“I told her. She gave me your phone number and said she’d take her chances.”
Daniel considered this as the bottle of Chianti arrived and they both ordered dinner. After the waiter left, Daniel sipped his wine until their sense of intimacy had reasserted itself. Then he leaned both arms on the table and fixed Rose with a steady gaze. “So you don’t want a husband.”
“No. Have no interest in that, thank you.”
“Then what do you want, Rose Kingsford?” He watched her eyes and knew before she opened her mouth that he wasn’t about to get the whole truth. Twelve years in police work had taught him that much.
“Believe it or not, I find it difficult to meet men,” she began.
“I don’t believe it.”
“Well, it’s true.” She took a long, graceful sip of her wine. “First, there are the male models. Chuck, the best of that bunch, is gay. Then there are the photographers. Some are great, usually the married ones, and some are sleazeballs — grope city.”
“Sounds unpleasant.”
Rose sighed. “I don’t know if it’s just the nature of what I do, putting my body out there for everyone to see, but most men seem to be focused on that body and not the person, which turns me off. Besides that, I work very hard and put in a lot of hours. When I have time off I don’t feel like making the effort to hit the nightclubs, so the result is...not much chance to meet regular guys.”
“That’s how you’d classify me?”
“I’d classify you as the deluxe model.”
He nearly choked on his wine. “Isn’t that a little extravagant, considering we’ve known each other less than an hour?”
“I trust my instincts. In your line of work, I’m sure you do, too.”
“That’s why I’m here.” And why I kissed you.
She gazed at him over the rim of her goblet. “Do you know how many men concentrate on my eyes when we meet?”
“I have no idea.”
“Almost none. But you did.”
“I was embarrassed. I don’t know if you can give me much credit for the way I behaved, considering that my mother had just put me in one of the most awkward situations any man can imagine. Maybe if we’d met at a cocktail party I’d have given you the full-body once-over, like all the others.”
“I don’t think so, Daniel O’Malley.” She turned on that million-dollar smile again. “I don’t think so at all.”
“Talk about hamstringing a guy. I’m going to be afraid to look below the level of your nose from now on, for fear you’ll bump my classification down to sleazeball, fourth class.”
“Wrong. You passed the test, so you can relax.”
“Hey, that’s great. Would you mind standing up, then?”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
He stifled a grin and motioned her up. “Ogling time. I figure I’m behind on my quota.”
She gazed at him for a full thirty seconds and he figured that was the end of that. She couldn’t take a joke, and it was good that he’d found it out now before things progressed beyond that sizzling kiss.
Then she slowly eased out of the booth. “Pay attention,” she said. “I only intend to do this once.” She stood and smoothed her damp clothes, a leather miniskirt, knee-high boots, a form-fitting knit top and a funky little vest with tiny gold chains all over it. Lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, she threw him a look of haughty confidence before moving sinuously down the aisle beside the booths.
Daniel realized she’d mentally placed herself on a runway. In total awe, he sank back against the booth and watched the provocative sway of her slender hips as she walked away from him on those terrific legs. No wonder guys skipped looking into her eyes, he thought. The message coming from the rest of her was too potent for mere mortals to ignore.
Just before she reached the kitchen door she pivoted and started back. Her breasts were small, but she thrust them forward so seductively that Daniel’s mouth went dry as the little chains on her vest danced invitingly. Thank God he had a table to cover the effect she was having on him. Usually attracted to more well-endowed women, he would never have imagined someone as willowy as Rose would inspire such lust. Carriage was everything, apparently, and Rose had that in spades.
He decided to concentrate on her face to keep himself from starting to drool. No help there. She’d turned the heat up from warm and sweet to hot and smoldering. He took a deep breath and gripped the table as she drew nearer. It was either that or throw her down on top of it once she came close enough.
She reached their table and glanced down at him as if he were one of her subjects. Which he was, now. She had only to command him.
“Well?” she asked.
He cleared his throat. “Thanks,” he managed.
She slid into the booth and the arrogance slipped from her like a cloak. “Now we’re even.”
He didn’t think they were on the same playing field, let alone even. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve been watching you for days.”
“What?”
“As luck would have it, I was working this past week quite close to your...beat, I guess you call it. I’m a sucker for a guy in a uniform, and then, when you climb up on that magnificent horse...” The corners of her mouth twitched in amusement. “Let’s just say I did my share of ogling, too.”
Heat crept up from his damp collar. “I didn’t see you.”
“I was using binoculars.”
“Good grief.”
She chuckled. “I’ve embarrassed you. But that’s a good sign. You’re not vain, at any rate.”
Daniel was speechless. When the waiter showed up with their dinner he’d never been so glad to see a plate of pasta in his life. “Thank God. I’m starved,” he said. As he picked up his fork he glanced at Rose and caught her smiling at him. “Binoculars? Really?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. You cut quite a figure, as my mother would say.”
“Your Irish mother,” he said, remembering his own mother’s comment that afternoon in the tearoom. “Where’s she from?”
“ ’Tralee.”
He finished a bite of the most succulent linguine he’d ever tasted. He liked Rose’s choice in restaurants, among other things. “That’s quite a coincidence, considering that my mother comes from Tralee. You don’t suppose that they knew each —”
“I’m sure not,” she said quickly.
Too quickly, he thought. The plot was thickening. “Does your mother live in New York?”
“Oh, yes.”
There was a world of meaning in that phrase, he thought. “Sounds like your mother’s somewhat of a trial to you, too.”
“Let’s just say we don’t agree on how I should live my life.”
“Let me guess. She’d like you to find some nice guy and settle down.”
Rose paused with a forkful of fettucine halfway to her mouth. “Bingo.”
“And your father?”
“He doesn’t get much say in the matter. They’re divorced.”
“His idea?”
She took a long swallow of Chianti. “Yep.”
That could explain her aversion to marriage, he thought, and decided to risk finding out. “Look, I don’t really know you well enough to ask this—”
“Yes, you do.” She met his gaze across the subtle flame of the oil lamp.
Those green eyes. He was helpless, going down for the count. Green was supposed to be a cool color, but there was nothing even remotely cool about the way she was looking at him.
“What did you want to ask?” she murmured.
He hadn’t the slightest idea. More important questions had begun to shove out whatever inane thing he’d been about to say. Questions that began with when and where. Then his pager vibrated against his thigh. He extracted it from his pocket and reluctantly broke eye contact with Rose in order to check the number. Damn. The station.
“I have to make a quick phone call,” he said. “Be right back.”
“That wou
ld be nice.”
He slid from the booth with a silent prayer that this wasn’t a call asking him to go in to work. The prayer went unanswered. On his way back from using the pay phone in the back of the restaurant he found the waiter and told him to bring the check and his jacket.
“Problems?” Rose asked as he returned to the booth.
“A guy called in sick. I have to leave, but I hope you’ll stay and finish your meal.”
“Don’t worry. I will. Maybe yours, too.” She glanced up as the waiter approached with the check and Daniel’s jacket. She held out her hand to the waiter. “This one’s on me.”
The waiter started toward her.
“I’m afraid not.” Daniel motioned for the check.
The waiter sighed and looked at the ceiling. “Oh, boy.”
“Daniel, I invited you to dinner. It’s as simple as that.”
The waiter gritted his teeth and stepped toward her again.
Daniel interceded and took the bill from him. “No, it’s even simpler. When I have dinner with a woman, I pay for it. End of discussion.” He reached in his back pocket for his wallet.
“I won’t let you do this.”
“Let him,” the waiter said.
“Yeah, let me.” Daniel glanced at the total and pulled some bills from his wallet. “Thanks,” he said to the waiter, putting both the check and money in the guy’s hand. Then he shrugged into his jacket. “I’ll call you,” he said as he started out of the restaurant.
“That’s what they all say,” the waiter commented to Rose.
Daniel turned and backed toward the door as he zipped his jacket. “In this case, it happens to be true.” Then he gave Rose a salute and went outside to look for a cab. The rain had stopped, but a chill wind had picked up. Daniel had just whistled a cab over when Rose came out of the restaurant, coatless.
“Daniel, I’m paying for dinner!” she said, shoving the money at him.
“No, you’re not.” He took her by the shoulders and turned her around. “Now go back inside. It’s cold out here.”
“You want a cab or not?” the cabbie called from the window.
“Yeah,” Daniel said over his shoulder.
“Meter’s running, then.”
“Come on, Daniel.” She twisted in his grip. “Don’t be so old-fashioned.”
“But you see, that’s exactly what I am.” He turned her to face him again. “Look, I know you could buy and sell me. Let me preserve some of my pride by taking care of dinner.”
She gazed at him. “I don’t care how much money you make or don’t make. That’s not the point.”
“It is for me.”
She closed her eyes in apparent frustration. “You know, I really —”
He interrupted her protest by pulling her close.
Her eyes flew open.
“Forgot something,” he murmured. “Dessert.” Then he gave himself up to the richness of her mouth. Oh, the promise of those ripe lips. He cursed Tom Peterson, who had had the poor judgment to call in sick tonight. Otherwise, this evening might have ended quite differently.
The cabbie beeped the horn and Daniel lifted his head with regret. “Gotta go.”
Rose’s lashes drifted upward and she reached to stroke his cheek with the tip of her finger. “I’ll accept your generosity tonight on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“Next time, I’ll cook.”
It took only a fraction of a second for the implication of that to sink in, and his body tightened in anticipation. “All right.”
She eased out of his embrace. “Next Tuesday, same time?”
“You’ve got it.”
She backed toward the restaurant. “I’ll leave my address on your machine.”
“Fine.”
“Good night, Daniel.”
“Good night.” He remained standing there long after the door closed behind her.
The cab window creaked down again. “It’s your business, buddy, but holding down the sidewalk is getting pretty expensive, don’t you think?”
Daniel turned and climbed into the cab.
“However —” The cabbie pronounced it “howevah.” “I completely understand being distracted with a woman who looks like that.”
MAUREEN DIDN’T ABUSE the privilege of having a key to her son’s apartment. He’d given it to her for the times she came into Manhattan from Brooklyn to shop and wanted someplace to freshen up, someplace she could trust would be clean and safe.
Maureen never snooped through Daniel’s dresser drawers or his mail. Daniel always laughed and told her to go ahead. There weren’t any secrets in his apartment. Up until now she’d believed him, but in the past week he’d become more secretive. ’Twas pure luck that she discovered why.
She’d taken the subway into the city for a sale at Macy’s and stopped at Daniel’s afterward, as usual. While she was making herself a restorative cup of tea, Daniel’s telephone rang. She hurried to pick up the receiver, but just then Daniel’s voice came on and she remembered about the answering machine. The contraption confused her something awful, and she wasn’t about to fool with it.
Instead she stood there and listened to Daniel’s brisk message. He sounded so businesslike on that recording that whenever she got the machine she just hung up. Probably this person would, too. Daniel’s social life would pick up considerably if he got rid of this machine, in Maureen’s humble opinion.
But the person on the other end didn’t hang up. Instead, Maureen listened in wonder as Rose Kingsford gave Daniel directions to her apartment and reminded him that they’d settled on Tuesday at seven. Maureen clapped a hand over her mouth as if afraid that Rose could hear her giggle of delight. Dinner at Rose’s apartment! That little devil Daniel had never let on that matters had progressed to this stage. If a woman cooked a man dinner, then she meant to demonstrate her domestic skills for him.
After Rose hung up, Maureen picked up her skirts and danced a jig around the apartment. Oh, this was grand news! She’d had a feeling about this girl from the moment she’d laid eyes on her, and now, the romance was getting under way! The jig didn’t last very long before she was out of breath, but as she plopped to the couch and put a hand over her beating heart, she continued to smile.
Then she bounced up again, hurried to the bookcase and found the street map. Digging in her purse for her reading glasses, Maureen located the spot where the apartment house must be. Rose lived in a swanky part of town, all right. Maureen would dearly love to see Daniel walk into that place. She wondered if he’d take flowers. ’Twould be a good sign, if he took flowers.
As closemouthed as Daniel had become lately, he probably wouldn’t tell her whether he went over to Rose’s, let alone whether he took flowers. Maureen picked up a pad of paper beside the phone and wrote down Rose’s address. ’Twould be quite dark at seven. She’d take a cab, never mind the expense. The sight of Daniel walking into that apartment building with a bouquet of flowers would be a picture she’d carry to her grave. Her Daniel was going courting.
SOMETHING WAS GOING ON. Bridget Kingsford was sure of it. Tuesday was the night Rose always came over to watch their favorite television shows, unless she was out of town on a shoot. When she’d cancelled out for the second Tuesday in a row, and offered no explanation, Bridget feared it had something to do with Daniel O’Malley.
It was a long shot, but maybe if she just dropped in on Rose Tuesday night, she’d find out something. A chat with the doorman might work almost as well. Bridget didn’t intend to stand by while her daughter conceived a child out of wedlock, most especially if the prospective father was the son of her age-old rival. She’d sooner dance with the devil on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral than allow that to take place.
4
ROSE HAD FIGURED on learning to cook someday. For one thing, she couldn’t imagine being a mother and not knowing how to bake chocolate chip cookies. It was one of her favorite fantasies of motherhood—a warm kitchen filled with
the aroma of baking dough as a little child perched on a stool, her fat fingers making chip-filled balls and arranging them carefully on a cookie sheet.
Rose’s mother had always made cooking seem easy enough, although her recent obsession with her figure had ended some of her enthusiasm for baking. Rose would have loved to ask for some motherly advice on the meal she planned to serve Daniel on Tuesday night. But her mother wasn’t supposed to know about that meal, or any of the activities that might follow.
As luck would have it, the Donna Karan shoot on Tuesday afternoon had run overtime, which had screwed up her cooking schedule and stressed her out. That probably explained why she’d cut her finger trying to machete some celery stalks into submission while keeping one eye on the clock. She stuck her finger in her mouth and ran for the bathroom cabinet where she hoped at least one bandage remained in the box she kept there.
Daniel was scheduled to arrive in forty minutes. According to the recipe, the stew needed nearly two hours to cook, and she had yet to brown the meat. Thank God she’d bought a decent bottle of cabernet to fill the extra hour the stew would require to cook. That was assuming she got everything in the pot within the next five minutes.
The bandage box was empty, so she fastened a tissue around her bleeding finger with masking tape from her drafting supplies and headed back to the kitchen. Ten minutes later, her knit top and jeans were coated in flour from rolling the cubed lamb in it, her forearm was taped with more tissue where hot grease had splattered while she browned the meat, and her eyes watered madly from chopping an onion. When she wiped her streaming eyes with the back of her hands, she got flour all over her face, too.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she muttered, using one of her mother’s favorite angry expressions. She finished chopping the onion and sighed. If she could get the stew in the oven, then shower and change, she’d decant the wine before Daniel arrived. With wine and intimate conversation, perhaps he’d never notice that dinner was delayed. She continued reading the recipe aloud.
“Tie parlsey, celery, bay leaves and thyme in small bag,” she murmured. A small bag? It made no sense. She had a couple of small paper bags, but they’d disintegrate in the stew. A plastic bag would melt. She left the kitchen and roamed the apartment, seeking inspiration. Twice she reached for the phone to call her mother before remembering she couldn’t do that.
One Mom Too Many Page 4