There’s a good way to call someone grimy?
“I meant that you were already a knockout when you walked in,” she said, scrambling to spare my feelings. “We just couldn’t see it because you . . . you weren’t doing anything to bring it out, or show it off. That’s all we did. We enhanced what you already had and then showed it off with makeup.”
Good save. “Okay. I can live with that.” I smiled at her. “Thank you.”
She exhaled, relieved, and her giddy smile returned.
A ruckus swelled at the front of the spa and I turned to see Jack push the door closed on a handful of paparazzi then cross the waiting area to the front desk.
The sexy blonde receptionist shot to her feet. The indifference she’d shown me earlier was gone, her eyes bright, smile huge and her cleavage somehow more . . . apparent. “Good afternoon, Mr. Pensione,” she said, brushing her long curls over her shoulder, and leaning forward just enough to offer a satisfying view. “Can I help you?”
Jack scowled, and I knew he was still fuming about the photographers outside. “I’m just here to pick up my fiancée.”
“Oh,” the pretty blonde pouted. “You’re really engaged? I thought I read that was just a misunderstanding.”
“What?” He blinked, coming out of his own thoughts and finally seeing the person he was speaking to. His gaze dropped to her displayed breasts and back to her face. He was definitely male. “No. Well, yes. There was a misunderstanding with the one woman I was dating, but now I’m seeing someone else and . . . I’m here to pick up Kate. Kate Affetto. Is she finished?” He checked his watch, his expression hard. “If not I’ll send the car back without me to collect her. I’m on a schedule. I really can’t wait around.”
Jack and his schedules. Did the man ever do anything that hadn’t been planned out, and timed to the second? Practically every woman in the spa was drooling over him and he looked like they were each poking him with hot irons.
“Thanks, Colette,” I said, pushing to my feet. “It’s been wonderful and you did an amazing job. Let me get you a tip . . .”
“No, ma’am,” she said. “Your fiancé already took care of everything.”
“Oh. Well . . . thank you.” I gave her a quick finger wave and turned to rescue poor Jack from the adoring eyes of twenty some women. The horror!
Not that I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. He looked drool-worthy, as usual, dressed in his fitted black suit, white shirt, and narrow green tie that matched his eyes perfectly. He looked like he’d stepped out of a fashion magazine all tall and broad-shouldered, with a strong jaw, long arms and big powerful hands.
I exhaled, ignoring the warm tremble running through my body. I made my way to the front of the day spa.
“I’m sure she’ll be out any minute,” the eager receptionist said. “Can I get you something to drink while you wait?”
“I’d be happy to give you a quick massage, Mr. Pensione,” a cute little brunette said, stepping up beside him.
“A lot of men enjoy our mani-pedis, too,” an exotic young Asian woman said.
Jack’s gaze flicked to her, traveling down her body and back to her face. His expression softened for a moment, and then he shook his head. “No. Thank you. It’s very kind of all of you, but I really don’t have time—”
“Am I holding you up?” I asked, stopping at the small step before the drop into the reception area.
Jack’s attention shifted up to me, his expression shuttering from irritation, to confusion, and finally stunned recognition. “Kate?”
A quick thrill raced through me at the male appreciation heating his gaze. “Hi, Jack. Thanks for coming to get me.”
“You look . . .” He stared at me, lips parted, words trailing off. My heart skipped, and things low inside me warmed.
“I look?” I encouraged, trying to temper my smile.
He blinked. Then shook his head, looking away. “Damn it. I knew this was a bad idea,” he said half under his breath.
My chest pinched and I glanced at the crowd of women gathered around. Envy turned to embarrassment in a heartbeat, all of them staring, pity painting their faces. God, I’m such an idiot. Why would I think for a second Jack Pensione would see me as anything more than a means to an end? Shine a dirty penny and it’s still only worth a penny.
I swallowed hard, and lifted my chin. “Wasn’t my idea. Can we go?”
He looked back to me, the crease in his brow deepening. “What? Yes. Of course. Is something wrong?”
Seriously? I shook my head. “No. I’m fine. I’d like to go home now.”
“No,” he said. “I mean, we have other stops to make. Genève gave you the schedule this morning, didn’t she?”
I sighed, too humiliated to spend another second in front of all these judgmental stares. I stepped down and marched straight for the door. “Yes, Jack. I got the stupid schedule. Let’s just get it over with then. Okay?”
He turned as I brushed by him—blinking, mouth open as though he couldn’t quite follow what had just happened. Maybe I’d send him a memo later. Clue him in.
Probably not.
Jack followed me, pushing through the photographers out to the limo waiting on the curb. The driver shut the door behind us and seconds later we pulled into traffic.
Fifteen minutes ticked by in silence. I could feel him glancing at me then looking away. He shook his head twice more then finally said, “They did something to your hair.”
I leaned forward and snatched a tissue from the dispenser on the side of the compartment then scrubbed off what I could of the thick lipstick. “Yeah. I know. It’s called color and a trim.”
“And they put makeup on you,” He said.
“Yep.” I stared out my window, my stomach churning, eyes stinging. I wouldn’t cry. Damn it, I will not cry.
The car pulled to a stop and I took a deep breath, gathering my inner strength.
It’s not even that I cared what he thought of me. Not really. It’s just that . . . I thought I looked good. He could’ve said something nice . . . anything—or nothing at all. Such an ass.
“Huh . . .” he said, more like an exhale than a word. “You didn’t need it.”
I swung around. “What?”
But his door opened. Jack shifted forward, and stepped out. He leaned down peering back in at me. “C’mon. Thought you were in a hurry to get this over with.”
“Yeah. Yes,” I said trying not to care about what he’d said and what it might mean. “I’m coming.”
Jack took my hand getting out of the car and an odd shock of heat jolted through me. He’d felt it too. I caught him staring down at our clasped hands. The warmth of his touch radiated up my arm, pooling in my chest. His hand shifted around mine, settled, enveloping it on all sides. It felt good. Damn it.
I wanted to pull away, but a few passersby had recognized Jack and were already snapping photos with their phones. They weren’t paparazzi, but apparently it was enough to warrant the PDA. Jack led me straight across the sidewalk and into the fancy boutique on Bleecker Street.
“She needs the basics,” he said to the sales clerk who met us three steps in. “A few gowns, something for cocktail hour and . . .” Jack glanced back at me, his gaze traveling over my body. I felt judged. “Just general daily attire.”
“I already have general daily attire,” I said, finally pulling my hand free of his. I crossed my arms under my breasts but stopped short of pouting . . . mostly. “There’s nothing wrong with my clothes.”
“No. There isn’t,” he said turning to face me. “If you’re spending the day at the diner. But we have charity luncheons and parties thrown by very wealthy people to attend. Your photo will be splashed in every tabloid and newspaper in New York as the fiancée of a Pensione. People will expect you to look a certain way. Your clothes, as perfectly acceptable as they are, do not fit that expectation.”
“I don’t fit the expectation,” I said. “The clothes are beside the point. This is never g
oing to work, Jack. People will never believe we’re a couple.”
“It will work,” he said. “It has to. And people are easily suggestible. They’ll believe what we believe.”
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Deep down, neither I nor Jack really believed he could ever love someone like me. And if we couldn’t believe it then this whole plan was doomed to fail.
We spent more than an hour in the little boutique. They didn’t have everything Jack thought I should own, so we moved onto another and then another. It was after four when we hit the last shop.
“This is a lingerie store,” I said peering out through the tinted windows of the limo. “You’re not buying me underwear.”
Jack looked up from his Blackberry, his eyes lighting on me for a half click before shifting to the store across the sidewalk. “I thought you’d want the whole package. You just got all those nice outfits. Don’t you women like the sexy lacy stuff underneath?”
“Yeah. It’s the women who like the sexy, lacy stuff.” I laughed and leaned back in the seat. “I’ve got all I need, thanks.”
His brows went up and he gave me a sideways look. “You do?”
I laughed and looked away. “None of your business.”
Jack’s low chuckle warmed between us. “I was supposed to get you something to eat, but . . .” He checked his watch.
“You have work?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I can’t join you, but I’ll call ahead and have Alan take you to my favorite restaurant. Give them my name and they’ll seat you right away.” He raised his hand to press the intercom to the driver.
“No.” I touched his wrist, a zing of heat sparking through my fingers. I dropped my hand to my lap. “That’s not necessary. I’d rather go to The Sweet Spot and check on things. I’ll get something to eat there.”
“Are you sure? There may not be many perks to being a future Pensione, but getting into exclusive restaurants is one of them,” he said, his charm melting through me. “You should take advantage while you can.”
“Thank you, but if I’m going to be sitting around a restaurant it might as well be my own.” Besides, I was still wearing the navy blue capris and flowered ruffle tank top I’d bought at Target. I was guessing if I needed to use Jack’s name to get a seat, the restaurant would place that seat in the back alley.
“Fine,” he said, casually rubbing his wrist where I’d touched him. Not like it hurt, but clearly he’d felt the pulse of heat between us. Neither of us mentioned it. “If that’s what you want. We’ll drop you off at The Sweet Spot and then I’ll send Alan back for you after he drops me at the office.”
“Don’t be silly. I can take a train,” I said.
“No. You can’t.”
“I’ve been riding the subway for most of my life.” God, how sheltered was he? “I can handle it.”
“I’m sure you can. But you don’t ride the subway anymore. Pensiones don’t ride the subway. Not even future Pensiones.” He pressed the intercom. “Alan. We’re dropping Ms. Affetto at The Sweet Spot.”
Thanks to Jack’s insistence I didn’t stay at my restaurant as long as I would’ve liked. Okay, if I could have, I would’ve stayed until we closed and gone back home to sleep in my own bed. But since that wasn’t an option and Alan was waiting out front in the limo, I couldn’t stop thinking that Jack was stuck at the office until I freed up his driver and the car.
After checking the odds and ends around the diner, cleaning schedules, ordering, shift rotations . . . I gave George a hug, and headed back to my gilded prison in the sky.
And I totally forgot to eat.
By midnight I was starving. The massive apartment was dead quiet. Thanks to the massive windows in nearly every room ambient light lifted the darkness, plus the hallway was lit by little nightlights along the floor. Very cool.
I tiptoed my way to the kitchen, praying not to creak a door or find a loose floorboard. Jack had said I could have whatever I found in the pantry, but I still felt weird sneaking the bread, cheese, and butter. I found a can of tomato soup, but decided to stick with straight grilled cheese and a glass of milk.
Five minutes into the process, nothing else in the apartment stirred and I started feeling like the walls were probably thick enough to muffle a bloody murder. Nice thought.
While the sandwich toasted on the grill I found the remote Jack had mentioned, aimed it at the weird wolf painting and started pushing buttons.
One of them, not sure which, finally split the painting and turned on the TV. After that it was just a matter of channel surfing until I found something decent to watch.
I plated my gooey cheese sandwich, grabbed my tall glass of milk and curled up on the couch to watch a marathon of Save My Restaurant episodes. The sandwich was gone before the end of the first episode. I nursed the glass of milk, feeling more like myself than I had in days.
“It’s nearly one in the morning and you’re watching reality shows?”
I almost jumped out of my skin. I did scream—a little—and I spilled about a half ounce of milk on the hardwood floor. “Jesus, Jack. Wear a bell or something.”
“Sorry,” he said from the doorway, but I could hear he was laughing under his breath.
I stood, grabbing my napkin and sopped up the milk. “Yes, it’s a reality show. My favorite. You might as well know I’m the kind of person who boosts her self-esteem by watching shows about people who are way more screwed up than I am.”
“Save My Restaurant,” he said. “I like this one.”
“You watch this?” I blinked trying to form a mental picture of the filthy rich, sexy business mogul watching reality TV.
Nope. Couldn’t do it.
He shrugged, his suit jacket clutched in one hand, briefcase in the other. He’d rolled up his sleeves again and lost his tie. Damn, he looked good all used up and mussed. “I started watching a few episodes after we met—I mean . . . y’know, after I realized the family didn’t plan to renew your lease. Wanted to know more about what made a diner successful.”
“Huh,” I couldn’t help smiling. “I watch it for the same reason. Learn from other people’s mistakes, ya know? Plus I love the restaurant remodel at the end.”
“Right?” He said stepping farther into the room. “I like the guy who designs. But that one woman designer—dark hair, annoyingly peppy . . . Holy shit. Zero talent. God-awful work.”
“Seriously,” I said. “Why do they keep having her on?”
His smile was warm and natural. “I don’t know.”
Wait. Had we just found something we had in common?
The thought froze my brain like a splash of cold water. I clamped my mouth shut and we stood there staring at each other, neither knowing what to say next. Awkward.
Finally, I lurched into motion, babbling, searching for the remote. “I’m just going to put this stuff in the sink. You can have the TV—”
“No. Wait.” Jack hustled around the couch to me. “You don’t have to go. I mean, finish your milk. If you don’t mind, I’ll keep you company. Maybe watch the next episode with you?”
I straightened. “Oh. Uhm, yeah. Sure.”
Jack laid his jacket and briefcase on the coffee table and sat at the same time I did, leaving the space of a couch cushion between us.
We stared at the TV, but I’d completely lost track of what was happening and for the life of me I couldn’t pick up the thread with Jack sitting a foot away. God, he smelled good, like a summer breeze over fresh-cut grass. What kind of cologne was he wearing?
Finally, I just gave up trying. “You’ve been at the office this whole time?” I asked.
“Yeah. It never ends.” He raked his fingers through his hair, both mussing and straightening the wavy strands. “Always someone up somewhere in the world. Pensione family does business all over the globe.”
“So you’re a workaholic,” I said, stealing a sideways glance at him.
“Not according to my father. I don’t work half as much as I should
, and I don’t take anything seriously.” He had one wave of hair that had curled to stand straight up on the side of his head. I wanted so much to reach over and straighten it. I wanted to know if it was as soft and silky as it looked. Would he be grateful or put off my boldness? It was just too iffy and my courage faltered.
I nodded as if I hadn’t just been thinking of touching him. “So that’s who you’re trying to impress? You’ve got daddy issues.”
“No,” he said, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Hell, no. I do not have daddy issues. I don’t give a damn what that man thinks of me. He’s my mother’s husband. The head of our . . . family—for now, and my boss. But he hasn’t been my father since the day he betrayed my mother with another woman.”
“Oh.” Awkward moment number two. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No. I’m sorry.” He shook his head and leaned back in his seat. “I have no idea why I just blurted that out to you. Like I said, my family’s complicated.”
“If by complicated you mean screwed up, I know exactly what you mean.”
He looked at me, brows tight. “Screwed up is an understatement.”
I nodded. “Mine too. I guess I should tell you I have abandonment issues. Or so says my shrink—who’s actually the wino that sometimes sleeps in the alley behind The Sweet Spot and occasionally comes inside to counsel me. I pay him with a free hot meal and all the coffee he wants.”
“You have a fear of abandonment?” he asked.
“Well that’s what Theo says, but I think it’s just the cheap booze talkin’.” I was trying to make light of a painful fact in my life. Judging by Jack’s studied gaze, it wasn’t working.
I don’t know why I’d brought it up. Just wanted to make him feel less dysfunctional by putting my own dysfunction on display. Brilliant plan.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Nothing. It’s been years. I’m over it,” I said, but Jack just stared at me with those intense green eyes. I could almost feel him pulling the information out of me. I sighed. “My mother was killed in a car accident when I was eight. My dad never wanted to talk about it, or her. Just said she left us.”
Marriage Claws Page 7