Tell Me More (25 page)

“Except for your feet. They’re not beautiful. They’re freezing.”

“And my hands.” She placed them on his rib cage, making him jump. “It was too cold to wait for the water to run hot.”

“Don’t touch my dick with those hands. It’ll drop off.”

She didn’t take the hint but snuggled up against him, her head tucked under his chin, which was nice, except he was getting hornier by the moment. And anxious, too, because she was thinking about something and it wasn’t him, and not admitting it, either.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She made a slight, sleepy sound, which he didn’t quite believe. Her body had a tense, springy sort of feel to it, not the relaxed heaviness of someone about to fall asleep.

He moved his hand to her rib cage and tickled.

“Stop that!” She came wide-awake. “If you want to get laid, you’re going about it the wrong way.”

“I didn’t think you were interested.”

“I’m not interested in being tickled.”

“What’s on your mind, Jo?”

“Nothing in particular. I just woke up.” Her hand traveled down his body. “Is this what you wanted me to see?”

He kicked off the quilt to fully appreciate the sight of her hand on his cock. She gave a grunt of annoyance and pulled the quilt over herself again.

“I want to see your tits.”

“Stop whining.”

“Okay, then.” He pulled the quilt over them, enclosing them in a dim, fragrant cave, and kissed her mouth and neck and breasts.

She broke away to take his cock in her mouth and while he appreciated the effort—more than appreciated—he was ashamed, briefly, that he could be distracted so easily.

“Jo,” he mumbled, “Jo, don’t…”

“What?” she stopped licking to stare up at him. “Is something wrong?”

“Don’t stop,” he said, although it wasn’t what he really wanted to say.
Don’t leave me.

NOTHING WAS GOING TO HAPPEN. MR. D. AND
I would meet at the hotel bar, we’d have a drink, declare an end to something that had never really started and I’d drive back to meet Patrick and his father for dinner.

But if nothing was going to happen, why couldn’t I tell Patrick about it? About any of it? He’d never asked about the Association, what I’d done there, and I’d never offered to tell. Otherwise things were great, sexy and sweet. In just a couple of days we’d slipped into an easy domesticity; he waited up for me to come home late on Monday night, and greeted me with another delicious meal. We shared my bathtub and laughed and fucked like a pair of demented rabbits. But now and again I caught him gazing at me with an expression of suspicion and sadness.

I’d tell him everything…after. And I hoped he’d understand why I needed to get this last piece of the puzzle resolved.

“You look nice,” he said as I left the house on Tuesday. “A bit like a secretary from an old Hollywood movie, but nice.”

“I’ll be going to the restaurant straight from work.” I’d put on high heels and a black pencil skirt. On top I wore a clingy cream cashmere sweater, a gift from Kimberly that I’d never dared wear before; it seemed to be begging to have things spilled down it.

“Hey,” I said, punching his arm. “Don’t look so worried.”

“You’re right. I don’t have anything to worry about.” He leaned in to kiss me. I was expecting something friendly and casual. What I received was hot and sexy with lots of tongue and a thorough exploration of what was under my skirt. “I trust the stockings are for my benefit,” he said when he came up for air.

“It was meant to be a surprise for you later.” I straightened the skirt out.

“So long as it isn’t a surprise for everyone else when you sit down.”

I sighed. “I’ll keep my knees together, I promise. Go do some work.”

I grabbed my down coat and a scarf and left the house. I turned to see Patrick at the doorway, looking sexy and rumpled in a pair of faded old jeans and a sweater and I was tempted, for one moment, to run back to him and tell him everything. I waved and got into my car, taking care to flash him as I stepped in.

He grinned and gave me a thumbs-up.

God, it was cold, and frigid air had whooshed up my skirt for Patrick’s cheap thrill. I knew it would be a good ten minutes before the heater pumped out any warm air. Shivering, I started the car and turned as though I were heading for the radio station, in case he was watching.

I felt like an adulteress.

Just under two hours later I was edging my way through city traffic looking for a parking place, weighing the benefits of the hotel’s valet parking against a possible parking ticket and arriving blue with cold to meet Mr. D. I succumbed, turning onto Tremont and into the front entrance of the venerable red sandstone hotel. I entered through the revolving doors, unwinding the scarf and unbuttoning the coat. I felt like a fool, now. I had no guarantee Mr. D. would turn up, given his history of half-truths and evasion. I also wasn’t sure where he’d be—hadn’t I told him to meet me in the bar?

“Jo?”

I turned to see Mr. D. rising from one of the armchairs in the lobby. He came to my side, smiling, and kissed my cheek as though we were casual acquaintances. Despite my vow that I would not allow myself to fall under his spell yet again, I was disarmed by the warmth of his greeting and his dark beauty.

“You look lovely,” he said. “Would you like a drink? Something to eat? Or we could have afternoon tea—it’s quite good here.”

I agreed to afternoon tea and he led me to the restaurant, where a waiter took my coat and scarf and we settled in armchairs. A harpist played softly. Black tea reminded me of Patrick so I chose oolong, and Mr. D. ordered us scones and finger sandwiches.

“Very civilized,” he said with a smile.

“Where are you from? I could never place your accent.”

“Oh, here and there. My father was from Greece and my mother was Scottish, and I grew up mostly in the States. I’m a hybrid.”

“I don’t really know anything about you.”

A waiter arrived with silver teapots and hot water and fussy little tea bags and china, a cake stand loaded with scones and tiny, delicate sandwiches and clotted cream and jam in bowls.

“Oh, you know a great deal about me,” Mr. D. said. “Why don’t you call me Dimitrios?”

“I know a lot about your fantasy life, not you.” I paused. I didn’t want to sound whiny or accusatory, even though I realized I shouldn’t have cared what I sounded like. “When did you decide to recruit me?”

“Recruit you? That’s rather a dire way of putting it, I think. I know Willis and he told me he’d dated you. It was really his idea. I was quite jealous when he suggested you. I wanted to keep you to myself, but you were so adamant about not meeting me.”

“That’s what I don’t understand. You wanted to meet me, or so you say, and then you paired me up with Jake. You said you were planning a threesome but if you were behind that mirror, why didn’t you come forward?”

He sliced open a scone with delicate precision. I had not realized before what beautiful hands he had. “This is rather embarrassing. I lost my nerve. I think you can probably identify with that.”

“There’s no excuse for pairing me up with a jerk who had a grudge against me. I didn’t even like Jake when he wasn’t acting like an asshole.”

He touched my hand and I felt a tingle down my spine. “You weren’t in any danger. I would never have put you in harm’s way.”

“So you say,” I replied and snatched my hand away from his a little too late. “It didn’t feel like it at the time. I think it was your sense of perverse fun to let Jake take your place—and I think you were annoyed that I recognized you when I went upstairs. Your plan went wrong.”

He took a sip of tea, and as I anticipated, neither acknowledged nor challenged my assumption. His innate confidence always got me. “Games, Jo. It’s all games. You weren’t bad at them yourself, were you? You were quite a favorite in the Great Room.”

“I’m done with the Association.”

“It’s a shame.”

I raised a fragment of scone to my mouth, hoping I wouldn’t drop jam all down my front. “I need to make sense of all this.”

“To explain it to your young man?”

“I can’t explain it to anyone unless I understand it myself. I don’t know that you’re telling the truth even now. What did you want from me, Mr. D.?”

“Love.”

That took me by surprise, but then his rare moments of honesty had always disarmed me. “Well, you blew it. I can’t love someone who lies to me,” I said, willing myself to believe it. “And I did love you, you know, before I discovered you were playing me.”

“I realize that now.” He said it with such dignity and simplicity I believed him.

We sat in silence for a while. I nibbled on a finger sandwich. “I’d like to think it wasn’t your idea to make me and Patrick the floor show. So I’m not even going to ask you.”

“You’re really quite lovely together,” he said. “Very well matched. I hope he’s what you want.”

“He is. Thank you.”

“Does he know you’re here with me?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“And have I answered your questions?”

“Not really, but I’m glad we met.”

“Are you still angry with me?”

I shook my head. “Life’s too short to carry a grudge. What’s done is done.”

He dipped his hand into his pocket. I thought he was going to summon the waiter to pay the bill, but instead he laid a small white plastic rectangle on the table, stark and bright against the dark polished wood.

A room key.

I stared at it a long moment, then looked up to meet his eyes.

So it wasn’t the end of the story—not yet.

“So where’s your young lady?” his father asked. He snapped his fingers and their server appeared. He pointed at his empty Scotch glass. “Another of these, and we’ll see the wine list.” He gazed at her as she retreated. “Look at the arse on that girl.”

“Woman,” said Patrick, checking his phone again for messages. “Behave yourself, you old sot. They’ll spit in your soup if you’re not more politically correct. This place is the world center of political correctness.”

The concert broadcast was on the radio when he’d picked his father up from the hotel and he’d expected Jo to be at the restaurant when they’d arrived. They’d waited almost an hour, his father drinking Scotch while ignoring the starters they’d ordered. Now Patrick was getting worried.

“And how’s Gran?” Patrick asked.

“Much the same, miserable old cow,” his father replied. “You should phone her up.”

“I do, and all she does is say how clear the line is as though I’m phoning from next door and then she talks about the weather. She also has some sort of fantasy that I’m getting back with Elise.”

“Lovely girl, lovely girl,” his father said. “And are you getting back with her? You could always keep this other one on the side. Have the best of both worlds. We’re not genetically disposed to monogamy.”

“We? The Delaneys? Irishmen? Come on, Da, don’t be an idiot.” He grinned at his father with affection. That was the problem. He liked the old man in a way, when he was sober, which at the moment, he was, more or less. “Back in a moment. I’m going to call Jo.”

He went to the front of the restaurant, where the reception was better, and called the station. Someone would be there, even if it was only the announcer, but he knew they might not answer the phone since it was after business hours.

The phone rang and rang and he was just about to give up when someone answered; a woman, but it wasn’t Jo, and she told him Jo wasn’t there.

“This is Patrick, her boyfriend,” he said. “When did she leave?”

“She hasn’t been in at all today. She called an hour or so ago and said she was running late.”

Running late from what? And for what—she was going back to the station? Why hadn’t she called him? This was ridiculous. He thanked the woman and sent Jo a text message. Meanwhile his father was about to down another Scotch and probably order a bottle of wine. He went back to their table, where his father was chatting up the waitperson, staring blatantly at her breasts.

“Why don’t we order?” he said.

“Would you like me to clear the other place setting, sir?”

“No, she’ll be here soon. What’ll you have, Da?”

They both ordered buffalo steak and Patrick told the waitperson to bring the wine his father had ordered with their meal.

His father reached into his jacket and produced photographs of Patrick’s nieces and nephews. Patrick pretended he hadn’t seen them already on Facebook and let his father do the proud grandfather bit.

“And when are you going to produce some grandchildren? Keep the family line going?”

“You mean my sisters’ efforts have been in vain?”

“They don’t carry the Delaney name,” his father pronounced. “Now, you and Elise—”

“It’s over, Da. Forget it. We’ve split up, we’re selling the house.”

Their food arrived, each plate a work of art, even if the flowering rosemary garnish looked rather girly. His father cut into the steak and waved the server back over. “I ordered it rare, darling. Look at this! Take it away.”

She apologized and removed his plate.

Patrick’s father poured himself a glass of wine. “I suppose you’re not drinking,” he said.

“I’ll have a glass with you.” Patrick took the wine bottle and poured himself a meager inch.

His father grunted. They raised glasses, clinked them. “Have you given any more thought to your career?”

“I’m doing fine as I am, thanks, Da.”

“Playing with computers?”

“If you like. I make pretty good money at it. I’ve done some pro bono law work to keep my hand in.” He surreptitiously checked his cell to see if Jo had sent him a text message.

“Pro bono! It’s no wonder she left you.”

“No, Da, I left Elise.”

“For this Jo woman? The one who can’t be bothered to meet her boyfriend’s father?”

“No, I didn’t know her then.”

His father waved the server down again, Scotch glass in hand.

“You’ve been stood up, boyo.”

“Looks like it,” Patrick said with a cheerfulness he didn’t feel.

“Bloody women, eh?”

“Right.”

To his relief his father’s new steak arrived, and was pronounced satisfactory after he cut into it and blood flooded the plate. The food seemed to steady his father, who talked for a time about the conference he’d just attended, and gave some wicked imitations of his fellow academics.

Patrick ordered a bottle of mineral water and tried not to look at his watch or check his cell. His father, having drunk nearly all the wine, ordered another Scotch.

Oh, shit.

Patrick called over the server and ordered coffee for them both.

His father slumped in his chair and then lurched forward, elbows on the table. Silverware clattered to the floor. He knocked his coffee, which the server had placed at his elbow, onto the floor.

“I’ll get you another one, sir,” she said and crouched to pick up the broken china.

“That’s a beautiful arse you have, my darling,” his father said.

“Shut up, Da.”

“That’s my son,” his father said. “Can’t keep a woman or a job. Fucking mother’s boy.”

Other diners looked up and stared. A waiter with a dustpan and brush approached the table, as did a man in a dark suit who introduced himself as the manager and enquired if there was a problem.

“He’s the problem.” His father pointed at Patrick. “My bloody useless son. His mother was a whoring useless bitch, it’s no fucking surprise.”

Patrick stood and handed his credit card to the manager. “I’ll take the check.” He handed two twenty-dollar bills to the waitress. “Thanks for your patience and I’m sorry. And this—” he threw a ten-dollar bill onto the table “—is for you to get a cab back to the hotel, Da, because I won’t have you in my car. One day we’ll have a real conversation, but it won’t be tonight.”

He left the restaurant, after signing the credit card receipt, appalled at the cost of the meal—the bar section was by far the highest part of the bill—and asked the restaurant staff to call a cab. They assured him they’d see his father got into it and he wished them luck. He walked outside and took a cleansing breath of the bitingly cold air and congratulated himself on surviving yet another evening of insults and embarrassments from his father. Maybe after a few days he wouldn’t feel so raw and disappointed.