“I’ll think about it,” I said and left the chamber to another hopeful sinner.
Chapter Eight
“Why do you always wear a hat, Nonno?”
I sat on the end of my bed, kicking my feet back and forth while my grandfather got ready for his date. That’s right, my stodgy old grandparents still had “dates.” It was a custom in our family to watch them go through the motions every week. Get ready. Get “picked up.” Escort each other to dinner at Tino’s or, if Nonno got good tips that week, maybe to a show.
Nonna was upstairs with my sisters—females needed more space, Nonno would say. And he was right. I had snuck up there once before to see for myself all the crap the girls used to get themselves together. Razors and nylons and something called a girdle that looked like a restraining device. Kate said it was to make Nonna look skinny, but I didn’t understand why that was needed. She was only five feet tall, could fit into one of Nonno’s pant legs.
Nonno kept his stuff in my room for this reason. I watched from the bed while he slapped on his aftershave and combed oil through his salt-and-pepper hair until it shone almost black again. Then he put on his clothes and transformed himself from the humble chauffeur into the swanky man I’d seen in his wedding pictures.
Undershirt, over-shirt, socks, pants.
“Two shirts!” I exclaimed the first time I watched him. “What the heck do you need two shirts for, Nonno? Aren’t you hot?”
“I’m not a heathen,” he’d said. “She don’t need to see my nipples through, capito?”
Tie, tie clip, vest, handkerchief. Shoes I could see my reflection in, then jacket. It took a lot of clothes to look as good as my grandfather.
“A gentleman always wears a hat, Matthew,” he said, his faint Neapolitan accent thicker after an extra negroni. “You go out without a hat, you look like a farmer. Like you’re just getting off work. You want to show the girl you love you don’t care about how she sees you? Love is respect, Matthew. You remember that.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the hostess said again. “I really can’t seat you until your entire party has arrived.”
I checked my watch—it was my good one, my grandfather’s Rolex that I only brought out on special occasions. I already felt like an idiot. This was supposed to be a casual dinner, but somehow I’d still managed to wear the new suit I’d picked up from my tailor yesterday and get a fresh shave after work before heading into the city. All dolled up and no one to meet.
Nina was late. Thirty minutes, to be exact—long enough that I was starting to wonder if she was going to show at all. It had taken every ounce of charm I had to stop the hostess from giving up our table fifteen minutes ago. Farina wasn’t the most stylish restaurant in New York, but this was Friday night. Everywhere was either booked or busy, and there was a throng of people waiting on the sidewalk.
“She’s going to be here any minute,” I lied before turning on my best charm offensive. “If she doesn’t, maybe you can join me, sweetheart.”
Cheesy, sure. But it still worked. I couldn’t lose this table.
“Sir…” The hostess, a pretty young thing with curly hair and freckles, giggled.
“Come on,” muttered one of the customers waiting behind me.
I ignored them and winked at the hostess. “Do me a favor, honey? Five more minutes. If she doesn’t show, you can give these jokers our table and I’ll buy you a drink when your shift is up.”
“My. I didn’t know I was so replaceable.”
The hostess’s grin disappeared at the sound of Nina’s voice. I swung around to find the crowd had parted around her like the Red Sea. And why not? The woman was a vision of light in a parade of black.
“Did you expect me to eat alone, doll?”
She examined me a moment more, then relaxed her shoulders. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m sorry I’m late. The traffic across town was absolutely terrible. Thirty-Fourth was a parking lot.”
“Should’ve taken the train. I’ll stand with the rats if it saves me twenty minutes.”
Nina wrinkled her long nose. I wondered if she had ever actually been inside the subway system.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“Think nothing of it.” I leaned in to kiss her cheek. “And no one could replace you, doll.”
There was a slight hum in recognition. The faint scent of roses washed over me.
“I’ll show you to your table, sir.”
I stepped aside to let Nina pass and give myself a minute to recover—well, as much as I could watching her sway through the restaurant. She turned more than a few heads just by her grace. It wasn’t the color—again, she wasn’t wearing any, just a simple coat a few shades lighter than sand, which she handed to the hostess to reveal a cream-colored dress with bell-shaped sleeves. Nothing fancy, nothing flashy, other than a few diamonds glinting at her ears and another hanging from her neck. And, of course, the rock on her finger. But everything was subtly perfect. There wasn’t a golden hair out of place.
Real money, I was starting to realize, wasn’t loud. It was in the details. It was in the sheen.
“Can I take your hat, sir?”
I gave the hostess my trench coat and fedora, noting the way Nina’s eyes followed them from my head to her hands.
“Do you always wear a hat like that?” she asked as I sat down. “I don’t remember it the night we met, but you had it on last week, too.”
“Usually, yeah,” I said. “It was pouring that night. I think I left it home to dry.”
“You don’t see a lot of men wearing them anymore.”
I shook my head, overcome with a sense of déjà vu. Another conversation about my penchant for traditional menswear. One that led to more…suggestive moments.
“It fits you,” she said as she fingered my tie. Her thumb drifted over the clip, toying with the chain. “It’s very…dignified.”
“Dignified?”
She tugged on my tie, and the pull sent a current straight down to my dick. Goddamn.
She cocked her head. “It fits you. Even if you do have lovely…hair.”
Nina’s hands slipped around my head and sank into my hair.
Then she brushed her lips against mine, and this time she took control, her mouth setting the pace of a kiss that practically stopped my heart. Jesus Christ. This wasn’t some innocent angel. She was a temptress after all.
“Matthew.” Her breath danced around us in clouds of white. “Please. Somewhere close.”
Close, close. Where the fuck was nice enough down here that I could actually take a woman like this?
“The Grace,” I blurted out. “It’s maybe two blocks away.”
Nina finally relaxed, and her smile bloomed, transforming her as much as her laugh. “Take me there.”
“It’s a hat,” I said matter-of-factly. “It keeps my head warm.” Good fuckin’ God, I needed a glass of wine, if only to ward off the flashbacks. Every other word out of her mouth was bringing them up like grenades.
We perused our menus for a few minutes, though I already knew what I wanted. I just needed time to recover myself.
“It’s very pasta-heavy, isn’t it?” Nina remarked.
“It’s Italian,” I said. “What did you expect, sushi?”
She looked up. “Of course not.”
“You can just peck at an appetizer if you want, doll, but you’ll look like an asshole.”
“I’ll look like a what?”
I grinned. “Excuse my French. A very pretty asshole, but an asshole nonetheless. I just mean you’ll look like a jerk.” I waved around the room. “This place is old school. You don’t just waltz in, order an entree that could fit in your palm, and make a meal on Chardonnay so your pearls still fit.”
“That’s rude. I’m not even wearing pearls.”
“I’m just saying, you need to be willing to eat like a real person. What do you think, can you do that, princess?”
I couldn’t help it. I was goading her on purpose just l
ike I did with her cousin. Maybe there was a gene in this family that made me predisposed to fuck with them. Maybe it was the two cocktails I’d pounded around the corner. Maybe it was the mind-fuck of waiting half an hour for a woman I had no chance in hell of fucking again. But it was all getting to me. She was sitting there like the Queen of fuckin’ Sheba, without even a strand of hair out of place. All I could think about was what a mess I’d been since I met her.
And how I wanted to mess her up too.
Her face flushed. Not with desire. With anger. “Perhaps this was a bad idea.”
She rose and placed her napkin calmly on the table before turning to leave. My heart turned to stone.
“Nina, wait.”
She stilled and looked over her shoulder. Her eyes were cold, but hurt. The fact that I’d done that killed me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and extended a hand, though I knew she wouldn’t take it. “Please sit down. I’ll control myself.”
She turned fully, ignoring the curious glances at us. “If you came here for some kind of ill-advised revenge for that night,” she said quietly, “please be assured, I have regretted it ever since.”
I wasn’t sure what killed me more—the fact that she genuinely thought I wanted to hurt her, or the fact that she regretted what we had done.
“Have you really?” I asked. “Regretted it, I mean?”
Those big gray eyes shone with remorse. “Oh, yes. Matthew, it was very wrong, what we did. I’m married. I have a daughter. A family.”
I swallowed and sat back in my seat. Well, that brought me back to reality in the space of a millisecond. The face of the tiny blonde girl I had seen last weekend flashed in my mind’s eye. I still hadn’t forgotten that bewildered little face. Fuck. Nina was right. What we had done was very wrong. And for the first time since that night, I truly felt it.
“I—I’m sorry,” I said again. “You’re right. And I’m the asshole, not you, sweetheart. I didn’t ask you here to interrogate you, I promise. I’m trying to help your cousin.”
“Are you sure that’s all?”
No. “Yes.”
I wanted to take her hand, assure her that I meant what I said. But I didn’t totally mean it. And I was also pretty sure that if I started touching her, I wouldn’t want to stop. Which I very much needed to do.
“Are you staying?”
The perky voice of the server interrupted our strange little detente. But I didn’t move my gaze from Nina.
“What about it, doll?” I asked. “Give a guy a second chance?”
Nina examined me for a moment, then to my relief, slid gracefully back into her seat. “Just don’t call me princess.”
“On my honor.” I turned to the server. “We need wine. Let’s have a bottle of the—” I cut myself off and turned to Nina. “Do you mind if I order, doll? I just know the menu, that’s all. The chef is a friend.”
One side of Nina’s heart-shaped mouth tugged with pleasure she was trying to hide. “Please.”
I nodded. “Great, yeah. We’ll have a bottle of the Valpolicella, and I can give you the rest too.”
The server whipped out a pen while I rattled off my favorite dishes. If I couldn’t cook for Nina myself, this was the next best thing.
“We’ll start with the asparagi con salsa di uova sode and pomodori e acciughe,” I said, pointing to the asparagus and tomato salad items in case the girl didn’t actually understand the Italian menu. Thankfully, she seemed to be as authentic as the rest of the place. “Then we’ll have the tagliatelle and agnolotti, followed by the veal and the market fish. It’s bass tonight, right?”
The girl nodded as she finished writing. “Yes, marsala.”
I nodded back. “Very good. Tell Noel that Zola stopped by.”
The server bobbed. “Of course. I’ll put your orders in and be back with your wine.”
When she left, I turned back to Nina, who had been watching me curiously. Okay, so I was showing off. I couldn’t seem to help it. I had been so fuckin’ stunned when I saw her at Eric’s the other night that now I wanted to make up for lost time.
“That was quite the mouthful.”
“I can tell you what it is if you want.”
“I read along with you,” she replied. “But you ordered enough for a small army. I would have been fine with a salad.”
I scowled. Hard. Nina’s mouth twitched again.
“The chef and I went to Sunday school together,” I said. “The guy who trained him in Belmont was rumored to be Sofia Loren’s personal chef. We’re not insulting Noel’s menu by ordering fuckin’ salad.”
I didn’t know why I was taking it so personally. I had been out with a thousand other women who ate like rabbits, and I’d never had the compulsion to micromanage their dietary preferences. And truly, if Nina said she honestly didn’t want to eat anything other than greens, I wouldn’t have stopped her.
But food was one of the few universal pleasures everyone could experience, from any background. People lost control of themselves when they ate really, really great meals. I already knew what Nina looked like when that happened. And since it wasn’t going to happen again, this was probably the next best thing. I didn’t just want her to enjoy the meal. I wanted her to give herself up to the pleasure. Just like she’d done the night we met.
“Want a piece?” I asked, offering the baguette.
She shook her head. “Oh…”
“Come on, doll. You already broke your diet for me. The broth is amazing. You have to try it.”
She sighed with a doleful grin. “You’re a terrible influence.”
I smirked. “I’m the best, baby. Now, open up.”
She did, and I delivered another soaked morsel into her mouth.
“Ohhhhh, that’s so good,” she said after she swallowed. Her eyes closed with pleasure, and again, I had to adjust my pants. Good fuckin’ God, if that’s what she did when she ate, what would she sound like when she came?
I fully intended to find out. Tonight, if possible. Again and again, if she’d let me.
Jesus, I really had a problem. Two minutes back in Nina’s company, and I was turning into Bacchus himself with these thoughts. The god of wine. And hedonism.
Maybe salad was a safer bet.
The wine arrived, and we sat awkwardly while the server poured out, then eyed each other over our glasses.
“I—this is nice,” Nina said. “I’ve never been here before.”
I looked around the restaurant, which wasn’t really anything special. A basement-level place, dimly lit with white tablecloths. A simple backdrop to traditional Italian food.
“Do you take a lot of dates here?” Nina asked.
I narrowed my eyes. “Do you really want to know?”
“I’m just trying to make conversation, Matthew.”
“About my sex life?”
“Matthew!”
“How long have you been married?” I asked abruptly. Apparently the promise not to be an asshole was going right out the window.
Nina sighed and set her wineglass on the table. “Matthew, do we really—”
“Yes, we really, Mrs. Gardner.” I couldn’t—quite—keep the acid off my tongue.
“I thought you asked me here to help with Eric and Jane.”
“I asked you here because I need information about your family. That includes you. And your—husband. And considering I didn’t get the whole story when we first met, I plan on getting it now.”
Her eyes grew steely. Yeah, I recognized that look. I had thought it was a response to being challenged, but now I knew it meant she didn’t want to give something up.
Everyone has their tells, baby. You just keep giving me yours.
“Nina.” I leaned over the table. “I could look up everything there is to know about you. Your vital records. Your speeding tickets. That time in high school you and your friends sniffed lines at the Vineyard. I could find out every fucking secret you have, baby, and there isn’t a thing you could do
to stop me.”
She could have shied away. I was giving her my best “bad cop” right now, and a lot of people would have cowered at the idea of a criminal prosecutor digging up all their dirt.
But instead, Nina just stuck out her chin. “Is that so, Mr. Zola?”
My pants tightened. I nodded. “That’s so.”
“Well, then,” she said. “Why don’t you? It would probably save us both a lot of time and stress. Not to mention embarrassment in the middle of a crowded restaurant.”
I took a leisurely sip of wine, trying and failing to get my heart rate under control. I had never felt like this before. Irritated, sure. Angry, even. Really fuckin’ turned on. Crazy in lo—no, fuck that. That was not what was going on here.
Fuck it. I might as well tell her the truth.
“Because I want to hear it from you.” I tipped my head. “You said you didn’t lie to me that night. Other than your real last name, anyway.”
“I didn’t.” Her voice was hurried and quick, but more out of panic, I thought, than because she was lying now.
“Good,” I said. “Then I want the rest of the story. From your lips, not an investigator’s. Let’s start with…how about the little one who calls you Mommy?”
Again, her shoulders tensed. “Olivia.”
“Olivia. Pretty name.”
It was, too. I liked the way it sounded. Off my tongue, in my head. Though I couldn’t have told you why. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about the little girl more than once this week. Especially around dinnertime, when Frankie and I were going through Sofia’s meal routine. I wondered about that girl’s life in that fancy building. Wondered if she was happy.
“How old is she?” I asked as the server brought our appetizers. “Six? Seven?”
“Olivia is nine.”
I balked. “Your daughter is nine years old? She seemed tiny.”
The Other Man (Rose Gold Book 1) Page 9