Francesca played things a little differently Saturday night. Dressed in a black leather skirt, black ankle boots and a tight silver lamé top—one she’d bought at the mall on the Strip that evening after leaving her “day job”—she chose a table for two along the back wall at Guido’s.
“If I were a sensitive guy, I’d think you were avoiding me.” Carl showed up at her table, margarita in hand, while she was still perusing the menu.
“I was going to order club soda,” she told him, making herself meet that calm, kind gaze.
Which, considering the embarrassment burning through her, wasn’t easy.
“It’s on the house.” He set the glass down. “And will be followed by a soda chaser.”
The world didn’t have enough men like him. “I wasn’t avoiding you. I ran into someone who thought she knew my friend.”
She told him about Biamonte’s. And the Bonaparte. And wasn’t really sure why, when she told him about the head of security at the Bonaparte, she didn’t mention that Luke was relatively young and good-looking or that she’d spent hours late at night looking at Web sites with him.
“So did he get back to you this morning regarding your friend’s employment?”
“Only to say it would have to wait until Monday.”
And to extend an offer to accompany her to Guido’s that night. An offer she’d quickly refused.
She couldn’t afford to complicate her life.
“And in the meantime, you’ve decided to join the fray,” Carl said, indicating the table she’d chosen right in the middle of the space that, an hour from now, would be crowded with the young girls who regularly hung out at Guido’s.
“Watching from afar, looking lost and alone and in need of a friend, hasn’t done the trick.”
He looked good, solid. His shoulders filling out his polo shirt, hips lean in the close-fitting jeans, had become familiar to her. Even in this short time.
“Drink the margarita slowly,” he warned, one foot on the chair opposite her, his round tray resting on the upraised knee. “A soda won’t seem as friendly.”
Francesca smiled. She just couldn’t help it. “Carl, thanks for the other night.”
He didn’t glance away, but the expression in his eyes was no longer as open.
“I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Brushing her cheek with the back of his forefinger, he stood. “I’m the one who should apologize. I served you all those drinks.”
“Only because I insisted.” That much she remembered. “And you didn’t let me drive. Thank you.”
Free hand sliding into his pocket, Carl looked toward the bar. “No problem. Anytime.”
He was going to walk away. She couldn’t let him.
“Carl.”
He turned back with a raised brow, watching her silently.
“If I did anything or—”
“Nothing happened.”
“Something did. I was in no state to have undressed myself.”
Sinking into the chair, Carl took her hand where it lay on the table. He peered at her from eyes slightly lowered. “Although it took more self-control than I knew I possessed, I didn’t look,” he told her. And then, as she felt heat moving up her body to burn her face, he continued. “If and when I see you naked, it will be with your full cooperation and participation.”
“Okay.” She smiled in spite of herself. He had a way of getting that response from her. “That’s a deal.”
Not that she could imagine a day when she’d be either cooperating or participating. She’d have told him so then, but his gaze was warm again, and if she’d learned anything in the past year, it was that one could never predict the future.
Carl stood, still holding her hand. “There’s one thing I saw, though,” he told her, the somber look in his dark eyes warning her. Until that moment she’d forgotten—she’d been so drunk, and it’d been years since her stepfather had been an issue. It wasn’t like she ever saw the scars herself.
Forcing herself to meet his eyes again, she just shook her head.
He nodded and then said he’d put in an order for pizza.
He was giving her time. But that last look he’d sent her told her he wasn’t giving up. And Francesca realized anew why she lived her life alone.
When people got close, things got messy.
“Why aren’t you out tonight?”
Luke shrugged, lifting his wineglass to his lips, trying to avoid his mother’s eyes as she stared at him across the dining room table. Saturday night, eating lamb chops at home with his mother.
The story of his life.
But not for long. He’d had some news that day. News he wanted to sit and quietly savor.
“What happened to that woman you’ve been seeing?”
“What woman?” He’d purposely never mentioned Melissa.
“I don’t know, you didn’t say, but you’ve been doing something besides working these past months. And you don’t shower and shave twice in a day just to go out for a beer.”
“How do you know I wasn’t volunteering at the center?”
It was something he’d been doing on and off for years. Spending time with young boys at a crisis center in town that temporarily housed youth up to ten years of age when the courts removed them from abusive homes. They came and went so quickly he hardly ever knew their names. He just played basketball.
“Is that where you met her?”
Luke stopped, glass in midair, peering across at the woman who’d given him life—and then prevented him from living it. He had met Melissa at the center.
“There is no her.”
His mother’s lamb chops lay untouched on her plate. “What happened this time?”
Why, for once, couldn’t she leave him to enjoy something? Even if it was still only a possibility at this point. The agent from Colter had called him that afternoon. She thought she had a son for him.
Or would have in about six months. As soon as he was born.
“Luke? What happened?”
Setting down his glass with more force than he should have, Luke picked up his knife and fork, attacking meat so tender he didn’t need a knife to cut it. All he wanted was a few minutes to himself. “This conversation is going nowhere.”
“I want you to be happy, Luke.”
The soft words stopped him. They’d sounded so…rational. Sincere.
“I’m happy enough, Mom.” It was true. For the most part he had a good life. A job that challenged him. One he was good at. He lived in a beautiful home. Had no financial worries. And a couple of relationships with people he trusted—which made him richer than most.
And now, perhaps, a son. He wouldn’t hope yet. It didn’t pay to hope too much or too early. But there was satisfaction in knowing that the possibility was there. Beginning to exist.
“You need a family.”
Could she read his mind?
“I have one.”
“In addition to me. You’re thirty-five years old. You need a woman.”
Why tonight? His mother had had a good day. He’d planned to go home, lose himself in some good wine, and think about a future that would be different from anything that had come before.
“I’m serious, Luke.”
He cut. Chewed. Swallowed. When she was well, his mother was an excellent cook. One of the best.
“I know, Mom.”
“I ask a lot of you, Luke, but I’d rather die than be responsible for ruining your life.”
Ruin was too strong a word. “You haven’t ruined my life,” he told her, his fork piercing a floret of broccoli to scrape against the Bavarian china that was their everyday dinner wear.
“So what happened?”
“To what?” The potato soufflé was perfect. The steamed vegetables more flavorful than he’d had in any restaurant.
“The woman.”
For some reason, the words conjured up the woman he’d met—for the second time—the night before. Her quest intrigued him.
Not that his mother knew anything about that kind of world, the world he and Francesca were investigating.
He looked up at her over the cherrywood table. Dressed in a canary-yellow pantsuit, her dyed brown hair expensively styled, she could’ve been any of the socially prominent women that quietly wielded their influence in this man’s town. She wasn’t eating. And was starting to curl the corner of her place mat. It was one of the lace ones that she washed, starched and ironed with such care every single time she used them.
“Nothing happened.”
“So why aren’t you with her tonight?”
Tonight in particular because you didn’t need me here, you mean? He wanted to ask, but wouldn’t. “I’m home on a lot of Saturday nights.”
“Not when you get off work early, like you did today.”
Not when she was well.
“Then who would’ve enjoyed this wonderful dinner?”
“I could have called the Allens,” she said, her fingers moving more quickly. They’d always been frail-looking to him, but with age had become almost translucent. “And it would be fine for dinner tomorrow, too.”
Luke’s attention was on those fingers. “Okay, Mom, if I tell you something, will you promise me you won’t make too much of it—and that you’ll take a few bites of this incredible meal?”
The jerkiness of her nod caught at his heart even now. After all this time, he still couldn’t stand to see her struggle. Dealing with her after she’d lost control, when she wasn’t aware and wouldn’t remember, was much easier.
“I’ve tried, honestly tried, to find a woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. It just doesn’t happen.” And that was all he’d ever tell her about that.
“You just haven’t met the right one, then,” she said shakily. “You have to keep looking, Luke. Your father was in his thirties when we met. You should be out tonight….” Her volume was growing with every word. He had to distract her fast.
“Mom, I said I had something to tell you. That wasn’t it.”
“What then?”
“I am interested in having a family.”
“You have to have a wife for that, Luke.” Her tone wasn’t quite at the panic stage. Not yet.
“Mom.” He patted her hand. “I’ll do almost anything for you, you know that, but I can’t get married to make you feel better.”
“I understand, Luke. I would never expect that.” The fingers were working so quickly the movement was almost inhuman. And mesmerizing in its dexterity and rhythm. “It’s just that…”
Her gaze centered on the table, she appeared to be staring someplace far, far away. And while there was little he wouldn’t do to avoid one of her anxiety attacks, he refused to lie to her, or tie himself up in a marriage he didn’t want just to reassure her.
Even if it worked for a while, there was one thing he’d learned over the years. With Carol Everson, nothing worked for long.
“I’m adopting a son.”
Fingers still frantically engaged, she looked over at him.
“I wasn’t planning to tell you until I knew more, but you’ll have to know soon enough, as you’re going to be his grandmother and I’m going to need lots of help.”
Most of which he planned to get from the full-time nanny he’d decided to hire. Something he’d always wished his father had done.
Carol had been adamantly opposed to it, of course, and Marshall hadn’t been willing to take away her sense of self-worth, her value as a mother.
At least, that was what Luke had been told on the one occasion he’d asked his father why he’d spent so much time alone with her as a child.
She was staring at him now, expression blank.
Carol hadn’t been as ill then. Medication had done a lot. She hadn’t needed round-the-clock care. Those episodes had come later—when Luke had been older, going out into the world by himself, and she’d become obsessed with the fear that something would happen to him.
Marshall claimed that was when the episodes grew into full-blown panic states he could no longer handle with a phone call.
Luke knew she’d found her way back to the present, to their conversation, when her fingers slowed. “What did you just say?”
“I’m adopting a son.”
“A boy from the center?” Her voice was shaky but rational.
“A baby. From an agency.”
The corner of the place mat fell back to the table.
“When?”
He nodded toward her plate. “You promised.”
She took a bite. And then another, and the muscles in Luke’s back relaxed.
A trip into hell avoided.
And all he’d had to do was adopt a son.
“So, where you from?”
It took Francesca a second to realize the girl was talking to her. For more than half an hour she’d been sitting there, in the midst of a growing crowd of young people—mostly women—and while she’d made eye contact a time or two, smiled, there’d been no move to include her in the group.
“Sacramento,” she said now. She’d been wondering how she was going to make the margarita, ice mostly melted, last much longer.
“When did you get to Vegas?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
The girl, a blonde as most of them were, was wearing a pair of the shortest denim shorts Francesca had ever seen. There was barely enough fabric to hold the silver studs that decorated them. She stood, hands on the back of the empty chair at Francesca’s table.
Should she ask her to sit? She didn’t want to appear too eager.
“Mind if I borrow this chair?” the girl asked.
“No, go ahead.” So how was she going to make her margarita last?
“You sure? You aren’t waiting for anyone?”
“Nope.” Francesca punched her straw in and out of the large round glass.
After an odd, almost searching look, the girl pulled the chair out from the table and turned away.
So much for that.
Carl delivered her pizza about an hour into the evening. Along with a full margarita glass.
“Anything else I can get for you?” he asked loudly enough for anyone around her who was listening to hear.
“No, thanks” were the words she said, but her eyes begged him for a diet cola. She was thirsty and if she ate, would soon be more so.
Leaning down, he picked a fallen napkin off the floor. “It’s virgin.”
She barely caught the words as he stood.
“What’s with Dr. Bishop’s new receptionist?”
Sipping her drink, waiting for the pizza to cool, Francesca had been catching snippets of many conversations.
“Is she a bitch or what?” It was the girl who’d borrowed her chair.
“I thought it was just me she hated,” a third girl said. There were five of them sitting around the table directly in front of Francesca. They’d been pouring down beers so fast it was a wonder they weren’t all plastered to the floor.
“Hey, Chancey, you met Dr. Bishop’s new receptionist yet?” one of the girls asked a pinched-looking young woman at another table.
“Yeah,” Chancey said. “Last week…my…”
Dammit, people, be quiet! I can’t hear. It had sounded like this Chancey had said she’d had a D&C.
Francesca leaned her arms on the table, attempting to catch any word that might float in her direction, but whatever else Chancey had to say was lost to her.
The short redhead was cute, if a little thin. And young.
A tall, big-boned brunette at the same table leaned back in her chair just as Francesca started in on the pizza.
“You new here?”
“Yeah.”
The other girls at her table were watching. Francesca wondered if they wanted her pizza.
“How’d you hear about Guido’s?”
Visually perusing them all, assessing, Francesca debated telling them she’d just been in the area, seen the place, decided to drop in.
“I’ve seen you in here before,” the girl continued. “At the bar.” She sounded more curious than anything.
“I’m staying not too far from here.”
“Oh, yeah? Where?”
“The Lucky Seven.” What could it hurt for them to know?
The girl steadied herself with a hand on Francesca’s table. “So no one told you about this place?”
Dropping her pizza back on the thin aluminum serving pan, she looked at the other girls watching her. More than just the one tableful was paying attention.
“Actually I met a couple of girls on the street,” she said clearly, relying completely on instincts that, in her previous life, had almost never steered her wrong. “They told me this was a safe place for a girl alone to hang out.”
Conversation resumed around her.
“Cool.” The athletic girl, chin slightly jutted, nodded and dropped her chair back to her table.
“You’re welcome to join us.” Her back was turned to Francesca as she issued the invitation.
Francesca accepted, anyway.
Over the next hour, the girls ordered pizza. And drank. They talked about movies. And boys. College-entrance exams. And cosmetology school. The crowd had been growing progressively louder in proportion to the amount of beer they were consuming.
“It looks like I’m going to be out of here for a while.” Francesca stiffened at the odd tone of voice behind her. There’d been a definite teariness there.
Enough to distract her from the conversation at her own table.
“Are you sure?”
She didn’t know how many people were sitting behind her, but couldn’t miss how quiet they’d all grown.
“Yeah. I just need Dr. Bishop’s clearance.”
That name again.
“The jerk claimed Star had an STD.”
Sexually transmitted disease. Fabulous news. And who was the jerk? Dr. Bishop? Or someone else?
“Did you?” The words were slurred and directly behind Francesca’s head.
“Not unless yeast infections have suddenly been recategorized.” The girl they were referring to as Star stumbled over the last word and they all laughed. And then spent the next five minutes mimicking her and laughing some more.
It was Sunday morning and he was going to relax. To put on comfortable shorts, a T-shirt, sandals, and just walk.
“But it’s hot out,” his mother had exclaimed when he’d mentioned his plans over the blueberry muffins she’d made for breakfast. She’d been on her way to church with the Allens.
She’d been right, too, he found as he pulled his shirt away from his sweat-soaked back for the third time in the ten minutes he’d been out. Of course, being on the street made it worse. Blacktop not only soaked up the heat, it seemed to send it outward in shimmering waves. He felt it through the bottoms of his feet.
People were on the Strip in droves, never mind that it was ten o’clock on a Sunday morning. Not that Luke was among them. No, the less-traveled side streets were fine for now. But he could see the crowds every time he came to a corner. Sometimes forty or fifty or more crossing the street. In all manner of dress. Ranging from absurdly dressy to ridiculously underdressed. There were tennis shoes and fanny packs—mostly on ladies over fifty. Knee-length sweat shorts and bottom-hugging cotton ones. Bellies out. And bellies in. Spaghetti-strap dresses with spike heels.
Great walking shoes.
There were men, too. He just didn’t look at them much.
He used to walk the Strip on a regular basis, finding within the frenetic activity a kind of escape. The wall-to-wall traffic, cabs slipping in and out of spaces that weren’t big enough for a car to fit, the endless noise, were great distractions.
This was the first day he’d taken off work in almost a month. He’d debated going in, anyway—as he had every other day he’d been scheduled off since this new string of wins had begun—and could still end up doing so. But first, he was walking.
Nowhere in particular. He’d told his mother that when she’d asked. And the Allens, too. He was fairly certain he’d convinced himself.
It wasn’t like he had any real idea where he’d find her, anyway. There were hundreds of phone booths in Las Vegas. And what seemed like hundreds of side streets off the Boulevard.
He should have asked her.
Or stayed home.
Or gone to work.