Criminal Pleasures (2 page)

They commenced with eating and talking, and Brendan was slightly disappointed when it was the pretty waitress, and not his Italian god who discretely set a new fork down beside him. While he quipped with the girls, he stole glances around the restaurant, but the man seemed to have vanished, causing him to briefly wonder if he’d imagined him. He was too unnerving, the effect he had on Brendan too powerful, too strange. He’d never responded this way to a man, even the pretty jocks he’d rolled around with years back. He’d enjoyed the drunken tumbles, but had never been
undone
by a man this way.

But I’m not actually bisexual
.  He knew he’d have to rethink that logic, but tucked it away for later pondering, when his nerves weren’t doing a jig and making him drop forks.

He studied Willa and Terry Ann as they enjoyed their food. They were young, healthy, heterosexual women, yet he’d seen no reaction in them to the young man in question. He downed his wine too fast, and feeling emboldened, asked, “So did you girls get a look at the guy who brought our wine?” 

They glanced around. “Which one is he?” Willa asked.

“I didn’t really notice,” Terry Ann said. “Was he cute?”

Brendan chuckled. “Well, I figured you girls would have thought so.”

“Willa is in love, she’s blind to other men now,” Terry Ann said.

“I notice other men!” Willa shrugged, grinning. “Just not so much these days since I have the perfect man at home.”

“Whipped,” Terry Ann muttered.

“Jealous?” Willa responded.

“Do you live with your boyfriend?” Brendan asked.

“Yep, he moved down here with me. He got a job at...”

Willa continued speaking but her words drifted off in a haze as Brendan fell into his own thoughts. So it was just him. The girls hadn’t even noticed the guy. He was baffled. He was certain he’d just encountered the most mind-blowingly attractive person he’d ever seen. And they hadn’t even looked at him. But his petite colleagues were drinking like rugby players, they’d likely not have noticed if a unicorn came by to pour them wine.

“Besides, Terry Ann’s too busy looking at
you
,” Willa said.

Brendan looked up, raising his eyebrows.

Terry Ann gave Willa a death stare, her pointed green eyes blazing as her cheeks flushed red. “I am not! Don’t be a jerk.”

Willa cackled. “Lighten up! I didn’t say you were in love with him, but come on. The boss is hot.”

“Oh, please,” Brendan said. “I only look good after a couple of drinks,” he joked, sympathetic to Terry Ann’s obvious humiliation.

Willa pointed her fork at him as she swallowed a bite of pasta. “We decided you look like a prince.”

“Willa...” Terry Ann nudged her hard.

“What? He does,” she said, a slight slur in her voice.

Brendan grinned. “A
prince
?”

“Yeah.” Willa took a sip of wine. “We decided you look like one of those Egyptian princes or something.”

“Egyptians aren’t blond,” Terry Ann said, rolling her eyes.

Willa turned to her. “What did you say, then? You said he looks like—”

“Drop it,” Terry Ann muttered, casting another harsh glance at Willa.

“Like a Disney prince!” Willa said. “That was it.”

Brendan’s head fell back as he laughed. He looked at Terry Ann, who avoided his eyes. “So you’re saying I look like a cartoon?”

“No!” She glanced at him. “That’s not what I meant, I meant...you know. Like a fairytale prince. Oh, never mind!” Terry Ann flushed darker. “Willa wasn’t supposed to
tell
you that. Sorry. We were just joking around.”

“Well, that would make my father the king,” Brendan said. “And though he does try to run my life, I’d defect to a cave if the old man had
that
much power.”

Terry Ann smiled at him, seeming relieved that he’d deflected the attention from her. “Your dad’s not so bad,” she said.

“You weren’t raised by him. He’s pretty bad.”

They giggled in response, and he determined that getting his young associates drunk would not be a regular occurrence in the future. He was certain Willa would regret her loose lips and Terry Ann would likely want to kill her come Monday morning.  He didn’t want tension in the workplace before the office even got up and running.

Speaking of princes, where did my busboy go?

But through the rest of dinner, then a luscious dessert of cannoli and espresso, he didn’t spot him again in the dining room. He was both relieved and disappointed. He’d simply forget about this night, and the alluring stranger who jumbled his thoughts and made his pulse race. It was an anomaly, stress from setting up the office all week. Or maybe the beer was too strong here. Something. Anything. He’d need his concentration and focus in the coming weeks, and dreaming about hazel eyes and soft, sun-streaked brown hair was not on the schedule.  

Willa’s boyfriend arrived at the restaurant to retrieve them, a wiry, tattooed young guy who shook Brendan’s hand awkwardly. Brendan bid the girls goodnight, then sat alone at the table as he signed for the check. His eyes searched the restaurant for the object of his desire, but it had gotten late and it was Friday night, so Bibeta’s Garden was jam packed with diners and scurrying wait staff, and he could see little through the crowd.

“Are you all set with that?”

Brendan looked up at the waitress, an idea coming to him. It wasn’t a good idea, but he went ahead with it. He offered her his winning smile as he handed over the check. “Can I ask you a question?”

She paused, a flash of confusion in her expression, then a smile. “Oh, um...sure!”

“One of the young women I was with tonight expressed interest in the man who served our wine. I know this is silly, but you don’t happen to know if he’s single?” He laughed and shrugged, hoping to emphasize how
silly
it all was to him. What are you gonna do? Girls will be girls.

The waitress’s shoulders immediately relaxed and she laughed loudly, nodding. “Oh yes, that’s Marcello. Isn’t he gorgeous? He’s my cousin and we all love him, but he can be a bit...cranky. He doesn’t like anyone discussing his personal business. Doesn’t like questions.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to ask him yourself, I can’t give out information about him.”

“No, I understand, wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.”

Marcello
. Brendan smiled at the name, wanting to test it out on his lips. He had shameful visions of himself running through the streets
West Side Story
style, shouting it at the top of his lungs. And with that humiliating image, he sobered and reined himself in. “Thank you, anyway. What’s your name?”

“I’m Carmen.”

Brendan gave her another megawatt grin as he stood and slipped on his jacket. “I’m Brendan, and thank you, Carmen. The food was excellent, I’ll definitely be back soon.”

“We’d love to have you,
grazie
.”

Brendan made his way back to the lobby, scheming thoughts whispering in the back of his mind. He could come back. Perhaps see him again, even speak to him. But when? If he came too soon... What if Carmen saw him and figured out
he
was the one interested in Marcello the Mysterious? Brendan was new in town and starting a business, this was not the way he wanted to present himself.
I will not stalk a busboy. I will not stalk a busboy.

He exited the restaurant, a cool breeze clearing his head as he stepped onto the sidewalk. Pausing a moment, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and took a deep breath. Neon signs up and down the street advertised bakeries and other Italian eateries, pedestrians walking the streets and ducking into the many establishments.

As he turned to head toward his car, Brendan spotted
him
on the sidewalk.

Marcello
.

The busboy leaned against the wall on a cell phone, just outside the doorway of Bibeta’s Garden, one arm tucked under his chest. The apron was gone, and he wore a loose, gray knit hat, wisps of brown hair peeking out around his jawline.

Brendan was unaware that he’d stopped dead on the sidewalk, until Marcello’s eyes shifted his way.

“I have to go,” he said softly into the phone, then slid it into his pocket. He pushed away from the wall and stepped toward Brendan, his gaze doing a once over scan of him, arms seeming to flex with tension. “Can I help you with something?”

Oh, that accent
.

Brendan’s heart thudded, the saliva drying up in his mouth. “Uh, what? I mean, no. I’m fine, thanks.”

“You were staring at me.”

Brendan chuckled nervously. “Was I? I’m sorry. Just spacing out I guess. It’s been a long day.”

Marcello’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You a cop?”

Brendan’s jaw dropped, then he laughed. “No. No, I’m a lawyer, actually.” He stuck his hand out. “Brendan Burke. You ah, waited on my table tonight. I think.”

The other man hesitated, then gave Brendan’s hand a quick shake before taking a step back. A small grin tilted his lips. “A lawyer. I suppose I win second prize, then. I’m Marc.”

Marc?

Brendan felt glimmer of disappointment that he hadn’t called himself Marcello. He’d wanted to hear him say it, listen to the name flow from his lips with that enticing accent. “Nice to meet you, Marc. You worked here long?”

He shrugged, looking around at the street. “A little while.” He glanced back at Brendan as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tapping it on his palm. “Where is your law office?”

“Downtown,” Brendan said. “Here.” He fished out his wallet and retrieved one of his business cards, offering it to Marcello.
Marc
. He made sure he pulled from the small stack that had his personal cell phone number written on the back.

Marc took it from Brendan and read it, his expression scrutinizing, like a border guard checking his identification papers. He slipped the card into his pocket and lit a cigarette. Brendan usually hated cigarettes, but he watched mesmerized as a funnel of gray smoke trailed from Marc’s pursed lips.

“Where is that accent from?” Brendan asked.

“Italy.”

“Yes, I figured. But what part?”

He shrugged. “Not important.”

Ouch. Well, Carmen the waitress had told him. He
doesn’t like questions
.

“You’re not from here, either,” Marc said, the cigarette resting on the edge of his lip. “Not from Providence.”

Brendan raised his eyebrows, his surprise at the statement temporarily snapping him out of his lusty haze. “No,” he said. “No, I’m not. How did you know that?”

Marc grinned at him, and Brendan melted, but the other man quickly looked away, taking another puff. “I would guess Boston.”

Brendan risked a step closer. “That’s right. How did you guess?”

Marc laughed softly and took a step back, leaning against the wall again. “They come from Boston to dine at Bibeta’s. They ask for
gaahlick
bread. That’s how you speak. You asked me what
paaht
of Italy I’m from.”

Brendan nodded, smiling. “That’s pretty good. I’m impressed.”

Marc dropped the cigarette on the sidewalk, stubbing it out with his shoe. “Then you’re easily impressed.”

Brendan huffed a short laugh.
Pardon?
Well that was a dick thing to say. Or perhaps it was Marc’s idea of a joke, being folksy. Brendan’s sense of humor was often misconstrued, he should at least give this guy the benefit of the doubt. But Marc wasn’t making it easy.

Brendan knew he should just bid him goodnight and be on his way. Instead, he opened his damn mouth before he could stop himself. “Are you done working for the night?” He noted the absence of the apron and the addition of the trendy little hat.

Marc finally looked directly at him. “I am.”

“Well I’m dying for a nightcap, maybe a cordial or something. You want to go grab a drink with me?”

Marc huffed and looked away. “I work down here. It might be quaint to the tourists, but I’m sick to death of all these places.”

Well shit, was that a ‘no’ or what?
He decided to press on—nothing ventured, nothing gained. “We could go downtown,” Brendan suggested. “I have my car up the street.”

Marc’s brown eyes met his again. “What kind of car do you drive? Wait, let me guess.” He looked Brendan over. “A Saab.”

“Ah, no. BMW, actually. You like cars? I just bought one of the new sports models, it’s pretty sweet.” He cursed himself for using the word ‘sweet’. It was a Terry Ann word, and probably too young for him to get away with saying without sounding like a douche.

Marc’s smile widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. His jawline had the vague shadow of beard stubble, and under the neon light Brendan noticed a scar on the underside of his chin. He was definitely at least Brendan’s age, though he’d appeared younger at first glance. Maybe it was his attire. Brendan had always hated those little knit hats on men. Though he grudgingly acknowledged it looked fucking hot on Marc, holding his hair back and showing off that gorgeous face.

But despite the stupid hat and the cocky attitude, this was no kid. Some oscillating sixth sense kept trying to rear up in Brendan:
He’s dangerous. 
He dismissed it as laughable. His imagination had too much creativity for its own good, working up an imaginary profile of this stranger as some sexy, mysterious bad boy, when in truth, Marc was likely about as interesting—and as dangerous—as the wall he leaned against. Brendan was simply thinking with his dick and a sidecar of red wine.

“A BMW. Yes, this does not surprise me, either,” Marc said, looking away disinterestedly.

Brendan scowled in annoyance.
Walk away, man. The guy’s a rude jerk, dummy, he doesn’t like you.
But his body still throbbed with heat at the sight of him, an invisible force keeping his feet cemented there before him, unable to move on.

Brendan shrugged. “So? What do you think? There’s a really nice place downtown I know of, great atmosphere, jazz bands, I think you’d enjoy it. Do you like jazz?”

A sudden burst of laughter left Marc’s lips and he rolled his eyes, tilting his head back against the wall of the building.