This morning, I take the easy way out and level with Massimo, calling him early on Monday morning so that he can get someone else to cover my shift on Tuesday. ‘It’s a chance for me to do some networking, Massimo, and I can’t pass it up. I’ll do Friday night again if you need me.’
There. Massimo would have been happier if I’d called in sick, rather than hear how I am doing my damnedest to escape working at his restaurant. But what the hell? My integrity is intact and my conscience is clear.
As it happens, Massimo sounds quite pleased. He says he’s fine for Friday. He’ll ring and tell me when he needs me for a lunchtime shift.
One of the things about working evenings is that I have all my free time during the day, when everyone else is at work. It has some advantages. If I had the money to shop for instance, I could assemble a wardrobe with style and flare. If I had some acting work on, I could rehearse during the day.
That’s all hypothetical. Since I have no money and no acting work, I use the time to keep in shape. People don’t realize what a part physical fitness plays in acting. During my first semester at drama school it felt more like gymnastics at times, and since I’m what is known as “curvy”, not naturally slim like Phoebe, I have to work at it. I was out running at six every morning, while Phoeb was in bed. I remember we had to be able to jump onto a table from a standing position, and I never thought I’d do it. But I did. And I still can, just about, unlike Phoebe.
Keeping in shape is good, though I’m still not sure how many directors are looking for the “real woman” shape offered by yours truly, Jana Kidd, rather than the super-svelte nymph. Body fascism is alive and kicking in the Hollywood Reich for sure.
I mentioned my father. The body shape issue is one of the “things” I have with my father. He’s a TV producer in LA, and as Phoebe and probably the rest of mankind would point out, he’s easily my best chance of engineering my “big break” into TV. I won’t go to him, though. Not if my life depended on it. I’ve deliberately stayed in New York so that no one’s even going to think I’ve asked my father to pull strings for me. Hopefully no one in NYC will even know him, although that’s something of a long shot even three thousand miles away.
My father wasn’t happy at all that I wanted to act. He says the right things and says he loves me. But he doesn’t believe in me. He always told me how tough it was going to be, and that he didn’t agree with me going into acting. ‘It’s hard, Jana. It’s so political, and it’s about who you know. You’re too sincere. Half of those girls on TV have slept their way to the top. You don’t know what they’ve been through.’
He thinks he’s trying to protect me, but he has to realize he can’t do that anymore. I don’t want to spill my whole guts about this one, but the body shape thing is just one of those things. He once told me I had the wrong body shape for a “real acting career”. He said my natural shape “won’t make it any easier in your career”.
So you can see why I work like a maniac on the fitness. I still run six miles every morning before I start thinking about what to do in the rest of the day. I use a few free weights and stretching routines in the apartment after that. My budget doesn’t stretch to gym membership, but I do what I can, and it’s the only thing I’m really dedicated to.
I’m finishing up my stretching in the apartment when the phone rings. Massimo.
‘Can you come in today, Jana? Lunchtime? I need you lunchtime, is that OK?’
Unexpected and short notice – but it’s not like I’m busy. I shower, dress for work and get on my way. I’m glad I can help Massimo and it gets the extra shift over with. It’s just about 12.30 when I arrive at the polished glass door of La Serenissima. I can see Massimo behind the door, and he unlocks to let me in.
It’s like an explosion has gone off in my head, with questions flying everywhere. Massimo is unlocking the door, and yet it’s lunchtime, so why is the door locked? La Serenissima is closed Mondays. I hadn’t given it a thought, but the restaurant is closed on Mondays. What am I doing here? And why have I dressed in my work clothes of white shirt and black skirt, when Massimo is wearing jeans, black cashmere sweater and loafers? I glance behind me as I go through the glass door, as if I’m doing something clandestine; as if Massimo and I are up to something. There’s something guilty in his eyes for sure. I stiffen next to Massimo. What’s he up to?
The restaurant is dark save for the spotlights above the bar, which create a pool of warm, cheerful light. It’s eerie and mysterious to be here in the dark, and it’s so quiet. I’m lost for words, but I guess I’m looking nervously at Massimo, as if to say, ‘What the hell?’
‘It’s OK. I pay you for the shift,’ says Massimo, guiltily. ‘Someone wants to speak to you.’ He doesn’t elaborate. He merely flicks his eyes towards the other end of the restaurant, near the bar. Then he disappears.
In the shadows, I make out the tall, slim form of a man, lounging back on one of the restaurant chairs, and I know instinctively who it is.
Chapter 5: La Serenissima, New York City Monday 8 May
It is of course Mr Dark and Mysterious from the night before. The bright, warm light of the spotlights catches the gold and green of his eyes as he steps out of the shadows, and I can’t help but look at him again. He’s wearing a suit, flowing over his sculpted physique just as it did before, but it’s not the same suit. It’s not quite the same cut. His shirt is crisp linen, not silk and there’s no tie this time.
I walk over, warily, acutely aware of my drab working clothes. It hasn’t escaped his notice either. He’s checked me with an instantaneous flick of the eyes, but he’s smiling at least, beckoning me to join him at the bar. I look round. Massimo has vanished into his office, quite deliberately, I’m sure. I’m alone with this man.
‘I’m John,’ he says. ‘My assistant, Carmen, realized she’d forgotten to tip you yesterday,’ he says. ‘She’s mortified, so I came over to make amends. Will you join me for a drink?’
Mortified my ass! That hard-faced woman knew damn well she left no tip. ‘It’s no problem,’ I say, staring at lying eyes. “John” was compounding the insult by summoning me across town to tell me this. ‘Massimo told me you left a tip with him.’
‘God knows what you thought of me,’ he says, smiling a little once more. Somehow I get the impression he doesn’t smile that much. Mostly there’s that danger about him. Which makes it all the more charming when he does smile… like now. It’s a beautiful smile in a beautiful face. Winning, charming. But dangerously charming and with those luscious lips, most women would forgive him anything.
Not me, however, even though there’s hardly anything to forgive. He is being an arrogant jerk. I give him a bogus half-smile back to let him know he’ll have to do better than that.
‘Let me get you a drink,’ he says. He makes that sweet, disarming smile again.
‘I’m fine.’
‘No, you’re not,’ he says. ‘You’re pissy. Angry.’ He’s already behind the bar, his long, pianist’s finger trailing along the spirit bottles, making his selection, dancing around like a pro cocktail waiter. He picks out a quart of Tanqueray and grabs the bottle, flipping it like Tom Cruise, movie bartender.
‘I guess I am a little less than ecstatic,’ I say trying not to look at his sculpted butt as he selects a lime from the bowl, ‘Yeah, I am pissy that you had Massimo drag me down here when the place isn’t even open.’ I glare to make my point.
‘I wanted to apologize in person,’ he says. ‘And I wanted to make you a drink.’
‘That’s lame, and you know it.’
John gives me a sidelong look and licks his lips, but says nothing. It’s sweet and lascivious at the same time. He takes a lime and carefully slices it down the middle, like he’s some kind of chef. Then he fits the halves together and squeezes between both palms, the juice flooding into the glass. There’s something about this that is so sexual. Perhaps it’s the skill, self-assurance and strength. Or the flooding juice thing, or just the burst of
citrus scent. Or the tiny, tiny goosebumps I think I can see on the soft skin of his neck. It makes him seem so soft and delicate, yet he’s obviously big and dangerous to be with.
‘It is lame, I guess,’ he says, grabbing a handful of ice. ‘Perhaps I should be honest.’
‘Honest would be good,’ I say, trying to sound as pissy as before, even though John’s charm is washing over me. Any girl ought to run for the hills when a guy like this talks about being honest, but his scent and sophistication are mingling with the lime and aromatic gin. I notice there are flowers, white lilies on the black Italian marble of the bar. He’s prepared that specially. Flowers, lighting, limes right there to hand. The lips, his male scent laden with promise. It’s a mini sensual explosion.
‘OK. I’ll be honest, if you’ll do one thing for me,’ he says, luring me.
‘Just one thing?’
‘You might even enjoy it.’ He says, filling both glasses with fresh tonic and stirring. A simple drink done perfectly. Like his look – dark suit, white shirt, but done perfectly. He hands me the cool, alluring, fizzing creation. ‘Drink. Drink this with me and I’ll level with you. I’ll be honest.’
I say nothing, but swing my behind onto the leather barstool, under the watchful eye of this sexy operator who calls himself only John. That look he just threw at my ass had plenty of honesty. I take a sip, trying to look cool as I gaze into those golden eyes. ‘OK,’ I say, keeping up the semi-passive-aggressive attitude. ‘Honesty. What’s your sorry excuse for hauling me down here like I was a member of your harem?’
‘Ha! Am I that easy to read?’ He says this, but he’s not the least embarrassed. ‘OK, let’s do honesty. So… yesterday…’ he says, ‘I saw your outrageously fantastic ass and that wonderful cascade of hair, and I…’
‘Just had to make me get dressed for work and drag myself down here to hear that. I think I’ve got the picture.’ I have definitely got the picture. It’s amazing how that kind of flattery can send a thrill, flipping over and over inside me when it comes from a man like this – and he knows it. But a self-respecting woman has to put a stop to it.
‘I had a business dinner so I couldn’t… get your number last night…’ he says. What crap.
‘And you couldn’t leave a tip either.’ Why am I so obsessed with the tip? The money Massimo gave me was more than I would usually get anyway. And it makes me look so grasping.
‘My assistant, Carmen, made a mistake there. She normally deals with things like that.’
He sounds like a corny pick up artist – but the thing is, a guy with these looks and his financial status does not need to do this. And his eyes are so convincing… and his scent and the divine drink he just made me are going to my head. I feel guilty for making a big deal about it. Suddenly I’m even more aware of his elegant, muscular maleness, just a foot or so away from me. I pull at the hem of my skirt, which is quite short as I perch on the bar stool. I wonder why I wear those stay-up stockings, and feel I want to pull them up. I think of my underwear. What will he think of it?
Why the hell does he make me think like this?
We can dress it up but this man has just basically stated that he dragged me over here because he wants to have sex with me. I realize all the drinks and the lilies on the bar and the charm were carefully contrived, but even that fact is in danger of being overwhelmed by the sexual charge between us.
I need to do something. Perhaps I should lay some honesty on him in return.
‘Carmen made a mistake?’ I say. ‘Perhaps she knows you too well. Perhaps she knew you’d seen a piece of ass, that you’d use the tip as an excuse to bring me down here and get some action in your lunch break. No wonder your “assistant” looks like she just swallowed a wasp…’
My eyes must be blazing, but his eyes are just laughing back at me. He really doesn’t care if he pissed me off, does he? Or does he enjoy it? I realize I’ve just done that thing where I look into his eyes and play with my hair. Is it a giveaway? I look down immediately.
John coolly places his drink on the bar, and leans over to me. Am I just dazzled by his looks? At any rate he is too quick and too unexpected for me, and his lips are on mine and his fingers are in my hair, on the back of my head. His mouth is cool, tasting exquisitely of the gin and lime and his lips are so sweet and delicate. All the tension and emotion are popping and conflicting all over my body, but his cool tongue is making me melt. My nipples harden and I wonder if he’ll notice. He pulls away and strokes my cheek tenderly with the back of his finger.
‘Is that honest enough for you?’ he says. In fact his eyes convey that thought before he opens his mouth.
I gasp. My stomach has just turned a double somersault, and yet I don’t even know the guy’s second name. I stand up from the barstool, self-conscious about my skirt again, flustered, pulling down at the hem. Again I can’t help touching my hair and looking in his eyes, then down in front of me.
It was the worst thing I could have done. He stands closer to me. I step back instinctively, with my back to the cold marble of the bar. ‘I love it when you play with your hair, then look away like that,’ he murmurs, then he bends gently forward, one finger on my chin and kisses me softly once more on my lips, taking a fraction longer this time. I feeI him inhaling my hair. His tongue swirls momentarily around the shell of my ear, and it’s so sexy. I don’t like anyone touching my ears, but this is the most erotic sensation I’ve ever… My eyes close slowly and I arch my head back. Oh, heavens.
He kisses me again, one hand lightly on my ribcage through my cotton blouse. I suck his tongue lightly, and it is wonderfully cool and sexy. My palms are against his belly and chest, as if I want to push him away. But not yet. My hands are against solid muscle here, so I can’t help feeling the subtle curves of a honed male physique beneath the linen shirt. I am enjoying him, and he groans as he kisses me again, a deeply sexy groan of appreciation and desire.
The flesh softens between my legs. I am holding him back slightly with my palms, but I want to give in. If I let him get any closer I know I am going to have an erection in my belly, and that’s going too far. He kisses me once more, making a small moan of lust. I don’t think he meant to do this. He meant a short kiss to tempt, but he’s gotten carried away.
‘You are so sexy,’ he says, with his beautiful lips in my hair. His murmuring voice in my ear… Resonating, erotic – it makes my body shudder, all the way to the pit of my abdomen, which is turning more somersaults. I realize my panties are damp, drenched. My arms weaken. I want to feel his erection against me.
‘Wow,’ he breathes in the sexiest, deepest voice I think I have ever heard, like his long, strong finger has just trailed upwards between my legs and stroked, pulling smoothly over my clitoris. It drains me of energy, like he just put me in some kind of force field. At the same time his fingertips on me feel so light and tender, touching my ribs or my hair so delicately. There was tenderness in that kiss, a tenderness that is so erotic. It feels so real, but surely it can’t be.
Suddenly, it’s like we both come to our senses at the same moment. We pull back and look at each other eyes, with a hint of embarrassment.
‘I, err, didn’t mean for that to happen,’ he says, but with the warmest smile.
‘Like hell! You brought me down here to do exactly that,’ I say. ‘Of course you meant it.’
‘I did. But I… didn’t want to come on so… strong,’ he says. ‘It’s not my style… It’s the gazing in my eyes, and the hair thing.’
Do I believe this? Massimo is right back there in his office. He won’t come out. That smooth Italian bastard is colluding at the whole thing. Suddenly, for a second I feel a flash of resentment for the whole male species. This John, Massimo… and Josh Lake who is fucking my room-mate just to spite me.
I push him back. John turns coolly to take a drink, swishing it round his mouth and swallowing. His neck is long and beautiful, with those tiny goosebumps, but he too is breathing hard. He’s not faking it. ‘I lik
e you,’ he says again in that rich, dark voice, and with the primitive intensity in his eyes. Those eyes that can’t look at me all of a sudden, and are fixated on his drink. Then he turns them on me. He looks like he wants to carry me off to his cave and fuck me. No, not exactly that. He looks at me with longing too. He looks the least like a man interested in casual lunchtime sex that I can imagine. Yet that’s exactly what this would be.
‘OK,’ he says, backing off a few inches. ‘That kind of… just happened,’ he said. ‘I’m not used to losing my cool.’
He does look kind of sorry, but a little hot and bothered as well. Is it that this guy knows how to get inside my head? Or that I was overwhelmed and let him get to me?
‘You should be sorry,’ I say, taking the chance to say my piece. ‘If you say you like me, why can’t you ask for my number like a normal guy? Maybe try a date or two, do something nice and impress a girl. Would that be so hard? Or is it that you’re used to having whatever and whoever you want?’ I feel my face flushing.
In fact he had made an effort. The lighting, the flowers, the perfect drink. In his own way, he had.
‘I…’ he says. ‘I see what it might look like. But you’re not just “whoever or whatever”.’
‘You made me a drink, you tried a little charm,’ I say, all spikily, determined to stop him charming me again. ‘What are you saying? That’s more than you normally would do?’
That charm was working, Mister. It still is. A wild cocktail of gin, emotion and erotic adrenalin is swirling around inside my head. That kiss was so hot, but something inside me hates him for it. I resent his sexuality; it feels like he’s using it as a kind of weapon. I even resent his tenderness, in case it’s a trick. Maybe Josh Lake has twisted my brain against hot men somehow.
Never Understand Part One ( Johnthen Trent Adult Romance 1) Page 3