A Lick and a Promise
Jo Leigh
Food stylist Margot Janowitz's sizzling commercials for a chain of burger joints all scream "Eat me" on TV, but her sensual adventures offscreen are another story. Until a scrumptious stud arrives on the scene and taste-testing him sounds like a totally mouthwatering idea.Mr. Ultraconservative, Daniel Houghton III, moves in next door to Margot and he's just begging to be savored, toyed with and enjoyed. Making him over into a wild and sexy lover should be easy for Margot–a piece of cake for a pro when she's working with a perfect set of buns!
She’d kissed him. He’d kissed her back. And he’d blown her socks off.
Margot got to the kitchen, and when she knew Daniel couldn’t see her, she slumped against the counter.
What shocked her almost as much was the way she was with him. Good Lord, she was a femme fatale, a siren, a vamp. And sexy? She’d go to bed with herself, she was so damned seductive.
Her heart still raced, her legs wobbled and she could hardly see straight. All this from a guy she barely knew, who had all the style of a stalk of broccoli and who blushed at the drop of a double entendre.
But the truth of it was, despite this moment of reflection, she felt like a goddess. Oz, the great and powerful. It was unbelievable, unprecedented.
And so, so excellent.
Dear Reader,
Oh, was this book a blast to write! I haven’t had such a good time in…well, a long time. Daniel was such a sweetie pie, but I’ll tell you the truth—he took me completely by surprise when he and Margot did the wild thing. I expected him to be a nice guy, maybe a little shy. Boy, was I wrong. Not that he wasn’t nice. But shy? Not even close. As for Margot, I think she might be closer to me than any heroine I’ve ever written. So full of contradictions! Wanting so badly to make the right choice, but how can she when she doesn’t know what the right choice is?
Yep, just like real life. Just like me.
I hope you find a little of you in Margot, and that you, too, fall in love with Daniel. I sure did.
Be good…but not too good!
Jo Leigh
A Lick and a Promise
Jo Leigh
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my beautiful, incredible niece Rachel, with all my love.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
1
THE LETTUCE SUCKED. Great. Marvelous. Just the way she wanted her first day as the food stylist for Whompies to start off. Yeah, that’s Whompies. Of the double double Angus beef Whompie burger with the special curly fries. Of course, she didn’t really work for Whompies, she worked for Galloway and Donnelly, one of the top advertising agencies in Manhattan. Who, if they liked the work she did on this shoot, could very well put her on staff, which would be, in the words of her aunt Sadie, such a blessing! Galloway and Donnelly’s food division paid top dollar, and got the best gigs.
On her own, she’d landed some pretty good jobs. That one for Bon Appétit had been stellar. But working for G and D would put her on the map. After five, six years working with some of the best foodies on the planet, she, Margot Janowitz, would have the name recognition and contacts to go back out on her own. Then she could ask for the moon…and get it.
But first, she had to get some lettuce that didn’t look like roadkill, pronto. She got her work phone book out of her kit and headed back to the prep kitchen, almost tripping over the thick cables connected to the mega-huge lights in Stage Four, one of the MidTown Production’s sound stages used for making commercials and rock videos.
She was going to be here a lot in the next five months. Not continuously, of course. In between the Whompies shoots she’d have print gigs, but it was the TV commercials that she was most excited about. Making burgers, fries, milk shakes, sodas, pizza, onion rings look so deliciously scrumptious that people watching the commercials would leap off their couches and race over to Whompies to chow down on everything on the menu.
Inside the huge prep kitchen, two of the camera guys were eating take-out Chinese broccoli beef. They both had their feet up on the big white table, having shoved her notebook to the very edge. She snatched it up, trying not to freak. Very calmly, she looked at the two men, both in their early twenties, and said, “Do you know what this table is?”
One of them, the light-haired guy who had clearly forgotten that hair needed washing from time to time, looked up with a full mouth, and replied, “Huh?”
“I said, do you know what this table is?”
He shook his head while he swallowed.
“It’s a food preparation table. Where actual food is prepared. And mostly, we don’t like it smelling of feet.”
The blond guy grunted. But they both slid their feet to the ground. They didn’t stop eating.
Margot sighed. “Shoo. Scram. Leave.” She waved four fingers. “Bu-bye.”
The darker guy stood. He wore cargo pants a couple of sizes too big, a Third Eye Blind T-shirt and a Mets cap. He raised his right eyebrow in her direction, then shuffled out, heading toward the employee lounge, where they should have been in the first place. Blondie followed. Slowly. But finally, she was alone.
It was just past 5:30 a.m. and she wanted all the food prep to be done before eight. The rest of the staff, whom she hadn’t met, would be here soon. From her past experience assisting on other food commercials, there would be at least one more stylist and three or four assistants. Which would be great, All she had to do was get fresh, crisp lettuce. Simple. Easy. She had a mile-long list of suppliers. No reason at all for her heart to beat like a Led Zeppelin drum solo.
She stopped. Took a deep breath. This was just like the dozens and dozens of jobs she’d assisted on. The only difference was, on this one, she was in charge. Which was a good thing. A marvelous thing. Something she’d worked hard for.
From this moment forward, this job was going to be one triumph after another. On time, on budget, exactly to the Whompies specifications. Period. She knew what to do, knew how to do it. Piece of cake.
She went back into the main studio, where more folks had arrived. She didn’t know anyone. Not yet. But soon, they’d all be joking around together, bitching about the work, pulling out all the stops to make the product shine.
She loved this part. A lot. The whole team thing. That was the bonus of doing television. It was good on print shoots, but this was more. Bigger. Better.
Her phone vibrated in her apron pocket. She flipped it on, her earphone snugly in place, as it always was. “Margot.”
“Babycakes.”
Margot smiled at her neighbor’s voice as she went to the craft service table to get her coffee. “Hi, Devon. ’Sup?”
“Just checking in on your first day at the new gig.”
“Well, except for phone calls at dawn, things are going really well.”
She heard a ferocious yawn. Then, “I’m going to bed in five. You know, the new guy is moving in today.”
“Did you find out anything else?”
Her neighbor chuckled. “Eric thinks he’s straight.”
Margot checked out the few people standing around the doughnuts. She didn’t recognize any of them. “Gotta love Eric,” she said.
“He’s never wrong. He also said he’s a major babe, although he was wearing off-the-rack.”
“I’m surprised he wasn’t struck by lightning.”
Devon laughed. “I’m too tired to live. Kick ass, babe. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
She clicked off her phone, then it was her turn at the coffee. She should have brought a mug; she hated foam cups. Behind her, some grips and electricians were talking and laughing, and she got excited all over again at the thought of soon becoming one of the gang. In fact, she was going to introduce herself to the woman behind her, then her phone rang again.
“Margot.”
“Hello, darling.”
“Ma.”
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Nope. Been up since three-thirty.”
“That’s not good. You’re not sleeping?”
“New job. Remember?”
“Of course I do. That’s why I’m calling. To wish you luck.”
“That’s nice, Ma. Really. But I’m in the middle—”
“Would you do something for me?”
Margot sighed. Getting off the phone with her mother should be an Olympic event. “What?”
“Talk to him.”
“Him” was her father. It was always her father. Unless it was one of her uncles. Or her cousins. Or her neighbors. “What’s wrong?”
“He bought five cases of broken dishes.”
Margot sighed. “Are you sure they’re all broken?”
“If they aren’t, they will be by the time he gets them. I ask you. What is he going to do with five cases?”
“I don’t know, Mom, but I’m sure he has his reasons.”
“Reasons. We have the meshugge storage unit which is costing an arm and a leg, and now he says he needs another unit because he can’t move the merchandise.”
“I’ll talk to him. But, Ma, I have to go.”
“Okay, bubele. We’ll talk later.”
It wasn’t even six, and the troops were calling already. She fully expected to hear from Corrie, her other next-door neighbor, before seven. Which was fine.
Margot liked keeping in touch, and her co-op in Chelsea was a hotbed of wonderfulness, full of fascinating characters who she’d come to love. A month ago Seth Boronski had died, poor man, leaving his second-floor unit vacant, and just last week it had been bought by a single man. Daniel was his name, but that’s all Margot knew about him. Which was unusual, because frankly, no one knew more about the comings and goings of 18 West 16th Street. Not even the super, who only came around when threatened by mass revolt or bribed with oatmeal raisin cookies.
The new job had been all she’d thought about for days, planning, thinking, styling in her head. She’d have time to scope out Daniel on Sunday during the weekly co-op dinner.
Right now, though, she needed to get to the kitchen. She had to order the lettuce. And the troops should be arriving any minute.
DANIEL WINCED as his friends Terry and Bill lurched through the front door with his oak headboard, narrowly missing the molding. “Careful with that, damn it.”
Bill gave him an evil look. “You know what you can do with your careful, Daniel, old buddy?”
“That headboard’s eighteenth century.”
Terry cut the discussion short with a succinct curse.
“Fine. Be asses,” Daniel said, leading them into the bedroom. “Put it there.”
The two men, his old roommates from Rutgers, put the headboard down with matching grunts. “Think you could get some heavier furniture next time?” Bill asked.
“I’ll work on it,” Daniel said, anxious to get back to the truck. Steve was down there, guarding the rest of his possessions, although the lion’s share of boxes was already inside. He had beer in the fridge and pizzas coming in an hour, so he wanted to be done by then. “Come on, we still have the rest of the bed.”
Terry, who was a big guy in college and an even bigger guy now that he was a stockbroker, wiped his face with his NYT T-shirt. “I can’t believe you got me here to do this on a Thursday. I’m losing millions and sweating way the hell too much.”
“It’s your vacation, and I don’t recall a lot of arm-twisting,” Daniel said as he led his reluctant mover toward the door.
“Some vacation. I should be in Aruba, soaking in the sun.”
“What about me?” Bill said. “I’m not on vacation.”
“You’re on a permanent vacation,” Terry said, shouldering his friend out of his way. “In case you’ve forgotten.”
“Hey, I offered to pay for movers.”
Daniel laughed. “That’s what I like about you, Bill. When in doubt, throw money around.”
Bill shrugged. He still had his good looks, although his lifestyle was starting to show on his face. The heir to a huge manufacturing fortune, he’d given the reins of the business to his younger brothers and decided on a life of decadence. But he was such a generous guy, none of his friends could complain too much. Still, Daniel worried about Bill’s fast-lane life. The man was pushing thirty-five and the way he was going, it was questionable he’d reach forty.
They got to the elevator, and rested against the walls as they rode down the two floors. They’d started out taking the stairs, but exhaustion had hit hard about two hours ago. Daniel still couldn’t believe he’d done it. Given up his place in Greenwich, Connecticut, to move to the city. The short commute alone was worth it, but that he’d found this place in Chelsea, well, that was something else.
Chelsea. Everyone knew about Chelsea. How the art scene had changed the landscape in the late eighties and expatriates fleeing the Village’s high prices had moved here, renovating lofts and garment buildings into high-end co-ops. The area had been predominantly gay, but now was home for an eclectic mix of people. That mix gave Chelsea a vibrancy, an aliveness, and had attracted him. In Greenwich, he’d had a nice place, but there was no… Hell, he didn’t know what was missing, except that his life had become stale. Boring as an old shoe.
His move had raised eyebrows at the firm, but he didn’t care. Well, he cared, but not enough to alter his plans.
They reached the lobby and headed for the double-parked truck in front of the building. Steve rested against the back bumper, reading. He held up a finger, making them wait while he finished his chapter, then closed the paperback. “Bed?”
“Yeah,” Daniel said. “And it’s your turn, so get off your lazy butt.”
Steve looked at the other two men. “Can you believe this guy?”
“I say we let him take up the mattress by himself,” Bill said, jumping up to sit next to Steve.
“Hey, I’ve got pizza coming in an hour. I’d prefer to eat it hot.”
Terry squished up his face and repeated Daniel’s words in a voice worthy of a cranky two-year-old.
Daniel ignored him, jumped up onto the back of the truck and whipped the guys into shape. Bill stayed behind this time, but they managed to get the mattress upstairs without him. Waiting just inside the door was a surprise. A woman stood amidst the jumble, tall, very thin, wearing a tiny stretch top that just covered her small, high breasts, and tights. Her abdomen was bared, and he could tell she worked out.
“Hi,” she said, giving him a wide smile. “Welcome to the building. I’m Corrie. 302. Married to Nels.”
“I’m Daniel.” He held out his hand. “Daniel Houghton III.”
She put her little birdlike hand in his, and he was careful not to squeeze too hard. “Sundays we have this dinner,” she said. Her voice was high and as thin as she was. “Everybody comes. We go from apartment to apartment. We all make something. Appetizers, salads, main course.” She blushed. It made her look like a teenager. “Anyway, first time, you’re off the hook for food. But please join us, okay?”
He nodded. “I’d love to.”
She smiled again. “I’ve got—” she nodded toward the door “—things to do.”
“Thanks, Corrie,” he said.
“We start at five,” she said, backing up, almost tripping over a box. “Oh, you can bring wine. Wine’s good.”
“Great.”
Behind him, the guys came out of the bedroom.
“Okay, then,” she said. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
“Now I get it,” Terry said.
Daniel turned. “Get what?”
“Why you moved here. All these straight women have so few straight guys to choose from.” He turned to Steve. “He’s not as dumb as he looks.”
“Well, thanks. Now get your ass back to the truck.”
Steve laughed as he headed out the door. Terry just glared. But they’d finish the job soon, and Daniel was grateful for that. He had four days to unpack this mess. Then it was back to work.
He was an architect. A good one. The firm he worked for, Kogen, Teasdale and Webster, was well respected in the industry, and he was inching his way up, slowly but surely, to partner.
Daniel checked his watch. He figured another three hours and he’d be alone. Not that he didn’t appreciate his friends lending a hand, but he wanted to get on with it. Get this place livable so he could begin this new phase of his life. Exploring the streets, checking out the architecture, the galleries, restaurants, finding his local market, the dry cleaners.
He grinned. Dinner with all the tenants. In the five years he’d lived in Greenwich, he’d met two of his neighbors, but he’d never shared so much as a cup of coffee with them. This was a good move. A new beginning. But he’d have to break out of his old habits, be willing to experiment. He headed toward the elevator. This felt right. Just what he needed. He hoped.
“OH, MY GOD, he’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. I swear, Margot, he’s like six feet tall, and he has dark hair that’s tragically unhip, and he wears these round glasses that went out with the eighties, and his jeans were ironed. He tucked in his Polo shirt, for heaven’s sake. And I swear, if I wasn’t married I’d eat him up with a spoon. Wait’ll you see.”
Margot couldn’t help but laugh. When Corrie got going it was like listening to an auctioneer on helium. “Is he coming on Sunday?”
“Yep. He’s in. Oh, God, what a doll baby. I’m telling you, girl, we’re going to have so much fun with this one.”
“It sounds like a major redo.”
“From the ground up. His tennis shoes. Did I mention his tennis shoes?”
“No, but I can’t hear about it now. I’ve got serious staff issues.”
“Oh, I’m such a jerk. You’re having this first-day thing, and I’m going on and on about Daniel. Can you stand it? Daniel Houghton III. Have you ever?”
“Never. But they only gave me two assistants, which is insanity. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Break a leg.”
“Right. Bye.” Margot switched off her phone and watched as one of the assistants, Bettina, shaved lettuce. The other one, Rick, was sorting buns. She couldn’t believe there were only two, and neither one of them had enough experience to clean the fridge.
It was unheard of that there were so few people on a food commercial. She’d put in a call to her boss, Janice, but the woman hadn’t been there. Surely this was a mistake, and would be rectified soon, but in the meantime, she had to get her ass in gear if she expected to get anything out to the director.
They had almost a hundred buns that had to be sorted, looking for the perfect combination of symmetry, color, shape, size and the placement of the sesame seeds. Once they’d found the perfect bun, what they called the hero in the biz, they’d set that aside. The second best, they’d use as the stand-in, building a burger for the lighting guys. She had her bag of extra sesame seeds in her kit, along with glue, in case they had to make adjustments.
Then there was the lettuce to tear, the ketchup to drain, the burgers to shape and cook just enough so they wouldn’t look raw, the grill marks to place, the cheese to melt, the onions, the tomatoes… It was too much for so few people with so little time.
She sat down with Rick and examined buns. The thing to do was take it one step at a time. And not hyperventilate.
Fifteen minutes and forty-six rejects later, the assistant director stuck her head in the door. “What’s your ETA?”
“At least three hours.”
“Oh, shit.”
“It’s the best I can do.”
“I’ll tell him.”
Him was Joe DeVario, the director. In the five seconds she’d talked to him, she’d gotten a really bad feeling. He scowled, didn’t shake her hand and dismissed her without so much as a backward glance.
Her mood didn’t improve when she heard his voice, yelling from the sound stage.
Not a good way to start a new job.
The only bright spot in all of this was one Daniel Houghton III. Interesting.
From Corrie’s description, he sounded like a man who needed a fashionista’s touch. A designer’s eye. Devon and Eric had to be giddy with anticipation. She just hoped they wouldn’t scare Daniel off, as they had one of the previous residents.
Margot smiled. There was nothing she liked more than a new project. A challenge. Surprises.
“Aha,” she said, holding up the most gorgeous bun this side of heaven. “We have our hero!”
2
DANIEL LOOKED at the clothes in his closet as he tucked his white towel around his waist. He had no idea what to wear to this Sunday-night dinner. He’d only had glimpses of his neighbors in the four days he’d lived here. Mostly he’d been buried in unpacking, and although he wasn’t quite finished, he’d gotten most of it done.
He gazed around his new bedroom. His furniture looked good against the white walls, his favorite books placed neatly in the shelves. He’d even splurged and bought a new tartan bedspread with pillow shams, something he’d never had before. But this was his new beginning, and there was no law that said he had to have a traditional quilt just because he’d always had one. He could do whatever he pleased. Go nuts. Buy art because he liked it, not just because it would be a good investment.
Starting tomorrow, he’d go back to his regular world, but he had the feeling it wouldn’t be the same. Stepping outside of his comfort zone had already changed him in ways he hadn’t anticipated. Last night, for dinner, he’d ordered a Hawaiian pizza. He’d hated it, but that was beside the point.
Back to the wardrobe. Nothing seemed right. Not his jeans, not his suits. Finally, he settled on something simple. Black slacks, white shirt, gray sportjacket. And what the hell, the purple tie his niece had given him last Christmas.
The decision made, he went back to the bathroom to finish getting ready. As he shaved, he studied himself in the mirror, not at all happy with how long his hair had gotten. He’d visit the barber next week. But he was pleased with the bathroom itself. A place for everything and everything in its place.
As the seconds ticked by, he grew more and more concerned about the evening’s activities. Yes, he wanted to meet his neighbors, but did he really want to spend a whole night with all those strangers? Maybe he should wait, meet a few of them at a time, ease himself in instead of diving into the deep end. He’d bought wine. Maybe he should go up, give them the wine, then come up with some excuse why he couldn’t stay.
That sounded right. He’d have a quick look at who he would be dealing with, then he’d be better prepared for future encounters.
He wiped the last of the shaving cream off his face and neck, then headed to the bedroom. It was almost five, and he wanted to be on time.
“MY BASIL IS DEAD.”
“Oh, no. When are the services?”
Margot flipped her hair back with her free hand and adjusted the volume on her phone. “You’re a riot, Corrie, and you should immediately go on the road with your act.”
“Only you, Margot, my dear, can tell a person to go jump in a lake in such an endearing fashion.”
“I must get fresh basil, or the entire meal is going to be dog chow. So come early and let everyone in.”
“They have basil at Martini’s.”
“They have lousy basil at Martini’s. I’m going to the Garden of Eden.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Margot looked at the ingredients for her grilled pizzas. Everything was ready, the dough was sufficiently rested, the coals in the grill on her patio were already lit. She’d have to cab it to the Garden, but their produce was the best, and it was worth it. She reminisced with longing about when she lived next door to her parents’ grocery store, where everything needed for any meal was footsteps away. But she’d spent years scoping out the best of the best food sources in Chelsea and beyond, and most of the friendly purveyors delivered. If there was enough time. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
“But Daniel is coming.”
“Tell him to just breathe hard until I get back.”
Corrie sighed, but Margot could tell she was smiling. “Fine. Be late to your own party.”
“It’s just us guys,” Margot said, grabbing her pocketbook as she headed for the door. “There’s wine in the fridge.”
“Hurry.”
“Yes, dear.” Margot clicked off her phone, and dashed out, hoping like hell she could quickly catch a cab. She was actually a little nervous about tonight. She still hadn’t seen Daniel, but boy, those in the know, Corrie, Devon, Eric, had drooled over his potential.
As a group, they had more in common with Queer Eye for the Straight Guy than they should. They loved nothing better than sitting in the local eateries and dishing on the clientele, and how to revamp them. Unfortunately, they rarely got to use their considerable skills with real-life people. Only twice, actually, and Tad didn’t count. One shopping trip with Devon and Eric had been enough to send him scampering to Yonkers on the first train. So Daniel was a treat indeed.
She ignored the elevator and raced down the stairs, ending up on the street in half the time. And as luck would have it there was a Yellow Cab, right there, and she flopped into the back seat with her heart still racing.
“Garden of Eden on 7th.”
The cabbie took off, and Margot closed her eyes. Despite the excitement of Daniel, her thoughts were never far from work these days. She’d made it through Thursday and Friday, and she was pretty sure she could handle Monday. She still couldn’t believe they hadn’t given her more staff. It was insane trying to do everything she had to with only Bettina and Rick. They were nice enough, but she’d had to show them every step, every trick. Whompies was a major chain, and she couldn’t believe there wasn’t money in the budget for more stylists. But when she’d talked to Janice, her boss had strongly implied that if Margot couldn’t make it work with what she had, perhaps she wasn’t the right person for the job. It made her so crazy—
No. Today she would stop obsessing about work and focus on Daniel. She was dying to see him. God, she hoped he wasn’t a total stick-in-the-mud, because that would ruin everything. Although, when it came to persuasion of the personal kind, she was pretty much a tank, rolling over all obstacles in her way, whatever or whoever she had to squish.
The cab turned onto 7th, and she dug her money out of her purse. If only she could be as assertive in her work as she was with her friends. When it came to being a food stylist, she was hell on wheels. But negotiating? Playing well with others?
Oh, well. She’d continue to strive. Take baby steps until she could stride with pride. And pray she didn’t self-destruct.
It was time to buy basil. And maybe some more fresh flowers. Oh, and some marinated olives. It was almost five, she’d better jet.
THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR surprised Daniel as he was on his way to get the wine from the kitchen. Corrie was there, only this time she was wearing this long pale dress that flowed over her tall, slim frame. Her hair was short and spiky, and she’d made her eyes up with quite a bit of dramatic black. Next to her was a man taller than she, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki pants. He looked as if he’d stepped out of a shampoo commercial.
“Daniel, hi. This is Devon,” Corrie said.
Daniel put out his hand. “Nice to meet you. Corrie mentioned you when we met.”
Devon gave her an odd look, and she seemed equally puzzled.
“Oh, no. This isn’t Nels. My husband. Who can’t come tonight. This is Devon. He lives on the other side of Margot. With Eric.”
“Ah,” Daniel said.
“We’re here to get you,” Corrie said, looking past him into his apartment. “Wow, it looks great.”
He stepped to the side. “Come in.”
“We can’t stay long,” she said as she checked out the room as if she wanted to redecorate. “Margot’s getting basil so I have to be the hostess until she gets back.”
“Margot?”
“She’s first tonight. I think she’s making grilled pizza.”
Devon breezed by him, heading straight for the bookcases. He eyed them slowly, row by row, nodding his approval. “Interesting stuff. Lots of architecture.”
“That’s what I do.”
Devon grunted, and Daniel wasn’t sure if it was in approval or something else. Given what these two had on, he should really go change into something more casual.
“Come, come. Hurry. There’s going to be pouting people in the hallways if I don’t let them in.”
“I—”
Devon hooked an arm around his shoulder, which wasn’t a big deal, really. “Come on, New Guy. Into the fray.”
“Wine.”
“Ah, it’s not time to whine yet,” Devon said, leading him toward the door. “That’s for after you meet the others.”
“Um, no. I have some wine.”
“Oh.” The tall man let him go. “We must have vino.”
“Then I’ll go, uh, get it.”
“That’d be good.” Devon smiled, a little too kindly, as if Daniel was feebleminded.
He went to the kitchen, pulled out two bottles, one an excellent merlot, the other a decent chardonnay. When he got back to the living room, Corrie was gone, the door was open and Devon waited.
Walking as casually as he could, he closed his door behind him, silently rehearsing his speech about how he couldn’t stay long.
HE WANTED MORE WINE. Lots more wine. Because he needed to be drunk to process this…menagerie.
Corrie was the normal one, and it turned out she was an ex-exotic dancer who’d had to give up her career after she’d broken her leg.
Devon was a bartender at something called a she-been, and his partner, Eric, was a chiropractor who believed in auras and spirit guides. Then there was Anya, whom Daniel guessed was in her seventies. She’d had several long, involved conversations with her pets—three poodles, two cats and a parakeet. Her best friend was Rocco, also in his golden years. He was an ex-boxer, and his whole face, not just his ears, looked like a bruised cauliflower. Rocco watched soap operas, and he knitted. Evidently, he knitted a lot, and all the tenants in the building were recipients of his largesse. Daniel kept trying to take off the floppy yellow cap, and Devon kept putting it back on his head.
The introductions were over now, and all anyone could talk about was the missing hostess. Margot. He’d already learned she was a food stylist. He’d heard of the profession, although he’d never met anyone in the trade. It made him wonder about the market for such a thing. Was the pay very good? By the look of her rather extravagantly decorated apartment, it must be.
Anyway, she was young, talented, witty, bright… going places. He’d love her. Every one of them assured him of that. He wasn’t so sure. But, he had to admit, he was curious.
Just as Corrie came by to fill his glass, the front door swung open and a woman breezed in. To a chorus of applause, no less. She carried a big grocery bag, and her long dark hair billowed behind her as she crossed the room.
So this was Margot. She was taller than he’d supposed, and quite ample, although she wore a scarlet cape, so he couldn’t really see much. Besides, he was too busy looking at her face to be bothered with the rest. She was…striking. A presence. Large eyes, a lush smile that made it hard not to grin in return, high cheekbones. Her hair came down past her shoulders, thick and flowing. Everything about her seemed larger than life.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry. I couldn’t get a cab on 7th, and traffic was hell, but I have everything now so we can get cooking, and I hope everyone’s had wine and isn’t upset and oh, my God.”
This she said when she stopped right in front of him. Staring, mouth open, the whole bit. Talk about knowing how to make a stranger feel welcome.
“You’re…delicious.”
He hadn’t blushed in a long time. Not since college, at least that he could recall. But he was blushing now. Wishing like hell he’d made his excuse about five minutes ago. It wasn’t too late. He could still escape before he burst into flames.
She thrust the grocery bag into Eric’s hand, never once shifting her gaze from him. “I’m Margot.”
“So I gathered.”
In a move that would have impressed Liberace, she whipped off her cloak and tossed it behind her, directly into Corrie’s waiting arms.
Now that he could see more of her, he was struck by how different she was from most of the women he knew. Miles away from those he dated, who tended to be borderline anorexic overachievers with exotic allergies. There was nothing of that in the woman in front of him. Even her dress looked like something a movie star would wear. Long, black and red, with a big glittery pin gathering the material right under her breasts. Which was what they deserved. They were impressive breasts. Bountiful was the word that came to mind.
Her laugh brought his attention back to her face. He cleared his throat, stood up. Held out his hand. “Daniel.”
She looked at his hand, laughed again and shook. “Welcome to the building, Daniel.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve met everyone?”
He nodded.
“I see Rocco made you a kicky little hat.”
Oh, God. He ripped the cap off his head. “Uh, yeah.”
“Don’t worry. Before you know it, you’ll have a scarf and mittens to match. Come, Daniel. Let’s make pizzas, shall we?”
He nodded again, only then realizing his right hand still held hers. She used the situation to pull him toward the kitchen.
It was as bright and colorful as the woman herself, with lots of knickknacks of the fifties kitsch variety. A display of PEZ dispensers was his first clue. Then there were the turquoise and pink diner accents, like the old-time malt mixer, the napkin dispenser and the pink retro stove. Even the tiles were coordinated. The only thing black in the kitchen was the Felix the Cat clock.
“You can wash the basil,” she said, letting his hand go. “While I prepare the dough. Yes?”
“I’ll be happy to.”
She gave him another of those dazzling smiles. “Good Lord, you’re Studly Do-Right. Fabulous.”
If her eyes hadn’t been shining like that he’d have been insulted. Maybe he was insulted anyway.
She washed her hands, dried them with a pink towel, then handed him the basil as if it were the crown jewels. It was his turn at the sink. His concentration was split between his task and Margot. She had sprinkled flour on two large pizza boards and was folding a large round of dough as if she’d done it hundreds of times.
She cut the dough in six, then brought out a wooden rolling pin and made two ovals. When she turned to the fridge, he went back to the basil, making sure it was thoroughly clean. He wrapped it in paper towels as he watched her once more.
“We’re going to Corrie’s next,” she said. “Then Eric and Devon’s. We’ll have dessert at Rocco’s, which is really a treat, because he cooks a hell of a lot better than he knits.”
“And you do this every Sunday?”
“Yep. These are the regulars, but the rest of the folks in the building join in from time to time. We’re all pretty friendly.”
“So I gathered.”
She put down a large bowl filled with stuff like braided mozzarella, mushrooms, olives and tomatoes and turned to face him. “Tell me about you, Daniel.”
“I’m an architect.”
“Have I seen any of your work?”
“Maybe. I designed the Fourth Street library in Brooklyn Heights.”
“Nope.”
“Uh, the Woolsey building on lower Broadway.”
She shook her head.
“Those are the biggest projects.”
“Are they gorgeous?”
“Gorgeous?” He smiled. “No one’s ever called them that.”
“What have they called them?”
“Practical. Well built. Sturdy.”
She blinked. “Tear them up.”
“Pardon?”
“The basil leaves. Tear them. Into pieces.” Then she turned to the pizzas and started spreading the sauce.
Devon stuck his head in the kitchen. “Hey, we’re starving out here.”
“Then go make sure the grill’s ready.”
Devon saluted. “Yes, ma’am.” He did a two-point turn and marched away.
“Totally nuts, but such a sweet pea. You’ll love him. And Eric. They’re great.”
“Have you been here long?”
“Five years. This place used to belong to my uncle Sid. He was a photographer. Mostly for National Geographic. Incredible life. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”
“Okay.”
“Continue.”
“What?”
“Telling me about your life.”
“Ah. Well, I moved from Greenwich. Connecticut.”
“Hell of a commute.”
“Yeah. I got real used to the train.”
She turned to him again. “Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
That took him back a step. “No.”
“Ah, so you’re straight.”
“Are you always like this?”
“Like what? Rude?”
“I was going to say forthright.”
She patted his arm. “That’s sweet. Really.”
He had no idea how to respond to her. How to react to this whirlwind. So he focused on the basil. He was supposed to tear it. Which he did, even though he wasn’t the least bit sure he was doing it correctly.
She emptied her bowl and started slicing mozzarella so quickly it made him fear for her fingers. By the time he’d finished tearing, she had neat little bowls of accoutrements, most of which he recognized. She rubbed the crusts with olive oil, then scattered them with mozzarella, some of his basil and then some prosciutto. Then she lifted the boards, one in each hand. “Come. We grill now. Oh, and be a love and get me a glass of whatever it is you’re drinking.”
He nodded as he watched her walk from the kitchen. His gaze moved down the length of her, wishing he could see more of her curves. What he did see appealed in a way that surprised the hell out of him.
This Margot was something outside his ken. Brash, focused and a little nuts. But interesting. Definitely Chelsea. Completely not Greenwich.
He thought again about his excuses to leave. Now would be the perfect time. No one would think he was escaping. On the other hand, that pizza sounded really good.
3
MARGOT PLACED THE FIRST PIZZA on the grill, then the second. She stepped back, almost tripping on her little flower box, the one she was preparing for herbs. Her flowers were doing really well, but the herb thing was giving her fits. She’d tried basil, marjoram, dill, parsley and a bunch of others, but the only thing that had grown successfully was the parsley. But, she’d give it another go. Maybe get some grow lights.
Devon joined her outside, closing the sliding-glass door behind him. “So, what do you think?
She smiled. “He’s yummy plus ten.”
“No kidding. If I wasn’t—”
“But you are.”
“Very.”
“And he’s not.”
Devon sighed. “Nope. Straight as an arrow. But you know my philosophy.”
“Right. No man is truly straight. Only uneducated.”
Devon lifted his highball glass. “Amen.”
She looked past him to see the man in question, still wearing his jacket and tie, smiling rather confusedly at Anya. “I want to rip off his clothes—”
“Margot!”
“—and put him in some Dolce & Gabbana. Hell, even Tommy Hilfiger would be better than that getup.”
Devon stood next to her, watching Daniel. “He works out.”
“You think?”
“I saw him without the jacket. Yep.”
“Ah, nice.”
“So, you going for it?”
“Oh, yeah.”
He turned, putting his free hand on her shoulder. “I meant for the whole nine yards.”
“Oh.”
“Come on, babycakes. This boy needs you. Look at him. He doesn’t have a clue. Face it, it’s destiny.”
“Dev, the guy just moved in. I’ve talked to him for thirty seconds.”
“I knew the moment I laid eyes on him. He’s for you. Ready to be molded by your incredible style. He’s clay, darling. Unformed. Pliable. Needy.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see. I can’t make a decision that momentous until I learn some things.”
“Like what?”
She checked her pizzas. They were almost done. The serving platters and the cutter were at the ready. “I have no clue if the man has a sense of humor. And as we all know, that’s a deal breaker.”
“That’s it?”
“No. He also needs to be teachable.”
“He moved here from Greenwich, Connecticut. He’s teachable.”
“Unless he’s clueless.”
He turned around to face the door. “He’s too delicious to dismiss out of hand. Take off those glasses, give him a decent haircut, and honey, it wouldn’t matter if he couldn’t tie his own shoes.”
“Devon, go inside.”
“Spoilsport.”
She gave him a little push, and he went to join the others. Margot got busy with the pizza, transferring it onto the platter and cutting it into pieces. All the while, she kept thinking about Daniel. Devon was right. He was the most scrumptious man she’d seen in years. Totally adorable. And clearly in need of her particular talents. But would he go for it? And did she want it to be more than a makeover?
She thought about her friends online, and how she hadn’t been participating with the group much since she got her new job. Eve’s Apple was what they called themselves. A group of brilliant and witty women from all over the country who met in a chat room to talk about life, books, sex. Several years ago, the original founders of the group had begun something called Men To Do. The premise was that there were men out there who were completely inappropriate for the long term. Dangerous men. Foolish choices. Men you wouldn’t take home to mother.
Margot had participated in every aspect of Eve’s Apple, except for that last one. She’d thought about having a Man To Do, but when push came to shove, she’d never found anyone she wanted like that.
These men were for sex only. Not relationships. And despite being too hip to live, according to her friends, Margot was a throwback to a different time. A die-hard romantic, which was not exactly in sync with her New York lifestyle. She didn’t want a tissue of a guy, to discard after one use. She wanted a keeper. But as time went by, and she got older and older—jeez, next March she’d be thirty—the reality of her life was getting harder to deny. She was lonely. Not for friends, she had those in spades. But for love. Or at least lust. The whole vibrator thing was getting old fast. She wanted someone to share her bed. And who knows, maybe Daniel Houghton III was the ticket.
She finished slicing the pizza and went inside. The gang glommed on to the food as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks. All except Daniel, of course, who still looked as if he’d been transported through the looking glass. Poor baby. He had no idea what to make of his fellow tenants. His widened gaze moved over the group and ended up locking with hers. She smiled. He smiled back.
Oh, my. Heart flutters. Flutters lower down. All kinds of inexplicable flutters. She moved toward him, bearing appetizers. “Care for some?”
He hadn’t looked away. Barely even blinked. Something was happening here. She wasn’t sure if he was scared to death or interested. She chose to believe it was interest.
He finally glanced at the remainder of the pizza and took a small piece. She had time to admire his lovely teeth while he took a bite. Excellent hygiene. A plus in anyone’s book. But God, she wanted to see him without that jacket. Actually, she wanted to see him in a lot less than that, but she’d settle.
She swung her platter-bearing hand to the right. “Take these, will ya?”
The platter was gone, and she had absolutely no interest in who’d taken over as hostess. Her focus was on Daniel. “It’s just us,” she said.
He blinked. She loved when he did that. Confusion on Daniel was like caviar on a blini. “Pardon?”
“Us. The gang. Informal.”
This time he didn’t blink. But his right eyebrow arched delightfully.
She decided to give him a tiny hint. Moving none too quickly—she didn’t want him to spook—she maneuvered herself behind him, then reached over his broad shoulders and gently took hold of his lapels.
He jumped, and she thought she heard a little gasp. But he didn’t stop her as she stripped him of the offending garment. She was so taken with what lay beneath, she let the jacket slip from her fingers.
Oh, he did work out. Yes indeedy. Those broad shoulders needed no help from padding. Her fingers itched to keep on going. To take off the purple tie, un-button the oxford shirt. Touch the heat of his flesh. But since she didn’t want him to run screaming to the police, she did the next best thing. She looked down at his butt.
Slim hips. Nice, nice, nice. And what an ass. She knew. She was something of a connoisseur when it came to that part of the anatomy, and if his wasn’t worthy of a ten-minute standing ovation, then nothing was.
God, what an incredible hypocrite she was. She hated it when men were only interested in her body, either pro or con. Thought it was shallow and despicable. And here she was drooling over this virtual stranger. It was awful. Horrible. She’d have a serious talk with herself after she got in bed tonight. Eventually.
He turned, surprised to find his jacket puddled on the hardwood floor. “Is it dead?”
She grinned. “Not yet. Just wounded.”
“I promise, next time I’ll try harder to fit in.”
“No. You’re perfect.”
He blushed. She couldn’t believe how bad she was being. She was obviously channeling Samantha from Sex and the City. Cool.
After clearing his throat, he shook his head a little, and gave her a real hard look, squinching his eyes and everything. “I don’t know how to talk to you.”
“Most people don’t.”
“Does it get easier?”
She sighed. “Oh, yeah. Well, for the most part. I can be pretty strange.”
“You sure make a mean pizza.”
She grabbed his upper arms. Both of them. “Pizza.”
“What?”
“Come with me.”
He looked briefly to his left, to the door, then back at her. “Uh, now?”
“Yes, now.” She let his shoulders go, but grabbed his hand, just in case he wanted to make a break for it. They walked past the big couch, the one she’d recovered in a dreamy cream suede, where Corrie, Anya and Rocco were laughing, past the hutch she’d gotten from her mother, into the kitchen.
The dough was on the counter. “You ever make a pizza?”
“I’ve ordered plenty.”
She nodded. “Good enough.” She handed him the rolling pin. “Roll it out.”
He took to his task with the kind of concentration usually reserved for neurosurgeons. Eyebrows together, straight front teeth chewing on the lower lip. He attacked the round ball of dough, first pressing too hard, then easing up so much he didn’t make a dent. But he learned quickly. Soon, he had the right pressure, he even had turned the dough and smoothed it out to a really even oval.
“You were kidding me, right?” she asked. “You studied pizza making for years.”
He smiled and the effect it had on his face was nothing less then stellar. Holy Chihuahua! Before she could stop herself, she reached up and slipped his glasses off his face. His eyes widened with surprise. They were blue. Cerulean blue, which she’d seen on paint samples, but never on a living human. A person could swim in those eyes. Even his eyelashes made her swoon. Thick, dark, long.
“I need those,” he said.
“Why?”
“To see.”
“No. Why not contacts?”
“I tried them once. They were annoying.”
“A little like me, huh?”
“You’re not annoying.”
“Ha.” She got out the tomato sauce and the pepperoni. “Another, please,” she said, nodding at the dough.
Daniel immediately went to work, this time very much at ease. “You’re not. You’re just different.”
“From?”
“Other people I know.”
“Ah.”
He paused, took his glasses from where she’d left them on the counter and put them back on. “So you’re a food stylist?”
“Yep.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“I make food look yummy. For magazines and television and at parties.”
“I’ve heard they use mashed potatoes instead of ice cream on TV.”
“Sometimes. Mashed potatoes don’t melt under the lights.”
He worked some more on the dough, this time making a perfect round. “How’d you get into food styling?”
She spread the sauce on the first pizza. “My parents owned a grocery store. Brooklyn’s answer to Zabar’s.”
“Gourmet stuff?”
“Mostly cheeses and specialty items. But my mother used to like to give samples to the customers, and I liked to make the displays pretty.”
“So it was a natural progression to doing the same thing professionally.”
“Exactamundo.”
He grinned. “Is there a lot of competition?”
“Lots. But I’m really, really good at it.”
“I imagine you are.”
Corrie walked into the kitchen. “Anya says her dinner is going to die an unnatural death if we don’t go up to her place in five.”
Margot frowned. “Okay. You guys go. Daniel and I will finish up the pizzas and bring them in ten.”
Corrie nodded, but her gaze stayed on Daniel. “So what do you think?”
“About what?”
“Us. This. Margot.”
“It’s interesting. Not at all like Greenwich.”
“That’s a pretty big jump,” Margot said as she spread pepperoni. “Why Chelsea?”
“I was ready for a change. Something big.”
“Why?”
He shook his head. “You don’t give up, do you?”
Margot stopped. Looked him right in the eyes. “Not until I get what I want.”
Daniel’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I see.”
She smiled. She still didn’t know why he’d moved to Chelsea, but she did know for certain why he’d moved to this building. To meet her, that’s why. To become an adventure. A challenge. He might have been ready for something big, but she had the feeling he had no idea just how big the change was going to be.
“Well, I’ll just see you two upstairs,” Corrie said. She touched Daniel on the upper arm. “Don’t be scared,” she said, her voice gentle and calming. “She won’t hurt you.”
Daniel put down the rolling pin. “I’m not so sure.”
Corrie laughed as she headed for the others.
Margot added the toppings to the first pizza, then stepped back. “Get creative, Daniel. Make this the best pizza you’ve ever had.”
He looked at her in that way of his, as if he was trying to see underneath her mask to the alien life-form underneath. “Well, that wouldn’t involve pineapple and ham.”
She leaned against the counter to watch him. And as she suspected, he went traditional. Tomato sauce, oregano, garlic, sausage and mozzarella. With all the fresh, tasty surprises she’d spread out before him, he’d gone for the white bread. The mayo. As she saw it, she had a duty to step in. To introduce this man to the cornucopia of treats all around him. He lived in New York, for heaven’s sake, the melting pot of the world, where one could get anything, anywhere, anytime. The hell with contact lenses, he needed to expand his frame of reference, to step out of the box he’d built around his life.
She had no idea about his architecture, but she’d be willing to bet her new job that it was as constricted and narrow as his pizza.
What she wasn’t sure about was if he was willing to truly open his eyes, but so far, she had a good feeling about it. Hell, he’d put up with her weirdness, and she’d caused more than one man to leave skid marks on their mad dash out of her life.
He stepped back, eyed his creation. Then he reached for the basil.
Her heart swelled as he tore it into bits and sprinkled it over the cheese.
When he was finished, he turned to her, his eager smile proud, yet a little unsure.
She nodded. “Very, very nice.”
“Fresh basil, huh?”
“One of nature’s incredible wonders,” she said, moving toward him. “And there’s more.”
His smile faltered the closer she got, but he stood his ground.
“There’s rosemary and marjoram. Dill and lemon-grass. All of them fragrant, some of them spicy. Meant to be tasted. Savored.”
He swallowed again, and she couldn’t blame him. She’d totally invaded his personal space. In fact, she was so near him she could smell the hint of his cologne, feel the heat of his breath on her cheek.
“You ready?” she asked.
“For what?” His voice was just above a whisper.
“Adventure. Excitement. Derring-do.”
He blinked again. It was incredibly endearing and she wanted to lick his chin like a cat. “Sure.”
“Okay then,” she said. “Let’s get those pizzas on the grill.”
His mouth opened, but no words came out.
She sighed with happiness, then turned to the counter again. “Thank you,” she whispered, to whoever was responsible.
He didn’t move at all as she took the laden boards and left the kitchen. Hopefully, he’d join her. He wouldn’t bolt, even though she’d left him the opportunity. She focused on her job, getting the food on the grill.
She didn’t even look up when she heard the sliding-glass door open. She simply smiled.
4
DANIEL STOOD ON THE PATIO wondering what the hell he was doing there. Not the patio per se, but this situation, with Margot, grilling pizza. It was an experience that on the face of it shouldn’t be bizarre, but it was. She was…
He didn’t have a clue what or who she was. Different didn’t say nearly enough. He’d never met anyone like her. Not even close.
The way she spoke. It was like being in a Quentin Tarantino film, sans the violence. He had absolutely no idea what would come out of her mouth next, and he couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, that had happened to him. There was a rhythm to the conversations of his life, a logic. With her, there was nothing to hold on to.
“So, tell me more,” she said.
“More about what?”
“You. Brothers, sisters, parents, friends. The entire scoop, please, leave nothing out.”
He laughed. “It would put you to sleep, and you have to watch the grill.”
“Try me.”
He ran a hand through his hair, then moved to the far end of her patio to look over the edge. It would have been utterly appropriate if there had been an endless chasm below, but instead it was just the street with packed-in cars on both sides. “Well, my parents live in Port Washington.”
“Ah, Long Island.”
“Yep. I was raised there. I have an older sister, Gretchen.”
“No brothers?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither. Go on.”
“My father’s an architect.”
“Do you work with him?”
“Nope. I didn’t want to.”
“Why not?”
Usually, if someone asked, he said he’d wanted to make it on his own. No one questioned that. It was an honest answer. But not a complete one. “I don’t get along all that well with my father.”
“Oh, bummer. Isn’t he happy you followed in his footsteps?”
Daniel nodded. “Sure. And don’t get me wrong, he’s a good man. We just don’t…” He shrugged.
“Talk?”
“Yeah.”
“What about your mom?”
“She talks.”
Margot smiled and it was like the sun moving from behind a cloud. She really was an extraordinary-looking woman. Lush, full, rounded. He kept wanting to touch her. Not that he would, but the urge was there. Her hair was incredibly shiny and thick, her skin glowed, and her eyes… When she looked at him it made his throat dry and his thoughts turn to mush. “Does she listen?”
“Who?”
Her soft laugh made the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up. In a good way. “Your mother.”
“Sometimes. But mostly, she’s concerned with her… With herself.”
“I see.” Margot looked at him for a long moment, then she turned back to the grill. “These are done. Let’s take ’em to Anya’s.”
He got the boards, and she put the pizzas, which smelled incredible, on them. Then she led him through the apartment to the front door. He glanced at his jacket, still crumpled on the floor. There would be time for that later.
HE CHECKED HIS WATCH and frowned at the time. It was almost one in the morning. He had to be up at six for work. At least they’d reached the end of the extended dinner. They were at Rocco’s, whose place was just as unexpected as everything else had been over the long night.
The ex-boxer collected antiques. And he had one hell of an eye. They were seated in his living room, on elegant Louis XIV chaises. Across from Daniel on the smaller couch, Eric rested his head on Devon’s lap. Corrie sat cross-legged on the Persian rug with her back upright, as if she were standing at attention. It would have been impossible for him, but evidently her training as a dancer had been primarily about posture.
Anya was in the kitchen with Rocco making tea. And Margot… Margot sat inches away from Daniel, her back against a silk pillow, her legs up on the chaise, her bare feet nearly touching his thigh. She’d painted her nails a brilliant scarlet, and she had rings, one white, one blue, around two of her toes.
He kept his hands cupped around his brandy snifter but all he could think about was running his fingers down the enticing curve of her foot.
It was nuts. He wasn’t into feet. He knew some men were, but he’d never given them a thought.
He stole a look at Margot and was shocked to meet her very intense gaze. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t.
“It’s all right, you know,” she said, her voice very soft, meant only for him.
“What’s all right?” he whispered back.
“You can touch them.”
His mouth opened, but, again, nothing. No response. Not a clue what to say.
“They’re pretty rings,” she went on. “I got one of them at a flea market. The blue one was a gift.”
His gaze finally moved from hers only to stare at the exotic toe jewelry. An image flashed in his mind, very vivid. So vivid, he had to shift on the couch.
“What?” she asked, leaning a little forward.
“Nothing.”
“Come on, Daniel. We know each other too well to hold back now.”
He looked at her again. At the teasing smile, the coy arch of her eyebrow. “I don’t know you at all.”
“I’m an open book. Ask me anything.”
He raised the snifter to his lips and took a big sip. The heat slithered down his throat, expanding as it reached his chest. “Do you have rings anywhere else?” he asked.
She nodded.
He coughed. Turned away. Stared at an eighteenth-century highboy.
“Do you want to know where?”
Her voice snuck beneath his defenses, which weren’t many. He was too full, too drunk and too bewildered by the woman. He’d talked to the others tonight, but cursorily. Even when he wanted to, he couldn’t force his attention far away from Margot. Willing himself to be cool, to not let her know what she was doing to him, he sipped again at the brandy. But it was no use. He wanted to know about her other rings. Badly. He sighed. Then nodded.
Again, that soft, knowing chuckle. “Well, I have these,” she said.
He looked. He was constitutionally incapable of not looking. But all he saw were her hands. Long, beautiful hands with crimson nails. She did have rings. On each hand. One a pearl, the other a diamond. His chest sank with disappointment, which he realized was nuts. It’s just that she was so…exotic, he was expecting more. Different. Erotic.
Then she leaned forward even more. When she had his gaze locked, she licked her lower lip with the tip of her pink tongue. “The others will have to wait until we’re alone.”
“Others?”
She smiled, showing him her white teeth. “Two more. But I’m not going to tell you where. You’ll have to see for yourself.”
“Oh, God.”
Laughing, she leaned back against her pillow.
The next thing he knew, she’d swung her legs off the chaise and stood. “Well, kiddies. It’s late, and I have a disgustingly early call. Thank you all for a magnificent evening. I look forward to next Sunday’s soiree where I shall be making dessert.” She pointed to Corrie. “You’re appetizers.” Her red-tipped finger moved to Devon and Eric. “Main course.” Then she pointed at Daniel. “You’ll help me.”
She walked toward the kitchen. “I’m leaving,” she said to Anya and Rocco, who were just coming back to the living room. “I have to go. Thank you for everything.” She kissed both of them on the cheek. “Take care of each other.” Then she was at the front door. She waved her fingers. Closed the door behind her.
For the first time since he’d met her, Daniel got a full breath. He sagged against the chaise, still boggled by the night.
Corrie approached him. She patted his knee. “See? I told you it would be okay. I think it’s wonderful.”
“What?”
“You and Margot, of course.”
“What are you talking about?”
Across the way, Devon chuckled. “You’ll see.”
Daniel looked at the man. “See what? What’s going on?”
Eric yawned expansively, then sat up. “Nothing to worry about, Daniel old boy. Just relax. She’ll be gentle.”
Daniel stood up. Put the snifter on the table. “I don’t know what the hell you people are talking about. If it’s some kind of cult—”
Laughter cut him off. He didn’t realize he’d said anything funny.
“It’s not a cult,” Corrie said. “It’s just Margot. And she’s wonderful. Kind and caring. She just wants to help.”
“With what? I don’t need any help.”
Corrie’s gaze raked him from head to toe then back again. She smiled kindly, with just a hint of pity. “You’re so sweet,” she said.
“This is insane,” he said, bewildered by this wacko group he’d stumbled into. “All of you.”
“Yep, but we mean no harm. So don’t fret.”
“Thanks for the advice,” he said, heading to the door. “And I don’t think I’ll be available next Sunday. I’ve got a previous engagement.”
No one tried to change his mind, but they gave each other disturbingly knowing looks. He had to get out of there. Now. This was out of control. And he wanted no part of it.
MARGOT HAD TO GET TO SLEEP. Tomorrow, actually today, was really important, and she couldn’t screw it up. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Daniel.
She’d been bad. Naughty, naughty. But it had been so much fun teasing him. He blushed! It was completely adorable, and she couldn’t wait to make him do it again. And again.
She shifted under her comforter, punched her pillow into submission, but thoughts of Daniel just kept on coming. Halfway through dinner, she realized that teasing Daniel was way up there on her hit parade. Kind of like chocolate. Addictive, satisfying, good for the libido. She kept wanting more and more, until that silly little stunt on the couch. Could she have been more blatant?
Jeez, it was amazing she’d held herself back from ravishing the boy right there in front of God and everybody.
She just hoped she hadn’t scared him into moving back to Greenwich.
Nah. He’d liked it. She remembered his eyes, how they’d gleamed with interest. How they’d come back to her over and over again, no matter what else was going on in the room. That was truly something.
She knew she had an effect on men. Mostly, they were just confused by her, but from time to time she elicited real interest. Which pleased her so much that she’d always, always, make a judicious exit, before the thrill had a chance to dissipate. Always leave them wanting more was her motto. And yet with Daniel, she wasn’t so anxious to run off. Not that she could. She lived here. But it wouldn’t be that difficult to make herself scarce.
No. She didn’t want to do that. She wanted to experience the rush of last night all over again. It was exhilarating. Thrilling. Exciting in a way that hadn’t happened to her since… Since ever.
“Wow,” she whispered to the night. “Wow, wow.” Then she turned over again. She really needed to get to sleep. Now.
Reaching down to her bedside drawer, she pulled out her favorite toy. She had lots of yummy things to imagine tonight. Too many. How could she possibly choose just one?
But one did come to mind the moment she touched herself with her vibrator. Daniel. Naked. Investigating her rings. All of them.
HE WAS A MORON. No doubt about it. Daniel wiped his face with his hand, cringing at the vision he saw in the mirror. He looked like hell, and today was not the day for it. He’d known about the presentation. Had worked for months getting his plans together, making sure he’d included everything the clients could possibly want, and what did he do the night before?
“Idiot,” he said to the man in the mirror. “Moron.”
Then he pushed his hair back with his fingers, straightened his shoulders and strode out of the bathroom. His boss, Edgar Kogen, was waiting impatiently by Daniel’s desk. “They’re here.”
Daniel nodded, wishing he’d had time for another cup of coffee before he had to do the dog-and-pony show. But he got his portfolio and followed Kogen into the conference room.
He had already prepared the room. There were easels covered with detail drawings which, along with what he had in his portfolio, would convince the attorneys from Bressler, Wendelken and Sherman that this new building would handle all their needs for years to come. He pasted a smile on his face, and launched into his spiel.
It took five hours, but by the end of it, the attorneys were sold. They shook hands, and Daniel caught Edgar’s approving nod as he gathered his drawings. This was a major, prestige deal, one worth millions. Daniel had been privy to the competition’s approach, seen sketches, which were damn good. But they were too modern, too forward thinking for the stodgy attorneys. Bressler et al were from the old school, like the company Daniel worked for. Like his father. They liked the status quo, and that’s just what Daniel had given them. So what if it wasn’t exciting, so what if he’d had to force himself to think like an old man when he’d drawn up the designs.
These men in their wool suits would be shocked if they knew what Daniel did in his spare time. That he created fantasies; futuristic buildings. His passion, one he kept close to the vest, was science fiction. He’d discovered Frank Frazetta years ago when he’d started hiding paperback fantasy books under his bed. Then it was H. R. Giger and hundreds of other visionary artists who blew away all the old concepts about what things could be. Whenever he was upset or bored he would take to his drawings, letting his imagination run wild. But that was all behind closed doors. What he did in the real world was design buildings that looked like other buildings. Old buildings.
He was alone in the conference room. His portfolio was zipped, the table littered with unused notepads, empty coffee cups, carafes half-full of ice water. He wondered why he didn’t feel more elated. It was a big deal, what he’d done. A raise wouldn’t be out of the question. His partnership was coming into focus. And yet, he couldn’t muster so much as a satisfied grin.
Tired, that’s all. He hadn’t slept well. Hardly at all. Tonight, after the gym, he’d crash early. By tomorrow he’d be himself again.
He went out, toward his office. The receptionist, Jill, smiled broadly and gave him two thumbs up. He answered her with a nod and felt guilty that it wasn’t more. She was a nice woman, and she was always there to assist whenever he needed her. But his mind was already back at the Chelsea apartment. Not on a good night’s sleep though. His jacket. He’d left it at Margot’s. He should get it after work. Simple, really. No big deal. She’d be tired, too. He wouldn’t stick around.
He wouldn’t even think about those other two rings or where they were hidden on that incredible body.
To: The Gang at Eve’s Apple
From: Margot
Sub: HOLY MOLY!
Dear Everybody,
I’m at work. Chaos reins and hellhounds abound, but I don’t care. I have to write this because I can’t stop thinking about it. Him. Daniel.
I mentioned we had a new guy move in to the building, right? Well, he came to the weekly dinner last night, and OMG!!! He’s GORGEOUS. Seriously. Heart stoppingly. I mean it. He’s beyond the beyond. Okay, so he’s clueless about what to wear or how to wear it, but the potential is there. I feel like Michelangelo when he saw the marble that would become David. All I have to do is strip away the parts that aren’t truly Daniel.
But even more important than his makeover possibilities, I liked him. Yeah, that way. There was this…thing between us. Sparks. Magic. Heat. I kept wanting to lick him all over. It was overwhelming. He talks. He has a sense of humor. He’s artistic. Well, he’s an architect, so I’m assuming there, but I think so. And he wanted…more. Me, I supposed. Which is…
Anyway. I’m hereby throwing my hat in the ring. (Maybe we should change that to throwing our panties into the ring.) Daniel is officially my Man To Do. I wish it could be more, but I have serious doubts.
He’s not Jewish. Which, as you know, isn’t a requirement, but Daniel is so not. He’s so conservative. But curious. I just hope he’s not overwhelmed by it all. I mean, I live in ethnic-alternate-lifestyle land. He comes from a world of white bread and mayo. I have the feeling his parents would expire on the spot if he should bring me to meet them. But, I digress. He’s a man to do. I’m just hoping he’s a man to do a LOT.
I need to get back to work. I’m doing onion rings, and I smell like I’ve been deep-fried. I’ll keep you posted.
Love and smooches,
Margot
5
DANIEL THREW HIS JACKET on the back of the couch and walked straight to the kitchen. It was almost eight, and he’d thought he’d never get out of the office. Edgar had wanted to talk about the new building. And talk. All Daniel had wanted to do was go home.
Tired, that’s all. He pulled a beer out of the fridge, popped the top, but stopped short of drinking. He would just go up and get the jacket he’d left at Margot’s. No big deal. She was probably just as tired as he was, and like him, she would want to make it an early, easy night. He wouldn’t bother her. Except to get the jacket, of course. Just that.
He put the beer down on the counter and went toward the door. She might not even be home. She had that TV commercial and all, which probably kept her busy until late.
The whole way up the stairs he debated turning around. Until he actually knocked, he wasn’t completely sure he would. But then the door opened, and there was Margot, and she broke into a smile that made him feel like the king of the world.
“You’re just on time,” she said, stepping back so he could walk inside.
“For what?”
“Dinner.”
“Oh, no.” He watched as she shut the door, his gaze meandering down the silky orange tunic that covered her curves. It was tighter across her breasts, just enough for him to get a teasing image of their shape. “My jacket.”
“Is right over there,” she said, pointing to an ottoman at the far end of the room.
Things had changed since last night. There were big pillows on the floor next to the low teak coffee table. There was a big ceramic pitcher on the table with a raised picture of an Egyptian cat. There were two plates, two bowls, two napkins, both in gold rings, two wine-glasses. “You’re expecting someone.”
Margot came to his side. “Sit down. It’s almost ready.”
He turned to face her.
She smiled serenely, nodding twice. “On the pillow,” she said. Then she pointed to the cushion closest to the couch.
He didn’t understand, which, it seemed, was par for the course with Margot. He sat, awkwardly, trying to fold his legs underneath the table, his shoes getting in the way.
By the time he was settled, Margot had disappeared into the kitchen. He looked again at the table. She’d set it for two, but she couldn’t have known he was coming over. Could she?
She came back, her skirt flowing, her long hair pulled back into a loose ponytail that hung down her back. There was a flower, the same orange as her dress, behind her right ear. Her lips looked smooth and creamy, although he wasn’t sure if she had lipstick on, or if they were dewy from her tongue’s ministrations. His throat felt dry and he was glad to see the wine bottle in her hand.
She showed him the label, but he didn’t even glance at it. He didn’t look at his glass when she poured, either. He just kept staring at her mouth.
Her smile brought him back from wherever he’d been, and he gave himself a mental shake. “I’m…”
“What?” she asked, moving to the other side of the table. She picked up the pitcher, brought it to her face and took a long, closed-eyes breath. Then she leaned across the table. “Put your hands over the bowl,” she said in a smoky whisper that went straight to his groin.
He obeyed mindlessly, his gaze captured not by her mouth but by the sight of her breasts. The tops, to be precise, revealed as the silk of her dress fell open and he was allowed a forbidden glimpse. They were perfect, pale, rounded. His hands, held over the wooden bowls, ached to cross the distance between them.
He jumped when he felt the water. She was pouring water over his fingers. It was warm, and it smelled like flowers.
Her soft chuckle brought his gaze to meet hers. What he saw there was more than amusement. There was an invitation in her eyes that had nothing to do with dinner.
Which was good, because he doubted he could eat.
She put the pitcher on the table, leaned over with her hand on his shoulder, and whispered, “I’ll be right back.”
What the hell was happening to him? This was nuts. Completely. He got near Margot and his brain turned to mush. The lower part of his body had the opposite problem. Jeez, he was hard. Sitting on this incredibly uncomfortable pillow, with his left foot falling asleep, something poking into the small of his back, he was unmistakably erect. Thank goodness he was hidden under the table, because his pants weren’t up to the task of disguising the issue.
And he could probably take his hands away from the bowl now.
Okay, he was blushing. He felt the blood in his cheeks, and it made him almost as uncomfortable as the stupidity of his dick. He sighed as he pulled the napkin from the ring and dried off.
He should have stuck with the plan. Gotten his jacket and left. But she’d done something to him, spiked the air, hypnotized him.
He’d never reacted this way before. Not that he hadn’t been attracted to women, but no one had ever turned him into a blabbering idiot like this. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t stop staring at her, he clearly couldn’t control his body. It was…
“This is bstilla,” she said.
He jumped again, completely surprised that she was standing at his side. “What?
“Bstilla,” she repeated, putting a plate down on the table. “And these are lamb kabobs.”
He looked at the second platter. That one he sort of recognized, although he’d always seen kabobs on skewers. These were bits of lamb on small beds of green. But the first dish was a mystery. It looked like very thinly rolled pastry with some kind of filling. All bite-size.
“It’s a traditional Moroccan first course,” she said as she gracefully lowered herself to the cushion across from him, “although I’m serving them as an amuse bouche.”
“Amuse…?”
“Little bites that delight the mouth. After this, we’ll have tajine, batinjaan, couscous and khubz. For dessert, there’s fruit and pastry with mint tea. We eat everything with our fingers.” She demonstrated by taking one of the bstilla between her finger and thumb and popping it in her mouth. Her eyes closed as she chewed. Her low moan made him think of something completely inappropriate. Finally, she looked at him again. “Go on.”
He took one, still hot from the oven. He ate it whole and his mouth filled with spice and chicken. He swallowed hard as his eyes filled with tears. He made a sound, hoping she wouldn’t be insulted when he died.
In an instant, she was on her feet. She disappeared while he was trying to wave the flames shooting out of his mouth. But then she was back, handing him a glass of milk.
He drank, the cool liquid putting out the fire like magic. “Thank you.”
“Little too spicy there, Daniel?”
“A bit.”
“I tend to go a little nuts. I have a really high tolerance for heat. I’m sorry. I should have warned you.”
“It was good,” he said, his voice only cracking a little.
Her right eyebrow rose.
“No, really. There was some definite flavor in there. Right before the incredible pain.”
When she laughed, her face became a work of art. She was beautiful anyway, but the laughter made everything shine. He couldn’t resist joining her, and then when calmed, she sipped some wine, and he did that with her, too.
“Nothing else is that spicy,” she said. “The tajine isn’t bland, but it’s not too bad. Try a little first.”
He nodded and reached for the kebab. The meat smelled great. He took a tentative bite, but this was pure pleasure, no agony at all. He realized how hungry he was as he lifted another morsel from the plate.
She ate another b-thingy and seemed to enjoy it tremendously. Her gaze was on his, never wavering, and it was weird, because it wasn’t awkward at all. He watched her, she watched him, and they enjoyed the food and the scents and the push and pull that wafted over the table. His fingers got messy, but it felt right, and then when he dipped them in the water, he wondered why there weren’t finger bowls with every meal.
“How did it go?” she asked him.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/jo-leigh/a-lick-and-a-promise/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.