Right Place, Wrong Time (17 page)

They rode up the elevator in silence, Ethan’s fingers twined through hers. Fortunately, they had the elevator to themselves. She wouldn’t have been able to make small talk with any of her neighbors, not with him standing beside her, not with her heart thundering against her ribs and her mouth still tingling from his kiss.

They arrived at her floor, and she ushered him down the hall to her apartment. She hoped he didn’t notice the slight tremor in her hand as she manipulated the key into the door’s three locks. She wasn’t used to being this nervous, even when sex was imminent. She didn’t have sex that often—in fact, she hadn’t slept with anybody since the breakup with Kyle—but she usually faced the prospect of it with poise and confidence.

She felt confident now—sort of. But poised? Not even close. Not with Ethan hovering behind her. Not with her awareness of how seductive his kisses and caresses could be, her memory of his arousal that night, her comprehension that he’d spent the past two months thinking about her, searching for her and traveling all the way from Connecticut to see her. Was it only for this? Would sex be enough?

Sex and conversation, she reminded herself. Sex and connection. Sex and “it.” There was a lot going on, and it would indeed be enough.

She jammed her hip against the door to shove it open. Ethan followed her into the entry and closed the door behind them. She tossed her keys into the lumpy, lopsided ceramic dish Alicia had made for her in art class last year, and stepped aside so he could view the entire apartment.

He circled the main room with his gaze, taking in the single window, the flea-market furniture, the palm-tree-shaped floor lamp, the footlocker that doubled as a coffee table, the bed that doubled as a couch, the rectangular carpet remnant covering most of the hardwood floor, the coat tree draped with scarves, purses and belts. He scrutinized the paintings hanging on the wall—a couple of abstract acrylics from her college days, and a lot of smaller, simpler watercolors of street scenes, the arch in
Washington Square Park, the view from the fire escape outside her window, a chic lady sipping a cosmopolitan at a sidewalk café table and a study of Gina’s own feet as observed from the opposite end of her body. He peered into the kitchenette, which wasn’t much bigger than a bus-stop shelter but was clean and cockroach-free, then returned his attention to the paintings. “Wow,” he said.

“I know. I’ve got too many scarves,” she admitted as he wandered around the room.

“No, the paintings. They’re amazing.” He studied the one of her feet for a long moment, then the one next to it, of a cluster of pigeons pecking at bread crumbs beside a park bench. “You painted all of them?”

Gina nodded. She didn’t pretend humility; she knew she was talented. That Ethan recognized her talent gratified her.

He turned toward her, apparently awed. “I know this is a huge thing to ask, but would you make a painting for me someday?”

His question implied that they weren’t just dealing with “it” anymore. “Someday” had been added to the equation. Did Ethan think that whatever existed between them would last all the way to “someday”? Did Gina believe that? She shouldn’t let herself—a woman needed to protect her emotions—but she wanted to. When Ethan turned back to her, his eyes captivating her, his hands reaching for her, she wanted to believe it more than anything she’d ever wanted before.

“Yes,” she said, although whether she was speaking about creating a painting for him or something else she couldn’t say. And then it didn’t matter. He pulled her into his arms, bowed to kiss her and nothing mattered, nothing at all.

She skimmed her hands to his shoulders and shoved off his jacket. It hit the floor with a soft thump. He lifted his hands to her cheeks, threaded his fingers into her hair and kissed her deeply, his tongue filling her mouth. She played her tongue against his and caught her breath when he stroked the skin behind her earlobes. Shimmers of heat spread through her, ripples of a desire so powerful it might have alarmed her if she’d been thinking clearly.

Clear thinking didn’t seem terribly necessary right now. What did seem necessary was stripping off his shirt. She brought her hands forward and tugged at the buttons. He released her to join in the effort, and within seconds his shirt was off. And then hers. He yanked it free of her jeans, lifted it over her head and let it fall. She had on one of her less inspired bras—under a white T-shirt, she hadn’t wanted to wear anything colorful—but he clearly didn’t care. He opened the hook with a flick of his fingers, and the bra joined the growing pile of clothes on the rug.

“Oh, Gina,” he whispered, bending his knees so he could nuzzle the skin between her breasts. She combed her fingers through his hair, holding him to her, loving the damp friction of his tongue on her skin, loving everything he was doing to her, everything sensation he was awakening inside her. “Gina…” He straightened up and pulled her to the sofa bed. She shoved off the pillows and cushions to give them more room, and he urged her back until she was lying across the bedspread, exposed from the waist up and feeling utterly vulnerable as he gazed down at her.

The late-morning sun seeped through the pleated shade covering her window, filling the room with a dreamy light. She watched as Ethan lowered himself be
side her on the mattress, as he slid his hand over one breast, the other and then her belly, his fingers splayed to cover all the skin above her belt. His touch was like her mood, confident yet not entirely poised, his hands caressing but not quite claiming. He lifted his face and she saw the question in his eyes.

“Take off my pants,” she said, hearing a faint tremor in her voice.

He undid the buckle, then the zipper. She watched him ease the denim over her hips, dragging down her panties, as well, and stopping only when everything got jammed up at her ankles, blocked by her sneakers. He unlaced them, wrenched them from her feet, and flung them across the room. She kicked her legs free of her jeans.

He touched her bare feet, traced the bones of her insteps, gave each toe a gentle pinch. He ran his thumb over the silver ring circling the second toe of her left foot, then sketched a ticklish line down the arch of each foot. Bowing, he kissed her ankle. When he straightened, he looked abashed. “I’ve never been a foot person before,” he confessed.

“Didn’t you say something about being a breast man in St. Thomas?” she asked, once again hearing a quaver in her voice. What he’d done to her feet had aroused her far too much.

He directed his attention to her chest. “I’m a breast man, too.” His gaze skimmed down her body and she saw him swallow. “I think I’m a Gina man,” he conceded as he tackled his own belt.

Gina remained sprawled out on the bed, watching as he shed the last of his clothes. She felt like a voyeur, except that he knew she was there, staring at his body as he stripped naked. She’d seen plenty of men in her life—all those life drawing classes she’d attended at art
school had given her a comprehensive education in the subject of male anatomy. She briefly entertained the desire to draw Ethan, his long, lean legs, his streamlined torso, the dusting of hair on his stomach, the thicker hair at his groin. He was gorgeous, every feature wonderfully proportioned.

He was also fully erect. They’d barely begun, she thought, and he was as aroused as she was. They could skip the foreplay and just get down to it.

For a moment, she suspected that he had the same idea. Sitting on the bed, he reached into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out a condom. But instead of putting it on, he tossed the foil square onto the foot locker and then stretched out next to her, sliding one arm under her and tracing her cheek with his other hand.

“You came here expecting sex,” she said, gesturing toward the footlocker. She wasn’t sure how she felt about his having brought birth control with him.

“I came here with no expectations at all,” he murmured, touching his lips lightly to her forehead. “But I came prepared for anything. Maybe you wouldn’t be at the coffee shop. Or maybe you’d be there and you’d tell me to go away. Or maybe—” he brushed her mouth with his “—maybe you would be happy to see me.”

“I guess that third option comes closest,” she admitted, running her hands over his chest. His skin was hot and silky, shaped by hard male muscle and bone.

He ran his hand over her body, too, riding the curves, teasing her nipples, exploring her belly button, scaling the rise of her hip.
Happy
wasn’t the right word, she realized as his touches became more adventurous, more demanding, as he probed the curve of her bottom and wedged his leg between her thighs.
Happy
seemed so safe, so placid. When he flexed against her, she felt any
thing but safe and placid. Quite the contrary, she felt as if she were racing toward the edge of a cliff, unable to slow down, eager to jump.

He rolled onto his back, lifting her on top of him and freeing both his hands. They roamed her back and sides, kneaded her breasts, spread her legs around him. He pulled her down so he could kiss her, and arched against her. When he grazed the hollow of her throat with his teeth, she managed only a helpless sigh.

He must have heard the plea in that sound, because he groped for the condom and tore off the wrapper. Her fingers collided with his as she helped him roll on the sheath. Then she sank onto him, guiding him where she needed him to be.

He clamped his hands over her hips, refusing to let her move. She reared back and gazed down at him, and she saw the sublime strain in his face, his need as desperate as hers. “Gina.”

“Let me,” she said, fighting his hands as she rocked her hips.

“If you do that…” He swore when she moved her hips again. “Don’t, Gina. I’m not going to last.”

“Ethan…” He didn’t have to last. She was so close to gone all she wanted was him, hard and fast, now. She writhed against him and he reluctantly yielded, loosening his hold on her, letting her take him, surging deep into her. He cupped one hand behind her head and moved the other to where their bodies were joined. One touch was all it took to set her off. Her body convulsed and she collapsed on top of him, savoring his last, fierce thrust as he came.

She closed her eyes and rested her head against his shoulder. His chest rose and fell beneath her as he struggled for breath, and she felt the wild pounding of his
heart against her breasts. His hands wandered down her legs to her feet; with her knees bent at his hips, he was able to reach as far as her heels. He rubbed them tenderly.

“I’m usually a little better at this,” he finally said.

“You hear me complaining?”

He chuckled, and she smiled at the sensation of his rib cage vibrating beneath her. “I just hope you’ll let me do it properly next time.”

“Properly?” She propped herself up and peered down at him. A laugh slipped out. “What—is there a fancy Connecticut way to do it that I don’t know about?”

He joined her laughter. “I don’t know what ways you know or don’t know. I’m hoping I’ll have a chance to find out. And I’m hoping—” he eased her off him and onto her back “—you’ll give me a chance to make love to you slowly.” He kissed her throat. “With a little more control.” He touched his tongue to one breast. “Like a grown man instead of a horny teenager.” He licked her other breast.

Her thighs tensed. Her belly clenched. He sucked her nipple into his mouth, cupped his hand between her legs and stroked her until she came again, moaning, lost in a pulsing rush of ecstasy and love.

“Like that,” he whispered.

If she could have spoken, she would have promised to give him all the chances he wanted. But speech seemed impossible, so she only gathered him to herself and hugged him, and hoped he would know.

H
OW CAN SHE
live in this place?

Ethan tried not to be judgmental. And indeed, her apartment had some things going for it—specifically, her paintings, which were phenomenal. The large acrylics on canvas were vibrant with color, bursting with energy. They captured her personality—unpredictable and exciting. The watercolors were more subdued but exquisitely precise, revealing an elegance that fascinated him. He’d never guessed, when he’d watched her constructing sand castles with Alicia on the beach at Palm Point, that she had such talent.

He sat on her bed in his boxers. She had ducked into her minuscule kitchenette to answer her cell phone, grabbing a robe from among the scarves on the coat tree along the way. The robe was a kimono style, scarlet with yellow and blue parrots on it, and it fell only to mid-thigh, revealing her glorious legs. Since she’d opted for discretion, he figured he ought to put on his shorts. He contemplated putting on the rest of his clothing, too. A trip outside—to a drugstore—might be necessary, unless she had some condoms in the apartment. He’d been speaking the truth when he’d told her he’d come to New York with no expectations. He’d brought one condom, just in case, but he hadn’t dared to hope he would use it, let alone need more than one.

Just as he hadn’t expected to use that condom, he
hadn’t expected Gina to be living in such cramped quarters. Anyone who tried to pace in an apartment as small as hers would risk stubbing his toes. Claustrophobics would need years of therapy to overcome the trauma of spending time in a place like this. And if a person wanted fresh air, he’d have to ride down an elevator just to get outside—into air so dense with auto exhausts and soot that it hardly qualified as fresh.

He
was
being judgmental. But viewing Gina’s home with a critical eye was essential if he was going to evaluate whether whatever existed between them was worth pursuing. He’d tracked Gina down not only because he wanted to see her but because he had to know who she really was. And here was his answer: she was someone who had chosen to live in an apartment not much grander than a prison cell—no bars on the window, and the toilet was hidden behind a door, but other than that…

Sitting on her bed, hearing her spicy laughter as she chatted with her sister, he was forced to acknowledge that her choice to live in this cramped little room in a part of New York that was only halfway to gentrification was a significant indication of who she was.

He stood, crossed to the window—all of three steps away—and drew up the shade. Craning his neck, he could see a tiny scrap of sky. The only greenery visible through the glass was a lawn chair perched on the third-floor fire escape of a building across the street. The seat of the chair consisted of woven green strips of plastic.

He lowered the shade and turned back toward the couch. “No kidding, really?” she was saying into the phone. “Mo, that’s so cool!”

He gazed at the rumpled sofa bed and felt his mouth curve in a smile. All right, so she lived in a too small dwelling and ate overly greasy omelettes at a neighbor
hood dive. Remembering what had just occurred on her bed helped him to overlook the worrisome details of her life. The bed was one place where they were in sync. He recalled her warmth, her weight on top of him, the satiny smoothness of her skin, her responsiveness and honesty. The way she’d felt coming. The way he’d felt.

Damn. They were definitely going to have to buy more condoms.

He glanced toward the kitchenette and saw her leaning against the counter beside the sink. She grinned at him, then said into the phone, “I’d love to, Ramona, but I can’t. Not tonight. I’ve got plans.”

Plans to spend the evening with him? Or plans with someone else? When he’d called her yesterday and begged for the chance to see her, he hadn’t demanded that she free up her entire day for him.

“You know,” she explained, averting her eyes. “All the Fashion Week stuff. Parties out the wazoo. Why don’t you use that teenager who lives down the street from you? Yeah, I know, Alicia likes me better. I like her better, too. But I can’t do it tonight.”

He returned to the bed, trying not to worry about whether her plans for that evening included him. She’d made love with him, hadn’t she? She’d lain on these very cushions with him, her skin still golden from the week she’d spent soaking up the sun in St. Thomas, her eyes so wide and dark, her feet so pretty. She’d given him everything, held nothing back. If she could love him like that just minutes ago, knowing all the while that she was going to be spending the evening with another man…well, he’d be surprised. And gravely disappointed. And pretty damn mad.

“Hi, sweetie!” she chirped into the phone. “No, I
can’t baby-sit you tonight. I’d love to, but I can’t…. Right—Fashion Week.”

Was Fashion Week her justification for everything? Would she use it as an excuse to send him on his way?

“She did? Well, maybe you could sleep over at Caitlin’s house tonight. Then Mommy won’t have to get a baby-sitter…. Yeah, you should check with Caitlin and see. Of course it’s a good idea. Don’t I always get good ideas?”

Her voice mesmerized him. He loved its gritty texture, its brash accent. He wanted her to get off the phone and talk to him. And kiss him. And untie the sash of that sexy little robe of hers, and let it fall open, and…

“Sorry about that.” Her voice was normal, aimed at him. She strolled across the room to the bed and tossed her cell phone onto the footlocker. “Ramona’s got a date. Her first one since Jack moved out. This is big news.”

He nodded, pretending he gave a hoot about Ramona’s romantic adventures. His fingers itched to tug at the sash. His hands ached to roam her body. When she flopped down onto the sofa bed beside him, it took all his willpower not to haul her onto his lap and kiss her senseless.

“It’s a guy who works for my father. Nick Balducci. He’s known Ramona for years. I think he’s loved her for years. Now that Jack’s out of the picture, he’s making his move.”

“Good for him,” Ethan said. He wanted to make his own move. How could he ask her about the condoms without sounding as if he had a one-track mind?

“She wanted me to baby-sit Alicia tonight.”

“But you’ve already got plans,” he said, searching
her face for an indication of what those plans might entail.

Her smile reassured him. “There are always tons of parties around Fashion Week. They’re crazy but fun. I was figuring on hitting at least one of them. Will you come with me?”

“To a fashion party?” He could think of a lot of things he’d rather do, but as long as she wasn’t sending him away, he’d count his blessings.

“It’s not a ‘fashion’ party. Just a bash with folks involved in Fashion Week. I’ve actually got three different invitations for tonight, but I’d just as soon go to Jean-Claude LeMonde’s blowout in SoHo. He always has the most interesting people, and he doesn’t blast the music so loud you can’t talk.”

“That sounds fine,” Ethan said. And it did, really. Just as he’d needed to see Gina’s home, he needed to learn about her social circle. He needed to know whether the compatibility they shared when they talked—and when they got naked—existed in the world beyond just the two of them. He stared at her cell phone until she leaned toward him and kissed his shoulder.

One little kiss, and he was as hard as steel. But his gaze remained on the phone. “Gina.”

“What?” She traced a meandering line across his chest with her index finger. Her nails were polished a creamy shade, like pearls. He watched her hand move on him and felt himself grow impossibly harder.

“A few things, actually,” he said, amazed that he could keep his voice calm and steady while her aimless touches were driving him crazy. “One—you haven’t given me your phone number.”

She recited the ten digits, then grinned. “I’ll write it down for you later.”

“Okay.” Better than okay. When a woman gave a man her phone number, it meant she wanted him to stay in touch. Gina had already opened herself to him, her apartment, her body, her mind. But giving him her phone number meant opening her future to him.

“Also…” He sighed as she teased one of his nipples into a little point. “Your name.”

“What about it?”

“How is it spelled?”

She burst into laughter.

“I mean it. With a
J
or a
G?
And Morante—”

“G,” she told him. “G-I-N-A. M-O-R-A-N-T-E. You want my social security number, too?”

“No.” Her caresses were too distracting. He covered her hand with his and peeled it off his chest. “This is important, Gina. I don’t have any more condoms with me.”

She drew back and stared at him. “You only brought one?”

“And I was afraid it might be one too many.”

Slowly her smile returned. “Today’s your lucky day, Ethan.” She rose, strolled to the bathroom and vanished inside. When she returned, she was carrying a cellophane-wrapped box of prophylactics. She dropped it into his lap and resumed her seat beside him. “I was wondering when I was going to get around to using them.”

He grinned. “You can stop wondering now,” he said, attacking the knot of her sash.

T
HEY FELL ASLEEP
at some point during the afternoon—between the second and third time they made love. A good thing, too. Ethan would never have had the energy to face a night at a crazy but fun fashion party with Gina
if he hadn’t gotten some rest. He was relieved he could even walk after all that sex.

Not that he was complaining. Every moment of it had been spectacular. Gina was as passionate underneath him as she was above him. She was as tender, as adventurous, as attuned to him no matter what they tried, what position they found themselves in. She wasn’t afraid to laugh, or to guide him, or to let out a cry when she climaxed. As a lover, she was fearless.

She was fearless as a woman, too, he was beginning to recognize. The rumble-tumble of the city didn’t faze her. She had no hesitancy about marching into the middle of Ninth Avenue, dodging cars, trucks and bicycles as she flagged down a cab, or about fending off the man who’d appeared out of nowhere and tried to climb into the cab Gina succeeded in summoning for Ethan and her.

Ethan did his part by paying the driver, who deposited them in SoHo, a part of the city he’d never visited before. Large industrial-looking buildings stood interspersed with more residential-looking buildings, and galleries and boutiques lined the sidewalks of roads that didn’t follow the familiar numbered grid of the midtown streets. Ethan held Gina’s hand; if he lost her, he’d never find his way out of this neighborhood.

He also held her hand because he wanted to. She looked ravishing, in a snug-fitting black top, even snugger black jeans and a pair of flamboyant shoes constructed of patches of bright turquoise and orange leather. “They’re a prototype,” she told him, modeling the vivid shoes. “Bruno—my boss—would kill me if I didn’t wear them to the parties.”

“Are they comfortable?”

“Well, the heels are a little high, but other than that, yeah.”

The heels weren’t
that
high; he still stood a couple of inches taller than her. But they made her legs look even longer, and those tight black jeans made her legs look longer yet. Holding her hand made him realize he’d rather be back in the privacy of her microscopic apartment than out on the town with her.

He forced himself to act as enthusiastic as she seemed to be. She swept him into a sushi bar on a corner, saying, “We probably should eat something, but not anything heavy. Jean-Claude usually has excellent catering at his parties, and all the models are anorexic, so we don’t have to worry about all the food being gone before we get there.”

Ethan would have been content with a sandwich, or even another greasy omelette. Raw fish had never appealed to him. But tonight belonged to Gina. She was showing him her world, and he couldn’t act like a close-minded tourist, contemptuous of the local customs.

He managed to get down some raw tuna and a few shrimp thingies that were cooked and actually tasted pretty good. Gina dipped everything she ate into a puddle of soy sauce mixed with wasabi before popping it into her mouth. She wore little makeup, and she didn’t need much. Her lashes were so thick and black, mascara would have been redundant. Her lips were full and alluringly rosy. Those lips had done some amazing things to him that afternoon. Merely remembering the way they’d felt on him, nibbling his belly, tasting his shoulder, luring his tongue into her mouth renewed his appetite, not just for the sushi but for this entire evening. He was with Gina, in her world and at her command. Wherever she led him in her garish turquoise-and-orange shoes, he’d gladly follow.

They’d finished snacking on cold fish and seaweed by
ten, which Gina pronounced a good time to show up at Jean-Claude’s. She hooked her arm through the bend in his elbow and promenaded with him down a narrow block to a warehouselike building with several limousines double-parked in front of it. A uniformed guard at the door stopped them. Gina provided her name and told him Ethan was her guest. He scanned a list of invited guests, checked her off and held the door open for them.

They entered a dark, vaulted room swarming with people—mostly tall, thin people, mostly clad in black. In his white shirt and khakis, Ethan felt like a beacon, glowing through the gloom. The crowd was dense enough for him to tighten his hold on Gina’s hand as she pulled him along. She’d told him the music wouldn’t be blasting at this party, but the mechanical beat of European techno-punk was loud enough to resonate painfully in his molars. The din of voices was almost as loud as the din of music.

Gina moved with a purposeful stride through the crowd. Occasionally, she shouted a greeting to someone or paused to kiss an offered cheek. But she appeared to be on a mission, and Ethan, clutching her hand, dutifully followed. To his left, he spotted a fellow whose hair settled around his face in a cloud of tight pink curls; to his right, two skinny women in sheer blouses that hid nothing danced erotically with each other. Enough people held classic martini glasses with pale liquids in them to make him suspect that getting a beer at this bash would be something of a challenge.