Total Rush (16 page)

“I think I might know someone!”

Frankie's eyes lit up. “Who?”

“The guy I've been giving tarot lessons to. Uther.”

“The one you said looks like a refugee from ZZ Top?”

“Yes, but he's really nice, Frankie. Really smart. He has a photographic memory. And”—she wasn't sure if this would be an enticement, but it was worth a try—“he makes a boatload of money.”

Frankie grunted. “Huh. I'll think about it. In the meantime you need to think about meeting Sean's friends.”

 

 

“
What are you
doing still up?”

Gemma sat curled on Sean's couch, sipping peppermint tea. It was 6 A.M. Sunday morning, and Sean was just returning from covering another firefighter's shift. There was more than surprise in his eyes when he saw her. There was dismay.

Gemma's gaze danced away. “I couldn't sleep.”

“Oh, honey.” Sean sat beside her and wrapped an arm around her. “You've got to do something about this. This is crazy.”

They'd been together two months now, and rather than getting used to his being a firefighter, her anxiety seemed to be getting worse. She did protection spells, but nothing seemed to quell her nerves. She was okay when she was at the store, because work gave her something to focus on. But the rest of the time, she was haunted by the sound of sirens. When a fire truck roared down the street, her heart stopped as she worried about where the men inside it were going, if they had families, if they'd all return safely. Night shifts, like the one Sean had just pulled, were the worst. She would lie awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if the kiss he'd given her before he'd walked out the door would be the last one they'd ever share.

“Did you get any sleep at all?”

Embarassed, Gemma shook her head. He was near enough that she could catch his scent: fresh lemon. That meant he'd showered at the firehouse. Showering at the firehouse meant he'd gone out to a fire. Maybe more than one.

“How was work?” she asked quietly, knowing she'd get the same answer she always did. Sean didn't know it, but his tendency toward being tight lipped contributed to her anxiety as well. She was a Dante, for God's sake. She was used to dealing with people who called each other up to announce they'd just blown their nose.

Sean yawned, seeming to consider her question. “It was okay. Slow.”

“Any calls?”

Sean rubbed his eyes. “Yeah. One.” His bloodshot eyes met hers. “It was pretty bad. I really don't want to talk about it, okay?”

Gemma bit at her cuticle anxiously. “Can't you tell me just a little? I worry so much.”

“It was a suicide,” Sean said quietly. “Let's leave it at that.”

“Okay.” Morbid curiosity roiled inside her but she refrained from asking him anything more. The things he saw in the line of duty were a dual-edged sword. She wanted to know, but at the same time, she didn't. Better to keep it light.

“Did the guys like your brownies?”

“Yeah, they were gone in five seconds flat. They inhaled them. Then Ojeda's face swelled up. He's allergic to walnuts but he scarfed down a bunch anyway.”

“Is he okay?”

“He's fine. Leary ran him over to the emergency room at Lenox Hill. They gave him a shot and sent him on his merry way.” Sean shook his head. “What kind of an idiot forgets he's allergic to walnuts?”

“A hungry one?”

“I'll leave 'em out next time.”

“Am I ever going to meet any of these guys? She touched Sean's hand lightly. “They seem to mean a lot to you.”

“They do.”

“So, let's do something with them and their wives. Or girlfriends. Isn't it about time I met your ‘second' family?”

Sean's expression was tentative. “I guess we can figure something out.”

“Is everything okay between us?” Gemma asked quietly.

“Why do you ask that?”

“It's just . . .” She paused to find the right words. “We've been dating for two months and I haven't met your friends. Sometimes I get the feeling that you're afraid—”

“You want to meet some of the guys?” Sean cut in, rising from the couch. “Consider it done.”

Sean looked up from the latest issue of
Firehouse
magazine to see Gemma standing before him in a purple sari, gold bangles ringing her left arm from wrist to elbow. They were going to meet Mike Leary and his wife Ronnie, as well Ted Delaney and his girlfriend Danielle, for dinner at Dante's. At least, that had been the plan. Now Sean wasn't so sure.

“Um . . .”

Gemma twirled for him. “Don't you love it? My friend Kai brought it back for me from India.”

Sean scratched his cheek. “It's very—Indian.”

Gemma's smile slowly faded. “You don't like it.”

“No, no, you look great.” She did. She looked exotic, gorgeous, and delectable. To him.

“So—?”

Sean clasped his hands between his knees. “It's a little”—he paused—“it's a little over the top.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

Gemma looked surprised. “Oh, well. Guess I'll go change.”

Watching her walk back into her bedroom, Sean was wracked with guilt. Who was he to tell her what to wear? The answer came swiftly: the guy who was gonna catch major shit if he showed up at a Brooklyn spaghetti house with Indira Gandhi on his arm. Quirky was one thing. Out-and-out eccentric was another. He wanted his friends to like her, not laugh at her.

“How's this?”

She reappeared in the living room in billowing black pants, beaded Chinese slippers, and a purple velvet tunic with a paisley scarf tossed over one shoulder. Funky but stylish.

“Great,” said Sean, meaning it. He crossed to her and took her in his arms, burying his face in her hair. “Aren't you going to wear that perfume I love?”

“I thought it might be over the top.”

Their eyes met and Sean saw the imp in hers.

“You busting on me?” he asked, pinching her butt.

“Maybe.”

“Wear it,” he urged, lightly kissing her temple. “Please.”

“Do you think your friends will like me?”

“Of course they will,” he assured her—and himself. “What's not to like?”

 

 

“Willkommen. Bienvenue. Welcome.”

Gemma shot Michael a look as she and Sean walked through the door of Dante's. Maybe coming here wasn't such a great idea. Knowing Michael, he'd be unable to resist swinging by the table repeatedly under the guise of “Making sure everything was all right.” As for Anthony, God only knew what could happen. If he was good Anthony, he'd hide in the kitchen and cook. But if he was bad Anthony . . .

The look, mildly withering as intended, appeared to freeze Michael in his tracks. “What?” he asked defensively.

Gemma leaned close to him. “No hovering,” she whispered.

Michael put a hand over his heart. “I swear to God, you won't see hide nor hair of me tonight. I'll pretend you don't exist. However, we do need to talk soon.”

“About?”

“Nonna.”

“Not good?”

Michael frowned. “Not good.”

“Call me,” Gemma said sadly.

“Will do.” He pointed to a large table toward the back where four people already sat chatting. “The other parties have arrived.”

“Thanks, Mike,” said Sean.

Gemma's hand tightened around Sean's as they walked toward the table. She was so nervous she felt nauseous. She wanted these people to like her. She wanted to like them.

“Do I look okay?” she murmured to Sean.

“Yeah, now that no one's in danger of mistaking you as a Bollywood extra.”

“Ass,” Gemma whispered affectionately.

Sean squeezed her hand. “Just be yourself and you'll be fine.”

“Okay.”

“Everyone: This is Gemma.”

Four pair of eyes simultaneously swiveled to look at her. “Hi,” Gemma said to the party in general as Sean pulled out a chair for her. “It's nice to meet you all.”

“You, too,” said Mike Leary, previously known as Mustache. His poker face told Gemma he wasn't going to mention meeting her previously, which was fine. “I'm Mike Leary,” he said, then turned to a small, freckled brunette at his side, “and this is my wife, Ronnie.”

“Hi,” said Ronnie, her eyes doing a sweep of Gemma from head to toe.

The other man at the table, blond, plump, and younger than both Sean and Mike Leary, extended a hand to Gemma. “Hi, I'm Ted Delaney.”

“He's a probie,” Sean explained.

“He'll be serving us our dinner tonight and mopping up in the kitchen later,” Leary joked. All three men laughed. Gemma smiled graciously.

The woman at Delaney's side, also plump and blond, extended a hand to Gemma. “I'm Ted's girlfriend, Danielle. Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.”

Leary leaned over to Sean. “You know who that is greeting people at the door?
Michael Dante.
” His voice rang with a reverence that made Gemma want to giggle.

Sean turned to Gemma. “Should I tell them, or do you want to do the honors?”

“I'll do it. Michael is my cousin,” she told them.

“No shit!” Leary looked impressed.

“He is
hot,
” Danielle said dreamily.

“He is,” Ronnie Leary agreed. She looked to her husband. “Who is he again?”

“He plays for the New York Blades,” Leary explained patiently. “He's one of the toughest SOBs in the NHL.”

“He's really a pussycat,” Gemma confided. The others all turned to gaze at Michael. Gemma could tell they enjoyed being privy to this piece of private information.

“Hot,” Danielle said again.

“Very,” Ronnie agreed.

Gemma relaxed a little; Sean's friends seemed nice. The evening would go well. She was sure of it. Then Anthony came bounding out of the kitchen, making a beeline for their table. “
Willkommen. Bienvenue.
Welcome!”

“Mikey already said that.”

Anthony scowled. “He did?”

Gemma nodded.

“The little bastard stole my lines!”

“You two know each other?” asked Ronnie Leary.

“He's my cousin, too. In fact, he's Michael's brother. Anthony, say hello to the nice people.”

Anthony bowed deeply.

“Good evening, one and all. I'm Anthony Dante, and I'll be your chef this evening. Allow me to tell you of our two specials: We have grilled T-bone steak Florentine style, as well as pan-roasted lamb with juniper berries. Aldo will be by shortly to take your orders.” He looked at Gemma. “What should I get you? A tofu dog?”

“Very funny.”

Anthony took another bow and disappeared back into the kitchen.

“Tofu dog?” asked Danielle.

“I'm a vegetarian,” Gemma explained. “Anthony likes to tease me about it.” She saw Ronnie Leary roll her eyes to her husband.

“What made you decide to not eat meat?” Danielle asked.

Beneath the table, Gemma felt Sean's hand squeeze her knee. Gemma squeezed back. “Health reasons.”

The waiter swung by with menus, and for a few minutes, the talk was of food. But once drinks were served and dinner ordered, Gemma could feel a certain sense of awkwardness.

“So, Gemma, what do you do?” Ronnie Leary asked.

“I own a shop in Greenwich Village.”

“Oohh, la di da,” sang Mike Leary.

Gemma shot Sean a quick, quizzical look. Was this guy teasing? Making fun of her? Putting her down? Which? Sean seemed oblivious.

“What kind of shop?” Danielle wanted to know.

Another squeeze from Sean. Unfolding her napkin, Gemma pushed his hand away.

“I sell books, candles, crystals, that kind of thing.”

Mike Leary laughed loudly. “People really buy enough of that shit for you to make a living?”

Gemma colored slightly. “Yes.”

He nudged Sean in the ribs. “There's one born every minute, huh?” To Gemma's surprise, Sean chuckled his agreement.

“What do you do?” Gemma asked Ronnie Leary.

“I'm a nurse.”

“That must be hard work.”

“It's hard on the feet, that's for sure.”

Gemma brightened, seeing a way to connect. “You know what's good for that? Peppermint oil. Mix a little into some hot water and then soak your feet in it. Works like a charm.”

Ronnie looked uncertain. “Um . . . okay.”

“I'm not so sure I want a wife with tootsies that smell like candy canes,” Mike Leary joshed.

“Like you ever go anywhere near the lower half of my body,” Ronnie drawled. Leary turned red and unfurled his napkin with a snap.

Gemma looked away uneasily. She hated couples who aired their dirty laundry in public. Thankfully, the Learys weren't the only ones there. She turned to Danielle. “What do you do?”

“I'm a haircutter.” She was eyeing Gemma's tresses with interest.

Mike Leary patted the top of his bald head. “Haven't seen one of those in a while.”

Everyone laughed.

“I could fix that, you know,” Danielle continued.

Gemma was confused. “Fix what?”

“Your hair. If you let me thin it and shape it—”