Her Man Friday (28 page)

When Lily arrived at the address Mr. Freiberger had left for her on Schuyler's desk, she was surprised enough by her surroundings that she double-checked everything to be sure. But this was definitely the place where she was supposed to be. Schuyler must be paying his bookkeepers a lot more than she'd realized. Either that, or else Mr. Freiberger was a big fat liar.

Because this street of pristine, spotless, honey-colored brick townhouses was no low-rent district. On the contrary, the tree-lined, cobbled sidewalks and the potted chrysanthemums on stoops and in window boxes—not to mention the Jaguars and Mercedes parked along the curbs—attested to how much pride the residents took in their homes. And in their cars. And in their social standing.

Mr. Freiberger, Lily had noted before—only in idle curiosity, naturally—drove a cherry-red, vintage Mustang convertible, just like, oh… the one parked in front of this particular house. Keenly, she observed that it was yet something else to clue her in to the fact that she had, indeed, arrived at the right address. His choice of car hadn't surprised her at all initially. She'd imagined him rebuilding the classic vehicle from the ground up, reveling in his weekend endeavor, slaving away in some suburban garage, all hot and shirtless, and sweaty and grease-stained, with his bare biceps pumping under the strain of wrench and tire jack, and his bare back slick with perspiration, and… and…

Well, she'd just had a pretty good idea of how he spent his spare time, that was all.

But now she wondered if he drove the car not because it had been affordable once upon a time, but simply because he liked vintage cars. Because if Leonard Freiberger could afford this kind of real estate, then he could certainly afford to drive a vehicle of a much higher monetary class.

Still, she was glad he didn't. The Mustang suited him perfectly. This house, however… She sighed as she studied the address again, and wished she knew for sure what was going on.

Smoothing a hand over the long, baggy white sweater that she'd donned over a full, blue printed skirt and boots, she extended a hand toward the doorbell to push it. But before she completed the action, the door was jerked open from the other side, and Marlon Brando nearly ran right over her.

Oh, wait. Not Marlon Brando. He hadn't been that svelte since
On the Waterfront
. No, this was just someone who looked a lot like him.

"Excuse me," Lily said as she tried—without success—to step out of his way.

But the man evidently had his mind on other things, because he just kept coming until he'd nearly toppled her, catching her at the last possible moment before she would have tumbled backward down the steps.

"Oh, Miss Rigby," he said as he righted her, surprising her. "I'm sorry. I didn't see you there."

Right behind Marlon came Mr. Freiberger, who, upon witnessing the scene, smacked his open palm against his forehead. Hard. And then he grumbled something under his breath that sounded a whole lot like, "You idiot."

Well, all right, Lily thought huffily, she would confess that she was just a tad early, but that was no reason for him to go off like that, now, was it? Okay, so maybe thirty-five minutes was just a tad more than
just a tad
, but still…

"Hello, Mr. Freiberger," she said coolly as Mr. Brando, with one final check to be sure she could stand on her own, released her on her own recognizance. She skimmed a hand down her sweater, then patted it back over the hair swept up into what she had hoped was a sophisticated look. Because suddenly she felt anything but sophisticated. Being called an idiot by a man one had just come to fool around with rather did that to a person. "Look, I admit I'm just a tad early," she went on, "but that's no reason to resort to name calling."

He eyed her in obvious confusion for a minute, then shook his head hard once, as if to clear it. "No, no," he quickly denied, "I wasn't calling
you
an idiot. I was calling
him
an idiot. He nearly knocked you down." He turned to Marlon Brando with a frown and added, "You idiot."

But the other man only smiled in return. Smiled knowingly, too, Lily thought, something that roused her suspicions even more because he also knew her name. She was about to ask him just how he'd come by that information, seeing as how
she'd
never seen
him
before in her life—except in
On the Waterfront
, of course—but the dark-haired man stuck out his hand in greeting.

"Eddie Dolan," he told her with a smile that was dazzling, and really kind of sexy, if you went for that dark, brooding, am-gonna-make-you-an-offer-you-can't-refuse kind of thing, instead of that rumpled, tweedy,
Goodbye, Mr. Chips
kind of thing.

"Mr. Dolan," she replied with a quick nod, shaking his hand once before releasing it.

She opened her mouth to ask him how he knew her name, but Mr. Freiberger cut her off with a hastily offered, "Eddie is my, uh… my, um… That is, he's… Ah…"

"I'm Leo's astrologer," he announced, his smile growing unmistakably mischievous now.

Lily arched her eyebrows in surprise, then trained her gaze to Mr. Freiberger. "Astrologer?" she asked him.
Leo
? she asked herself. Then, immediately, she decided she approved of the moniker. Somehow, that name suited him much better than Leonard did.

But instead of answering her, Mr. Freiberger—Leo, she corrected herself—only grumbled something unintelligible under his breath again. So Lily turned her attention back to Mr. Dolan. "How did you know my name?" she asked him.

His dazzling smile dimmed some. "Uh… I… That is…" He furrowed his brow in thought for a moment, then quickly replied, "I'm, uh, I'm Leo's psychic, too. Yeah, that's it."

"A psychic astrologer?" Lily asked dubiously.

The man nodded.

"How extraordinary."
And how suspicious
. "Do you charge for each service, or is it an all-inclusive package?"

Eddie Dolan shrugged in a way that no self-respecting astrologer
or
psychic would ever dare. "Depends on the client's needs," he said.

"Really?" she asked. "And just what are Mr. Freiberger's needs?"

The man chuckled. "Oh, Leo. He's got needs, all right, lemme tell ya."

"Eddie…"

The threat in Mr. Freiberger's warning—or was it a warning in Mr. Freiberger's threat? she wondered before completing the thought. Well, no matter. In either case, threat or warning, his intent was unmistakable. Simply put, if Mr. Dolan continued with his description of Mr. Freiberger's needs, then Mr. Freiberger would hurt him. Badly.

"And what have the stars—and you—predicted for Mr. Freiberger's immediate future?" Lily asked, wondering what exactly made her pose the question. Other than her own curiosity about just what on earth the evening ahead was supposed to hold.

Mr. Dolan's smile turned into a supernova at her question. "Lemme think on it a minute," he said. He furrowed his dark brows, as if consumed by great concentration. "Oh, okay. Here it comes. I see a dark stranger."

"Really?" she asked again, running a hand over her—dark—hair once more.

He nodded, then lifted a hand to his head, pressing his fingertips against his temple. "Yeah. Yeah, it's comin' in real clear now. I see a dark stranger about… five-foot-three?"

"Five-foot-four," she corrected him.

He nodded, pressing his fingers to his temple again, feigning a semi-trance. "And I also see candlelight," he continued. "And a bottle of wine—good stuff, not the screw-off-cap kind Leo usually serves—and a cozy little table for two."

"Eddie…" Mr. Freiberger—or rather, Leo—muttered menacingly.

There was that threat/warning again, Lily noted. But just as before, Mr. Dolan seemed not to notice or care. Because he continued in that dreamy, trance-like voice, "A little Johnny Mathis on the stereo—'Misty,' naturally—a couple of slow dances…"

Lily smiled. "Do go on," she told him.

The psychic astrologer closed his eyes, as if it might improve the vision. "And then after that, I see… handcuffs," he said, opening his eyes and dropping his hand back to his side.

"Handcuffs?" Lily asked.

He nodded. "And also a can of Criscoe and a Twister game. But that could be my own immediate future intruding a little there. Sometimes that happens to psychics, ya know."

Lily's eyebrows shot up at that. "My goodness, Mr. Dolan, you do seem to have an amazing gift, to see all that detail."

He shrugged off the compliment. "Yeah, well, I have a lot of free time on my hands, Miss Rigby."

"Yes, well, that's rather obvious, isn't it?"

"Beat it, Eddie," Mr. Freiberger—Leo—said succinctly. "Miss Rigby and I have plans."

"Yeah, I'll say you do. Do you even remember where you
put
your Twister game? If you want, I could stay and help you out with—"

"Go… away," Leo—yes, definitely Leo—said, more adamantly this time.

Eddie Dolan, psychic astrologer to bookkeepers, lifted a hand to his forehead again, this time in salute. "Miss Rigby," he said. "It was nice meeting you. Leo," he added, turning to his… client. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Now why did Lily suspect that that left the field wide open?

"Have fun tonight, kids," Mr. Dolan tossed over his shoulder as he headed down the steps. And then, singing what sounded like "Strangers in the night, shoobie doobie doobie," he stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and strolled down the street.

And then Lily and Leo—oh, yes, most definitely Leo; how had she missed that before?—were alone. With the sun setting low behind her, he was bathed in a dozen hues of gold and orange, framed by the doorway and, thanks to the raised entry, standing even taller than usual.

Lily inhaled a shaky breath and questioned the wisdom in coming here tonight. She couldn't imagine what she'd been thinking yesterday to be so forward in inviting herself to his house. Oh, wait. Yes, she could, too, imagine. In fact, she could remember quite clearly what she'd been thinking yesterday to be so forward in inviting herself to his house. She'd been thinking that maybe the two of them could engage in some quiet conversation, move a little beyond the "Mr." and "Miss" phase, and then get naked and make wild monkey love.

It was all coming back to her now.

Thinking she should probably just make an excuse to leave and then run away, Lily heard herself ask instead, "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

For a moment, judging by the expression on his face, she honestly thought he was going to say No and slam the door in her face. Then he stood aside. "Of course. Please. Come in."

"Yes. Thank you. I will."

My, but the conversation was off to a good start, she thought. Any time now, they ought to be moving right into the polysyllabic stage, and after that, there would be absolutely no stopping them.

"I wasn't sure what to wear," she began as she moved awkwardly past him, for some reason suddenly unwilling to get too close. "I wasn't sure what we'd be doing."
Other than that wild monkey love thing, I mean, and I did put on some lovely underthings for that
. "I guess when I—"
Might as well just say it
. "When I invited myself over, I didn't plan that far ahead. I was just thinking about yesterday afternoon…"
Uh-oh
. "Um, about yesterday afternoon when… um…"
Oh, nicely dug pit, Lily
. "When, uh…" she tried again.

"Yesterday afternoon in the pantry when I had my hand up your skirt?" he supplied helpfully. He closed the front door and leaned back against it, his posture seemingly benign, the fire burning in his eyes anything but.

She dropped her gaze to the back of her hand, furiously studying her fingernails. "Yes. Yes, that was it," she agreed, fighting back the heat she felt flooding her face. "I was thinking about… that… and I just sort of, um… arrived early."

"Thirty-five minutes early," he pointed out unnecessarily.

"Well, I did say sixish, didn't I?"

"The operative word here being
ish
," he said.

"Actually, I don't think
ish
is a word, is it?" she asked, trying to steer the conversation into another direction. And at this point,
any
direction would be welcome. Even a silly one.

"Well, no, not a word, exactly," he conceded, still leaning back against the door. "But it does have a certain implication. When you tell someone
ish
, they form a definite impression."

"Yes, but that implication is ishish, at best," Lily said. Somehow, she found the fortitude to bring her gaze back up to meet his. "So when one uses
ish
, it means 'not specifically.' Therefore, when I said, 'sixish,' what I meant was 'not specifically six o'clock."

"Yeah, but you got here even before five-thirtyish," he said.

Lily gaped at him. "I most certainly did not. My arrival was definitely
after
five-thirtyish."

"But way before sixish."

Lily inhaled a discontented breath and blew it out with
much
exasperation. "Oh, all
right
," she finally relented. "I'm early. I admit it. There. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

He smiled as he pushed himself away from the door and took the single step necessary to bring his body within a hairsbreadth of hers. "Actually," he said softly, "what I'd like to hear is an explanation as to why the memory of my hand up your skirt made you arrive here so much earlier than you said you would."

Gee, Lily would have liked to hear an explanation for that, too. One that didn't make her nipples tingle, anyway.

"But what I'd like even more," he added before she had a chance to say anything, lifting his hand to her sleekly arranged hair, "is to know how long your hair is."

Without even asking permission, let alone waiting for a reply, he found and deftly removed the long clip that held her French twist in place. Lily's hair came tumbling down past her shoulders, between her shoulder blades, to nearly the center of her back, the sleek shafts shining like blue-black satin.

"Wow," he said as he bunched a fistful in one hand. "I had no idea."

"Le—I mean, Mr. Freiberger…" she began.