CHAPTER 09
“This is insane ! ” Theresa fretted aloud. “How do I know you’re not going to slit my throat and dump my body in the Rockaways?!”
“Just relax,” Michael commanded, his tone laced with amusement as he eased his car away from the curb. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“It fled the minute you insisted I put on this blindfold.”
“Trust me, okay?”
Theresa flinched when Michael reached out and gave her leg a reassuring squeeze, mainly because she couldn’t see it coming. She tried tilting her head back to peek out from beneath the silk that was binding her eyes, but it was useless.
Michael had tied it good and tight.
Okay, she was intrigued. No one had ever shown up for a date—wait, wrong word, this was a mercy meal—and asked her to put on a blindfold. Clearly the man had a few creative bones in his body. And maybe a few screws loose as well.
“Is this going to take long?” she asked nervously.
“What, the ride or dinner?”
“Both.”
“Ever thought of getting a ’scrip for Xanax? You need to calm down.”
“Oh, so now you’re a psychiatrist, too,” Theresa jibed. “Hockey player, restaurateur, shrink. Is there no end to your talents?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
Theresa groaned and concentrated on enduring the ride to God knows where. Two weeks had passed since she’d been ambushed at Phil and Debbie’s; close to four since Reese had sent her the flowers and chocolate. She and Reese had talked by phone, but still hadn’t managed to pin down a date for dinner. He’d been traveling a lot, to LA, San Francisco, Chicago, Miami. Theresa knew why his work schedule was so busy—almost weekly, she and Janna read in the trades of yet another PR firm fallen to Butler Corporation. Reese always mentioned these buy-outs on the phone, using it as a segue to ask where she and Janna were in terms of selling. Theresa didn’t like to think about the subject and increasingly found herself getting defensive whenever the question arose. She hated when that happened.
But she hated thinking about the whole Butler Corporation situation even more.
She and Janna barely spoke about it.
It was as if they’d made a silent pact agreeing that if neither of them mentioned it, it would just disappear. Which was ridiculous. Ted Banister called Janna daily. She and Janna were working hard to drum up business. But so far, it was yielding little.
“This music okay?”
Theresa left her thoughts to focus on the question. She’d been totally oblivious to the music. Now she listened. “Andrea Bocelli?”
“Yup.”
She could hear the pleasure in Michael’s voice that she had recognized it and sighed dramatically. “You’re such a wop.”
“It’s good music,” Michael countered. “It has nothing to do with being Italian. Just relax and enjoy it.”
“Is this what you play in the locker room to get pumped up?”
Michael laughed. “Yeah, right. Anthony turned me on to it. He plays it in the restaurant.”
“It is nice,” Theresa admitted. She wondered what other drivers thought, catching sight of a blindfolded woman in the passenger seat of a Mercedes. Probably that it was some sex game. Or that the driver was going to elaborate lengths to surprise his companion. The thought made Theresa feel guilty. Michael was going through a lot of effort for her benefit, and all she hoped was that it would be finished and done within two hours.
The ride went quickly because they talked. About the restaurant, mainly. Work. Family stuff. She realized with some surprise that Reese never asked about her family. But that was because they were into discussing culture and ideas. They communicated on a more artistic level.
“Okay, we’re here.”
Theresa felt her pulse surge slightly as the car rolled to a stop. The temptation to tear off the blindfold was strong, but she didn’t want to spoil whatever carefully calibrated plans Michael had laid down. Still intrigued, she let him open the car door, take her gently by the arm, and lead her a few feet towards another door, which he steered her through.
“You can take off your blindfold now,” he said.
Swallowing nervously, Theresa untied the strip of silk from around her head.
They were in Dante’s. The entire restaurant was empty save for a young woman with long, streaming red hair, who was busy tuning a violin. The table they usually sat at to do business was beautifully set, with a single rose in a bud vase and two long white tapers burning. Theresa turned to Michael, stunned.
“You closed the restaurant just for me?”
Michael nodded, his expression somewhat hopeful.
“Are you nuts? We’re supposed to be building your client base, not—”
“Sshh.” He put his index finger to her lips to quiet her. “Just relax, okay?”
“Okay,” Theresa said none too convincingly as she let Michael lead her to the table. “How on earth did you convince Anthony to close the restaurant on a Saturday night?”
“I have my ways,” Michael replied mysteriously as he pulled out the chair for her.
“Is he in the kitchen?” Theresa whispered, fearing a scene.
“He’s making a special dinner for us.”
Theresa clucked her tongue. “Michael . . .” She was touched, her heart filling with tender appreciation for his efforts. It was wrong to compare, completely unfair, but this trumped Reese’s flowers and chocolates. This was something she read about in women’s magazines, a fantasy scenario that happened to other women, not her.
In the flickering candlelight, the wine flowed and the violinist played, eyes closed and face serene, her slim, nimble fingers coaxing beautiful music that was bewitching. Theresa got to formally meet Anthony as he served their meal. The food was delicious. And Michael . . .
Well, he was a wonderful dinner companion, genuinely interested in everything she had to say. Theresa tried not to fall under the spell of the candlelight, but it was hard: He was a handsome man, and the fact he had gone through all this effort was astounding. It showed he was a romantic, just like she was. As the evening drew to a close, she found herself feeling disappointed that all too soon, it would be over.
“This was wonderful,” she murmured, because it was.
Michael’s face lit up, warmed by her praise. He folded and refolded his napkin, seeming to stall for time. “Would you like to come back to my place for coffee?”
Theresa hesitated.
“No pressure,” he assured her quietly. “If you’d rather I just take you home, I can do that.”
Theresa was flustered. How was it possible he could be so pushy one minute and so sensitive the next? Her mind harkened back to their kiss of almost a month before, the sweetness of it. Was it wrong to want to feel that again, that heady, unshakable sense of someone wanting you? If she accepted his offer, was she just being a tease?
She looked at him, really looked. There was no expectation in his eyes, only concern—for her. Her heart gave a small shiver of gratitude. Or maybe it was something else. Admit it, you like him. You liked when he kissed you. Take a chance.
His apartment wasn’t what she imagined.
She had expected to find herself in a miniature version of her parents’ house, complete with a couch protected by plastic slipcovers and huge, velvet, tasseled lamps on the end tables. It wasn’t like that at all. It was a duplex in a Park Slope brownstone that he owned, spare and tidy, with Danish modern furniture and a staircase leading up to the second floor. It was obviously an athlete’s home: Not only was his coffee table littered with sports and fitness magazines, but the first hockey stick he’d ever used as a peewee player was mounted on the wall, right above a bookcase containing every trophy he had ever won. A pair of battered skates lay at the bottom of the stairs, waiting to be conveyed to the second floor whenever their owner got around to it.
“No pictures of the Pope?” Theresa teased, settling down on the couch. “No Mario Lanza records?”
“I hid them in case you came over.” He kicked off his shoes, bidding Theresa to do the same, and lit two big candles, one red and one white. “What do you want to hear?”
“Whatever you have is fine.”
Michael crouched down in front of his small CD collection. “I don’t have much, to tell the truth. How about if I just put on QXR?”
WQXR, New York’s classical radio station. Another surprise. “That’s fine,” she assured him, taking a deep breath in an effort to stave off anxiety.
Michael flipped on the stereo and asked how she liked her coffee before disappearing into the kitchen. She offered to help, but he assured her he could handle it. Her offer had less to do with an assumption of incompetence than a strong desire not to be left alone with her thoughts. The last time she’d been in a man’s apartment . . . This is Michael. Stop.
She settled back in relief when he reappeared bearing a tray with two steaming mugs of coffee and some almond cookies.
“Sorry I took so long,” he apologized, handing her a warm mug.
“You didn’t.”
Michael’s face was guileless, an open book. “Well, it felt like a long time to me.”
Theresa waited for the conversation between them to become awkward and strained. She waited for the moment to arrive when she could politely jump up and put an end to the evening before it became uncomfortable. But it didn’t happen. And when he gently reached out to take off her glasses, she let him, unsurprised when, just as he’d done weeks earlier, he asked permission to kiss her. She granted it, certain that all her demons would be laid to rest once and for all.
But she was wrong.
Oh, the kiss was gorgeous. From the very second his mouth played across hers with a teasing brush of the lips, her entire body was taut and tingling with anticipation. Heady pleasure wound its way through her as his tongue slowly parted her lips so he could taste her fully, and she him, each telling the other without words that there was only this, now, a perfect fusion of softness that made her feel as if she were losing the battle against gravity.
But as she felt herself tremble with desire for him, she was overwhelmed with fear.
Feeling weightless was glorious. Feeling unmoored was not. And that’s what was happening. Despite the lovely, intoxicating sense of being carried away, she had to end it. Because if she didn’t, every image of herself she’d ever created would be called into question. And she couldn’t have that.
As gingerly as she could, she eased away from him, fumbling for her glasses.
“I can’t do this,” she said shakily, standing up. “I’m sorry, Michael, but I can’t.”
Bafflement clouded the joyous clarity that only a moment ago had shone in his eyes. “What?”
“This was wrong,” Theresa said quietly, knowing she was lying. It was anything but wrong, yet her feelings for this man terrified her more than she could even articulate. “Dinner was wonderful, and I enjoy talking to you, but I don’t have romantic feelings for you. I’m sorry.”
Pain flickered across the handsome face, followed by a stubborn set of the jaw. “I don’t believe you, Theresa.”
“Michael—”
“Do you have any idea how you were kissing me just now?” he challenged, his expression reflecting the sense of wounded outrage he was trying to contain. “With joy. With passion.”
“It was my body responding, Michael. Not my heart. Not my soul.”
“Bullshit.” His expression softened. “Look, I know you’re scared because of what happened—”
Theresa’s hand instinctively shot out as if to push his words away. “Don’t even go there, because you don’t know what you’re talking about, okay?”
“Okay,” Michael said cautiously.
“I’m going to go home now,” she announced.
Michael looked uneasy. “Don’t you think we should talk about this?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Theresa insisted. “You promised that if I had dinner with you, you would get off my case. That’s what I’m asking you to do.”
“So even though you thoroughly enjoyed dinner, this is it, done, finito. No more spending time together.”
“Not like this.”
“Like how?”
“I need to think about it, Michael, okay?” she said lamely.
“Okay.” Frustration danced at the edge of his voice. “You think about it. You think about how you’re attracted to me, but keep pushing me away.”
“I’m going now,” Theresa repeated, more to herself than to him.
“She’s going now,” he muttered to himself. “Great.” He looked around the living room almost as if he didn’t know where he was and was trying to get his bearings. “Let me just get my shoes on and I’ll drive you.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Theresa said, grabbing her purse. “I can take the subway.”
“You are not taking the subway at this hour.”
“I’m an adult, Michael, I can do as I please.”
“You’re right,” he capitulated. “But if you won’t let me drive you, at least let me call you a cab for my own peace of mind.”
“Fine.” She knew she should be grateful for his concern, but she wasn’t. Having to wait for a cab meant spending more time in his presence, time he could use to wear her down and make her open up. She wanted to run home, remember who she’d been striving to be and erase this whole evening from her mind. That’s what she wanted to do.
Thankfully, the cab showed up within minutes. Theresa slid into the back seat, eager for Michael to slam the door and walk back inside. But being Michael, he couldn’t.
“You know, one of these days you’re going to get tired of running, Theresa. You’re going to get tired of denying who you are.”
She jerked her head to look at him. “And?”
“You figure it out,” he said, finally slamming the cab door and walking back up the steps of the brownstone.
Little did he know that was the last thing she wanted to do.
Gemma lived in a studio on East Twenty-fifth and Third. Michael knew his cousin was no Martha Stewart. But he wasn’t prepared for the chaos of her small apartment: Arcane books on the occult crowded nearly every surface, while herbs and plants competed for space on the floor and at the windows. Just as in her store, the scent of incense was overpowering. Peeling off his coat, Michael wondered if the neighbors ever complained. If he were her neighbor, he sure would.
“What can I get you?” Gemma asked cheerfully. That was one of the things Michael loved about her: She always seemed to be in a good mood. No making him feel guilty for not being in touch for a while, just, “Sure, come on over, no problem.”
“What have you got?” Michael asked.
“Cinnamon apple tea, chamomile tea—”
“How about coffee?”
“Coffee’s really bad for you, Mikey.”
“I appreciate your concern, Gem, but I didn’t sleep too well last night and I could use the buzz.”
Her lower lip curled down disapprovingly. “You’ve never had trouble sleeping before. I’ll see what I can find.”
She walked over to her small kitchen area, bidding him to follow. Michael leaned against the wall, watching as she fished around in various cabinets until she came up with a jar of instant coffee that looked like it had been buried in a time capsule in 1972 and dug back up again.
“This okay?” she asked.
“It’ll have to be.”
Gemma tried opening the jar herself, but when it wouldn’t budge, she handed it to Michael. “So, what’s going on with the restaurant? My mother said you guys have been doing Friday night specials, and you’re actually going to do a Thanksgiving Day dinner this year.”
He handed the open jar back to his cousin. “The restaurant’s doing really well.”
“That’s great. Any write-ups?”
“Not yet, but Theresa said to be patient. We need strong word-of-mouth first.”
At the mention of Theresa’s name, curiosity flickered in Gemma’s eyes. “How are things going with you two?” she asked coyly, filling the tea kettle.
“A dead man gets more action than I do,” Michael replied disgustedly. “Those candles you gave me are worth bupkus.”
“Uh huh,” said Gemma, nodding sympathetically.
“And forget the moonstone! It’s brought me nothing but agita!”
“Talk to cousin Gemma,” she cooed, half teasing him as she extracted two coffee mugs from a cabinet beneath the avocado green counter.
“Explain to me how the female brain works,” Michael demanded.
“In fifty words or less?”
“I’m serious, Gemma. I arrange this wonderful romantic dinner for us, she loves it, we go back to my place for coffee, we’re kissing, and the next thing I know I’m being told she’s not attracted to me romantically. What’s the deal?”
“She’s frightened.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Michael concurred gloomily.
“She’s attracted to you but she doesn’t want to be,” Gemma declared, putting a tea bag in one of the cups.
“Why? Am I such an ogre?”
“You must represent something that terrifies her.”
“Being Italian?” Michael mused aloud. “What?”
“I don’t know,” Gemma said. “Maybe it’s because you’re a hockey player.”
“I don’t know.” Michael rubbed his forehead, forlorn. “What should I do?”
Gemma thought. When the kettle emitted an ear-piercing shriek, she hurried to silence it, pouring the hot steaming water into the two mugs. “Well, I can perform a spell—”
“No.” Michael was adamant. “No more quackery.”
Gemma grinned at him. “Scared?”
“Skeptical.”
“I could give you some dried hibiscus flowers to carry in a little pouch,” Gemma continued, bobbing her tea bag up and down in its cup. “They’re renowned for attracting love, lust and passion.”
“Forget all that stuff, okay?” Michael begged. “Just give me some straight advice.”
Gemma puffed up her cheeks and blew out, sending a horizontal stream of steam from her coffee mug. “Don’t give up.”
“Because?” He took the mug filled with coffee and opening her fridge, pulled out some soy milk. “Do you have any regular milk? You know, the kind that comes from one of those animals that say moo?” Gemma shook her head no. “I’ll drink it black, then.” He took a sip of the putrid liquid in his mug masquerading as coffee. “You were saying?”
“Don’t give up. She obviously likes you. If she didn’t, she would never have agreed to go back to your place after dinner.”
“And the kisses?”
“Same thing. She’s got some stuff to work out, maybe even past life stuff and—don’t you dare roll your eyes—”
Michael made his eyes behave.
“All you can do is wait it out.”
“What if I’m waiting in vain?”
“We’ve been over this, Mikey,” Gemma admonished. “What did I tell you the first time?”
Michael squirmed like a kid who’d been called on in class to answer the same question repeatedly. “Have faith,” he muttered resentfully.
Gemma nodded her approval. “That’s right.”
Michael followed her back out into the living room, where she shifted to the floor a pile of books on alchemy (What the—? Michael thought) so they could sit on the couch.
“I would do one thing differently, though,” said Gemma thoughtfully as she eased herself down.
“What?” Michael took another sip of coffee, then put the cup down on the floor for good. It was undrinkable.
“Play it cool. Don’t make any more attempts at wooing her. I bet you she’ll come sniffing around, wanting to know what you’ve been up to.”
“You think?” The idea of Theresa pursuing him was exciting.
“I know.” She took a long, slow sip of tea. “I’d like to meet her some time. Read her aura.”
Michael practiced further eye restraint and said, “She’ll probably be at the grand reopening of the restaurant. You can meet her then.”
“I’d like that.” She peered at Michael with interest. “So what else is going on?”
Michael told her. He told her of his troubles with Anthony and the annoyance of having to deal with van Dorn. About how ever since his “wine, dine and leave you to pine” experience with Theresa, his mind was a mess. How even his coach had noticed that he had the attention span of a gnat, and asked if he was losing his edge. What he didn’t tell her was that the criticism hurt, because he feared it was true. Maybe his hockey playing days were coming to an end. What then?
In return, he listened avidly to what was going on in her life, mildly envious she seemed so well-balanced. He toyed with the idea of setting her up with one of his teammates, then thought better of it. All he needed was one of them finding out his cousin was a stregh and his life would be hell.
Two hours flew by. “Shoot,” he said, taking his cup from the floor and hustling into her kitchen to deposit it in the sink. “I should get down to Met Gar.”
“Who you playing tonight?” asked Gemma.
“Colorado.”
“You did really well against Dallas,” she noted proudly.
“Yeah, but not so good against Detroit and Tampa.” His brows furrowed. “I have to put all this outside stuff in perspective. It’s really messing with my concentration.”
“Frosted quartz can help with balance,” Gemma told him.
“Frosted flakes?” Michael teased, pretending he hadn’t heard correctly.
Gemma smacked his arm. “My cousin, the comedian.” She raised up on her tiptoes to give him a kiss. “Give my love to Anthony. Tell him I’ll come by soon.”
“Tell him yourself. I have to go to the restaurant after the game. Why don’t you come with me? You could even come to the game if you want.”
“Okay,” Gemma said brightly. “That would be fun.”
“Just one thing.”
“What?”
“No hexes on the other team, okay?”
Gemma placed her hand over her heart. “You have my word of honor,” she replied fervently. A mischievous expression played across the soft features of her face. “But if you lose, don’t come crying to me.”