“You’ve led a sheltered existence.”
“I did,” she said, “until you came into my life.”
His grin was infectious, and she returned it. “Tell me,” she
said. “Do you get teased often about those dimples?”
He looked embarrassed. “I’ve cursed my parents more than once,”
he said, “for giving me this damn baby face.”
“Why? It’s a very nice face.”
“Yeah?” he said gruffly. “You think so?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “I think so.”
They studied each other intently, and then he cleared his throat
and glanced at his watch. “How about some dessert?”
“I can hardly wait to find out where we’re going for dessert after
having pizza for breakfast.”
It was called Haymarket, and even so early in the morning, people
were crammed into the narrow walkways between carts piled high with every
imaginable variety of produce. She was walled in by shoppers jabbering in a
dozen different languages, while the street vendors, in their flat Boston
accents, tried to outdo each other, vying for her attention, beseeching her to
note the outstanding qualities of their respective merchandise.
“Lady, look at this tomato. You ain’t gonna see nothing like this
in no supermarket. I sell ‘em ten for a buck. For you, I throw in a couple
extra.”
She looked helplessly at Danny. “What do I do?”
“You’re supposed to dicker. Will you look at these kiwi! Have
you ever had kiwi fruit?”
She shrugged an apology to the vendor and scurried to catch up
with Danny. Looking at the fuzzy brown fruit he held in his hand, she wasn’t
sure she wanted to try it. It looked like a cross between a potato and a
hamster. “What does it taste like?”
“I’ll surprise you. We’ll buy a couple to take with us.”
They sat on a wooden bench and he watched her face as she bit
tentatively into the fruit. She looked at him in astonished delight. “It tastes
like bananas,” she said, “sort of.” She closed her eyes to better concentrate
on the delicate flavor. “Or maybe like blueberries.”
“I guess your old man doesn’t grow these on his farm.”
“It’s a dairy farm, city boy. The only things we grow are calves
and corn.”
“And on hot summer nights, you sit around and listen to the corn
growing.”
“Oh, we’re somewhat civilized. I hear rumors that they’ll be
putting in electricity any year now.” She drew her knees up to her chest and
studied him. A dimple lingered at the corner of his mouth as he boldly
returned her perusal. She was acutely conscious of the most minute things:
the warmth of the morning sun on her shoulders, the odor of overripe fruit, the
way the fine hairs grew on the back of his hand. She was drunk, intoxicated by
the nearness of this charismatic man who had made her feel more in two days
than she’d felt in eighteen years of living. In spite of her valiant efforts
to remain neutral, her traitorous body had betrayed her. Parts that should
have been wet had gone dry, and parts that were normally dry were inexcusably
damp. And his voice, that black velvet voice, made her stomach quiver and set
the soft hairs on the back of her neck to standing up straight.
It was exquisite.
It was terrifying.
And disgraceful, and wholly inappropriate for a woman promised to
another man. She had obligations, responsibilities, promises to keep. She had
expectations to live up to, people she couldn’t let down. A wedding in four
weeks that she couldn’t miss.
He took her hand in his. With the pad of his thumb, he traced a
line along her palm, his touch bringing to life every nerve ending in her
body. “This,” he said near her ear, “is your life line. You’re going to live
a long and healthy life. And this—” He paused, continuing the stroking that
had her heart hammering double-time, “is your love line.”
She had difficulty getting the words out. “And what does it say?”
“You’re going to meet a tall, handsome stranger.” He pressed his
lips to her palm. “You’re trembling,” he said.
She wanted to deny it, but she couldn’t. “I’m afraid this was a
very bad idea,” she said.
“Having pizza for breakfast?”
She withdrew her hand from his. “Coming to Boston,” she said. “I
tried to tell myself it was strictly business, but it’s turning into something
else, and I can’t let that happen. I come from conservative people, Danny.
I’ve had that conservatism spoon-fed to me since birth. I don’t believe in
casual sex.”
His smile faded. “Are you trying to tell me,” he demanded, “that
you believe anything between us could ever be casual?”
She took a deep breath and looked at him directly. “No,” she
said.
“You don’t have to marry him.”
For a fleeting instant, something resembling hope sprang to life
in her. “Maybe,” she said, “you’d like to make me a better offer.”
Behind those blue eyes, something stilled. He stood up, shoved
his hands in his pockets, and was suddenly very busy examining the brickwork in
the building behind them. “I can’t,” he said.
A muscle clenched in her jaw as her faint hope sputtered and
extinguished itself. She got up from the bench, swung her purse strap over her
shoulder, and strode away, not caring where she ended up as long as it was as
far as possible from Danny Fiore.
He caught up with her before she’d gone a dozen steps. “Damn it,
Casey,” he said, “it has nothing to do with you!”
When she refused to stop, he caught her by the elbow. “Listen to
me,” he pleaded. “Just listen!”
“I’m tired, Danny. I’m going to bed.” Yanking free of him, she stepped
off the curb and held up an arm, the way she’d seen it done on television. A
yellow taxi pulled up, and deliberately ignoring him, she opened the door.
“You don’t understand!” he shouted. “It’s not you, it’s me!”
“Don’t worry,” she told him. “You’ll get your damn songs.” And
she climbed into the taxi and slammed the door.
As the car pulled away from the curb, she knotted her hands in her
lap. She would not look back. The man was an arrogant, conceited fool. She
wouldn’t look back at him if he were the last man on earth.
When she did, he was still standing there with his mouth hanging
open.
She slept restlessly, her dreams haunted by a broad-shouldered,
long-limbed god with probing blue eyes that looked directly into her soul. She
awoke to late afternoon sunlight filtering through the window. She had lied
quite creatively to herself about why she’d come to Boston. But the truth was
that she had come because she wanted Danny Fiore. She wanted to kiss the long,
slender fingers with their blunt tips, wanted to taste the pulse that beat in
his wrist. Wanted to explore with her fingertips all that silky hair, wanted
to rest her head against his chest and feel the rhythm of his heart.
But a personal relationship between them was out of the question.
He had his career, and she had Jesse. Their futures were planned, their fates
sealed. There was no place in her life or his for an extracurricular love
affair. In twenty-six days she would marry Jess. She would go on with her
life as planned, and Danny would go on with his, and if they were very
fortunate, their paths wouldn’t cross again.
It was the bleakest proposition she’d ever faced.
If she had any common sense she’d get on the next bus home and
forget she’d ever met Danny Fiore. She would grab Jesse and rush him to the
altar so quickly his head would spin. And then she’d throw away Dr. Grimes’
damned pills and see to it that Jesse planted a baby in her right away.
Except that, somewhere along the way, her traitorous common sense
had deserted her, leaving her ready to toss away her entire future for a man
who would almost certainly break her heart.
She flung aside the bedcovers and snatched up her robe, tied the
belt and yanked free her cascade of dark hair. If Danny wanted songs, then by
God, she’d give him songs. But she would draw the line at that. She wasn’t
about to let any man destroy her life.
She found Travis in the kitchen, eating Froot Loops from a chipped
bowl. Casey ruffled his hair as she walked by, and he dropped his spoon into
the bowl with a clatter. “Where the hell were you all night?” he said.
“At Rob’s house. Got any coffee?” She touched the side of the
percolator to see if it was hot, then began opening cupboard doors in search of
a cup.
“Left side, over the sink.” He watched her pour the coffee. “You
sat up all night with those bozos?”
She took a sip of coffee, then smiled ruefully at him over the rim
of the cup. “Danny’s very persuasive.”
“Yeah. Like a loaded .357.”
“Don’t shatter my illusions, Trav. I happen to like him.”
“That’s fine, as long as you don’t like him too much.”
She busied herself at the refrigerator. “Jesse and I are getting
married in a month, remember?” She checked the date on a container of yogurt.
“I’m immune to the charms of other men.”
“Danny’s not like other guys,” he said. “The Virgin Mary would
have a hard time resisting him.”
She searched the jumbled mess in the drawer for a clean spoon.
“Speaking purely hypothetically,” she said, “is that necessarily a bad thing?”
“Hypothetically or otherwise, you’re my sister, and you’re damn
right it’s bad.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Do I detect a trace of Neanderthal
peeking out from beneath that mild-mannered exterior?”
“Maybe I should be a little more explicit. Danny’s idea of a long-term
relationship is about two hours.”
She ate a spoonful of yogurt. “What makes you so sure I’m not
looking for a last mad fling before I get married?”
“I know you too well. You’re not the type.”
For some reason, his comment irritated her. “You know what,
Trav? One of these days, I might just surprise you.”
Her brother ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed. “Look,
you’re my sister. I care about you.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a big girl now. I don’t need a
guardian.” And she patted his arm on the way to the telephone.
Rob MacKenzie’s younger sister answered the phone, then dropped it
with a clunk and yelled, “Robbie, it’s for you! It’s a
girl
.”
“Hey, kiddo,” he greeted her, and yawned. “What’s up?”
“We seemed to be on a roll last night. I thought we might work
together again tonight. That is, if you’re not busy.”
“Yeah, sure. Swing by around seven.”
Without the overwhelming distraction of Danny’s presence, she and
Rob worked together like a piece of well-oiled machinery. She absorbed herself
in the work as he magically transformed the music she played into written
notation. His praise was direct and unembellished, his criticism specific and
constructive, his suggestions for improvement unfailingly on the mark.
They broke for coffee around eleven. “I have a confession to
make,” she told him. “The real reason I came here tonight was to avoid Danny.”
Rob took a sip of coffee. “I know.”
“But I owe you an apology. I’m afraid I sold you short. You’re
very talented. I’m glad I got the chance to work with you.”
He studied the toes of his sneakers. “Are you looking for
advice?”
Cupping her coffee mug in both hands, she got up and crossed the
room to look at the photographs that adorned the wall above the fireplace.
“Your brothers and sisters?” she asked.
“All nine of us.”
She studied the pictures. “I’m getting married in a month,” she
said.
“Forgive me for saying this, but I’ve seen happier brides.”
“I thought it was what I wanted.”
“Until you met Danny.”
“Until I met Danny.” She squared her shoulders and turned. “So
tell me, Doctor MacKenzie, what’s your prescription?”
He set down his coffee cup, leaned forward, and tugged at his
shoelace. “Tell the world to go to hell,” he said, “and follow your heart.”
***
Danny circled the block for the fifth time, slowing as he passed
the lighted window. It was nearly midnight. How the hell would he explain his
presence?
I just happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in
.
Rob would never buy it.
He tightened his fingers on the steering wheel. How could it be
possible that in just three days, his life had fallen apart? He had his music,
he had his friends, and he had his freedom, and if he wanted to go out and get
laid, he did. When he came home, he didn’t have to answer to anybody. And
that was the way he liked it. He didn’t need some skinny little starry-eyed
eighteen-year-old kid ruining it for him.
A girl like that would want things he couldn’t give her. A home,
kids, some kind of stability. He was married to his career. If that made him
a selfish bastard, he didn’t give a damn. His music came first.