The Wrong Man: A Novel of Suspense (2 page)

“That’s very funny,” he said, chuckling. “That scene nearly made me jump out of my seat when I saw it. Is interior design something you study in school?”

“Uh, that’s one route,” she said quickly. “But you also can
work at a firm and more or less apprentice with people far more experienced. That’s the way I did it.”

“I imagine your clients can be difficult at times. People with money are often pretty demanding.”

“My business is just a tiny one, and the clients aren’t what you’d really call wealthy. They have good jobs and nice apartments, and they’re at a point where they can finally hire an interior designer to pull things together better. I guess you could say I’m kind of a starter decorator for most of them.

“But that’s enough about decorating,” she added. Her partner Baby always said that if you wanted to make a straight man impotent, just start gushing about floor plans, poufs, and color palettes. “I don’t want to bore you to tears.”

“I honestly enjoy hearing about stuff like that,” he said. “I studied sculpture in college.”

“Really?” she said, surprised. There was that contrast thing at work again. Rugged and yet also refined. “What kind of medium?”

“Metal mostly. A lot of copper. Not huge pieces, just table size.

“Do you still do it?”

“I’ve just started again. Part of why I got rid of my business was to have time for it. Just for my own pleasure.”

“What kind of business were you in?”

He paused in the way he seemed to have of waiting a beat before speaking. “A tech business. Trust me, if I elaborated, we’d
both
be bored to tears. It was a way to make money . . . and guarantee some freedom for later.”

They ordered, and over dinner they fell into an easy conversation, talking about art they both enjoyed looking at, and places they’d traveled and loved. He was funny at moments, and a good listener, listening and questioning, in fact, more than he spoke. Was it a seduction ploy? she wondered.

There was, she also decided, an intriguing contradiction to
him: self-possessed without being braggy, engaged but at the same time slightly mysterious. He made her a little nervous, yet in a way she liked. It felt good to be on her toes a bit with a man.

She was attracted to him, she realized. Even the damn red hair.

“No, no, dinner’s my treat,” he insisted when the check arrived and she attempted to contribute. He scribbled the tip amount and signed his name. She took a final sip of coffee, and when she looked up, she caught him scanning the patio, his eyes narrowed, as if searching for someone. The waiter to hand back the check to? she wondered. Was he eager for the night to end?

“I’d love to continue the conversation,” he said. “How about a walk along the beach.”

“Sure,” she replied, trying not to sound as ridiculously eager as she felt.

But no sooner had they stepped onto the sand and she’d kicked off her sandals, than it began to drizzle.

“The gods aren’t being very accommodating,” he said, glancing upward. He took her elbow, guiding her back onto the patio. That spark once again. It was lust, she realized, and it was making her pulse race. “How about plan B? We could grab a drink at the bar. Or—there’s bottle of white wine in my room. I have a suite so we could sit in the living room.”

She didn’t want the evening to end. But did she want to
sleep
with him? Because by going back to his hotel room, she was saying that sex was a possibility. She’d play it by ear, she decided. See where the chemistry led.

“I’m up for a glass of wine,” she told him. “But just one. I’m leaving at seven a.m., and I still have to pack”

Once they were in the living room of his suite, he slipped out of his blazer and reached for the bottle of white wine on top of the mini bar. Without the jacket, she could see how fit he
was, and imagine how muscular he must be under his shirt. She felt a fresh rush of desire flood through her.

“Let me get some ice to keep the wine chilled,” he said, grabbing the bucket that had been provided.

As soon as the door closed behind him, she let her gaze run over the room. Nice to have a suite, she thought. The bedroom door was closed and he hadn’t left much in the living area, just a few items on the desk. She stepped closer. An iPad in a leather case. A slightly rumpled
New York Times
perched on the edge. A Moleskine notebook, closed. And a Mont Blanc pen.

She plucked up the pen and with the other hand fished around in her purse for her own Mont Blanc. It had been a gift from her father, a way, he’d told her, to say he was sorry for everything, though no apology had ever been necessary.

The pens were identical, she saw. Black and gold fountain pens. Maybe that was a sign of something, she told herself.

And then, she heard footsteps outside the door. Startled, she dropped her purse and one of the pens on the floor. She quickly scooped up both items, and as she did, her elbow knocked the newspaper off the desk as well. She went into scramble mode, and she’d just managed to put everything back in place when she heard the key turn in the lock. That would have been nice, she thought—
caught snooping.

Back in the room, Matt opened the wine, poured them each a glass, and crossed to her. After handing her the wine, he didn’t step back. He was standing so near, she could feel the heat from his body.

He took her free hand and pulled her to him. Then, he leaned down, his gorgeous mouth nearly touching hers. She closed the gap and kissed him.

His lips were both soft and firm and when he pulled away a moment later, she already felt hungry for more.

“I’ve wanted to do that since I first set eyes on you,” he said.

“In that shop in town?”

“No, when you accosted me on my way out of breakfast. Maybe even when you came around the corner earlier, while I was on the phone.”

“You’re not thinking I’m a stalker, are you?” she teased.

“If you are, I don’t care.”

He set his wineglass down and kissed her again, more urgently this time, cupping her face with one hand. She accepted his tongue as he slid it into her mouth, savoring the taste of it. Suddenly, he was pressing his body deeply into hers and running a hand along the outside of her halter, just grazing her breast. After a few moments, he pulled back and ran his eyes over her face.

“I’d love to go to bed with you, Kit,” he said.

Ah, they’d arrived at that point much faster than she’d predicted. And yet, she found herself definitely entertaining the idea. Not her usual M.O., for sure, but her body seemed to have its own agenda tonight.

“That’s a very interesting proposition,” she said, still deliberating.

“But I also need to be perfectly honest with you,” he said, before she could answer. “If we go to bed, there’s no way—at least right now—that I could take things beyond tonight, even with us both living in New York.”

“Are you saying there’s someone serious in your life?” That would be a deal-breaker for sure. She would even regret the dinner.

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “There’s no one. I haven’t had a girlfriend since I broke up with a woman nine months ago. We were pretty serious but she ended up too homesick for Melbourne to stay in the States.”

“I take it then that you’re up for only casual dalliances these days,” she said, looking him in the eye. “No strings attached.”

“Yes.” His expression turned serious, almost grave. “But it’s a little more complicated than that, than me not feeling ready. I’m very attracted to you, Kit. But there’s a problem I need to turn all my attention to in the next weeks—even months. It’s going to consume most of my time and my energy.”

So there’d be no chance of ever seeing him again. But would it be so wrong to go for it, she wondered. This morning, she’d challenged herself to be a badass, to try something a little dangerous, and couldn’t this be it? The proverbial night to remember.

She looked off, considering. Yes, she told herself. Take a chance.

“All right,” she said. “But you’ll just have to promise not to mind when my cell phone alarm goes off at five-thirty.”

“Not a problem. I plan to still be having sex with you then anyway.”

She flushed at the thought.

“You don’t happen to have any condoms, do you?”

“I’ve got some in my dopp kit.” He laughed. “Old but not past the expiration date.”

He led her into the spare white bedroom and began to peel off her clothes, then his own. He was in fabulous condition, taut and lightly tanned. He laid her on the bed and moved along her body slowly with both hands and mouth, exploring, teasing, making her writhe in pleasure.

She’d never gone to bed with anyone for the first time without experiencing a twinge of self-consciousness, from being naked and exposed. But she felt none of that now. It was like dropping from a trapeze into a circus net, and relishing the pure, glorious thrill of the fall.

His prediction had been right. They’d barely finished making love for a third time when the alarm went off. She forced herself out of bed, gathered up her clothes, and slipped
into the bathroom. When she emerged a few minutes later, Matt was out of bed, too, pants on, waiting to walk her to the door.

“That was a fantastic night, Kit,” he said, a hand against the doorframe.

“Yes,” she said. “It was.”

He kissed her softly goodbye.

She had too much last-minute packing to reflect on any of it. She took a six-minute shower, tossed items into her suitcase in a crazy rush, and grabbed a coffee to-go in the lobby.

The car service was right on time, and as the driver headed toward the highway, she finally leaned back and replayed the night. It had been exquisite, it made her blush even to think about it. She had no regrets about her decision to spend the night with a stranger. Just regret over the fact that she’d never set eyes on him again.

Halfway to Miami, as endless palm trees whipped by outside the car, her cell phone rang.

The screen flashed the name of the hotel, and she wondered if there’d been confusion over her bill.

“Good morning,” a man said when she answered. For a moment she couldn’t place the deep voice.

“Did you get off on time?” he asked. And then she realized: it was Matt Healy.

“Yes, thanks,” she said, taken aback. “I’m in the car now.”

“Look, Kit, I know I pleaded no entanglements last night. But I have to see you again, in New York.”

She took a breath.

“I’d like that, too,” she said.

“I’ll be there on Thursday. Why don’t I cook you dinner? I’m not exactly Bobby Flay, but you won’t leave starving.”

She didn’t care if he fixed her a fried eel sandwich.

“Perfect.”

“See you Thursday then,” he said after giving her his address. “seven-thirty.”

Once they’d signed off, she realized she was smiling stupidly to no one in particular.

It was nearly 4:30 by the time she reached home. She had a one-bedroom apartment in a five-story building on Elizabeth Street in Nolita, named because it was just north of Little Italy. She was crazy about the area, a hip but friendly neighborhood of narrow streets, low-rise buildings, and old churches, as well as trendy boutiques and cafés. Last year, when the studio apartment next door became available, she and Baby had decided to rent it as office space.

She dropped her suitcase in the apartment and entered the office through the adjoining doorway that the super had given them permission to create. Baby was at her desk, staring quizzically at a pile of fabric swatches.

“
There
you are,” Baby exclaimed, touching one of her lovely hands to her chest. “Dara saw that your flight was late.”

“Just by an hour,” Kit said. She’d been in too good a mood to let the delay bug her. “It’s great to see you, Baby.”

“Same here. I take it you had nice weather. You’ve got some gorgeous highlights.”

Baby was a blond fanatic. She dyed her gray hair a gorgeous champagne color and wore it like a prized crown.

“I’ll tell you all about it, but first fill me in. Everything okay?”

“Well, I’m up to my ass in ikat,” Baby said, nodding toward the fabric pile. “After this particular job I refuse to do another throw pillow in it for as long as I live.”

Kit laughed. “What about West 87th Street? You said in your email there were some problems.”

“Oh, the husband’s suddenly bullied his way into everything. He thinks blue is for sissies and that the slipper chairs in
the bedroom look like they were made for Tinkerbell. Says he’s a ‘Mission furniture kind of guy’ and thinks the place should have a
huskier
feel. The man actually said that. I once had a woman say she wanted a bedroom like a harlot’s, but in forty plus years I never heard anyone ask for
husky
.”

“I thought the wife said she had free rein.”

“Apparently she did until the bills started to roll in.”

“You’ll work it out,” Kit said, smiling. “You always do.”

Baby was brilliant at many things but one of her specialties was negotiating what she called ICDC: Intense Couple Decorating Conflict.