"No chance of that as long as I'm with you." Nick gave her a slow smile and cupped her cheek before kissing her, an easy brush of lips that had her reaching up and wrapping her arms around his neck. Never one to resist a willing woman, he pulled her closer and kissed her again and again. "Hi, yourself."
He stepped back before he forgot his plan to take her out. "Are you still up for Chinatown? If not, we can go someplace around here."
"Oh, no, you're not skipping out on our date."
Nick picked up her coat, held it out for her, and wrapped a colorful scarf around her neck. "Do you have your gloves?"
"Nick, one conversation with my mother a day is my limit. I've been a grown-up for a long time."
"Point taken. Are you feeling up to taking the subway in, or should we drive?"
"Subway works for me."
There was something about riding a subway with a guy that was so high school. The whole experience made Rosalie feel young and pretty. Especially when that guy was holding the overhead handle with one hand and had the other wrapped around her waist, her back pressed against his front. His bedroom voice whispered in her ear. His breath fanned her cheek, and naughty thoughts ran through her mind. She wished they were in an empty car instead of a standing room only tin can during rush hour.
Nick growled at a man who bumped into her when the train lurched forward. She had nothing to hold onto and didn't want to touch the guy in front of her, so she turned and held onto Nick.
Rosalie had never ridden the subway without holding onto either a pole or the overhead strap. No, that wasn't true. She had when she was a little kid, and she'd gone into the city with her father. He'd let her stand and hold onto his leg. She remembered feeling as if nothing bad could ever happen when she was with her dad. She was getting that same feeling with Nick.
All of a sudden, the train felt too crowded, the temperature too hot, and Nick's arm around her too stifling. At the next stop, when she tried to move away, he tightened his hold. She pushed his arm away, stepped back, and grabbed a pole as people shuffled out.
She didn't know if it was the crowd, the heat, or what. She did know she wanted off the train. Nick's stare burned through her. Intense. Demanding. She felt it as sure as the cool metal she was clinging to. She studied the signs above the windows and then glanced outside. Finally, Canal Street. She caught her breath and waited for the doors to open. Nick's hand slid across the nape of her neck. His thumb caressed her skin.
"You okay?"
She swallowed hard. "Fine."
And like that morning when she'd asked him the same question, they both knew the answer was a lie.
In temporary relationships, while you might be unable to hide that something was bothering you, you had the option to ignore it entirely. The lie was tantamount to an unanimous vote to adopt the "Don't ask, don't tell" policy.
If Nick had wanted to tell her why he was near panic that morning after they'd made love, she'd have been glad to listen. Rosalie asked once, but it would be against the rules to bring it up again. She knew he was fighting the urge to break the rule, but he knew damn well if he did, it would leave him open to having to answer her question from that morning.
Rosalie climbed the stairs to Canal Street, and the comforting smell of Chinatown wrapped around her like a Polar fleece blanket, soft and warm. The sound of a mother scolding her daughter in Chinese, kids playing stickball in an alley, and the squawk of live chickens floated over the hum of street traffic. She took a deep breath. The smell of Chinese food made her mouth water, and the cold air erased the last of her unease. Nick held her hand and stuffed their joined hands into the pocket of his jacket.
They walked down Canal toward Bowery, checking out the shops that carried everything from Chinese herbs and live chickens to knockoff purses and top-of-the-line electronics. When they came to Mulberry Street, Nick stopped.
"What do you feel like eating, Chinese or Italian?"
Now as an Italian, Rosalie ate Italian food all the time, but it was also her absolute favorite comfort food. She'd been in Michigan for over a week, and they wouldn't know good Italian food if it sat on a plate and served itself. She felt as if she was going through withdrawal.
"Italian."
Nick smiled. "A girl after my own heart. Come on, I know this great little place down off Prince Street. You'll love it."
He was right. The place was great. There were six or eight tables, and the owner sat at a corner table, drinking coffee and chatting with the clientele. A wall of old brick ran the length of the restaurant on one side, a golden painted plaster wall on the other. Ornate artwork hung everywhere, giving the room a relaxed, cluttered, homey look. Rosalie sank into the chair Nick held, took the menu from the waiter, and perused it while Nick ordered wine.
The food was exceptional, the atmosphere relaxed, and before she knew it, two hours had passed.
They were sipping their second cup of demitasse when she asked, "What exactly do you do with Dave when you're at work?"
Nick laughed and sat back in his chair, rocking on two legs. "Lois bought him a bed, so most of the day he sleeps. He's got Lois conned. She keeps dog biscuits in her drawer, and every once in awhile, he walks into her office and puts his head on her desk and does that eyebrow thing that turns her into putty."
"He can spot a sucker a mile away."
'Ty comes by after school and walks him, or maybe it's the other way around. They hang out at the park or run parts down to the body shop and pretty much wear each other out. By the time we get home, Dave is so tired, he eats, does his thing, and then crashes."
"Does his thing?"
"Yeah, you know, his thing. The thing the law requires us to pick up."
She laughed. "Oh, that thing."
Nick's eyes twinkled. He leaned forward to say something under his breath. When he did, the man two tables away came into view, kissing his girlfriend. They were so caught up in each other, they were oblivious to anyone else in the room.
Papa?
The shock must have shown on her face, because Nick turned to see what she was staring at. "Lee? What's wrong?"
Jesus, she felt like Cher in a bad remake of Moonstruck. Moonstruck. It was not a great feeling. Part of her wanted to flee out the back door and forget she'd ever seen him. Another part of her wanted to stop by their table, take the bottle of champagne he'd ordered, and crack him upside the head with it. It was not a great feeling. Part of her wanted to flee out the back door and forget she'd ever seen him. Another part of her wanted to stop by their table, take the bottle of champagne he'd ordered, and crack him upside the head with it.
Rosalie knew her mother could be difficult. But she'd been there for him day in and day out, no matter how he'd treated her, no matter how he'd ignored her. She'd cooked for him, cleaned for him, and had done whatever he'd told her to do. She didn't deserve a lying, stinking, cheat for a husband.
"Nothing. Look, Nick, I see someone I know. Would you mind getting the bill? I'll go talk to them and meet you outside. Okay?"
She moved to stand, but Nick grabbed her hand, holding her in place.
"Oh, no, you don't. Who is that guy?"
"No one worth knowing. I'll see you outside." She pulled her hand away and picked up her purse. Nick was out of his chair and holding her coat for her before she could pick it up herself. She slid into it and started toward Pop, but Nick wrapped his arm around her, effectively shielding Pop from her, or her from Pop, she wasn't sure which.
"Nick, the bill."
"It's covered. Come on."
They walked right past her father and his girlfriend and out the door. A waiter ran after them.
"Sir, your change."
Nick waved him off. "Keep it."
Nick didn't ask questions, and he didn't expect explanations. He tucked her under his arm, walked down the street to a nearby pub, and led her to a booth.
"Here, sit. I'll be right back."
A minute later, he set a scotch down and squeezed into the booth beside her.
Johnny Walker Black rolled over her tongue and slid down her throat, warming her from within. "I've never drank Scotch with you. You guessed my drink?"
She kept her eyes on the glass. In the restaurant, she'd felt only anger. Well, anger and a good bit of righteous indignation. Now she felt sorrow and pity, but most of all, sadness.
"Hey, I'm not blind. You have two bottles in your kitchen. So, that man you'd stared at with murder in your eyes. He's your father?"
"Yeah, how'd you know?"
"It was the family resemblance, and the only thing I could come up with that would cause you to shoot daggers at a man his age."
"You know, growing up, I always resented my mother. I looked down on her. I never understood why she let him control her. He gave her an allowance like a child, told her what to wear and what to buy, and then at the end of the day, he'd ignore her while he sat by the TV, reading the paper and drinking his wine."
"Lee, you don't know what goes on in a marriage..."
"'Someday you'll fall in love and want to take care of your husband the same way,' she'd say. 'He'll take care of you, too. You'll see.' I saw, all right. A long time ago. But I never expected to see it in person."
Nick picked up his phone and looked at the screen. "Drink up. It's time to go home."
Rosalie finished her drink and followed him out of the bar. He opened the door to a waiting car.
"Lee, this is my friend, Jim. Jim, this is Lee. Jim's giving us a ride home."
She got in the Town Car and slid across the leather seat. She didn't care how they got home. All she knew was that she wanted to be there yesterday.
Staring out the window as they drove over the Manhattan Bridge and down Flatbush Avenue, she wondered why she was so upset. It wasn't as if she'd never known. She'd heard the loud fights and louder silences. She'd felt the tension that had loomed like a ghost-a presence without a name.
They pulled up in front of the apartment, and Nick opened the door. Cold wind blew into the warm interior and made her eyes water. The temperature was dropping, like her mood. Nick helped her out of the car.
"Come on, let's get inside."
He unlocked the security door and the apartment door while she took her coat off. Rosalie walked in, threw the coat on the couch, and collapsed. There, on the coffee table, was the family picture they'd taken at Christmas. They were all smiling-Rosalie, Richie, Annabelle, Mama, and Papa-the perfect, happy family. What a crock.
Without saying a word, Nick took Dave outside. When they returned, she was still staring at the picture. Nick took the frame out of her hand and put it on the table. "Not all men cheat."
"Really? Name one who doesn't."
"Vinny. He'd never cheat on Mona. They love each other. They're happy."
"Look at the photograph, Nick. Looks are deceiving. You said yourself, you never know what goes on in a marriage."
"No, you don't. But I know Mona."
"What? Mona wouldn't put up with a lying, cheating husband? What choice would she have? Does she know how to support herself and her kids? Her only option would be to leave her home with no money, no security, no skills-and do what? Work as a waitress in someone else's restaurant?"
She was on a roll now. "It's amazing how easy it is for men. They marry a sweet young thing. They say, 'Oh, no, you don't have to work, I'll take care of you.' There's Cinderella, thinking she married a prince, when the poor thing is oblivious that she's sold herself into slavery."
"Oh, come on, Lee. Look at you. You don't need a man to support you. If you got married, you'd never be in a position where you couldn't support yourself."
"Exactly."
"So why are you so against marriage?"
It sucked when someone argued logically. What could she say? He was right. She would never allow herself to be in a position that would make her dependent on anyone for anything.
He thought he'd won. He looked all smug and triumphant.
"So, Nick? Since you're such a fan of the institution, how come you're not married?"
"I'm not the one who has a problem." "I don't have a problem."
"No, you're right. You don't have a problem," the sarcasm in his voice made her want to smack him. "You're living under the misconception that marriage means the loss of independence."
"Yeah, well, we all have our own little versions of reality, don't we? Most men think all women want someone who'll pay their bills, buy them jewelry, and give them a nice place to live while they spend their time shopping and getting their nails done. And in certain cases, they're right, but you can't paint all women with the same brush."
"What do you want, Lee?"
How had he done that? One minute they were arguing, and then he said five words. Five words, and she went from mad to aroused. It was as if he'd flipped a switch. And he knew it.
All of a sudden, he was standing close; so close, the heat radiating off him warmed her; so close, she saw the storm forming in his eyes; so close, she touched him.
One touch, and she stopped thinking and started feeling. The warmth of him heated her, the strength of him supported her. His mouth, his hands, and his body were her escape.
Nick couldn't figure out why he'd been arguing with her about marriage, of all things, but at that moment, it had seemed important to inform her that all marriages didn't sentence women to lives of indentured servitude.
He'd almost come out and said that if he ever got married, which he wouldn't, he'd want an independent woman. One who was sure of herself and her place in the world. He'd want a woman who had a full life, independent of his. He didn't think marrying someone made a person responsible for their spouse's happiness, but should add to their spouse's happiness.
Take him, for instance. He'd been happy when he met Rosalie, but being with her made him happier. She added to his life, to his happiness, and he'd stay with her until she didn't.
She looked mad, sad, and so damn beautiful. He wanted to make her forget about her cheating father, to stop her from thinking about it, to shut down her mind and give her pleasure. There was only one way he knew how to do that.
He made love to her.
Nick stayed awake long after Rosalie had fallen asleep, listening to her breathing. He'd never really thought about his happiness before-well, not as it related to any one person. Rosalie made him happy, and he hoped he made her happy, but he wasn't sure. He didn't know what she wanted from him. Other women he'd dated had a shopping list of things that would make them happy, and weren't shy about sharing the information. Not Rosalie. She never said what she wanted. The one time he'd tried to help her out with her car, she'd refused. At first, he wondered if she was playing a game. Play hard to get and whet a guy's appetite. Now that he knew her, he knew better.
Nick had never lost the upper hand in a relationship. He'd never wondered if a woman wanted him. He'd never wanted a woman more than the woman had wanted him. Until Rosalie. It wasn't a comfortable situation, but it was improving. At least, she'd stopped asking him to leave.
Chapter Twelve.
Rosalie had just gotten out of a status meeting with her boss and didn't want to go back to the dealership. She was tired; she was cranky; she was starving; and she still had two hours and thirty-eight minutes until she could go home. Gina and the back-office gang had passed her around like a hot potato, each hoping they wouldn't be the one dealing with her when she finally blew. Who could blame them? It was as if she was looking down from above, watching herself get through the day and doing everything wrong, and she could do nothing to stop it.
What the hell was she going to do on Sunday? How was she going to sit across from her father and pretend she didn't know what was going on? She should have gone after him with the champagne bottle when she'd had the chance. If she had, this whole mess would be over and done with. Holding onto anger was so not her.
Rosalie stared at the couch. A nap was tempting. She wondered if anyone would notice. She could still be getting over the crud, or depression could have set in.What-ever the reason, the only thing that sounded the least bit appealing was sleep.
A knock snapped her out of her musing. The door opened a few inches. A hand stuck through the crack, waving a tissue.