Kitabı oku: «His Chosen Wife: Antonides' Forbidden Wife / The Ruthless Italian's Inexperienced Wife / The Millionaire's Chosen Bride», sayfa 3

His twin sister Cristina’s husband, Mark, worked for Antonides Marine as well. They had a brownstone not far from his place in Park Slope and sometimes it was easier to talk business over the dinner table than in the office. It was, after all, a family business.

Ally wanted family. She’d said so. She didn’t just want it to be her and her father anymore. She’d said that, too.

Well, hell, PJ thought, cracking his knuckles. If Ally wanted family, he had more than enough to go around.

“Call Cristina back and tell her I can’t make it,” he instructed Rosie. “Tell her I’ll catch Mark in the office tomorrow.” He smiled a cat-who’d-eaten-the-canary smile. “Tell her I’m busy tonight. I’m fixing dinner for my wife.”

“So, did you get it?” Jon asked.

“Not yet,” Ally said, pacing around her hotel room. She hadn’t wanted to call without things being settled, but when they didn’t she knew she had to call anyway. She just hoped she didn’t have to listen to Jon say, I told you so. “I will,” she promised, but it didn’t forestall the discussion.

“Didn’t you go see him? I thought you knew where he was.”

“I do know where he is,” she said. “I saw him. And I will get it. I just didn’t … think it was right to waltz back into his life and fling divorce papers at him first thing.”

“I knew this was a bad idea.”

“It was not a bad idea,” Ally retorted. “He was surprised.”

“To see you or to get the papers?”

“Well, both, I guess. Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll sign them. PJ doesn’t react well to pressure.”

She should have remembered that. Should have recalled why he’d said he’d come to Hawaii in the first place: to get his family off his back.

She should have been less … pushy. She should have simply chatted with him, got him to talk, acted interested in what he was doing now, what had happened to him in the past ten years, how he’d come to be where he was and doing what he was doing.

The trouble was—and the very reason she didn’t do it was—that it wouldn’t have been an act.

She had gone to PJ’s office hoping that their encounter would be polite and perfunctory. In a best-case scenario she would have felt no more connection to him than she had to Jon’s brother, Ken.

She would certainly not have felt an instant stab of lust and longing. Her eyes would not have fastened on PJ’s well-dressed body and lingered, cataloguing every inch of it. And they would definitely not have mentally undressed that body while her brain wondered as they did so how the man in the suit would compare with the naked twenty-two-year-old she had spent her wedding night with.

Not something she should be contemplating now, either.

“So when?” Jon asked. “I’ll be having dinner with your dad tonight. He’ll want to know. I was hoping to be able to tell him it was a done deal and you were on your way home.”

“I won’t be home until the weekend. You both know that. I’m going to be visiting a gallery here, too, talking to Gabriela, the owner. This trip wasn’t all about PJ.”

“No. It’s about us,” Jon reminded her. “It’s about you finally putting the past behind you and moving on. You are moving on, aren’t you, Ally?”

“Of course I am.”

“Well, I’m only saying … your dad’s heart isn’t strong. It’s not going to hold out forever. And I know you—and I—wanted him to be at our wedding.”

Ally swallowed against the lump in her throat. Yes, she did know her father’s condition was delicate. And she knew how happy seeing her married to Jon would make him. And she did want him to be happy. She wanted them all to be happy.

“I’m working on it.”

“Good. I’ll tell him that. Then hurry up and get home. I miss you. I work twenty hours a day when you’re not here.”

Ally knew the feeling. “I’ll do my best,” she promised. “I’m getting another call. It might be Gabriela. I’d better take it.”

“Forget Gabriela. Forget the gallery. They aren’t that important. Not now. Get the papers signed.”

“Yes. Maybe this is PJ,” Ally suggested hopefully. “Maybe he’s already signed them and is telling me when to pick them up.”

“Let’s hope.” Jon sounded encouraged. “Talk to you tomorrow. I’ll tell your dad you’ve got everything under control.”

Ally hoped it was true. She punched the connect button on her phone. “This is Alice Maruyama.”

“Have dinner with me.” The voice was gruff and male and needed no identification.

She’d heard it only an hour before, but if she hadn’t heard PJ Antonides’s voice for ten years, she would have recognized it. There was a sort of soft, lazy, sexy edge to it that made her toes curl.

“Who is this?” she said with all the starch she could muster.

He laughed. “Check your caller ID. Come on, Al. Don’t be a bad sport. You never used to be a bad sport.”

“This has nothing to do with sports. It has to do with you signing the divorce papers.”

“So convince me over dinner.”

“PJ …”

“Are you chicken, Al? Afraid?” It was the same old taunt he’d used years ago. In the same teasing tone.

When she had met him she’d never surfed in her life, and he’d been appalled.

“Never surfed? And you live where?” He’d stared at her, stunned. She’d just handed him his order from the lunch counter and expected him to move along, but he stayed right where he was, ignoring the line behind him.

“Not everyone who lives in Hawaii surfs,” she’d said haughtily.

He’d shrugged. “Guess not,” he’d agreed. Then he’d slanted her a grin. “And why should you if you’re chicken?”

“I’m not chicken!”

“Then come out with me,” he’d suggested. “I’ll teach you.”

“I have work to do.” She’d waved her arm around, pointing out the fact that she had responsibilities, even if he didn’t. “I can’t just walk out and go play with you.”

“So come tomorrow morning. Better surf then anyway. I’ll meet you here at seven.” He’d tipped his head, the slow grin still lingering, green eyes dancing. “Unless you’re—”

“I am not chicken!” Ally said it then. She said it again now. “Fine. I’ll have dinner with you. We can catch up on ‘old times.’ And you can sign the papers. Where shall I meet you?”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“I’d rather meet you there.”

He paused, then said, “Fine. Suit yourself.” He gave her a street corner in Brooklyn. “You can take a cab or the subway. Either way, I’ll meet you at the Seventh Avenue subway stop.”

“I’ll go to the restaurant.”

“I’ll be at the subway stop. We can walk from there. Seven o’clock. It’s a date.”

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS not a date.

Ally had never been on a date with PJ Antonides in her life—unless you counted their date to meet at the courthouse where they got married, which she wasn’t, she thought irritably, jerking clothes out of her suitcase, trying to find something suitable to wear.

Not that it mattered. It wasn’t a date, despite what he had said. And they weren’t a couple!

She was annoyed. With PJ. But even more with herself. And even more that she was annoyed and had let him get to her.

She was kicking herself now for having done the polite thing and come to give him the papers in person. Jon was right. She hadn’t needed to. She could have sent them through the mail. And if he hadn’t signed them, oh, well. She’d have proceeded with the divorce anyway.

Of course, she still could. But it was worse now, having stirred the pot, so to speak. And she couldn’t understand why he was being obstinate. She’d thought her task would be simple.

She’d expected that PJ would be delighted to see her, that he would tease her a bit—as he always had done—then, still joking with her, he’d sign the papers, maybe buy her a cup of coffee, then give her a wink and a wave as she walked out the door.

Her only qualm about seeing him again had been wondering what her own reaction would be.

PJ had turned her world upside down the night he’d made love to her. He had made her want things she hadn’t suspected existed—things that she’d tried to put out of her mind ever since.

Worse, he had made her want him.

And, on a physical level, her body still did.

Which was why she was putting on a tailored black pantsuit and knotting her hair up on top of her head—tamping down and buttoning up—to remind herself that this was not about physical desire.

It was about commitment and family and eternity.

It was about ending their sham of a marriage so that she could move on and make a real one with Jon.

“Just remember that,” she told her reflection, staring intently into her dark eyes and willing herself to be strong. “PJ doesn’t love you. He’s just getting his own back.”

She was fairly sure that was what this reluctance was all about. He was making her pay, no doubt, for having been rude and distant the night he’d come to her opening.

“He doesn’t love you,” she repeated once more for good measure, then added severely, “and you don’t love him, either.”

The subway ride from her midtown Manhattan hotel to the Seventh Avenue stop in Brooklyn wilted her pantsuit. A straphanger’s charm bracelet snagged her hair. She was disheveled, unkempt and perspiring by the time she emerged onto the street. She wished he’d told her what restaurant they were going to so she could have gone there and repaired the damage before she met him again.

But he was already there waiting when she appeared. He was still wearing the trousers and shirt he’d worn at work. His jacket was slung over his shoulder. His tie was gone. The power was still there. It was like seeing the wild animal let out of his cage.

Ally caught her breath.

“Right on time,” he said approvingly. “No trouble getting here? You look great.”

That was so patently a lie that Ally laughed.

He grinned. “Ah, a real smile at last.”

“It’s just that I’m so delighted to be here,” she said sarcastically.

He laughed. And before she realized—or prepared, or dodged—he swooped around, ducked his head down and kissed her.

It was a quick kiss—a street-corner kiss. A smack of lips, an instant’s worth of the taste of enticing sexy male and nothing more. It was the sort of kiss that happened every day on thousands of street corners around the world. Nothing earth-shattering about it.

At least, no one else’s world shattered.

Only hers.

Because that one brief touch of PJ’s lips brought everything back. The memories she’d wallowed in at first, then spent years sublimating or suppressing, crashed back in on her as if the years of constructing defenses had never even happened.

That one instant, that one taste—his lips on hers, his scent filling her nostrils—and for a split second she was back in Hawaii, back in PJ’s apartment, back in his arms.

She swayed, stumbled.

He caught her before she could fall on her face. “Are you okay?”

Of course she was, but he kept his arm around her as she wobbled on knees of jelly. And she gripped his shirtfront as she righted herself, then let go as she straightened and pulled away. “I’m fine. It’s the heat. And … and I just t-tripped, that’s all.”

“You sure?” He was so close. She could see each individual eyelash. They were long and thick and wasted on a man. He bent close again, looking worried and solicitous.

Ally stepped back quickly, out of kissing range. Definitely out of kissing range!

“It was hot in the subway. The air-conditioning wasn’t working on the train. Where are we going? Is it far? I need to splash some water on my face.”

“Not far.” He still had his arm around her as he steered her along Flatbush Avenue and into a grocery store.

She frowned. “Where are you going?”

“Just have to get a few things. Come on.” He came back and snagged her wrist to take her with him. She pulled out of his grasp, but followed as he picked some steaks, salad vegetables, a loaf of country bread and fresh olives. Then he hesitated a moment, as if weighing his options, and grabbed a couple of ears of corn on the cob.

Suspicion began to dawn. “Why are you shopping now?”

“Because until an hour ago, I didn’t know I was having company for dinner.”

“We’re not … I mean … you’re cooking?”

“No end to my talents.” He slanted her a grin as he grabbed a fresh pineapple off the display and tossed it to her.

Instinctively Ally caught it but protested as she did so. “You don’t have to cook for me,” she said quickly. “Let’s go out. I’ll buy dinner.”

“No. You won’t. Come on. No trouble at all. I like to cook.”

“But—”

But he was already leading the way toward the checkout. “Hey, Manny. How’s it going?” he said to the teenager who began to ring up the groceries.

“Ain’t. Too hot,” the boy said. “Dyin’ in here. Better outside. Don’t forget. Softball tonight.”

“Not me. Other plans.”

The boy’s gaze lit on Ally and he looked her up and down assessingly. “Nice,” he said with an approving grin.

“My wife,” PJ said.

Ally stiffened beside him. He didn’t have to keep telling everyone.

The boy was clearly surprised. His eyes widened. “No joke?”

“Yep.”

“No,” Ally said at the same instant.

Manny blinked. PJ’s scowl was disapproving.

“Only officially,” she muttered.

PJ’s jaw tightened. “Officially counts.” He pulled out his wallet and paid for the groceries. “Hit a homer for me.”

Manny grinned and winked. “Hit one yourself.”

Ally’s cheeks burned as she followed PJ out of the store. “Why do you keep telling people I’m your wife?”

“Because it’s the truth?” he suggested.

“But not for long.” She practically had to lope to keep up with him.

“You’re here now.”

“Just for the night. I’m leaving Friday.”

“Stop thinking so damn far ahead, Al.” PJ shifted the grocery bag into his other arm and took her by the elbow as they turned the corner onto one of the side streets. His touch through the thin fabric of her jacket made her far too aware of him. And she jumped when his lips came close to her ear and said, “Interesting things can happen in a night if you let them.”

“Nothing’s going to happen tonight,” she said firmly, “or any other,” in case he had any more ideas.

PJ didn’t reply. He led the way with long strides. And keeping up with them reminded her of those bright mornings on the beach when he’d been determined to teach her how to surf and she’d practically had to run to match his strides across the sand.

Just when she was about to say, Slow down, he veered over midblock and steered her up the stairs to a very elegant-looking town house.

“Here?” Ally didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t this.

One in a row of late nineteenth-century four-story brownstone-and-brick homes, all of which were as attractive and appealing now as she was sure they had been then. The building PJ was leading her into was a far cry from the grim studio apartment over the garage of Mrs. Chang’s old stucco house.

“My brother Elias lived upstairs from the office where you were today,” he told her. “Antonides Marine owns the building and he fixed up the top floor for himself. It’s pretty spectacular—great view—and when he left he said I could have it. But I didn’t want to. I like being away from the office. I wanted a place I felt comfortable. So I found this.”

He pushed open the ornate oak-and-glass double front door. “I’ve got the garden floor-through—that’s the ground floor front to back—not exactly wide-open spaces, but I’ve got a garden. There’s a hint of green.” He was unlocking the door to his apartment as he spoke. “And, of course, the park is just over there.” He jerked his head to the west. “Coney Island Beach is at the end of the subway line. And, as you can see,” he said as he turned the knob and ushered her in, “I brought a little of Hawaii back with me.”

She stood, stunned, at the sight of a floor-to-ceiling mural that covered one entire wall of PJ’s living room. Even more stunning was that she recognized the scene at once.

It was the beach where she’d met him viewed from above on the highway. There was Benny’s Place where she had worked behind the counter. There was the surfboard shop. There were the rocks, the swimmers and sunbathers, the runners in motion at the water’s edge, the surfers catching the wave of the day.

She was pulled straight across the room to look at it more closely.

“How did you— Did you paint it? It’s amazing.”

“Not me. Not an artistic bone in my body. But my sisters are. Martha, the younger one, did this. It’s what she does. Paints murals.”

Ally was enchanted. “It’s … captivating. I can almost feel the breeze off the sea, smell the surf and the board wax and—”

“—and Benny’s plate lunch,” PJ finished with a grin.

Ally laughed because it was true. “And Benny’s plate lunch,” she agreed, shaking her head. “It’s fantastic.”

PJ nodded. “I think so. It’s a good reminder. Sometimes.”

Ally cocked her head. “Sometimes?”

He shrugged. “Things were simpler then. Hopes, dreams. That sort of thing.” His mouth twisted wryly for a moment, but then he shrugged. “But the memories are worth it, I guess. At least, most of them.”

There was a moment’s silence as Ally stared at the mural and reflected on her own memories of those days.

Abruptly PJ said, “I’ll get started on dinner.”

He vanished before she could say another word, not that she could think of anything to say. She was too captivated by the mural—and by his house.

The furniture here was all spare dark wood and leather. Bold geometric-designed rugs dotted polished wooden floors. The walls, except for the one his sister had painted, were either exposed brick or floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

When she’d known PJ his bookshelf had been four boards and two stacks of milk crates. And the titles, as she recalled, had run to mechanical engineering texts and the latest thrillers.

His library now was much more eclectic. The texts and thrillers were still there. But there were books on woodworking and history, some art tomes and thick historical biographies. She would have liked to explore more, but the mural drew her back. She crossed the room and studied it more closely, noticing that there were people she recognized.

“That’s Tuba,” she said, surprised at recognizing the small figure of an island boy carrying his board on his head as he walked toward the surf. “And Benny!” she exclaimed as she found her boss sitting, as he often did, in the shade of a tree away from the bustle of his lunch shop.

“Lots of people you know,” PJ agreed.

He had shed the suit and had reappeared barefoot, wearing a pair of khaki shorts and dragging a faded red shirt over his head, then tugging it down over a hard flat midriff.

This PJ she remembered—and he could still make her catch her breath. The view of his tanned muscular belly vanished in an instant, but a single glimpse was all it took. Once Ally had seen it, she could still see it in her mind. And once again she remembered things she didn’t want to remember at all.

So she swallowed and dragged her gaze back up to his face, trying to remember what she had been talking about. The mural.

Right.

“Am I in it?” She was avidly curious, but didn’t want to appear as if it mattered.

“Of course.”

She squinted at the beach, at Benny’s. “I am?” She frowned briefly and squinted more closely at it. “Where?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Come on. I’ll get dinner started. Want a beer? Glass of wine?”

“Um, wine, I think.”

Ally wasn’t sure she should be drinking anything. She needed her brain sharp and her wits all under control. But a glass of wine might help her relax. She didn’t want to feel as uptight as she felt right now. She wanted to settle down, take a deep breath, stop making such a big deal out of this.

It wasn’t a big deal, she assured herself. Just a minor bump in the road on her way to marital bliss.

She should know that there were going to be bumps in the road. It was just that in the last few years she had become accustomed to things going her way. In her work, in her life. She’d made them go her way.

But PJ wasn’t quite as easy to steer in the direction she wanted him to go.

She left the mural for later, tempted but at the same time unwilling to explore it further. It spoke too much of the past and she didn’t need to be thinking about the past. She needed to think about the future. So she followed PJ into the kitchen.

He was every bit as intriguing as the mural. Probably more so because he was the same, yet different. In part, he was still the man she remembered—casual, easygoing, barefoot here at home—on some level taking life as it came.

But there were obviously parts of this PJ Antonides that she didn’t know at all. The man who had worn the suit and stood behind the solid teak desk wasn’t a man she’d had any experience with. But he was the man who had said, “No divorce.”

So that was the man she would have to deal with now.

“Right,” he said. “You want some wine.” He removed the cork from a bottle on the counter and poured a glass of red wine, then handed it to her.

“Thank you. You’re very civil.”

He raised a brow. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“You weren’t exactly falling all over yourself to be civil this afternoon.”

“You were a bit of a surprise this afternoon.”

“And now I’m not?”

“Now … we’ll see. Won’t we?” There was a wealth of speculation in his tone. But he didn’t challenge her, just reached in the refrigerator and snagged a beer, then popped off the top.

Ally, though, thought she needed to challenge him. “Why won’t you sign the divorce papers?”

“You’ve got a one-track mind.”

“It’s what I came for.”

“Not to see me?”

She flushed at the accusation. “Well, of course I’m glad to see you, but … you’re right. That was my priority.”

“You didn’t think maybe you should get to know me a little better before you decided I wouldn’t suit?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again before she said something she’d regret.

But if she’d expected him to go on, she was out of luck. He just stared at her, waiting for an answer.

“It wasn’t like that, PJ,” she said finally. “I met Jon when I was at the hospital with my dad. I got to know him there. Got to see how hard he worked. How much he cared. I fell in love with him there.”

He didn’t say a word.

She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and not knowing made her nervous. PJ had always been open and sunny, a “what you see is what you get” sort of guy.

Not now.

She was reminded again of how little she knew of him—of why he wanted her here.

“So we’ll have dinner and get to know each other again, and that will do?” she asked.

“Will it?” He took the steaks out of the butcher paper and set them on a plate, then began husking the corn.

“Stop being cryptic,” she said, annoyed. “What do you want?”

“What do you think I want?”

“I don’t have any idea.

“It should be obvious,” he said. “Time to think. I don’t move fast. I weigh all my options. And I never sign anything I haven’t thought over.”

“Except our marriage license.”

He blinked, startled, then he laughed. “Yeah. Except that.”

“It’s not funny. And if you think it is, you can undo it the same way,” she said impatiently.

“Too soon.”

“It’s been ten years! Since when is there a timetable?”

He shrugged. “I don’t have one.” He finished preparing the corn and, wrapping it in foil, added it to the plate, then carried it out the door to the back garden. “You’re the one who has the timetable.”

“Because I have a fiancé,” she reminded him, dogging his footsteps.

“And a husband,” he reminded her over his shoulder before lighting the grill.

It all came back to that.

Ally sighed. “Yes, all right. I know. I should have done it the other way around. My bad. Honest. But think about it, PJ. I didn’t even know where you were until the article came out. Was I supposed to put my life on hold until I found you?”

“Did you look?”

“I looked there. At the beach.”

“Not very eager to find me.”

She’d been very eager, in fact. And disappointed that he was gone. But she’d been philosophical, too. She’d never really expected him to wait around for her. They’d made no promises.

And she wasn’t admitting anything now. “I would have been happy to find you,” she said politely.

He turned his back to her and put the steaks on the grill. “Oh, right.”

She stared at the hard shoulders, the firm muscles beneath his shirt and felt as rejected as he’d been accusing her of doing.

“Did you?” she asked.

“Did I what?”

“Come looking for me?” Two could play that game.

He turned back to face her. “You mean after you were so glad to see me at the opening? Hell, no.” The word was firm, forceful. No hesitation there.

And that hurt more, even though she’d known what the answer would be. “So you should be glad to get rid of me now.”

“Guess we’ll see, won’t we?” He tipped his beer and took a long swallow.

“Is that why you invited me to dinner?”

“Yep.”

“And what can I do to convince you?”

“Give it your best shot.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “Tell me about yourself now. I know what you do. I’ve seen your work. I didn’t have to track you down to do that,” he said flatly, she supposed in case she thought he’d been interested enough to do so. “But I don’t know why this sudden shift.”

“What shift?”

“From fiber artist and international businesswoman to little lady in search of a family.” His tone was almost sarcastic but not quite. And she thought maybe if she explained, it would help, that he’d understand.

“I was in Seattle when my dad had his heart attack. I hadn’t seen him in ten years.”

“Your opening—”

“He didn’t come.”

PJ swore. “What the hell was the matter with him?”

Ally shrugged. “He wasn’t ready to let go of his views, still wasn’t ready to believe I could be someone other than the woman he thought I should be then. But he was actually glad to see me when I came home.”

She’d been afraid he wouldn’t be. Afraid he would turn away from her and shut her out in the cold. “We talked,” she told PJ, “for the first time. Not a lot. But it was a start. And I … couldn’t leave after that. He was all I had. I realized how much I’d missed him. How much I missed family. Even when it was just the two of us.”

PJ opened his mouth, then closed it again. He leaned back against the fence and waited for her to go on.

“It was the first time I’d stopped moving, planning, ‘achieving’ in years.” She sipped her wine reflectively and recalled those days and weeks vividly. “Being there with him for days at a time, first at the hospital, then at home, I was forced to stop and think about what I had achieved and what was missing, and—” she shrugged “—I discovered that I wanted to be more than Alice Maruyama, fiber artist and businesswoman.”

It was true. All of it. But Ally stopped, astonished that she had revealed so much. She shot a quick glance at PJ to see his reaction. He hadn’t moved. His eyes were hooded but focused directly on her. He nodded, listening.

That was always the way it had been with PJ. He was also focused, always intent, always listening.

“The steaks,” she said abruptly, seeing the smoke from the grill.

He turned toward them. “I’ll deal with ‘em. Go on.”

“And we talked—my dad and I—about family. About our relationship.” That had been difficult. Neither she nor her father were good at that sort of thing. “And it made me realize how much I’d missed. How much I would continue to miss if I didn’t— Anyway,” she said briskly, “that’s when I met Jon.”

“And fell in love?” PJ said. The edge was back in his voice again.

“And fell in love,” Ally confirmed. “Why wouldn’t I? Jon is great.”

PJ flipped the steaks. He didn’t reply, just concentrated on the steaks, moved the foil-wrapped corn, totally absorbed in what he was doing. So absorbed that Ally wondered if he had even heard her.

Or maybe he had no comment. That was more likely the case.

And really, beyond “Where do I sign?” what did she want him to say?

“Can I help?” she asked. “Make the salad? Set the table?”

“Why don’t you make the salad. Use what I bought and whatever you want from the refrigerator. Stick the bread in the oven, too, will you? Then it will be ready when the steaks are.”

Grateful for something to keep herself occupied, Ally hurried back into the kitchen. Like the living room and the dining area she’d passed through on the way, it had walls of exposed brick, too. The cabinets were a light oak, the appliances stainless steel. They were all a far cry from the apartment-size stove and bar-size fridge he’d had on Oahu, and despite her insistence that she just wanted his signature and then she would be out of his life, she found that she was curious about how he lived, who he’d become.

She set about making the salad, periodically glancing back at PJ, who stood silently watching over the steaks. On one level it seemed so natural, so mundane—a husband and wife making supper at the end of a day.

On the other, to be casually cooking dinner with PJ Antonides, as if they were a simple married couple, seemed almost surreal.

She finished the salad and put it on the table, then opened the cupboards looking for plates. His kitchen was rather spare but reasonably well equipped. Obviously he was no stranger to cooking. Did he do it often? Did he have girlfriends who came and cooked for him?

A vision of Annie Cannavaro flashed through her head.

She’d told him about Jon, but he hadn’t said a word about the women in his life. The newspaper article had made it clear that there were plenty of them. No one special, though?

Would he tell her if she asked?

She didn’t get a chance. When he came back with the steaks a few minutes later, he said, “So tell me about how you got started with the fabric art. I remember you made some funky stuff back in the ‘old days,’ but I was surprised when you turned it into your profession.”