The Ring on Her Finger (17 page)

Wow,
really
tepid date. Not that she cared, of course. If Max chose to date a six-pack and a bag of rented movies, that was his prerogative. Lucy certainly wasn’t one to talk. She’d dated a variety of wine bottles and rented movies in her day.

He must have sensed her watching him, because as he stepped away from the car, he started to glance up at the bedroom window. Just in time, Lucy jerked back her head. Then she silently returned to the living room. She heard the heavy tread of his feet moving down the hall toward his apartment, followed by... Nothing. Curious, she stole to the front door and placed her head against it, listening for the jingle of his keys or the click of his door closing behind him. And waited. And waited. And waited.

Very curious now, she moved her eye to the peephole, being extra mindful not to make a sound. She saw Max on the other side of the hall, in front of his door but looking at hers, as if he were wondering what would happen if he said, “Open Sesame.” Lucy didn’t budge, hoping he hadn’t heard her creeping around, praying he didn’t know she was standing there watching every move he made...and noting how his faded blue jeans hugged his muscular thighs and cupped his manhood with much affection, and how his white V-neck T-shirt was stretched out of shape enough that the V dipped low, revealing a generous scattering of rich, dark hair on his chest, and how his motorcycle boots were scuffed and worn and rebellious, and—

And she was gazing through a peephole so couldn’t possibly detect that much detail. Clearly, her overactive imagination was working overtime again. It was really getting annoying how it kept doing that. Just this once, why couldn’t her overactive imagination be an underachieving imagination instead? Honestly.

The thought evaporated, because instead of going into his own apartment and closing the door behind himself, Max crossed to Lucy’s. Before she could prepare herself, he was knocking, and the harsh sound, right next to her ear, made her entire body jerk forward. Without thinking, she palmed the knob and yanked the door open to find him looking more smug than she’d ever seen him look. Which was saying something, because over the last two weeks, she’d seen him looking awfully smug on a number of occasions. Usually when he caught her ogling him, which, she had to admit, she’d done a time or two. Or ten. Thousand. Whatever.

“Caught ya,” he said. But he smiled when did, so she couldn’t be anything other than charmed.

Well, okay, maybe there were one or two things she could be other than charmed, but those things weren’t really fit to print in any kind of socially acceptable—or legal—medium. So
charmed
was what she would go with. For now, anyway.

“Uh...hi,” she said by way of a greeting.

“You were spying on me, weren’t you?”

Oh, damn. How was she supposed to get out of this one?
WWDD
? she asked herself. Well, let’s see... Dino would probably fix a drink—got that one covered—then call Sinatra and the boys—she made a mental note—then deny everything—
Good call, Dino
—then sing “Strangers in the Night.” No, wait! Not “Strangers in the Night.” He’d sing “The Lady Is a Tramp.” No! Not that, either! He’d sing...he’d sing... “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”

Yeah, that’s the ticket.

“Ah...” Lucy began articulately.
Deny everything
, she reminded herself. “Ah, no,” she said. “No, of course I wasn’t spying on you. Why would I be spying on you?”

“Good question,” he said. Still smiling. “Got a good answer to go with?”

“But I wasn’t spying on you,” she insisted. A little too insistently, she couldn’t help thinking. She gripped the door more firmly, knowing it was the most incriminating of the—admittedly abundant—evidence he had against her. “I was just, um... I just, ah... I just so happened to be standing right by the door when you knocked, that’s all.”

He didn’t look anywhere near convinced. “And why were you standing right by the door, when there’s nothing by the door to be standing there for?”

“How do you know there’s nothing by the door?” she asked, sidestepping that question for now.

“Because I’ve been in this apartment.”

“Oh, yeah?” Oh, she wasn’t presenting her case well at all.

“Yeah.”

“Well... Well, I was just thinking that...that since there’s nothing here, maybe I should put something here. And I was measuring to see what would fit.” Oh, yeah. That was totally convincing.

“I see. So what are the dimensions?” he asked. Still smiling. Still looking charming. Damn him.

Lucy released her death grip on the door and spread her arms as wide as they could go. “About this long,” she said. Then shifted her hands a bit closer. “By about this wide. Just right for, say...um...oh...”

“An area rug?” he suggested helpfully.

“Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a coatrack. But an area rug would probably make more sense, now that you mention it, wouldn’t it?”

“Probably. At least it wouldn’t be something you had to move every time you opened the door. A coatrack could get a little tricky there.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Nice jammies,” he said, changing the subject.

Changing it to one Lucy would just as soon not have had it changed to, frankly. She had forgotten she was in her—or, rather, Phoebe’s—pajamas.

“Thanks,” she said, crossing her arms over her midsection. Hoping that might cover her a little. Figuring the effort was probably futile.

He opened his mouth to say something else, then halted, turning his head to the side. “Is that the overture for West Side Story?”

Lucy heard it, too, from behind her, the opening horns blaring
da-da-da-da-da...da-da-da-da-da-da-da...DA-DA
, signifying that da Jets were in da house. To put it in the modern day urban vernacular.

“Yeah, it is,” she said. ‘It’s just coming on.”

“On a commercial-free channel?”

She nodded.

“Were you planning to watch it?” He suddenly sounded as eager as an eight-year-old sandlot hero who had been offered a chance to attend the World Series.

Actually, what Lucy had been planning to do was go to bed and toss and turn for a few sleepless hours, wondering what Max looked like naked. But she supposed she could postpone her plans for a little while if it meant sitting beside him on the sofa. Even if he would have his clothes on. And even if it was a bad idea, seeing as not only would he have his clothes on, but she was supposed to be engaged to another man. Even if she wasn’t engaged to another man, she still shouldn’t do it, because she was living a lie, and that wasn’t the best way to start a relationship.

Not that Max had said anything about starting a relationship with her. There were few men who would equate watching a movie with a woman to starting a relationship, even though any rational woman knew that watching a movie with a man was a perfectly good prelude to marital bliss. One of those he said/she said things, Lucy supposed.

In spite of all her warnings and rationalizing to the contrary, however, she said, “Yeah, I was planning to watch it, actually.” Then, because she couldn’t quite stop herself, she asked, “You actually like
West Side Story
?”

He seemed to find the question odd. “Sure. Why not?”

“Well, it is a musical.”

He still seemed stumped by her response. “So?”

“So it’s a musical,” she repeated. “Men aren’t supposed to like musicals. It isn’t manly.”

“But this is a musical about street gangs and switchblades. There’s nothing more manly than switchblades.”

“But it’s still a musical.”

“People die in this musical. They’re murdered in cold blood. If that’s not manly, I don’t know what is.”

“But it’s still a musical.”

“With a kickass Leonard Bernstein score.”

“But still a musical.”

Max growled something unintelligible under his breath. “Look, can I watch it with you or not? I can contribute to the evening,” he offered, holding up the Blockbuster bag and thrusting the six-pack toward her.

Automatically, Lucy took the former from him and wasn’t much surprised to discover it held three old film noire flicks: Key Largo, The Big Sleep, and The Maltese Falcon. She was surprised, however, to see that the six-pack consisted of a notoriously bad brand of beer. How odd. He seemed like the kind of man who would insist on only premium brews.

“So can I stay?” he asked again.

It was a bad idea, Lucy reminded herself. It was nighttime. She was in someone else’s pajamas. She was drinking wine. It was nighttime. He was in tight jeans. He was bearing bad beer. Plus, it was nighttime. Had she mentioned it was nighttime? Traditionally the time of beds in most modern cultures? There was no way of knowing what might happen if Max came in and joined her.

Bad idea, she told herself again. Really bad idea.

“Sure, come on in,” she said. “I made popcorn. And thanks for the beer, but I’ll probably stick with wine. I found a nice Shiraz at the wine store today.” She remembered the badness of the beer, and said meaningfully, “You’re welcome to join me in a glass.”

For a moment, an expression came over his face that seemed almost sentimental. “Oh, man, I haven’t had Shiraz in years, but I always loved it. Not that I’m a big connoisseur or anything, but I used to have a friend who was really into wine, and she introduced me to Shiraz and we used to—”

He stopped speaking abruptly, and his expression went from nostalgic to glacial. Lucy couldn’t imagine what had happened to change his mood so quickly, so completely. For heaven’s sake, they’d been talking about wine. Good wine, at that. How could that put someone in a bad mood? Then she rewound her brain and recalled his use of the pronoun she, and it all made sense. There was a woman in his past who had once brought him great happiness—hence the sentimental expression—but now, thoughts of her made him feel cold—hence the glacial. There was only one reason for a change like that. The two of them must have parted under lousy circumstances. If Max was the one still feeling cold about it, then he was the one who’d been most unhappy to see the relationship end. Ergo, Lucy thought further—even though ergo wasn’t a word she normally used, much like hence, now that she thought about it, but sometimes you just couldn’t get around them—he was still carrying a torch for this mysterious she who had enjoyed good wine.

Suddenly, lying alone in bed wondering what Max looked like naked sounded like a much better way to spend the evening. At least that way, it would be just her and Max, and not a third party wheedling in.

“Anyway,” he said, scattering her thoughts, “thanks, but I’ll have the beer.”

“You sure you don’t want wine?”

He shook his head. “It’s not allowed.”

There it was again. The not allowed business. It couldn’t be the Coves disallowing it this time—even they wouldn’t be so crass as to tell a man what he could and couldn’t drink. Well, probably not, anyway. They were pretty crass. Still, she couldn’t see Max being the kind of man who would let someone push him around that way. So if his enjoyment of wine wasn’t allowed, then he must be the one disallowing it. The question now was, Why?

“Okay, if you’re sure,” she said, considering the six-pack again. Ick. “Want a glass for the beer?”

He shook his head and snagged a bottle from the cardboard pack, twisting off the cap with a flat hiss. Wow, even the hiss sounded icky. She crossed the small living room to the small kitchen and opened the refrigerator door to put the beer inside.

But Max stopped her, calling out from the living room, “That’s okay, you can leave it out. I drink it warm.”

The only thing that could turn bad beer into worse beer was drinking it warm. “You like warm beer?”

“I drink warm beer,” he told her. As if there were some kind of distinction between the two verbs.

“Okay, if you’re sure,” she said again, not quite able to keep the tone of warning from her voice. She did, however, manage to bite back the
Eeewww
she wanted to use to punctuate the comment. She didn’t want to be a bad hostess. Even though it wasn’t mentioned specifically, the folks at
In the Kitchen with Bitsy and Friends
would probably have frowned upon a hostess saying “Eeewww” to one of her guest’s drink choices.

Lucy glanced down at Phoebe’s silly pajamas, decorated as they were with illustrations of coffee, Danish, bagels, and doughnuts, and wondered if she should change her clothes. Really, there wasn’t much revealing about what she had on—it was nothing a woman wouldn’t wear outside on a warm day. A woman who was a bit peculiar, granted, but still. Plus, if she changed her clothes, Max might think she was only doing it because she felt uncomfortable around him in her pajamas. Of course, she did feel uncomfortable around him in her pajamas, but there was no reason he had to know that. If he knew she felt uncomfortable around him in her pajamas, he might think it was because she was attracted to him. Of course, she was attracted to him, but there was no reason he had to know that. If he knew she was attracted to him, then he would think she would be easy to seduce tonight. Of course, she would be easy to seduce tonight, but there was no reason he had to know that. If he knew she would be easy to seduce tonight, then he would want to seduce her. Of course, she did want him to sedu—

No, she didn’t! she immediately reminded herself. She did not want Max Hogan or any other man to seduce her, tonight or any night. Well, not until she could get everything straightened out with Archie and the ring on her finger and the murder charge against her and the Russian mob and—

Oh, God. Was she ever going to get her life back?

After placing Max’s warm, bad beer on the counter, she grabbed the bottle of Shiraz and took it back into the living room to top herself off. More wine sounded like a very good idea for some reason. Pajamas be damned—she wasn’t going to change. They were just going to watch TV. Who cared if she was wearing her pajamas and Max was wearing tight faded blue jeans that perfectly outlined every muscle in his strong thighs, hips and buttocks? And who cared if he was wearing a taut white T-shirt that had been washed so many times it was very nearly translucent, sculpting every rope of brawny flesh in his back and upper arms as if he were naked?