“You were reading about me?” he says, taking his eyes off the road and flashing those smoldering dark orbs.
“Yes, for business purposes.”
“Uh-huh,” he taunts and squeezes my knee, spreading a liquid fire up my legs. “You’re sure your interest wasn’t of a more personal nature?”
Rankled by my body’s reaction to his touch, I retort, “I had to ensure you were a reliable witness.”
“Am I?” Mick asks as we leave the city behind. Awaiting my answer, he turns onto an empty country road and with his big hand on the stick, opens throttle. The power of the car suits the man.
“Yes,” I finally say begrudgingly over the din of the engine.
He laughs. “It almost sounds as if you didn’t want me to be.”
For Dwayde’s sake, I wanted him to be the perfect witness. For my own selfish reasons, I wish I had found some dirt to make him unlikable. And that’s my problem. As much as Mick hurt me, I’m still not only achingly attracted to him, I actually like him. For all the same reasons I fell in love with him in the first place. That’s what scares me. He’s funny, caring, and protective. And he’s so damn hot, he makes me burn with the urge to jump in the back seat like old times and let him put those large, talented hands to good use.
“I suppose you read about O’Malley,” he says, breaking into my thoughts. The teasing in his voice is gone.
“I did. But it’s not an issue,” I hurry to assure him. “You were defending the boys, and you weren’t charged.”
“I lost my cool. I could have handled it without hitting him…I should have.”
“You’re protective of the people you love. You’re not your—”
“Father.” He finishes for me. “You’d be surprised by how similar we are.”
I’m taken aback by his comment and the darkness behind the words. “What do you mean?” I ask, cautiously glancing over. His eyes, staring ahead, have hardened and his jaw is clenched. Whatever Mick may believe about the apple not falling far from the tree is wrong. He’s nothing like his father.
I watch him rein in his emotions as he releases the gearshift to run a hand through his cropped waves. “Another time. I don’t want to spend my date with you talking about him.”
“It’s not a date,” I point out. “It’s a business dinner.”
“Tomato, tomahto…” He wiggles his eyebrows at me, all traces of brooding gone.
I suppress a smile; relieved the dark moment is over, even if my curiosity is still piqued. “So tell me about Papa’s Kids,” I say. “It’s an ambitious endeavor.”
“Don’t give me too much credit. I hadn’t thought much about homeless youth until Dwayde came into our lives. Then when Cayo died, I couldn’t think of a better way to honor his memory. Putting up the money is the easy part, though. It’s my director and counselors that do all the real work.”
“It couldn’t happen without the money or without someone running the operations. It’s like the cogs in a wheel: when they all work together, every part is important. What you’re doing counts.”
“On a small scale,” he says. “We’ve got only thirty beds, all of which are full. I’m in the process of buying another place, but when there are nearly twenty thousand homeless kids in Chicago—and that’s just according to Child Protective Services—another house isn’t going to put much of a dent in that number.”
Mick isn’t satisfied with not being able to do more. He still bears the guilt for not protecting his mother from his abusive father when he was only a child, for not saving Papa T from terminal cancer, for the headlines that brought Dwayde’s whereabouts to the attention of the Franklins. And then there’s me. If he knew the real reason I left and what followed, I can’t imagine what that would do to him.
Up until now, I haven’t told Mick about our baby to protect myself. But I know I’ll keep the secret to also spare him the guilt. We were both young and made mistakes. I’m still hurt by his betrayal—that kind of pain doesn’t just fall off like molting feathers—but I’m not harboring the same degree of anger and resentment. So although I’ll never trust him with my heart again, I have no desire to saddle Mick with something he can’t change.
“Hey,” he says, misreading my silence. “I didn’t mean to get all heavy on you and ruin my chances for a second date.”
“Nice try,” I say, taking in the humor in his eyes. “This isn’t a date, remember?”
“Whatever it is, Dee, I’m glad you’re here.”
Minutes later, we pull into the lot of an inconspicuous restaurant. The weathered red awning bears the name
Arturo’s
, and the dull brown building is the size of a shoe box. Even though Mick assured me we weren’t going anywhere posh, with his wealth I had still thought it would be someplace upscale and trendy. This is a pleasant surprise.
“It might not look like much on the outside,” he says, “but Arturo’s is a hidden gem.”
“How did you come across it?” I ask while he backs into a space.
“When I first moved back to the Chicago area and started with the Bulls, I couldn’t go anywhere in the city without the media hounding me. I don’t like cooking for one, ordering in got old, and I could mooch off Victor and Isabelle only so often.
“I had taken to driving out of the way to find places that would afford me some privacy. One night, I stumbled across Arturo’s. He recognized me but didn’t make a big deal out of it. Here, I’m not Micah Peters. I’m just Mick.”
That slice of normalcy.
Mick comes around to open the door for me, and I grab my tote bag to join him. He presses his palm against my lower back, the way he always does, and I shiver the way I always do.
“Cold?” he asks, drawing me closer.
“Yes,” I lie. I could never be cold when Mick’s touching me.
“Watch the rise,” he cautions about the uneven threshold as he steers me through the entrance.
The tiny eatery gleams with cleanliness. The scarred wooden floors are polished to a glistening shine. Red-and-white-checkered cloths cover the square tabletops, and a big chalkboard features the specials.
Swinging doors push open and a short, pudgy man of about sixty, wearing a white chef’s hat and apron, booms in welcome, “Mick, my friend!
Benvenuto!
”
After the men exchange a hearty embrace, Mick makes the introductions. “Art, I’d like you to meet Deeana Chase. Dee, this is Arturo Russo, owner and chef extraordinaire.”
He’s so adorable I just want to hug him myself. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Arturo.”
“
Ciao,
bellissima
, the pleasure is all mine,” he says, and the lines of his worn face crinkle in appreciation before he plants an enthusiastic kiss on each of my cheeks. “You make the smile reach Mick’s eyes. He comes here two, sometimes three, times a week. But he doesn’t smile like this. I say, ‘Mick, eating alone is lonely business, bring a nice girl.’ Finally you listen to me, eh?” Arturo says, clapping Mick on his back.
Shock waves roll over me. How could this be? I look at Mick, with his head thrown back for a rumbling laugh, trying to reconcile this man who eats alone two or three times a week, avoids recognition, and devotes his time to running Papa T’s Kids with his public persona. He’s dark and gorgeous. Ruggedly sexy with that inky shadow on his jaw and confident swagger. He’s a sex symbol who has graced the covers of magazines. He has his pick of female companions, a Rolodex full of their numbers, I’m sure. Why bring me here for his debut with a “nice girl”? And further, is it true that being with me makes Mick happy?
My thoughts are still whirling when a young woman comes through the same swinging doors. She observes Mick with red-blooded female admiration and hurries forward for a hug. He gathers her pert little body in his arms, and I no longer feel all that special.
“We missed you last week,” she says when they pull apart.
“I had some things to take care of.”
“I can see that,” the woman replies teasingly, and her eyes slide over to me.
He chuckles and nudges her shoulder in a brotherly gesture. “Jo-Jo, this is Dee. Dee, this is Jo-Jo, Art’s youngest daughter. She’s considering law school. Dee’s an attorney.”
“Really?” the girl asks, her pretty face lighting up with interest. “What kind of law?”
“Child advocacy,” I tell her. “What area are you considering?”
“I’m not sure yet.” She shrugs. “This is only my second year at the University of Chicago, but I’ve been thinking of Family Law. Do you think I could pick your brain sometime?”
“Absolutely. Feel free to give me a call.” I reach into my bag and hand Jo-Jo a business card.
“Thanks!”
“Brains and beauty, eh, Micah?” the chef remarks.
Mick beams. “She’s the total package, Art.”
A warm blush slinks up my neck.
After Arturo excuses himself, promising to whip up a tray of antipasti, Jo-Jo leads us to the tiny restaurant’s only booth, located in a corner. Not that we need privacy. It’s just us so far. The threat of the storm must be keeping people at home tonight. People a lot smarter than I am.
Mick waits for me to be seated before removing his jacket and sliding in on the other side. No one does black leather and denim better than he does.
“Dee, would you like to see a wine list or order from the bar?” Jo-Jo asks, uncapping a bottle and pouring sparkling water into our glasses.
Wine would help settle my nerves, but I’d wager that Mick never orders alcohol. No surprise, given his alcoholic father. “Water’s fine, thanks.”
Jo-Jo recites the daily specials from the board and then leaves us alone with the glow of candlelight casting a soft yellow hue and the passionate notes of an aria playing overhead.
Mick leans forward and raises his glass. The movement bunches the muscles beneath his sweater. He turns the simplest action into erotic athleticism.
“A toast,” he says, his dark eyes meeting mine. “To reunions.”
Heart thudding, I clink my glass against his and take a sip.
Mick settles back against the padded wooden booth. “I’ve got the best view in the place.”
I glance outside. It’s just a main street in the center of a small town.
“The view’s not out there, Dee.”
“Oh.” I turn back to find his gaze riveted on my face.
“You’re a natural beauty.” He chuckles. “I can still make you blush.”
Self-consciously, I pick up the menu and pretend to read.
“Everything’s good here,” he remarks easily, taking my subtle hint to drop the subject. “But be forewarned, the pasta portions are huge.”
“I’ll probably eat something light,” I say. My stomach is in turmoil.
“Not me. I’m starving.”
His comment is innocent enough, but I glimpse a wolfish grin above my menu.
Jo-Jo re-appears then to deposit a small wicker basket and a plate of antipasti in front of us. When she takes our order, I choose a daily special, grilled sea bass and fennel. Mick orders a veal chop and pasta with extra-spicy
arrabbiata
sauce.
As if the man needed to be any hotter.
“
Buon appetito!
” Jo-Jo wishes us before topping up our waters and leaving us with the appetizer.
Mick appraises the plate of assorted olives, stuffed peppers, and sliced Italian meats. “Mm…this looks good.” He unfolds the linen napkin over the bread basket, releasing the smell of freshly baked bread.
My mouth waters. He lifts the basket in offering. “No, thanks,” I say. Carbohydrates are my weakness. One of many, I think in dismay as I glance across at Mick, who is diving into the food with the hearty appetite I remember he had for everything he enjoyed: writing, making love…
He sinks his straight white teeth into a slice of prosciutto and I feel that bite right below my belly button. With my food issues, I’ve never thought of eating as a sensual act. But there’s something sexy about watching the pleasure in his eyes as he registers the taste, the movement of his mouth as he chews, and the way his throat muscles slide up and down when he swallows.
“Aren’t you going to share this with me?”
His question jerks me out of my daze, but before I can answer, he picks up a hot pepper. It’s red and round like a cherry tomato. “Try this.”
He holds it up to my mouth, baiting me to let down my guard. I hesitate for a second. Then, overruling caution, I part my lips. Mick places the pepper on my tongue. My heartbeat quickens. He slowly withdraws his hand and I close my mouth. I watch him watch my teeth cut through the soft outer layer, coated with olive oil and basil. It tastes sweet with a definite heat, and the inside is filled with goat cheese.
Mick brings those same fingers to his mouth and licks off the traces of olive oil. “Packs a nice kick, doesn’t it?”
I nod, not trusting my voice…or any other part of my body at the moment. Burning up all over, I take another sip of water. Forcing my gaze away from him, I search my bag for my phone—along with my professional composure. “Do you mind if I record you?” I ask, regaining some semblance of equanimity. I set my phone on the table. “It’s more efficient than taking notes and helps with follow-up.”
“I don’t mind,” he says, sampling more of the tray.
Clearing my throat, I turn on the recording app and state the date, time, and Mick’s full name. “Your purpose as a witness is to provide your observation of Victor’s and Isabelle’s parenting, specifically how you’ve seen Dwayde blossom under their care; anything that will demonstrate to a judge why it’s essential for his ongoing well-being to stay with his foster parents. Although opinions are allowed, you will need to provide an example or two to back up your answers.”
“Okay,” he says popping a black olive into his mouth.
My breasts go tingly.
For God’s sakes, stay focused, it’s an olive, not a nipple.
“Naturally, you have a bias.” My voice croaks and I have to clear my throat again. “But your testimony must still be rooted in facts.”
“No problem. My loyalty’s not blind. I care about Dwayde and want what’s best for him. And that happens to be Victor and Isabelle. Any kid would be lucky to have them as parents.”
I like his conviction. It’ll make him a strong witness. “Tell me about that.”
Over an incredible dinner of butter-soft sea bass, Mick regales me with real-life stories and the emotions behind them, impossible to get from a file. He paints a picture of the foster parents who shower Dwayde with love and support, and the kind of discipline and solid values that will help him mature into a good, decent man.