Honey (5 page)

She hesitated. Considering the circumstances, anything other than an outright refusal had to be a positive sign.

“The Starbucks on Park is pretty close to you.”

What looked a lot like fear flared across her face. “Not there.”

Had he been alone, Marc would have taken the opportunity to thump himself on the forehead. The venue he'd suggested was more than nearby. It was a stone's throw from her building, which made it too close for comfort—or safety.

“I prefer Tea &—”

“Miss me?” Drew broke in, coming up beside them.

Honey started.

“Jesus, you look like you saw a ghost.” Drew passed her a fluted champagne glass. “Am I interrupting something?” He darted a suspicious look between her and Marc.

Taking the drink, she shook her head. “Of course not, darling. We were just making small talk.”

Winterthur divided his attention between them, his upper lip curling. “Small talk, huh? How's that going?” His stare stopped at Honey, and though she stayed rooted to her spot, Marc sensed her inwardly shrinking away.

Clearly the clichéd excuse wasn't cutting it. As was often the case in the ER, a bold, split-second decision was called for—and he was the only one of them in a position to make it. “Actually, we were catching up.”

Drew slanted him a puzzled look. “Catching up? I don't follow.”

“We met before,” Marc answered, “a few weeks ago.”

Beside him, he heard Honey's sharp intake of breath.

The son of a bitch slugged back his drink. “Really, how's that?”

“I treated Miss Gladwell after her fall.”

Four sheets to the wind though Winterthur might be, still he stiffened. “Small world.”

“I know, right?” Marc shifted to look at Honey. She might not have seen a ghost but she'd gone as pale as one, her red painted lips the only discernible color in her blood-drained face. “You're obviously recovering beautifully, though I do urge you not to abandon the soft cast too soon. We want that fracture to heal cleanly so you have full mobility in the future.”

“Y-yes, doctor, I will. Thank you.” The smile she sent him expressed genuine gratitude.

Winterthur knocked back the remainder of his drink. Chewing ice, he said, “In that case, I should thank you for taking such good care of my girl.”

Marc forced a shrug. “All in a day's work.” It had been a long time since he'd wanted to hit someone this bad but unlike the impetuous, angry boy he'd once been, he'd learned to rein in his temper—most days.

Winterthur slipped a hand inside his suit jacket's inner pocket. He pulled out a pre-written check. “I was going to give this to my man Vandeveer on our way out, but on second thought I think I'll let you do the honors.” He handed Marc the check.

Marc glanced down long enough to glimpse a seventh zero, then slipped it into his pocket. “This is very generous of you. I'll pass it on to the Powers That Be and make sure you get a tax receipt.”

A shrug met that assurance. “You can tell the big dogs that you wooed me.”

“Thanks, but that isn't necessary.”

“No, I insist. In fact, you call the administrator over here right now, and I'll play along and make him think you laid it on thick.”

Marc bristled. For guys like Drew, everything was one big Monopoly game and everything—and everyone—a commodity for sale. “Thanks, but I don't need to lay on anything. I believe in this program and its mission.”

“Easy, doc, no need to get your blood pressure up. Shit, I hear that's all kinds of bad for you. Chill out and have another drink—a real drink—with us.” He gestured with his glass, empty now except for melting ice. “C'mon, what do you say?”

“I'll stick with my beer, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” He swiveled to Honey. “What about you? Ready for round two?”

Ms. Gladwell—Honey—glanced down at the champagne glass in her hand, still half full, and shook her head. “Thanks but no. I'll have a headache if I have any more after this.”

He jabbed an elbow into her arm, the one that was still healing, and smirked. “Honey here is a lightweight. On the bright side, that makes her a cheap date … or is it just cheap?” The laugh he let out, and Honey's flushing face, had Marc yearning yet again to pound him. “Seriously, babe, don't be a buzz kill. Have another drink. It's not like I'm not paying for it.”

This time Marc couldn't help himself, or at least he chose not to. He reached out and laid a “friendly” hand on Winterthur's shoulder. “It looks like we're both set on drinks, but don't let that stop you.”

“Don't worry, I won't.” Drew dropped his gaze to Marc's hand, and Marc let it fall away—for now. Flicking his gaze to Honey, he added, “Hang tight. I'll be back.” He wheeled away and walked off, only slightly swaying.

Ms. Gladwell—Honey—turned back to Marc. “Tea & Sympathy on Greenwich and 11
th
. I'll meet you there at two.”

*

Sprawled atop the bedspread, propped against the banked pillows, and cradling a glass of scotch, Drew remarked, “So that black doctor tonight was kind of a tight ass.”

Honey froze, her deer-in-the-headlights look staring back at her from the maple and mahogany dressing-table mirror. With his luminous eyes, full lips, and body that might have belonged to a fitness trainer—or a statue of a Greek God—Marc Sandler was almost too beautiful to be a doctor. Strike the “almost,” he was too beautiful. Back in Omaha, her childhood physicians from dentist to pediatrician and everyone in between had been liver-spotted and balding, not to mention sporting a substantial spare tire. Marc Sandler was none of those things. Along with his … hotness, he apparently was caring and kind, dedicated and funny. Not laugh-out-loud funny but more like … ironic. More than once she found herself losing the battle against smiling—and smiling too much wasn't a “problem” she usually had, not anymore at least.

Unfortunately he was also nosey—and persistent. In a weak moment, she'd agreed to meet him for tea. What had she been thinking? Manhattan was one big small town. The odds of running into someone who might know her and Drew were not as remote as she'd like to believe. She must need her head examined. If Drew found out, she likely would.

“Was he?” she asked, striving for a bored tone. “I hadn't noticed.”

What a whopper. She'd noticed everything about him, from the amber flecking his irises to the cheap lace-ups he'd paired with his poorly fitting suit.

A “humph” was all the answer she got. Unsure of whether she should be relieved or worried, she reached up to unclasp her earrings, part of Drew's apology present from a few weeks ago.

You can always tell what a man thinks of you by the kind of earrings he gives you.
Or so Audrey's Holly Golightly announced with such stirring self-confidence in
Breakfast at Tiffany's
.

The clusters of glass pearls and cut crystals were vintage costume jewelry Drew had picked up at Pippin on 17
th
Street, pretty enough and yet a definite step down from previous pampering. That they came with the Marchesa cocktail dress she'd coveted, and a pair of black Valentino Intrigate pumps, more than made up for the price differential of real stones versus paste, she supposed. Still, considering he could have killed her, he'd gotten off cheaply—too cheaply.

Honey swallowed hard. Earlier at the hospital fundraiser he joked that she was cheap. It was horrid enough to be spoken to so in private but being badmouthed in public—and before the delicious doctor with the earnest hazel eyes and bulging biceps, no less—had taken horrid to new heights. Several hours later, the remark still stung every bit as much as a physical slap.

The brooding silence was broken once more. Drew called out, “And yet you met him before—in the ER.”

Take a deep breath. You can manage him. You simply have to stay calm and centered. If you don't lose control then neither will he.

Imagining herself as a clock hand, she turned slowly to face him. As she did, she deliberately let one shoulder of her cream-colored silk robe slip. “I thought we made a pact not to bring up that night, not ever again. New leaves and new beginnings, remember, darling?” She softened the scold with her best Audrey smile.

His gaze veered to the dipping silk just as she'd intended. “Yeah, sure, still … . You never did say what you told him.”

She sipped on her bottom lip, not a lot, just enough to get him good and horny. “I told him the truth—that I fell down the service stairs.”

See, this is what happens to trash. To trash, trash, trash …

Staring at her mouth, he hesitated, and then asked, “What else did you say?”

You fucking piece of garbage, this is where you belong.

Despite her freezing heart, she forced her gaze to stay warm. “Nothing, I swear it.”

It was, strictly speaking, the truth. She'd plunged down the service stairs, a full flight to a cement landing, the dark plastic Glad garbage bags breaking her fall. What she hadn't added, what she'd give almost anything to be able to blot from her brain, was that she hadn't tripped and lost her footing. She hadn't simply stumbled and spiraled downward on her own steam. She hadn't merely met with a mishap as a normal person with a normal life might.

She'd been dragged into the stairwell by the hair and thrown. By Drew.

Seemingly satisfied, he beckoned her over, scotch from his glass slopping onto the clean sheets. “So long as you stuck to the story, we're good. Are we good?”

Honey released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Every iota of self-preservation she still possessed urged her to flee—the bedroom, the apartment, the life—but to where? Until she figured that out, hadn't she better stay put?

Resigned, she forced herself to take a step and then another and another, closing the precious gap between her and the bed. Reaching it, she untied her robe, letting the front fall open.

Swallowing a sob, she nodded. “Yes, Drew, we're good.”

 

“Everything I learned I learned from the movies.”—Audrey Hepburn

 

Marc pulled back on the red door of Tea & Sympathy and stepped inside, the sudden rush of heat making his nose run. The West Village British-themed tea shop and restaurant was crowded despite its being past lunchtime, the floral-print-covered tables packed sardine-style even by Manhattan standards, the patrons uniformly female, which made a certain sort of sense, he supposed.

She wasn't here yet, not that he expected her to be. From his years of sporadic dating, Marc had observed that Manhattan women were not known for their punctuality, and he had no reason to believe Honey Gladwell would prove any kind of exception. Fifteen minutes late was as good as on time. On time was, well, early.

He used the spell to settle in, take stock of his surroundings. Shelves lined with bric-a-brac, framed restaurant reviews, and tea paraphernalia covered the walls. A chalk board announcing the day's specials—spotted dick, seriously?—took up valuable real estate near the open kitchen. There was absolutely no standing space for waiting. Because of the tight quarters, the venue had a strict policy of not seating anyone until the full party arrived. Fortunately two o'clock was past primetime so far as lunch went and the taken tables were already showing signs of clearing out. The occupants of one of the two-tops were making a move toward the bill, their lacquered fingernails inching ever closer, their cell phones at the ready to calculate the tip. The women rose to leave and in short order the table was bused and reset. Marc had always held to the old saw that it was infinitely easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. Testing it now, he slid into one of the still warm seats, nearly knocking out a neighboring table's tiered tray of finger sandwiches and miniature scones.

“Ladies, so sorry,” he said, feeling hulking and clumsy and altogether out of place.

The door opened, admitting a gusty chill that stirred the table linens and won patrons' scowls despite everyone else, including Marc, having recently done the same. Glad he hadn't yet managed to remove his overcoat, he looked up.

Enormous sunglasses, a white scarf wrapped movie-star style about upswept hair, perfectly painted lips—it was her, Honey Gladwell, no later than a fashionable five minutes. Mesmerized, Marc watched her breeze in, her camel-colored overcoat classically cut, the wool so soft-looking it must be cashmere. Standing inside the closed door, she untied the belt and slipped it off and—wow!

A little black dress, classically simple and flawlessly elegant, skimmed her litheness in all the right places, nipping in at a tiny waist that Marc could likely span with his two hands—and God how he really wanted to test out the theory! Elbow-high black gloves banded slender arms. Black stockings, the kind with a seam in the back that required actual—gulp—garters, sheathed her long, slender legs. He hadn't seen anyone so tricked out in the middle of the afternoon since the days when he'd gone to Sunday service with his mother and auntie.

“Wow.” It had been a long time since a woman had made him feel more than a tepid interest, let alone wowed him, but the wow factor on this one more than made up.

Remembering his manners, he slid back his chair and rose, too caught up to care that he clipped the side of the adjacent table yet again, this time sending dainty china cups teetering in their rose patterned saucers.

As if mesmerizing men must be her métier, Honey laughed, a musical trilling that brought to mind champagne glasses tinkling in toast. “Is that a good wow or a bad wow?” she asked, effortlessly slipping into the empty seat opposite him.

Marc sat as well. “It's just that you're … You're so dressed up.”

Clothes made the man, or so his mother never tired of telling him. He'd stalwartly rejected that sentiment on both principle and practicality—until now. Staring across at his chic companion, it struck him he'd better get busy. No brown socks with black shoes around this lady, ditto for sneakers sans socks—or sneakers period. For now, the smartest thing he could do was keep his coat on. Beneath it he had on a faded sweatshirt with the logo from his undergraduate alma mater, well-worn jeans, and Nikes. His right Nike, he just now remembered, had a hole topping the big toe. It was a lucky break he'd gotten himself seated first. This way she'd likely never see it.

She answered with an airy wave. “I believe in overdressing. I believe in primping at leisure and wearing lipstick.” Another Audrey quote? It kind of had to be. Real people didn't speak this way, at least not any he'd ever met before now.

He opened his menu and made a pretense of perusing it. Bangers ‘n' mash, shepherd's pie, Welsh rarebit, roast beef with Yorkshire pudding—Jesus, who ate this stuff?

He ventured a glance up. “So I can't help but notice you seem to be really into Audrey Hepburn.”

Over the top of her open menu, her dark eyes met his. “Audrey Hepburn was—is—a sublime human being. I don't only respect her. I
adore
her.”

O-okay then. Everyone had their quirks, he supposed, and her “girl crush” on a woman who, had she lived, could be her grandmother's age caught his curiosity. “Why are you so hung up on her specifically? I mean sure, she was pretty and glamorous I guess, but so were a lot of other female actors of her era—Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor—”

“Monroe and Taylor aren't even in the same league!” Judging from the black look she gave him, you would have thought he'd just suggested slaughtering kittens or detonating a nuclear bomb. “Audrey was talented, deeply and importantly talented. And it's not only her acting and fashion sense that set her apart. It's her
soul
.”

“You sound like she's a personal friend. You must have been a little kid when she died.” He couldn't recall her exact birth year from her chart but a cursory eyeballing put her around twenty-six, no more than twenty-seven. Her sudden expression of raw yearning made her seem even younger.

She gestured with her gloved arms in evident exasperation. “I was but … Oh, never mind. It's obvious you aren't inclined to understand.”

Attracted to her though he might be—okay, was—Marc didn't take kindly to condescension. Sure, he'd grown up pretty poor and was laid back about what he put on his back, but those things didn't make him a Neanderthal. “Why not try me? I might surprise you.”

She paused, scanning his face as though attempting to take his measure. “Oh, very well,” she said, around a puff of breath, apparently irritated at being called upon to explain herself. “I feel as though I know her. Watching her films as a kid got me … got me through a lot. I wanted to grow up to be just like her—beautiful and brave, witty and accomplished.”

From where Marc sat, she had three of the four checked off, not a bad score in his book, although breaches in the bravery department likely had cost her a lot, February's ER visit included. How did a girl who put such stock in bravery justify staying tethered to a brute?

“Did you know that during the Second World War, Audrey served as a courier for the Dutch resistance?” she rhapsodized. “And that she suffered malnutrition that left her with lasting health problems?”

He hadn't known, but then tracking the travails of dead white film starlets wasn't something he'd ever gotten into.

“And then there's all the amazing work she did later in life with UNICEF. She went on a humanitarian mission to Somalia just four months before she … passed.” She looked away but not before he glimpsed the sheen in her eyes.

Tears, seriously! It was one thing to be sentimental, but the way she spoke about Audrey Hepburn made the actress sound like a glammed up Mother Teresa. All in all, her devotion struck him as a little … extreme.

“Ready to order?” an Anglo-Irish accented voice broke in.

The server's interception prompted Honey's look of relief. Jesus, he hadn't meant to grill her. Why had he? Why couldn't he ever just … go with the flow? Let a conversation unfold without turning it into a structured Q&A or, worse yet, nitpicking it apart? On or off duty, he always seemed to be searching for clarity—answers.

“I am.” Dabbing a gloved finger discretely to the corners of her eyes, Honey closed her menu and looked up. “I'd like a pot of Darjeeling and—” She hesitated, glancing over to Marc. “Am I correct in assuming this is your treat?”

“Of course, I invited you,” he answered, hating that she'd thought for a minute he might mean to make her pay for her portion.

Her question rattled him and not only because it showed she wasn't one hundred percent certain he was a gentleman but because of the disparity it pointed out. Since when did someone who carried a designer handbag have to worry about splitting the lunch check?

“In that case—” Relaxing visibly, she shifted back to the server, to whom she sent a dazzling, dimpled smile. “I'd also like the BLT with English bacon and a side of … ” She paused, dipping her head to peruse the menu. “Mashed potatoes—with gravy, please. Oh, and the peas—are they the mushy kind like they eat in the UK?”

The server lost her harried look and smiled. “That they are.”

Honey beamed back at her. “Marvelous, then I'll have those as well.”

Stunned to speechlessness, Marc could only stare. Where in that size zero body did she plan to fit all that food? Afterward would she excuse herself to the bathroom and puke it all up as one of his dates from Match.com had done? God, he hoped not. As a doctor, he knew that bulimia was a disorder. As a guy who'd grown up seeing his mother scrimping to stretch the grocery money to feed the five of them, he was short on sympathy.

The server's gaze flickered to Marc. “And what will you be having, sir?”

Go with the flow, Marc. For once, go with the fucking flow.

He didn't have a clue what “mushy peas” were—if they were anything like the parboiled “soul food” his older relatives had tried turning him onto, he was pretty sure he'd hate them. Sushi, Thai, and northern Italian were his dietary staples. But then he hadn't come for the food. He'd come for Honey Gladwell. The prospect of getting to know her better, maybe even winning her trust sufficiently so that she'd let him help her before she got the crap beat out of her again—or worse—eclipsed his culinary preferences.

Finding his smile, he closed his menu and handed it off. “I'll have what she's having.”

*

Marc had to give Honey credit. Girlfriend could put some food away. Not only did she clean her plate, not only did she not rush to the restroom afterward, but she did yet another thing that played against type and surprised him—pleasantly. She ordered dessert.

“I'd adore the crumble—provided Himself can be persuaded to share it with me,” she said to their server, her adlibbed Irish accent winning her yet another smile.

She was a natural mimic. In the course of their lunch, her vaguely British accent had morphed into one that was nearly as Irish as their server's.

The girl divided her gaze between them. “You seem like such a nice couple,” she remarked and rather than correct her, Marc took a sip of tepid tea. “If you don't mind my asking, how long have you been together?”

Marc nearly spat the mouthful of tea. Throat burning, he finished swallowing, then said, “We're not—”

“Officially engaged yet,” Honey slipped in smoothly, sending him an overtly adoring look. “Marc is the traditional sort. My mum's been ill, and he insists we wait ‘til he can ask her permission proper-like.”

“Ah, but that's lovely,” the girl chirped, looking Marc over with approval. “But don't mind me, standing about jabbering away. I'll be back with your crumble in a jiff.” She turned to go.

Feeling as if most of the oxygen had been siphoned from his lungs, Marc waited for the girl to step away before leaning over and asking, “What was that about?”

Honey shrugged. “Just having a bit of fun is all—good
craic
, as they call it. You must admit it makes for a good—grand—story. That girl will likely go about wearing a smile for the next half hour.”

Marc stared at her, equal parts charmed and disturbed. He was no psychiatrist, but he couldn't dismiss his sense that something was … off. He'd asked Honey here with a mission in mind: to discover who she was—
really
was—so that he could help her. From what he'd so far seen, she was whatever and whoever the people around her wanted her to be.

“But what you told her, it's a lie.”

Her gaze shuttered. She shook her head. “No, it's not. It's more like … a fairy tale.”

Marc opened his mouth to debate that but before he could, their dessert arrived.

“One crumble, two spoons,” their server announced, setting the food between them and the check by Marc.

“Oh, lovely!” Honey enthused, picking up one of the spoons and tucking in.

Considering the Manhattan culture of calorie-counting women, the unbridled, guilt-free pleasure she took in eating, seeming to savor every mouthful, not only with her sense of taste but also with her eyes, was more than unusual. It was damned refreshing.

She ate her half and most of his, as well as lapping up every lick of the clotted cream. When no excuse came to visit the restroom—she rolled on her red lipstick at the table in front of him—he decided she either must work out like an Olympian or be blessed with a teenage boy's fast metabolism.

She dropped the lipstick and tortoise shell compact back into her bag and clamped it closed. “Thank you ever so much. Lunch was lovely, but I should be going.”

“Home, you mean?” Marc asked, feeling as though they'd just sat down though according to the clock, lunch had lasted longer than an hour.

She hesitated, eyeing him. “I'm not sure my next engagement is any of your concern, but yes.”