One Hell of a Guy

by Tessa Blake

  Vivienne squawked a little, but in the end, he persuaded her—with a combination of calm reasoning and vicious threats that left his head aching—to use the blood Lily had left on his handkerchief to perform a ceremony to bind Pusboil to Lily.

  “… and to report any unusual activity to Gabriel at the earliest opportunity, and to protect her against all threats to her well-being.” The imp repeated the last of the words back to Vivienne, who then smeared the bloody part of Gabriel’s handkerchief against the twin mirrors in her special compact.

  “That ought to do it,” she said, snapping the compact shut and returning it to her purse. “Unless you’ve got some other ridiculous errands you’d like me to waste an imp on. Would you like me to send him down to the corner street vendor for a hot dog?”

  “Shut up, Mother,” Gabriel said pleasantly. “And make sure the place gets shut down properly. I’m going home.”

  31

  The intercom on his desk buzzed, and Gabriel pressed the button. “Yes?”

  “She’s on her way back, sir.” Pamela had been instructed to send Lily right down to his office as soon as she arrived.

  “Thank you,” he said, and nodded at Renee. “Go ahead and send those over by messenger; I want signatures by end of day.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “Leave the door open for Lily, if you would.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said again, and if he hadn’t been looking at her, he might not have caught the smile that ghosted around the corners of her lips.

  “Is something funny?” he asked, not unkindly. He liked Renee. They had a businesslike relationship, but she’d been known to drop a one-liner from time to time, and he thought she was probably a fun person outside of this office.

  “No, sir,” she said. “I just— I don’t know how to say it exactly but … I liked her.”

  “You hardly spoke to her,” he said.

  “No, absolutely,” she replied. “And I don’t honestly think she said two words to me. I was just thinking I was glad she was coming back, and how weird is that?”

  He shook his head a little. “She brings something to a room,” he said, thoughtfully.

  Nodding, Renee picked up the contracts they’d been discussing. “Yes,” she said.

  Lily entered, smiled at Renee, and they exchanged polite greetings. Gabriel was silent, just drinking in the sight of her. No sundress today, perhaps because it was slightly overcast—but it was still humid, and she’d chosen a long white drape of something gauzy that crisscrossed at breasts and back and spilled elegantly to her ankles, which were wrapped in silvery cord attached to her sandals. The silver was echoed in interlocking dangles at each ear that brushed against her neck in a way that made him want to lay his lips where they touched.

  He shook the thought away. He wasn’t a teenager, damn it, to get aroused every time a pretty girl was in the room, even if the girl in question was dressed like a Greek goddess come to life.

  Yes, she definitely brought something to a room.

  “How did it go with your mother?” Lily asked him, once Renee had left.

  “It went fine,” Gabriel said. “She won’t be bothering you any further.”

  Lily nodded, changed the subject. “Let’s talk about lunch,” she said.

  He loved that about her, that she would trust him to handle it. Since he wasn’t in a position to tell her about Pusboil, and he didn’t much want to talk about his mother’s promises to him, he went along happily with the subject change. “I was thinking, if you have time, of maybe the tasting menu at Luc. It would take several hours, but I don’t need to be here this afternoon, and—”

  “No,” she said, very firmly, and came over to lean against the desk.

  He could have reached out and touched her, grazed his hand along the line of her hip where the filmy dress clung to her, but he opted to keep his hands to himself, as he was only just getting his libido under control again.

  “I’m sorry?” he said, distracted but quite sure she’d just turned down lunch at Luc. “No?”

  “No,” she repeated. “You’re not taking me to lunch. Especially not at some fancy place where a meal costs more than my rent.”

  “Now you’re just exaggerating—” he began.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” she said. “But I didn’t like your mother calling me a gold-digger. I don’t care about your money.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” he asked. “I didn’t give that accusation a single thought beyond how ridiculous it was.”

  “Even so,” she said. “I had an idea, last night, when I was lying there not sleeping.”

  He was pleased to know he wasn’t the only one who’d had trouble sleeping. He shouldn’t feel so alone when she was somewhere else, and he thought perhaps he ought to worry about that, but to hell with it.

  So to speak.

  “Okay,” he said. “What idea would that be?”

  “That idea would be, your mother had just made that crack about the dollar signs in my eyes, and here you were asking me out to lunch and I knew—I just knew—that it would involve … well, a lot of dollar signs.”

  “Lily,” he said, patiently, “I have a lot of dollars.”

  She scowled at him. “I know. Believe me, I kind of wish you didn’t.”

  “No, you don’t,” he said. “Being a decent person and not the gold-digger my mother accused you of, you would certainly continue to like me if I lost it all tomorrow, and that’s nice, but it doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the food, the jet—”

  “Fine,” she said. “Yes, it’s all very nice, your dollars and what they buy, but here’s what I was thinking: I’ve lived in this city for two years. In all that time, I’ve had a day or two off every week, right? And I’ve managed to entertain myself, and keep busy, and have fun.”

  “I’m sure you have,” he said.

  “So what I want to do is take you to lunch.”

  “Take me to lunch?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ve been thinking of it as a poverty date. It’ll be fun.” She smiled, brilliantly, and his heart stuttered in his chest. She was breathtaking, and she didn’t even know it.

  “Okay,” he said again. A poverty date. She was an absolute delight. “Where?”

  “Well, when I have a day off, I spend it in a few different ways, depending on weather and time of year and stuff,” she said. “But for my very favorite day? There’s a diner in Harlem that I love, and then it’s only a short subway ride up to the Cloisters. Between the gardens and the galleries, that will fill the whole afternoon, and it’s one of my favorite places in the city.”

  “And you want me to take the subway to a greasy spoon and then go look at religious statuary, so you can show me how much fun it is to be destitute?”

  She punched him, lightly, on the upper arm. “Jerk,” she said. “It’s not a greasy spoon; it’s a very nice Polish place. Best pierogi in Manhattan.”

  “Well, then,” he said, poking fun even though he already knew he would say yes, would indulge her in this whim, and probably in any other she asked. “I can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more than a bellyful of pierogi, followed by a crushing death from having the sheer audacity to show my face at a museum dedicated to … the opposing side.”

  Her face sobered. “Are you serious?” she asked. “Is it dangerous?”

  He shook his head, gave in to that impulse to stroke the hip closest to him. “No, love,” he said. “I’ve nothing to fear from man’s monuments to the things he can’t understand. I’ve attended Mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and the place didn’t fall down around me. Let’s have a poverty date, then, and see what we make of it.”

  Her blinding smile was enough to make him wish he’d thought of it himself.

  32

  She was right about the pierogi. That was one thing to remember, if he ever thought he knew more about food than she did just because he could show up for the tasting lunch at Luc with no reservations. The diner in Harlem, as
promised, served them the best pierogi he’d ever had, and a number of other things too, which they ate until he groaned and pushed his plate away.

  “That’s one thing about your fancy restaurants,” she said, smirking.

  “What?”

  “They only just feed you enough. Polish grandmothers?” She pointed to the woman working in the open kitchen, who did indeed appear to be somebody’s Polish granny. “They feed you till you have to be rolled home.”

  He laughed. “Let’s settle up and roll us off to the A train instead, yes? You’ve still things to show me.”

  “I sure do,” she said, and grabbed the check, sprung up to pay at the cash register. “You sit right there, Mr. Moneybags, this one’s on me.”

  They took the subway to 190th Street, and it was a short enough distance from there that when Lily suggested they walk the rest of the way, he agreed wholeheartedly. The clouds still covered the sun, but it was warm and humid, making him glad he’d worn a lightweight suit. That thought made him smile, as he considered whether Lily’s idea of a poverty date included a suit that ran to five figures.

  She swung their hands between them as a child would, which he found incredibly endearing, and occasionally rested her head against his upper arm, which made the walking slow but incredibly sweet.

  They checked in using her Met membership, and she suggested they start outside. So they strolled through the gardens while she pointed out the different types of plants and explained they were planted according to descriptions from Medieval art and manuscripts.

  “It’s like stepping back in time,” she said.

  “Indeed it is.” He paused a moment, looked around him carefully. “I had no idea all this was here—or, I suppose I knew it was here, but I had no idea it was so purposeful.”

  “I’d have a garden like this, if I could,” she said. “Instead, I’ve got a few plants that can live in the pitiful light that comes in between other buildings for five minutes in the morning.”

  “You’ve said you like your apartment,” he said.

  She nodded. “I do. But the city—it can suffocate you, you know?”

  He didn’t know, not really. He loved it, loved the life and the intensity of it, and had never thought to seek out stillness like what she was showing him here.

  He made a mental note to look into acquiring some green growing things for his apartment, something that would draw her there regularly to care for it. The entire south side of his apartment was windows, and he figured there was enough light to indulge her in just about any horticultural fantasy she might have.

  “Let’s go back inside,” she said. “There are two galleries I love best, and one of them has this statue of an angel … I come up here sometimes and just sit until I lose track of time, looking at it.”

  That was intriguing indeed, so he let her lead him back in past where they’d checked in, through reclaimed and repurposed doorways, until they came to the room she was talking about. The statue, titled “Angel of the Annunciation,” was fine enough, though he didn’t see why it in particular should draw her when there was so much else to look at. He made polite noises, then left her looking at it while he wandered the room, looking at a series of painted and gilded panels and an impressive wool tapestry depicting some episodes in the life of Christ.

  Lily came to join him, looked at the tapestry for a moment, solemnly. “Man’s Redeemer,” she said.

  “So I hear,” he said.

  She nudged him with her elbow. “It’s still a good story,” she said. “Be nice.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever been told to be nice by someone who knows as well as you do that it’s not really in my nature,” he said.

  “Oh, baloney.” She took his hand, leaned her head on him again as she had while they were walking. “Anyone would say the same, at this moment, looking at this beautiful thing and hearing you take potshots at the story behind it.”

  He laughed a little then, because she was right. He should enjoy it for what it was.

  “I seriously had no idea all of this was here,” he said. “I’m sure I’ve paid for some of it; they fundraise like champions and I know I’ve been to several galas where what I paid for a plate would buy any of these pieces. But I don’t visit. Not like this.”

  “The Cloisters?” she asked. “Or the Met in general?”

  “The Met in general, actually,” he said. “I show up when I need to be seen, or accept some recognition—all those fundraisers, after all—but I haven’t had an interest in seeing any of it.”

  “You haven’t?” she said, and looked appalled. “But … there’s so much. You’re missing so much. Will you go with me, another day?”

  “Of course.” He would go anywhere with her, he realized. He wanted to see whatever she wanted to show him—more, he wanted to see it through her eyes, from her perspective. This woman he hadn’t known a week ago had already changed him, had already become a part of him. At this point, he wasn’t sure what he would do without her.

  And he wasn’t sure he minded as much as he should.

  33

  “Let me be in charge of dinner,” Gabriel said, linking his fingers with hers as the A train swayed and bumped them through the 81st Street station without stopping. They were standing, as the seats had all been full when they boarded, and Lily was rather enjoying hanging onto the overhead bar with him, feeling his body nudge hers from time to time with the motion of the subway car. Every contact gave her a little zing, and because he didn’t seem to be aware of it she loved it all the more—loved the way her every molecule sat up and took notice when he was near, even when he genuinely wasn’t trying.

  She looked up at him and smiled. “Tired of being a poor person already?” she asked.

  He smiled back, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that made her whole body flush, and shook his head. “No, I could quite enjoy being poor with you. But it occurs to me if we get off at Columbus Circle, there’s a restaurant I’d love to show you only a few blocks away.”

  “I’m not really dressed for—”

  “You look gorgeous no matter what you’re wearing, and it’s not formal,” he said. “Plus they know me there. Marigold, on 54th.”

  “I’m not dressed for Marigold,” she said. “NYC Monthly did a spread on them last month, and I saw the prices on the menu.”

  “You’re not paying, and you’re dressed perfectly fine,” he said. “Would I take you somewhere you would be embarrassed?”

  There was a woman clinging to the overhead bar beside them, a black woman maybe five years older than Lily, who had been killing time with a thin paperback romance novel since she got on at Amsterdam. She sighed a little, looked up from her book, and nudged Lily with her elbow. “Look, lady, if you don’t want to go have a fancy dinner with him, I’ll go in your place—and you can go home and make hot dogs for my kids, seeing as that’s all they’ll eat. Sound like a plan?”

  Lily stifled a giggle and shook her head. “I’m sorry, no,” she said, solemnly. “I think I’m gonna keep him.”

  The woman nodded, looked resigned. “I figured,” she said, and went back to reading her book.

  They came up from underground at Columbus Circle and turned to head down Broadway, still holding hands. Gabriel was quiet, perhaps lost in thought, and she was content to watch the people stream by, wondering as she always did where they were going, what they were doing. This four- or five-block stretch of Broadway had a branch of every bank in the known world, or so it seemed, plus hundreds of office buildings, so a lot of the people streaming by were in business suits of varying degrees of severity. But mixed in with the expected were flashes of the unexpected: a boy and girl, maybe sixteen, dressed in artfully ripped head-to-toe black, looking into each other’s eyes and grinning the idiot grins of teenagers in love; an old, old woman, paper-thin and wearing a baggy housedress, walking—or perhaps being walked by—an enormous barrel-chested bulldog in a pink collar; an honest-to-goodness clown in full co
stume and face paint, headed who knew where, smoking a cigarette and ignoring everyone around him, even as he was repeatedly hailed by passers-by.

  “I love this city,” she said.

  “Even though it suffocates you?” he asked.

  “Even though,” she answered.

  He smiled down at her, brushed the ends of her hair back behind her shoulders and ran his fingers across her collarbone. “You’re a woman of contradictions,” he said, and leaned down to take her mouth in a scorching kiss, right there in the middle of the sidewalk.

  “Get a room,” snarled a banker-type trying to get past them, and Lily broke out in giggles.

  “Still love the city?” Gabriel asked.

  “You bet I do,” she said.

  Marigold, which was currently riding high on a gimmick of serving everything with edible flowers, was very low-key on the inside, which she had seen in the NYC Monthly spread. She hadn’t been prepared for the sprightly music, though, or the cheerful demeanor of the wait staff. Manhattan waiters ran the gamut from surly to coldly competent; they were not, generally, what she’d have called nice.

  But the waiter who greeted them and walked her through the selections on and off menu was downright friendly. And he knew his business, suggesting an amuse-bouche of meltingly tender steak tartare sprinkled with peppery mustard flowers, and a cheese course consisting of a single pristine smear of goat cheese adorned with sweet pea shoots, served with brittle but piping-hot crostini.

  “He decanted the champagne,” she whispered across the table, when he’d served their cheese course and not-so-bubbly champagne.

  Gabriel smiled. “Taste it, and you’ll see why,” he said, “It’s a young vintage, and will benefit from trading some of its liveliness for extra expression.”

  A week ago, she’d have thought him hopelessly pretentious. Now, she knew when he said stuff like that he actually knew what he was talking about, so she did as he said and had a taste. Having been allowed to lose a bit of its fizz, the wine had opened up a bit, developed an interesting, earthy sort of note she wouldn’t have expected to get from a champagne.