Crush (16 page)

“I’m sure,” the bartender said. “Only I get to pick the category.”

“Then let’s up the ante,” Miranda said. “If I answer all my questions right, then the house gets the free drinks and I get that Boston Celtics snow globe over there.” She pointed to a dust-covered plastic orb sitting atop the cash register.

“You’re an easy lady to please.” After wiping his hand on a bar towel, the bartender offered it to Miranda. “Deal.”

They shook on it, and Miranda pressed
Start
on her free game. The bartender reached over and pressed
Hodgepodge
in the category column. His finger darted to the neighboring button and pressed
Difficult
under the skill level column. The men booed.

“What do I get if I earn the time bonus, for answering quickly?” Miranda’s calm settled the crowd.

The bartender grinned confidently. “Angel Face, I will give you everything in my tip cup if you outrun the timer.”

“Then let’s go.” Miranda pressed
Begin
. The first question popped up, along with the black bar that counted down the time.

“It’s tennis, guys,” a man announced. “Who is the only player to defeat Steffi Graf and Monica Seles at Wimbledon in the same year?”

Miranda answered Zina Garrison before he finished reading the question.

“In 1990 in Australia, he was the first player to be disqualified from a Grand Slam tournament.”

Miranda banked John McEnroe. Her audience opened their wallets and began stuffing tens and twenties into the bartender’s tip cup.

“It’s golf now. What tournament did Tiger Woods win in 1996 for his first tour victory?”

“Las Vegas Invitational,” Miranda mumbled as she selected that choice.

“Everybody knows that,” scoffed one of the spectators.

The bartender angrily slapped his bar towel against the top of the monitor.

“Okay, hockey. Who was the first NHL player to score at least twenty-five goals for two different teams in the same season?”

Miranda picked Dave Andreychuk.

“Last question…Oh jeez, it’s World Cup soccer,” the question reader said. The other men quieted and the bartender pumped his fist in triumph. “Which English player received Pele’s praise after his performance against Argentina in the 2002 World Cup?”

“She can’t know this,” someone said as Miranda logged in her answer.

“That was an unfair question,” said another man.

“Holy cow,” said the man who had read the questions aloud. “Nicky Butt? She did it. She got them all right!”

“What about the time bonus?” the bartender asked anxiously. He spun the monitor and read the information on the screen.
“
‘New record, forty-seven seconds. Free game.
’
”

The drink orders started flying at him, but the bartender took a moment to grab the snow globe and his tip cup. He presented both to Miranda with a wink. “Way to go, Killer. Stop in again soon.”

“Thank you.” Miranda stood. A man took her coat and shook it out for her. He helped her into the leather trench, and then whispered something in her ear that made her lip curl. She whispered something back, something that made him back off as the blood drained from his face. Miranda saw Lucas as she pushed her way through the men, who thanked her for the drinks.

Lucas was wearing a black Chesterfield over a tuxedo. He was so handsome that Miranda knew right then that her best birthday present was there before her, wrapped in custom-tailored wools and satins.

“I’ve never seen anyone hustle sports trivia before.” He took her hand to kiss it, but met the snow globe she had clasped in it. “Why on earth did you want this thing?”

She displayed it, moving closer to him. “See that little ‘11’ in there? This is a special issue that came out after Bill Russell won his eleventh NBA championship. This thing is in great condition.” She shook it. Lucas watched her watch the swirl of the snowy glitter, and his heart swelled as he gazed at her. “This is worth a fortune,” she whispered.

“Speaking of fortunes, perhaps you should pay for dinner tonight.” Lucas raised the hand holding the bartender’s tip cup. It was stuffed with bills, and Miranda looked upon them proudly.

“The first rule of sports wagering is to know your opponent,” she said. “Men never think women know anything about sports.”

“Then he bloody well got what he deserved. Are we off?”

“We’re not staying here for dinner?”

“It’s your birthday, love. I’ve something far better planned than hot wings and mozzarella sticks at an upscale sports bar.”

“But I like this sports bar.”

“Which is why I wanted to meet you here. Unlike you, I tend not to stick out so much in places like this. What did you say to that bloke that just tried to pick you up?”

“He told me I was making him ‘so tight,
’
” Miranda said. “I said I appreciated the compliment because this was my first night out as a woman following my sex-reassignment surgery in Argentina.”

“Miranda, you’re wicked,” he laughed.

She took his arm and they started for the door. “Where are we going?”

“Dancing,” he said.

“Um…do we have to?”

“Of course not.” He stopped just inside the entrance. “We can do whatever you’d like.”

“I’m not in the mood for crowded places.” She opened the door and spied a shadowy-grey limousine double-parked in front of the bar. “Yours?”

“None too subtle, is it?”

The limo driver opened the door and Miranda hurried inside. “I think we’re safe, Miranda,” Lucas said, settling in beside her. “You lost the photographers at Guiglio’s.”

“Meg and Dee have snitches everywhere.” She wriggled out of her coat and laid it over her knees. “Her network of waiters, bartenders, valets and maitre d’s is tighter and harder to detect than members of al-Qaeda.”

“That limits our options this evening, love. Are you sure you don’t want to go dancing?”

She turned slightly, to face him. “The last time I danced was eleven years ago with my dad’s uncle Harvey at my father’s retirement party. I tripped over his feet about ten times. I went and hid in the bathroom when he wanted to do the Macarena.” She lowered her eyes, knowing that dancing with Lucas would be a far different thing than doing the Macarena with her late uncle. “Genetics somehow denied me both a sense of rhythm and basic body mechanics.”

Lucas stretched his arm over the back of the seat. He used the end of her long ponytail to draw a heart on the back of her neck and the pleasing feathery sensation made her breath catch. “I know a very quiet, very private place. No one will bother us or spy on us.”

“Where?” She hoped it was nearby.

Lucas turned toward the driver and said, “Home, Jeeves.”

“His name is Jeeves?” Miranda asked.

“No,” Lucas grinned. “I’ve just always wanted to say that.”

* * *

Miranda probably would have enjoyed the view of Boston’s skyline from Lucas’s penthouse if she had been able to see it. A mountainous heap of boxes and gift bags festooned with ribbons and bows blocked the living room windows. It didn’t take her long to figure out what was going on, especially after the name on one of the ribbons tipped her off.

“Harrods,” she said, whirling on Lucas. He was on the phone, placing an order with room service. “This isn’t…you didn’t…Lucas!”

He covered the phone’s mouthpiece with one hand. “Happy birthday?” he offered with a slight shrug.

She stepped deeper into the penthouse, dragging her leather coat behind her. “This is obscene. Are all of these gifts for me?”

He finished his order, hung up the phone, and scratched his head as he approached her. “It depends. Are you going to get angry at me and storm out if I say yes?”

“No.”

“Then yes.”

Miranda clutched at her throat. A six-foot teddy bear wearing a plaid ribbon about its neck sagged against the tempered glass of the living room window. A leather chair in the shape of a baseball glove, a giant bow slapped onto its back, looked ridiculously out of place amid a sea of smaller bags and boxes. Lucas retrieved a small box wrapped in blue foil from the pile. He stood behind her and watched as she opened it and drew a blue velvet pouch from it. She unfastened the drawstring, and the pouch flattened to reveal a choker comprised of emeralds and white and yellow diamonds. Like a disco ball, the rocks glittered, casting stars of light in every direction.

“I don’t know anything about jewelry,” Miranda choked, her mouth gone dry, “but I think this necklace is probably worth more than my whole entire life.”

Lucas chuckled as he pulled the choker from her hands and set it around her neck. “It matches your eyes.” He fastened it on. “I knew it would.” He walked her a step to her right, so she could see her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. “I had it designed especially for you. Do you like it?”

She stroked a finger over it. It was pretty, in a shiny, playing-dress-up kind of way. “It’s not really my style, Lucas.” She reached to unclasp it. “I’m not a jewelry person.” She took his hand and set the choker in his palm. “I can’t keep this. I’d never wear it. I’d be too scared of losing it. Or being decapitated by someone determined to steal it right off me.”

He dropped the choker onto the flattened pouch. “You are the first woman I’ve ever met who didn’t enjoy diamonds. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. I suppose I was a bit overzealous on my shopping spree. You aren’t a very easy person to shop for.”

“I have simple tastes, Lucas.” She slipped her arms inside his jacket and hugged him close. “I don’t need a lot of expensive gifts, and I especially don’t need diamonds. Every time one of the women in the newsroom gets engaged, she prances around the newsroom showing off her diamond ring, like it means something important. All it means is that her fiancé has too much money and not enough sense to get her something practical.”

“The ring is a symbol of a man’s willingness to commit.”

“Rings don’t stop men from cheating, and they certainly don’t stop other women from helping men to cheat. A big ol’ rock is just a big ol’ rock. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

Lucas threaded his fingers through hers. “I’m afraid to ask what you would consider a practical engagement offering.”

“A grill.”

“A what?”

“A grill. A Weber grill. Preferably black or burgundy, with a twenty-seven-inch diameter cooking surface. And charcoal. Never gas. Marriages fail, but good barbeque is forever.”

“I see you’ve given this considerable thought.” He shook his head, marveling again at her ability to shock and surprise him.

“A grill is something useful. It has meaning.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He kissed her forehead.

“I can’t keep these gifts, Lucas.”

“Of course you can. They’re for you.”

“I don’t want them.” She eased out of his embrace. “I would prefer that you didn’t buy things for me.”

His dimples faded away along with his smile. “I’m not trying to buy you, Miranda, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I know.” She chewed her thumbnail. The night had taken an awkward turn, and she couldn’t figure out how to get it back on track.

Lucas lowered her hand from her mouth.
I’m bloody stupid
, he thought.
I’ve tried to impress her with gifts, just as her father uses gifts to placate her mother.
“I’m sure I can find a charity or two here in Boston that could sell these things at auction.” He curled her hands over his and kissed them. “I’d like you to keep at least one of the gifts, though.”

“It depends on which one,” she said warily.

He left her to sort through the stack of boxes and found a long one wrapped in gold paper. “Now this,” he said, beckoning her to the sofa, “is a birthday present you’ll like.”

She sat beside him on the chintz-covered sofa and opened the box. Inside it, underneath layers of gold tissue paper, was a Manchester United sweatshirt. She looked at the label. It was a Triple Extra Large. She smiled and hugged the sweatshirt to her chest. “I wanted this,” she admitted. “When we were at Harrods, this was the only thing I almost bought.”

“Why didn’t you?” Lucas asked.

“I didn’t want any souvenirs of the trip. At the time, I thought it would be best not to bring any reminders home with me.”

“And what do you think now?”

“I think I owe you a big thank you for this wonderful birthday present.” She draped the sweatshirt over the back of the sofa.

“And I think you owe me some dancing.” Lucas left the sofa to go behind the bar. Ten seconds later, the soft notes of a song Miranda knew well drifted to her ears and turned her knees to jelly. “That’s Al Green,” she whispered to herself. “That’s ‘God Blessed Our Love.
’
”

It was one of her favorite songs. She stood and held Lucas’s gaze as he returned and took her hand. He led her clear of the glass cocktail table and the heaps of presents and spun her into his arms. Clasping her right hand to his heart, he laced his fingers through hers as he swayed to the beat of the song.

“Sorry,” Miranda said, her cheeks aflame with embarrassment when she stepped on his foot. Lucas pressed his cheek to her temple and wrapped an arm around her waist. He hummed along with the song, his voice a perfect harmony to Al Green’s. “Oops!” Miranda said after stepping on Lucas’s foot again. She pulled free of him. “I’m sorry. I’m ruining this whole night. I’m a crappy dancer. I’m used to Uncle Harvey letting me lead.”

Lucas took her by her waist and pulled her against him. “This is a wonderful song, you know.”

“I know.”

“It’s about a man who finds heaven in the arms of the woman he wakes up with, after spending the night making love to her.”

Miranda watched his lips as he spoke. The movement of his gorgeous mouth, his accent and the words he shaped with it was a three-pronged attack that left her weak and willing to do anything he would ask of her.

“Could we try it this way?” he asked after she tramped his feet once more. He draped her arms over his shoulders, his fingertips leaving goose bumps in their wake as they traced her bare arms and went down to her sides. The warmth of his palms between her shoulder blades and at the small of her back made her tingle. His chin brushed her hair, and he felt her relax in his arms. In perfect concert, they moved to the music. As the song ended, Lucas drew away just enough to ask, “Was that satisfactory?”