While the cake finished baking, she ran hot water in the sink and added patchouli-scented dish-soap liquid from a glass bottle with a vintage-inspired label. She removed the Michael Graves-designed handled sponge and lovingly washed the mixing bowl, utensils, and measuring cups before rinsing them and setting them on a wire rack to drain. She took extra care with the German cutlery, since the blades of the knives that were precisely weighted could be dulled by aggressive cleaning, and downright ravaged in the dishwasher.
The sweet aroma of the specialty cleanser lingered after she polished the stainless-steel sink, blending beautifully with the cake that was, after she did a spring-back test with her finger, ready to come out of the oven. She placed both cake pans on a cooling rack and sat down at the table, satisfied at the sight and scents of the sparkling clean kitchen. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine a man’s voice announcing, “Honey, I’m home. Mm, something smells wonderful.”
She opened her eyes and listened instead to the hum of the overhead fluorescent light and acknowledged the chill of loneliness despite the warmth emanating from the oven. The only man she had ever loved was about as far-flung from a domesticated, adoring husband as a man could be.
Felicia touched a finger to her temple, which had begun to throb again. Not only was Jerry Key not the man she had dreamed he would be, but she was coming to the awful conclusion that he was the one who had sent the photo. Heaven knew she had been in a constant state of undress when they had dated—she wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he had one, or even several, compromising pictures of her. The man had been insatiable in bed, and she had obliged. Sending a reminder of the hold he had over her was just the kind of thing that Jerry would do. Enough time had passed since he had dumped her for him to come sniffing around again. The fact that she hadn’t responded like a lapdog was probably making him crazy. Crazy enough to resort to blackmail?
She walked over to the sink, pulled out a drawer, and thumbed through the comforting stack of snowy cotton dish towels before removing one. The faint scent of lemon wafted to her nose as she unfolded the cloth and carefully dried the splendid knives, then replaced them in their uniform slots in the hardwood block on her shiny kitchen counter. Felicia held up the last knife and caught her own reflection on the half-inch blade. Little did Jerry know, she could be crazy, too.
Chapter 6
“You can let me out here,” Tallie told the cab driver.
“Suspicious Grounds is on the next block,” the driver said, reminding her of the destination she’d given him.
“Here is fine,” she said pointedly.
The cab stopped and, after paying, Tallie climbed out, hunched her shoulders against the bitter temperature, and walked slowly toward the coffee place. She was five minutes early, and she didn’t want Keith Wages to get the idea that she was eager to meet him. A few strides down the street, she remembered why she had tossed these midi boots to the back of her closet—they were as uncomfortable as hell. Why she had decided to wear them today, she couldn’t fathom. It wasn’t as if she had dressed up for her pseudo blind date. In fact, she had deliberately selected a long skirt and sweater from the bottom of the stack of clothes in the green chair in her living room: They were clean but not particularly stylish. Certainly not sexy.
She winced when her calf muscles threatened to cramp—she’d run an extra mile and a half last night to make up for the missed run Monday night, and her body was letting her know she wasn’t as young as she used to be. First a gray hair, and now inflexibility was setting in. At this rate, she’d be taking hormone replacement therapy before spring.
A cutting wind had blown up, effectively sweeping every piece of loose trash in Manhattan toward the East River. A McDonald’s fries cup caught her on the cheek, and a newspaper page hugged her knees before whisking on its way. Her hair whipped painfully around her face, anchored by a knit cap that crept backward on her head. Behind the striped muffler wrapped around the lower part of her face, Tallie gritted her teeth. No man she knew was worth this, let alone a complete stranger.
She walked into Suspicious Grounds a couple of minutes late and caught a glimpse of herself in a Columbian coffee bean mirror. Pink of cheek and runny of nose…nice. She sniffled and unwound her scarf while she scanned the crowd for a Michigan State ball cap. Yankees, Yankees, Yankees, Red Sox, Yankees, Michigan State. She dropped her gaze, took in the view below the hat, and pursed her mouth. Not bad. Dark hair, neat side-burns, athletic build, gray sweater over a black turtleneck, burgundy wool scarf, new jeans, old sneakers. Leaning against the wall, the man had his hands in his pockets, seemingly lost in thought. Tallie had a momentary pang of regret that she hadn’t worn a jacket instead of a schlumpy sweater, and that she hadn’t looked harder for her nice emerald stud earrings that brought out the green in her eyes. Then she shook herself—the man hadn’t even looked up and she was undressing and redressing for him.
He chose that moment to look up, and her mouth went dry. Keith Wages, with large, distinct features and a hesitant smile, was not the average son of your mother’s friend. One might even call him cute. Why hadn’t she looked for the emerald earrings?
He straightened and walked toward her. She swiped at her nose and tried to smile. “You must be Tallie,” he said. “I recognize you from the photos your mother’s sent to our house over the years.”
“And you’re Keith,” she said stiffly, her jaw practically locked from the cold.
He nodded. “Nasty day, eh? Let’s get some coffee and warm you up.”
Part of her was flattered that he noticed she was cold, and part of her was irked that he would take ownership of the remedy. She followed him to the counter and ordered a latte from a perky little blond who seemed taken with Keith. He angled plenty of teeth toward the young woman, asked for a tall black coffee, and pulled out his wallet to pay for both drinks.
“I’ll pay for mine,” she said quickly.
“You can get it next time,” he said smoothly, which only perturbed her more. Who said there was going to be a next time? She relented because he was the one who had initiated the meeting, and she wasn’t going to stand in the way of him looking macho in front of Blondie. While he paid, she studied him. Mid to late thirties, she guessed, and from the silver at his temples, he was ahead of her in the gray hair department. Of course he could be bald underneath the ball cap. In fact, he probably was.
“Are you sure you don’t want a sandwich or something?” he asked.
“I’m sure,” she said primly. “I don’t have much time.”
His dark eyebrows climbed, then a mocking expression came over his face. “Do you have time to sit down?”
She nodded sheepishly and followed him to a table in the back, then peeled off her winter garb. The knit cap came off last—a mistake because it had electrified her hair. The more she tried to smooth it down, the worse it crackled, and she was sure her lone gray hair stood up like a lightning rod. Not that Keith appeared to notice. His gaze kept straying past her shoulder—in the direction of the counter and the cute girl.
Tallie tingled over his obvious disinterest. “So, you’re Sheila’s son,” she said to start the ball rolling.
“Mm-hm,” he said, sipping from his cup and watching the counter.
She rolled her eyes. “How long have you been in New York?”
He glanced back briefly. “A couple of years now. You?”
“Almost ten years.” She might as well have been talking to herself. She tried to guess at his occupation—deejay? Aspiring actor? Bartender? She took a deep drink from her coffee cup and scalded her tongue. Fitting.
It took him a few seconds to realize she wasn’t talking. He looked back. “And you’re a book editor?”
She nodded, no longer willing to make an effort.
He adopted an expression of feigned interest. “That sounds glamorous.”
She gave him a flat smile. “It isn’t.”
He grinned. “Your mother makes it sound glam
orous.”
She blinked. “My mother? When did you talk to my mother?”
“I didn’t, but I was at my parents’ home in Ann Arbor for Christmas.” His grin widened. “I read your family newsletter.”
Mortification bled through her. “My mother fancies herself to be a writer.”
“That was quite a headline.”
Her face flamed. “I keep threatening to edit her.”
“So you’re still single?”
Four little words spoken with such amusement…a ringing condemnation of her life. No acknowledgement of her intellectual achievements, just a judgment on her marriageability. She knew her visceral reaction to his casual words was unreasonable, but this was the last thing she needed when the pressure at work had just been ratcheted up. And she was furious with herself for thinking about wasting her emerald earrings on him. Tallie’s muscles bunched and her vocal cords constricted in preparation for lashing out at the man, but his attention had swung back to the girl at the counter. So much so that he was craning his neck, abandoning subtlety entirely, the creep.
“Look—” Tallie started but was cut short when in one motion Keith jumped to his feet and pushed her out of her seat with a shove to her shoulder.
“Get down!”
She got down, all right—landing hard, since she didn’t have time to put out her arms to brace her fall. As pain blazed through her left shoulder, she was vaguely aware of Keith shouting, then screams ricocheting through the coffeehouse…and what sounded amazingly like gunshots. Glass shattered and Tallie floundered to her stomach, the pain forgotten as fear bolted through her chest—what the heck was going on?
With her heart galloping, she raised her head and looked around in the few seconds of charged silence. The coffeehouse was in chaos, people lying on the floor, tables and chairs overturned. Keith stood at the counter behind a man he had shoved onto the counter, holding a gun to the man’s ear. Using one hand, Keith removed handcuffs from his waistband and secured the man’s hands behind his back.
Tallie gawked. Sheila Wages’ son was either a police officer or he was auditioning for a part on Law and Order.
“Is anyone hurt?” Keith shouted.
Everyone began to stir, helping each other to their feet.
“Anyone?” he repeated. “Tallie, are you okay?”
She pushed to her feet and patted vital areas, relatively sure a bullet couldn’t have penetrated her chunky sweater. “I’m okay.” With her heart still thumping, she watched him call for backup and direct people away from the broken glass, all while keeping an eye on the perp, who had apparently been trying to rob the place. The hardened criminal had a round baby face, shaggy blond hair, and baggy clothes. He was facedown on the counter, his head turned toward her. He stared at her, his eyes small and defiant. He looked so ordinary that it was easy to convince herself she’d seen him somewhere before. New York had a way of making a person feel that way—as if you had crossed paths with everyone in the city at one time or another.
She dragged away her gaze, and the shakes set in when she realized how easily someone could have been hurt if Keith hadn’t been so alert—the reason, she now realized, he’d been so preoccupied with watching the counter. He must have spotted the man and suspected he was up to no good. And she’d thought Keith had been ignoring her. Shivering over her selfishness, she stared at him with something akin to awe. In the scuffle, he had lost his hat somewhere, and he wasn’t bald underneath. Everything about the man spoke of virility—his quick reaction, his calm control now that the danger had passed. And she’d never seen a man wield a gun in real life—it was kind of a turn-on to know that he had protected her. Of course he had protected everyone, but he had sort of singled her out by heaving her to the floor.
A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk to gape at the broken window. Within a minute, two police cruisers arrived, and the officers emerged, weapons drawn. They relaxed when Keith held up a badge, then began to confer. He handed over the robber’s gun, pointed to the window and the wall behind where they’d been sitting—presumably the entry points for the stray bullets—then led the bad guy outside to a waiting car. Two officers fanned out across the street, and another one came into the seating area, checking with shaken customers one by one before sending them on their way.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” one of the officers asked her.
She nodded, started to tell them that she was with Keith, then realized that had nothing to do with anything. Through the window she watched as he tucked the robber into the backseat, then climbed into the front seat of the cruiser with another cop. The car flashed its blue lights, then pulled into traffic, signaling an effective end to her pseudo blind date.
“Make sure you have all of your belongings before you leave,” the police officer said.
Tallie nodded again and, still in a state of near shock, pulled on her outerwear, piece by piece. Her latte had gone flying with her and had deposited a lovely brown stain on the front of her wool coat, although in hindsight, a coffee stain was better than a bloodstain. Rebundled, she headed toward the entrance, picking her way around glass. Near the counter, she spotted Keith’s Michigan State ball cap on the floor, badly soiled, and on impulse, she bent to retrieve it. Her mother routinely washed her father’s ball caps in the dishwasher. She, on the other hand, had never laundered a piece of clothing for any man she’d known…but then again, a man had never before saved her life.
It seemed like an even trade.
Tallie stuffed the cap into her coat pocket and walked outside to hail a cab, her chest still clicking with incredulity…and apprehension. Within a few minutes of meeting Keith Wages, she had been shot at and was contemplating household chores in his honor.
This couldn’t be good.
Chapter 7
Felicia looked up as Tamara stuck her head inside the door. “The Dannons are here.” The young woman winced. “They’re arguing.”
“Has Jerry Key arrived?”
“No. Shall I call him?”
Felicia shook her head, which was starting its familiar throb. “I’ll take care of it. Tell the Dannons I’ll be with them shortly. Offer them a piece of yesterday’s carrot cake, if there’s any left.”
Tamara touched her stomach. “Oh. My. God. That cake is so good. My mother’s birthday is coming up, and I know she’d love that cream cheese icing.”
“It’s sour cream icing,” Felicia corrected.
“You have to tell me the name of your bakery.”
“Can’t,” Felicia said breezily. “Keep an eye on the Dannons.”
“Okay, but if anyone throws a punch, I’m calling security.”
Felicia smiled and after a few seconds’ hesitation said, “Tamara?”
“Yes.”
“There was a bike messenger here Monday who left a package with a return address I can’t identify.”
“What was in the package?”
“Nothing important,” Felicia said quickly. “I wanted to track down the messenger to verify the return address, but I don’t remember the name of the company.”
“It’s not on the envelope?” Tamara asked.
“The label is torn. It’s green and I remember the word ‘Jag’ on a pouch around the courier’s waist. Does that mean anything to you?”
“No. If you still have the envelope, I’ll see what I can track down.”
“No, thanks,” Felicia said, picking up the phone. “It’s not that important.” After two days of poring over the photo and rehashing Jerry’s recent flirtatious behavior, she was more and more convinced that he had sent that photo. When she saw him today, she was going to confront him.
After he helped her work things out with the Dannons, of course.
“Jerry Key’s office, this is Lori.”
“Hi, Lori. This is Felicia Redmon at Omega. Is Jerry on his way to our meeting?”
“Meeting?” Lori asked. “What meeting?”
Felicia pursed her mouth. “The meeting at my
office right now with Suze and Phil Dannon. Jerry said he’d be here, and I left the details with you on Monday.”
“Oh, right. Jerry said you could handle it.”
She frowned. “Put Jerry on, please.”
“He isn’t here. He had an appointment with his chiropractor.”
Felicia clenched her hand into a fist. When they had dated, Jerry had told her that any time he needed to see his masseuse, he told his secretary that he had an appointment with his chiropractor. Right now she could think of at least a couple of Jerry’s bones that she’d like to crack.
“Never mind,” she said. “I’ll page him.”
“Jerry got a new pager number after…well, after you and he…um, split up.”
Heat suffused Felicia’s face—had he implied to his secretary that she had harassed him after their breakup? She swallowed and counted to five. “Lori, would you mind paging him and asking him to call me?”
“I’ll page him,” Lori said in a sing-songy voice, “but I can’t promise anything.”
“Just do it!” Felicia snapped and slammed down the phone.
At the sound of someone clearing his throat, she turned her head. Phil Dannon stood just inside her office door, the merest of smiles on his rugged face. “I sense a bit of tension in the air.”
She exhaled to recover her composure and stood, pulling a wry smile from thin air. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Phil.” She walked toward him and extended both her hands in genuine affection. “It’s good to see you.”
He smiled and captured her in a warm hug. His suede sport coat smelled of wood smoke, conjuring up images of sitting in front of the fireplace at the Dannons’ vacation home in the Hamptons, where Phil was living full-time since the split. His big, powerful embrace was so comforting that Felicia stayed a split second longer than necessary, feeling a pang of anger toward Suze for belittling Phil’s contribution to their books over the years. She stepped back, momentarily flustered over her reaction to her author’s proximity. Phil was a very attractive man, but their relationship had remained strictly professional. Her response, she reasoned, was a by-product of the possibility that she might not be working with him after this project ended. And fallout from allowing Jerry to provoke her to behave unprofessionally toward his assistant.
Whole Lotta Trouble Page 5