved her the stress of deciding. He gave her a look that spoke of his own frustration, and slammed the door behind him on his way out.
Well, she’d thought, turning back to unpack her suitcase, that went well.
***
She had a restless night, tortured by dreams about Rob and Doug, and a scary interchanging of faces and body parts. Dreams about sex and food and jumping from a jet with a parachute that turned into a boa constrictor. And, inevitably she supposed, about her parents. They were never far from her thoughts, but times of stress always made the nightmares worse. Leah had woken soaked with sweat and tears, heart pounding in her chest, the image of them trapped in their smoke-filled hotel room seared into her mind. Again. But this time, alone – no Doug to stroke away the tears and whisper comforting words. Nobody at all.
The dreams were always the same, always so vivid. It seemed like she could taste the acrid smoke clogging her throat; feel their panic as they realised what was happening; touch the jammed lock that led to the fire escape they never reached. She couldn’t, of course. She had never even seen the hotel room. She’d been at home enjoying herself when her parents died, assuming the worst thing that would happen to her the next day was a killer hangover. And still, in her dreams, she saw it all through their eyes. Felt it all through their lungs.
Leah knew the drill by now. No point trying to sleep again after that. Get up, get active, get distracted. Until the next time. There would always be a next time.
As a result, she’d been up since five and was running on three hours of bad sleep and a reservoir of better coffee. She’d sat up in bed, watching local TV news anchors talk about the weather and the plans for New Year fireworks over the river. It was fascinating, even watching rubbish telly in a different culture – the accents, the language, the huge hair, the dazzlingly white teeth. Perfect zombie fodder.
The phone had started to ring at about 7am. She stared at it for a few moments, wondering if it was Rob. Wondering how she felt about that. Wondering
if he was still angry, for reasons as yet unspecified.
When she finally dragged herself far enough across the bed to answer it, the voice on the other end introduced itself as Artie, the family’s private concierge. Artie seemed like a really nice chap, but there was still a plume of disappointment curling its way down her stomach. Of course it wouldn’t be Rob. He was far too busy and important now. She was just an item on his to-do list, a package to be taken care of. Passed on to the staff.
Her presence was required, Artie explained, in the drawing room. She had an audience with Mrs Cavelli. Those were his exact words: ‘an audience with Mrs Cavelli’. As she climbed out of bed and padded barefoot to the wardrobe, Leah wondered if would be like the cabaret shows at home, and whether she’d be allowed to ask showbiz questions at the end.
She threw on some of her new jeans, and a stripy Marc Jacobs sweater she’d fallen in love with at the airport. Bit tight across the chest, but hey, what wasn’t? Brush through the hair, touch of make up to hide dark circles under the eyes. A spritz of Jo Malone. Holy water and cross. Ready to go, prepared for anything Mrs Cavelli could throw at her. Not.
She’d found her way to the drawing room, which came with yet more stunning river views, and a vast balcony wrapped around the outside of the building. Rob was there – she hadn’t been sure about that – and she nodded at him with a lot more vigour than she felt, choosing a seat as far away from him as she could to avoid the temptation to sit on his lap. Within minutes, Dorothea had dumped the small talk, and started filling her in on her plans for New Year-based social domination.
It seemed, quite scarily, that Leah was being professionally engaged by his equally scary mother to cater a party she’d suddenly decided to pull together. Words like shrimp and satay and smoked salmon were being bandied about, so she assumed that’s what was happening. That, or Dorothea Cavelli was suffering from food-based Tourette’s.
“Mother, how many people exactly are you thinking of, for this imaginary party?” said Rob, running his hands through his hair in frustration as he spoke. He knew he’d left furrows. He needed a haircut. He always did when he got back from Scotland, where he let himself turn into Grizzly Adams for a fortnight, but it usually wasn’t an issue. He usually didn’t have a woman he was sexually infatuated with in tow. And he usually didn’t get arrested by Chicago’s finest the minute he walked through the door either. ‘Usually’ seemed to be a thing of the past with Leah on the scene.
It had been a tough night, and he was feeling the strain. He was tired; he’d been arrested, and now he had to go to work – but not without an audience with his mother first. Plus it was Christmas, and he always felt like crap at Christmas. His time with Leah had gone some way to distracting him from that, but now it was over, and he was paying for it with the guilt hangover from hell.
It hadn’t helped that Leah had disappeared off into a world of her own once he took her to the guest apartment last night. It was like watching someone with functioning catatonia – she was walking and talking, but in a parallel universe; a universe that didn’t involve him at all. It involved exclamations of delight about everything from the sofa fabric to the potpourri, and absolutely zero eye contact with him. Which was, of course, fine. He’d already learned that eye contact with Leah could end up with them naked in five minutes flat. He couldn’t allow their affaire to continue – for both their sakes. Nothing could ever come of it; nothing good anyway. Even the fact that he wanted her so much, on a purely physical level, felt like a betrayal of Meredith and all they’d shared.
Since her death, there’d been other women. Lots of other women. But never for more than a night, and none of whom had inspired the kind of hunger he felt when he looked at Leah. The almost physical pain he felt when she left the room. That moment of complete paralysis when she’d said that silly thing about him and Marco in Giordano’s; even knowing it was just her usual honest flirtiness, that she meant nothing by it. There’d been one split second where it entered his dumb brain that she might find Marco just as attractive as she found him. The question he couldn’t quite find an answer for was why he cared. If he didn’t want her, why shouldn’t she go for Marco instead? He quelled a churning in his gut, like someone had slipped ground glass into his coffee.
It was only physical. He had to remind himself of that. Animal lust. Nobody would ever replace Meredith, and losing control with Leah would be futile and potentially damaging to them both. He was broken. He could not be fixed. He didn’t want to be fixed; he didn’t deserve it.
“Only about 60 or so, darling,” his mother replied, jolting him back to reality.
“I see. Just a few dozen of your closest friends, right? Don’t they have plans already? I don’t know if it’s occurred to you, mother, but there tend to be a lot of parties on New Year’s Eve.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Roberto – if they have other plans, they’ll cancel, darling, and come here instead. I can’t help thinking that Leah landing here just when I was toying with the idea of a soiree must be fate; a trained chef living under the Cavelli roof just when I need it! Do you think you’re up to it, honey?”
His mother’s gaze swivelled back to Leah, who was looking increasingly like Jessica Rabbit caught in the headlights of a large, unstoppable truck. A truck wearing Chanel No 5 and stiletto-heeled boots. He’d been there many times himself, and empathised with the look of frozen horror on her face.
Knowing his mother – the truck – as well as he did, and knowing Leah – a rabbit with bite – as well as he did, he suspected this could be entertaining. Shame Marco was missing out on this one. He smiled into his coffee, sat back, and waited for the fireworks.
“Yes. That does seem like an amazing coincidence,” replied Leah, her tone making it perfectly clear that she recognised the smell of horse manure when she heard it. “Do you think I’m up to it, Mrs Cavelli? You’re the client.”
“Well I barely know you, sweetheart, but Rob seems to think so. And he’s generally a very good judge of character. I taught him everything I know. So come on, quit stalling – are you up for it or not?”
Leah thought she might explode into smithereens. It was like being pinned back against the chair by a laser beam. She just couldn’t get the size of Dorothea Cavelli at all – friend, foe or just plain freaky? So far she was playing it safe and sticking with that last one.
But freaky or not, it sounded like her kind of challenge – crazy, spontaneous, and potentially a total train wreck. Exactly like the rest of her life. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain – and doing a good job for the family might go some way to making her feel less beholden to Rob for everything he’d done for her so far.
“Okay,” she said. “Why not? I’m game if you are. And I don’t exactly have a lot else to do this week.”
As soon as she’d agreed, Leah screwed her nose up, looking off to the side in concentration, biting on her lower lip as she thought it through. “We need to decide menus. I’ll need some advice on where to buy the produce. I’ll need staff to help. I’ll need—”
“Marvellous!” said Dorothea, clapping her hands together like an Indian raj dismissing her wallah. “We’ll get to the details later. I’m glad you said yes, Leah. I’m sure you’ll do a great job.”
Yeah, Leah thought, unfurling her legs and stretching out, but if I don’t – death by firing squad. And if all the other firing squads already have plans, they’ll cancel, darling, and come here instead.
“Now, that’s business out of the way. So, tell me all about yourself, Leah.” said Mrs Cavelli, leaning forward eagerly.
“I hate to interrupt,” said Rob, in a tone that implied exactly the opposite. He lifted his gaze from the newspaper he’d been pretending to read, and looked out at Leah. “But you don’t need to do this, Leah. I didn’t bring you here to be our slave, and I know you must be exhausted. You don’t need to cater her party, and you don’t need to tell her anything about yourself. My mother is just an old bully – don’t
let the act scare you.”
There was a pause. An unearthly quiet as Dorothea Cavelli’s face fell into the smooth, untroubled expression she usually wore right before she gave out an almighty ass-whooping. Ooops, thought Rob, I’m in for it now. Never too grown-up for an ass-whooping.
“Less of the old, sonny,” she snapped. “And Leah – I haven’t bullied you have I? You’re not scared of me, are you?”
“Well, no,” said Leah, standing up to leave. “I’m a grown woman after all. I don’t scare that easily. But for a minute there, I was rather fearful for the fur of my hundred and one pet Dalmatians. See you later, guys. Mrs Cavelli – let me know when you have time to discuss the details.”
She waltzed from the room without a further word. Rob swore she gave an extra swing to her hips as she went, and just knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she’d be grinning her face off and stifling a laugh.
He looked back to his mother. Cruella, as he would call her from now on. Stately, elegant, beautiful. Legs crossed. Hands crossed. Eyes almost crossed. With laughter.
“My God Rob,” she said, when the tide subsided and she was able to breathe again. “Where the hell did you find her? And is there a spare one for Marco?”
No, he thought, clamping down on an unwelcome gripe of jealousy at the thought. There most definitely was not a spare one for Marco. Leah was one of a kind. And it was going to be a killer to do what he knew he needed to do next: regain his distance from her.
Chapter 11
This, thought Leah, shuffling into her new black work uniform, was probably going to be a disaster. She had five waiting on staff. Two assistants in the kitchen. Champagne she’d selected on ice. And what felt like a gazillion dollars worth of fresh food waiting to be served. The only thing not under complete control was her nerves. They were busy having a glowstick party in her brain.
The last week had passed in a whirl. Mrs Cavelli, once she got her own way, was a pussycat of a client, leaving all the food-related decisions to Leah. Presumably she was way too busy bullying sixty people into dumping their existing plans and visiting her for New Year’s instead. That and arranging a swing band; a pianist, an ice sculptor and an interior decorator – all at four days’ notice at the busiest time of year.
Cold Feet at Christmas Page 8