Kitabı oku: «Staying Single», sayfa 3
Mark Fielding was definitely eye candy.
Francie was definitely addicted to candy.
Francie needs candy like a hole in the head!
“I was happy to oblige,” she went on. “Baxter Promotions prides itself on being a very hands-on company.”
His right brow shot up and she felt her face heat at what her words implied.
Way to insert foot in mouth, Francie!
“Really? How interesting.”
Ignoring his teasing grin, she said, “As I explained, our firm is a small one, so we’re able to give our clients more individualized attention. Details are very important in this business, as you are certain to find out, no matter who you decide to sign with.”
He smiled that devastatingly sexy smile again. It was a sin for a man to have such straight, white teeth. Francie had paid a fortune to have hers fixed. In fact, she was still paying the orthodontist, would probably be paying Dr. Rosenblat until the day she died, or needed dentures.
“I like the sound of that, Ms. Morelli, or can I call you Francesca, since there’s a good possibility that we’ll be working together? I hope you’ll call me Mark.”
“How did you know my—”
“The brass plate on your desk.”
She nodded. “Ah, of course.” Francie was dying to ask Mark about his last name. Though Matt’s last name was Carson, his parents’ last name had been Fielding, due to a divorce and remarriage in his family. He had never mentioned anything about having a brother.
Matt had made a habit out of surprising her with all sorts of things—romantic gifts, tickets to concerts she’d been dying to see—so when he refused to give her the name of his best man and had insisted on issuing the invitation himself, saying only that it was a big surprise and she would have to wait until the day of the wedding to find out, she didn’t insist.
Most grown men were really just little boys at heart, and Matt had been no different.
At any rate, Fielding was a pretty common name in the Philadelphia area, so she wasn’t going to start getting paranoid about every person she met with that moniker. And Mark Fielding didn’t look a thing like Matt, who was at least three inches shorter and had brown curly hair, not black waves that tempted a woman’s touch.
Stop it, Francie! This line of thinking is only going to get you into trouble, and you have plenty of that already.
Not to mention that Mark starts with the dreaded letter “M,” Francie reminded herself.
What is it about M names anyway? First Marty, then Mike, Matt, and now Mark. She had a serious alphabet problem.
“Was it something I said?”
Her cheeks filled with color again. “Sorry. I have a bad habit of zoning out. And yes, you may call me Francesca or Francie, if you like, which is what most of my friends and family call me.”
The waiter came to take their order. Francie decided on the crab cakes, which was the chef’s special for the day, while Mark opted for scallops in white wine sauce. They shared a bottle of chardonnay.
“So what kind of media coverage can I expect, if I decide to sign with Baxter? I was hoping to get on some talk shows, maybe a few radio spots.” Mark forked salad into his mouth as he spoke, and Francie had a difficult time concentrating on his words and not his lips.
“There’ll be book signings, of course. And with your affiliation with the Associated Press, I don’t see a problem getting the TV talk shows interested. From the little you’ve told me, your work sounds fascinating, not to mention topical.”
“It can be. But it can also be heart-wrenching at times. There’s a lot of poverty, death and disease in this world, and I’ve seen and photographed most of it.”
Over their main course, Mark told her what he’d seen in Africa—the deaths from AIDS, the famine—and detailed many other atrocities he’d witnessed in the countries he’d visited and photographed.
“I admire your ability to be able to deal with such things. I don’t think I could.”
“It’s been difficult at times,” he confessed, sadness filling his eyes. “I’ve had the opportunity to photograph some of what’s been going on in North Korea, and it sickens me. The children look like prisoners in a concentration camp. They’re so undernourished and badly treated. I wish our government could do something about it.”
“You talk with a great deal of passion, Mark. That will be an asset when you’re interviewed.”
“It’s not just talk. I feel very passionate about my work. I’m passionate about a great many things, actually.”
His gazed dropped to her lips and Francie reached for her water glass, trying to quench the heat she suddenly felt between her legs.
What on earth was wrong with her? She’d just broken off her engagement, left her groom at the altar, and here she was affected by yet another man!
Not good, Francie. Definitely not good.
“Is there a problem? You look a little flushed.”
She pasted on an innocent smile. “Why, no. I just think it’s rather warm in here, don’t you?”
“Not at all. I think it’s perfect, as a matter of fact. Great food, a charming companion. What more can a man ask for?”
Think about work, Francie, she told herself. “What made you decide to become a photographer?”
“It was something I’d dabbled with in high school. Once I knew I was pretty good at it, there was no holding me back. I snapped photos of everything, almost drove my parents nuts.”
Noting Mark was finished with his lunch, she asked, “How was your meal?”
“I enjoyed it very much. This restaurant was an excellent choice.”
“Would you care for dessert? The pastry chef is very good here.”
“No thanks. I need to stop by my new apartment, make sure the furnishings have been delivered as promised.”
“You rented an apartment? Does that mean you’re planning to stay on awhile? I thought Associated Press photographers were on the road a lot.”
“We are. But I requested assignments closer to home. I’m a bit travel weary and like the idea of putting down roots for a while. With my seniority, it wasn’t a problem.”
“So, where’s your new apartment?”
“It’s called The Stones at Rittenhouse Square. Do you know of it?”
Francie’s mouth fell open, and her eyes widened. “But…but that’s where I live.”
Mark smiled, his right brow shooting up. “Really? What a nice coincidence. I guess that means we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, then. I hope so, anyway.”
Warning bells clanged in her ears and red flags waved wildly in front of her eyes, but as she gazed into Mark Fielding’s big blue eyes, so filled with promise and passion, Francie ignored them completely.
4
PUSHING the rented sofa to a position beneath the bay window that overlooked the park across the street, Mark stood back, hands on hips, and surveyed the room.
Depressing at best, he decided.
It didn’t come anywhere close to his elegantly furnished room at the Ritz-Carlton. But hey, it was temporary. Which was good. Because if he had to spend any significant amount of time with the red-brocade sofa and green-velvet wing chairs he might have to commit himself to an asylum for the criminally design challenged.
This had been a last-minute arrangement, so he couldn’t afford to be too picky. Plus, it accomplished an important goal—living in close proximity to Francesca Morelli. Beggars can’t be choosers, his stepmom always counseled, and she was usually right.
As if conjured up by his thoughts, the cell phone rang, and it was Laura on the other end. “Mark, are you okay? We haven’t heard from you in days.”
It had only been two, but he knew his mom was a worrier. “I’m fine, Mom. How’re you doing? Hope you and Dad have recovered from the wedding.” He knew they’d been exhausted by the ordeal, both physically and mentally.
Francie had a lot to atone for.
“You don’t sound like you’re in Afghanistan, Mark. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were just a few blocks away. Very impressive technology. How do they do it?”
Mark felt heat rising up his neck at the lies he’d told his parents and brother. But it was a necessary fabrication if he was going to pull off his scheme. Matt was still too smitten with Francesca to be included in his plan for revenge. He’d have to go this one alone.
“Yeah, these digital cell phones work great, don’t they? So how’s Dad? And Mark? He was pretty depressed the last time I spoke to him. Is he doing any better since the wedding?”
“Not really.” There was a great deal of worry in those two words. “That’s why I’m calling, dear. Your father and I have decided to take a trip to Maui, and we’ve convinced Matt to go with us. I think the change of scenery will be good for him. For all of us, actually. We liked Francie very much, and this has been a difficult situation to deal with.”
“I totally agree,” he replied, trying to keep the anger he felt out of his voice. “When do you leave?”
“First thing tomorrow morning. Because of our last-minute booking it’s costing us a small fortune for the plane tickets and hotel. But your dad thought it a necessary and worthwhile expense, so we’re going. I wanted to let you know, in case you tried to call. I didn’t want you to worry that something had happened to us.”
Laura was like that, always so considerate of others—a total opposite to his brother’s self-centered ex-fiancée. Oh sure, Francie came across as nice, because she wanted his business. But he knew what the woman was really like—a heartbreaker, ball-buster, selfish to the bone. She was no different from all the other women he’d known.
“I’m glad you called to let me know. Tell Matt I said to have a good time, and you do the same. You and Dad never really had a honeymoon, so make the most of this trip. Maui is a very romantic place. Try to relax and enjoy yourself.”
Laura’s embarrassed laughter filled his ears, making Mark smile. It was such fun to tease her. Because of his stepmom’s fair complexion, her face always turned beet red whenever she got self-conscious about something.
“Always the romantic, son. It’s one of the things I love best about you.”
“Only one? When I have so many wonderful qualities,” he quipped.
A knock sounded on the door just then, and Mark cursed softly under his breath, hoping his mother didn’t grow suspicious.
“Did I just hear a knock, Mark? Where on earth are you?”
He thought quickly. “Ah, yeah, Mom. I ordered room service. This hotel is the pits, so I don’t want to keep the guy waiting. He might decide to spit in my food. They’re not real fond of Americans here.”
“I understand. Call us when you can. And please be careful. Your dad and I worry about you when you’re over in those dangerous places.”
Mark reassured her he would, then clicked off to answer the door, where he found a handsome blond man with a wiry build standing on the other side.
His visitor was impeccably dressed in a very expensive suit—Armani would be his guess—and he was holding a bottle of wine, which Mark accepted from his outstretched hand with a thank-you.
“I’m Leo Bergmann, Mark. Francie told me you were new to the building, so I’ve come by to welcome you. We’re mostly a friendly group, except for Mrs. Hunsaker three doors down,” he said, indicating the hallway to his right. “She’s got inflamed hemorrhoids. A real nightmare, that woman. I’d try to stay clear of her, if I were you. There’s not enough Preparation H in the entire world to cure what ails her. She gives new meaning to the term ‘a pain in the ass.’”
Mark chuckled, warming quickly to his new neighbor. “Come on in. I’m still getting things sorted out, so don’t mind the mess.”
Leo’s gaze swept the room and he couldn’t hide his disgust. “I see you’re going for a retro look. I’m not sure it’s working. The couch really sucks. I won’t bother commenting on the chairs. But the word hideous comes to mind.”
“This stuff is rented. I’m not usually in town long enough to worry about furnishings. I live mostly in hotels when I’m on assignment.”
“So Francie said. The couch would look much better facing the fireplace. And perhaps you could flank the wing chairs on either side of it.” Leo tapped his chin with his forefinger, mentally rearranging the room. “You’re not going to be able to hide the ugly things, so you may as well make them the focal point of the room. Sort of an in-your-face statement.”
Seeing the wisdom of the suggestion, Mark nodded. “Thanks. Are you a decorator, by any chance?”
“Not all gay men are decorators—that’s just a vicious rumor being circulated by followers of Jerry Falwell.” The blond man grinned mischievously. “Some of us are hairdressers. But I do dabble in both, from time to time.
“Actually, I don’t have a full-time job. I live off a trust fund, which allows me to indulge my hobbies, one of which is interior design. And I do haircuts free of charge. If you’re game, drop by sometime. But not too early. I’m a late sleeper.”
Mark plowed fingers through his hair, knowing he needed a trim. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. Care for a glass of wine?” He liked Leo. The man was refreshingly honest, very charming and utterly outrageous.
Leo nodded. “Wine is my passion. Another hobby, I’m afraid, and a very expensive one. I’m into vintage wines. I collect them. Mostly California cabs and merlots. I’m a bit of a snob. Don’t care much for the French bordeaux. Highly overrated, in my opinion. Their soil’s depleted from years of doing business as usual. They need to get into the twenty-first century and quit resting on their laurels. Food? Yes, definitely. They can rest all they want. But wine? I think not.”
Mark’s brow shot up at the man’s unorthodox opinion. He didn’t know much about wine, but he’d always heard that French wines were the best.
Opening the gift bottle of Joseph Phelps’ Insignia, he handed Leo a glass of the deep red wine, then offered him a seat on the ugly sofa. “I guess Francie told you about my job with the Associated Press?”
“She did. I must say I’m impressed. I’ve always been a nut about photography, though I can’t take a decent photo to save my life. They’re either overexposed, underexposed or totally out of focus. Maybe I need glasses.”
“Perhaps I can give you some hints, to thank you for the wine. It’s simple, once you get the hang of it.”
“I’d appreciate that. I’ve been thinking about buying one of those digital cameras.” He sipped his wine, sighed with pleasure, and then asked, “How do you like Francie? She’s a very special woman, our Francie, though a bit flighty when it comes to men. She hasn’t met the right one yet, I suspect. Though I can tell you that if I were straight she’d be one female I’d lob on to. A more loyal woman you could never ask for. And she’s a real sweetheart, too.”
Arching his right brow, Mark tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice. “Really? I don’t know her that well. Does she have a boyfriend?”
“I knew it.” Leo appeared pleased with himself and Mark’s question. “You two would be perfect for each other. And no, she doesn’t. Francie narrowly escaped getting married recently. The guy was gorgeous and a real sweetie, but she wasn’t in love with him. No spark, if you get my drift.”
“That must have been a difficult decision for her to make.”
“Francie’s got a phobia when it comes to marriage. I think it’s because her mother wants it so badly. Josephine Morelli is a breed unto herself. You’ll meet her, if you stay here long enough. She’s got a nose for single men. You’re single, right?”
“Very much so.”
“Thought so. I can usually spot them. But don’t worry. I only hit on the ones I know share my lifestyle. So, how do you feel about marriage?”
“It’s a great institution, though I’m not ready to give up my career just yet and settle down. The woman who could make me do that would have to be very special. I’m pretty much married to my job.”
Leo’s eyes twinkled. “Very special, indeed,” he said, gulping down the rest of his wine. “Well, guess I’d better go. I have a date with the lovely Francesca tonight. We’re going out to celebrate my birthday—the big three-oh. Care to join us? My treat.”
“Uh, thanks for the offer, but I’ve got some work to do, not to mention unpacking, so I’d better take a rain check.” When he wooed Francie, he wanted to do it alone, out of sight of Leo, who seemed too astute for his own good. The man didn’t miss much, that was for sure.
“Well, if you change your mind, we’ll be at Le Bec Fin. Dinner’s at seven. Ask any cabbie how to get there. If you can’t make dinner, try for dessert. I’ve ordered a special soufflé.
“Francie is the only woman I know who shares my passion for food and sweets. All the others worry about their weight. We’ve sort of become dining buddies.”
“Have a great time. And happy birthday!”
Once Leo departed, Mark took the time to mull over their conversation, especially as it pertained to Josephine Morelli. If he got Francie’s mother to be his ally, it could hasten the wooing process. He wanted revenge, but he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life getting it.
From what Leo had said, Mrs. Morelli was looking for a prospective son-in-law. Mark was looking to drag Francie to the altar. It sounded like a match made in heaven.
“SORRY I’M LATE, Leo. Things kept popping up at work, and Ted’s useless when it comes to finding paperwork that he’s misplaced. I swear, the man couldn’t find his butt if it wasn’t attached. And then I couldn’t find a cab to save my life. I must look a mess.” Francie patted her hair, which was curling every which way. She hated her curls, considering them to be an unruly mess.
Leo smiled, squeezing her hand in a calming fashion then filled her wineglass. “I’m used to my own company, sweetie, so your being a tad late doesn’t bother me in the least. Besides, I entertained myself this afternoon by paying a visit to our new resident hunk. Brought him a bottle of wine as a welcome gift. I must say the man is primo.”
Unbuttoning her coat, Francie dropped into her seat and stared at Leo in wide-eyed disbelief. “Do you mean Mark Fielding?” Of course he meant Mark. Who else would he mean? There were no other new tenants in the building, certainly none that could be classified as hunks.
“He’s charming, your Mr. Fielding. I think you two would make the perfect couple, and I’ll be seriously displeased if you don’t hook up with him.”
Her cheeks filled with color. “He’s not my Mr. Fielding. Have you been watching Pride and Prejudice again? You sound very Jane Austen this evening.” She shook her head. Leo was infatuated with Colin Firth, not that she could blame him. The actor who portrayed Mr. Darcy in the A&E production was adorable.
“My God! I hope you didn’t say anything to Mark along those lines. I’d be mortified to speak to him again, if you did.” And she had no intention of getting involved with the man, despite the fact that he made her toes tingle.
“Well, of course not,” Leo lied, swallowing his smile. “Give me more credit than that, sweetie. I just asked him what he thought of you and he replied that he really didn’t know you very well. Then he offered to teach me how to use a camera properly. Isn’t that nice?”
Francie released the breath she’d been holding. She was determined not to get involved with any man for a very long time, eons possibly, and especially not someone who was a potential client, and certainly not someone with whom Leo had brokered a match.
The man was worse than a woman when it came to matchmaking. Leo was notorious for choosing horrible dates. He had once set her up with a florist whom he’d sworn was perfect for her. The man had turned out to be married with six children. Then there was the plastic surgeon who insisted he could give Francie bigger and better boobs at a discount.
Okay, so she wasn’t Pamela Anderson, but she wasn’t flat, either. And hers were real!
Francie decided a long time ago that she could screw up her life on her own. She didn’t need Leo to aid her.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I suggested to Mark that he join us for dessert. He said he couldn’t make dinner.”
“What?” Francie’s mouth fell open, then she snapped it shut. “You invited him to join us? Whatever for?”
“Because he’s a nice guy, it’s my birthday and I can do whatever I want. I am paying, after all.”
She had the grace to blush. “I did offer, Leo.”
“I know, sweetie, but I’ve got gobs more money than you, and no one to spend it on but myself, so it seemed silly to have you pay.”
Leo was very generous with his money. Francie wouldn’t dine out nearly as much as she did, if that weren’t the case. Of course, she’d probably be ten pounds thinner.
“What did you buy me? I’ve been conjuring up all sorts of delicious possibilities.” Leo tried peering into her purse, so Francie picked it up and moved it to the other side of the table. “Too small for a Porsche. Pity,” he said, grinning.
Leo was like a child when it came to receiving gifts. In the three years they’d lived together, Francie had learned that he not only liked surprises, he wanted a big fuss made over his birthday, and pretty much every other holiday on the calendar, be it Jewish or secular.
He said it was because he’d been raised by his aunt and uncle after his parents died—a couple of religious fanatics who didn’t know how to have fun, didn’t celebrate Christmas or any other “heathen” holiday, and certainly hadn’t approved when Leo came out of the closet at age eighteen to announce that he was leaving home to live with another man…in sin.
That had been the last time he’d heard from his relatives. Fortunately the trust fund from his parents had kicked in shortly after that; he’d been supporting himself ever since. And pretty much spitting in the eye of anyone who didn’t like his lifestyle, or him.
Francie not only adored Leo, she admired him greatly.
Reaching into her purse, she extracted a small box and laid it on the plate in front of him. The gift had set her back quite a bit, but she figured her friend was worth it. “I hope you like it. I spent hours looking for just the right one.”
Tearing open the blue foil wrapping paper, Leo’s eyes brightened with anticipation. “I can’t imagine what it is,” he said, lifting the lid on the black velvet box to find a gold money clip engraved with his initials. “I love it! I’ve always wanted a money clip. How did you know?”
Francie’s smile was filled with indulgence. “Your hints are not altogether subtle, Leo, but they are effective. Happy birthday!” Leaning toward him, she kissed his cheek.
Le Bec Fin was one of Philadelphia’s finest restaurants, and Leo and Francie gorged themselves on two dozen oysters, rare beef Wellington and the most scrumptious chocolate soufflé ever whipped up by a mere mortal.
Leaning back in her chair, Francie sighed, wondering if her skirt would still fit in the morning. She rather doubted it. “That was delicious. I’m totally stuffed.” And totally relieved that Mark hadn’t put in an appearance tonight. She wasn’t sure she could handle him after sharing two bottles of wine with Leo. Or should she say—she wasn’t sure she could handle herself?
LEO AND FRANCIE had just entered their apartment when Francie ground to a halt. Leo, following close on her heels, colliding with her back. In her inebriated condition, it was a wonder she didn’t fall over on her face.
“Damn! I left my briefcase in your car. I’ve got to run down and get it. There are papers in it that I need to go over before I leave for work tomorrow. Ted will kill me if I’m not prepared for our meeting.”
“Just leave it. You can get it in the morning.”
She mulled over his suggestion, then shook her head, which was a huge mistake. It was pounding. She rubbed her temples to ease the throbbing, but to no avail. “Give me your keys. I won’t be a minute.”
“If you insist.” He dangled them from his fingertips, kissed her cheek, and told her good-night. “Be careful,” he shouted over his shoulder. “This might be a good neighborhood, but it’s still filled with perverts. I’m living proof of that.”
“Wonderful. Maybe I’ll get lucky and meet one.” She shut the door behind her and hurried to the elevator. They lived on the tenth floor, so it took a few minutes for the ancient conveyance to reach the lobby.
After retrieving her briefcase—an uneventful trip…not a pervert in sight—she dashed back into the historic stone building, rubbing her arms briskly against the cold wind, and waited impatiently for the elevator to descend.
Her head was splitting in two and she wanted nothing more than to take a hot bath, pop a few aspirin, and climb into bed.
The door to the elevator finally opened and she stepped in. Believing she was alone, Francie nearly jumped out of her skin when she discovered she wasn’t.
“Hello again. Did you have a good time tonight?”
Swiveling, she looked up into the handsome face of Mark Fielding. Normally, Francie would care that she looked like shit. But since she felt the same way, she wasn’t overly concerned that her hair was sticking out in twelve different directions, like Medusa on speed, and that her eyeliner had smeared, giving her that Adams Family look. She hadn’t a smidgen of lipstick on, and her stomach was bloated and sticking out as if she were six months’ pregnant.
She was a scary sight at best.
Francie managed a smile, though it came out looking more like a grimace. “Leo and I had a great time. Perhaps too good a time. My head feels like an anvil fell on it. And I’m old enough to know better.”
“I bet you’ve got tension in your neck.”
She was about to agree—her neck felt like a huge knotted oak—when he reached out and began to massage the muscles there. His hands were warm, and so was she getting to be. “I’m very good at this,” he said, making her wonder what else he was good at.
Sighing at the delicious way he was making her feel, she agreed. “Yes…yes, you are. But I’m sure an aspirin will take care of my headache.” She tried to pull back, but he had a firm grip and didn’t release her.
“It’s not the same as having your neck rubbed. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about. Guess Leo had wine with dinner, huh?”
She groaned in ecstasy as his thumbs made circles at the base of her neck, hardly able to believe it was her own voice she was hearing. And then she came to her senses. “Um, thank you very much, Mark. The massage helped a great deal.”
Of course, now she had tension much lower than her neck. Like below her waist.
Damn!
Francie was relieved when the elevator stopped and opened. “Well, here we are,” she announced, rather stupidly.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
“That’s not necessary! It’s just down the hall.”
“I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I didn’t, now would I?”
Sighing, Francie nodded in defeat, wondering when her twenty-first-century sensibilities were going to kick in and she would burst into a chorus of “I Am Woman.” Though instead of roaring, she was purring like a damned cat in heat.
At her door, they stopped, and Mark gazed down into her eyes. His eyes were filled with something that looked suspiciously like passion. Francie felt her knees quiver.
Or was that something else?
“You look very nice tonight.”
“I’m a mess, but thanks.” Her new red-silk Liz Claiborne suit was horribly wrinkled, not to mention stained, thanks to her enthusiasm for crème frêche.
“A woman who looks disheveled, like she’s just gotten out of bed, is very enticing.”
Her mouth went dry. “Well, that’s exactly where I’m headed, so I’ll say good-night and thanks again.”
Practically slamming the door in Mark’s face, Francie leaned heavily against it. She could hear his amused chuckle recede as he headed down the hall to his own apartment.
“Damn cocky male!”
Damn stupid woman!
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