TOO HOT TO HANDLE Read online

  Annabelle hadn't been kidding when she said Mike looked like Chip. They had to be related somehow. Dr. Mike Flynn. Wow. Now Becca not only worried that he treated Annabelle well, but worried that the only reason Annabelle dated the poor guy was the amazing resemblance to her lost love. It didn't take Einstein to spot trouble ahead.

  She stared at the pictures until it hurt. Mike looked so much like her brother. The brother she remembered before the cancer came back. She rubbed her eyes and refused to cry any more tears over the past. She took the two pictures and stuck them in her backpack; she needed to do some climbing on the family tree and see where this limb fit. She'd have to do something she'd been avoiding—she'd have to go and see her father.

  Chapter 8

  Annabelle lay on the couch in her new office, generally hating life. The stabilization boot was as ugly as sin. After ten minutes on her feet, her ankle throbbed. Relegated to lying on the couch donning an ice bag, she looked through submissions from hopeful artists, while Ben the Beneficent hung paintings and displayed sculptures in all the wrong places. No matter how explicit the directions she gave, the diagrams she drew of the floor plan with the exact location of each piece detailed, when she left Ben to follow them, the placement always turned out wrong. It was maddening.

  Her phone beeped twice to let her know it was an out-of-office call. Thank God. She really didn't think she had the patience to talk to Ben about their newest Jackson Pollock wannabe. "Annabelle Ronaldi. Can I help you?"

  "Do you know how hard it was to get you on the phone? And why are you resting?"

  "Hi, Ma. I, um … had a little accident and sprained my ankle and tore a tendon. I can't walk around on it much, but it's fine."

  "You hurt yourself, and this is how I hear about it?"

  "What should I have done? Taken an ad out in the Post? It's not a big deal."

  "You always were so clumsy. You'd come home with scrapes and bruises daily. I swear you're lucky you don't have any bad scars. You don't, do you?"

  "No, Ma, my body is pretty much scar free. I wasn't clumsy. I was active. There's a difference. I'm at work, and my foot hurts. Did you want something?"

  "We need to talk about Mother's Day."

  "Okay. Fine. Talk."

  "What? I'm the mother. You're supposed to make the plans, and I'm supposed to be treated like a queen for at least one day out of the year. My own children—"

  "Okay, okay. Maybe Richie and I can get reservations somewhere."

  "But Rosalie always makes plans—"

  "Yeah, but Rosalie is going to be on her honeymoon. I doubt she's planning to fly back from Italy to spend Mother's Day with you."

  "I don't know. Nick is an only child. How could he leave his poor mother alone on such an important day?"

  Annabelle closed her mouth and forced herself to think. She already had half a pain pill in her, and she knew her filter was severely affected by them. The last thing she wanted to do was say what she really thought—that Mother's Day was conceived to establish a holiday when buying cards and presents were necessary, thus giving the mother yet another thing to hold over the child's head. As if the 102 hours of labor wasn't enough.

  "I'm sure Mrs. Romeo has other family to celebrate Mother's Day with. So, how's Papa? Isn't it his job to do Mother's Day?"

  There was silence on the other side of the phone. Oh, so it was one of those times. Great. Nothing like a nice family dinner when the only thing too thick to cut was the tension. "I'll call him and make sure he doesn't have the whole day already planned. Maybe we could go out to dinner and then to the Botanical Gardens. I'll bet you haven't been there in a long time."

  Probably not since she'd chaperoned Annabelle's last class trip for ninth-grade biology. Sheesh, she loved it there, but God forbid she should go and enjoy herself. Annabelle wondered if her mother made herself miserable for some deep-seated psychological reason or was it strictly to guilt her children. Never a conversation went by without her bringing up the fact that she'd sacrificed her life for them. Then she'd make the sign of the cross and beat her breast while praying to the Virgin Mother.

  "I hear you saw the doctor."

  "Yes, we had dinner together. He's very nice."

  "So?"

  "So what? We ate dinner."

  "Are you going to see him again? Has he asked?"

  "Yeah. But he's working insane hours, so we're keeping it light."

  "Light? What does that mean, light? Nonsense. You know, you're not getting any younger. You need to be understanding of his time and make yourself available to him. But whatever you do, don't complain. He gets enough of that at work, I'm sure."

  "Yes, Mama."

  "Good. So, when are you going to see him again?"

  "I don't know. I'm sure I'll hear from him eventually." She couldn't keep the smile off her face when she felt that little tingle, the one that ran right through her every time she thought of Mike.

  Ben popped his head into the office, and Annabelle waved to him. "Mama, I've got to run. My boss is here." She rolled her eyes. "Yes, the good-looking one. Okay, bye."

  She disconnected the call and immediately saw her message light blink. Great. She pushed herself up, and the ice bag slipped off her ankle. "Thanks for saving me."

  "From falling off the ladder or from the conversation with your mother?"

  "Both. But it would have been nice if you'd done a little better job on the ladder debacle. Next time, see if you could catch me before part of me hits the ground."

  "I'll do my best."

  Ben stared at the shoji screens she'd bought to hide all the art supplies. "When I set this studio up for you, I wanted you to be surrounded by the art supplies. This," he said as he pointed to the screens, "defeats the purpose. Don't you think?"

  "Yes. That was the point."

  "God, you're stubborn."

  Annabelle shrugged. "You're just mad because I one-upped you."

  "No, I'm mad because it's bothered you to look at all the supplies, so much so that you took drastic steps to hide them instead of doing what you should do. Would it kill you to just try?"

  Maybe, it almost had the last time she tried to paint. "Is there something you need?"

  "Other than a gallery manager without an attitude? No. I'm going to grab some lunch and thought you might want me to pick something up for you since you're laid up."

  "Um … thanks, but I think Mike is coming by for lunch." She checked her watch. "He should be here any minute."

  He tossed his keys in the air and caught them before slipping them back into his pocket.

  "I'll keep you company until he gets here."

  He sat on the end of the couch, lifted her feet onto his lap, and ran his finger over her instep, which sent her into peals of laughter. She was so ticklish it wasn't funny … really. She'd just die of embarrassment if she peed herself or something equally heinous.

  Once Ben got started, the twelve-year-old boy in him took over, and he moved up to her stomach, which had her curling into a ball on her side and Ben practically lying on top of her, trying to pry her arms away from her middle while she tried kicking him with her good foot. Wrestling with Ben didn't feel any different from wrestling with Richie, because she'd never looked at her boss in that guy and girl way.

  The first time she met him, she wasn't sure if he was straight, and she figured if she had to ask herself the question, she wasn't interested. He was too … pretty. Maybe not pretty—no, he was too perfect. The man always looked as if he'd just walked off the set of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Except that he wasn't gay. Well, she was pretty sure he wasn't. She'd seen all sorts of women on his arm and leaving his apartment in the morning long after the gallery opened.

  She was screaming and laughing and crying all at the same time when Mike closed the door behind him. After she succeeded in pushing the big hulk of a man off her, she saw Mike's face and cringed. He turned a reddish purple. She smoothed down her skirt, which had ridden dangerously high, while she sc
ooted back into a sitting position. Ben, the schmuck, sat there grinning like a fool. She gave him another kick, and he stood, handed her the ice bag, dusted off his slacks, and winked at her.

  "Well, I'll just be going." He tossed his keys in the air, caught them, and nodded to Mike. "She's all yours."

  He must like living dangerously, because she was sure she saw steam come out of Mike's ears.

  Mike set the food he'd brought on the desk and watched Ben saunter out. That's the only way it could be described. Like the man wasn't in danger of being permanently maimed.

  Annabelle was bright red, pulling her skirt down, straightening her blouse, and then popping off the couch, the ice bag flying off with her. She bopped around on one foot without the aid of crutches or air cast and wrung her hands together.

  "Mike. Um."

  So, he wasn't the only one at a loss for words. At least she remembered his name. He was afraid to open his mouth, because he wouldn't be able to take back whatever popped out of it, and right now, it would be nothing productive. He reached into the bag and pulled out a sandwich, determined it was Annabelle's, and passed it to her along with a Diet Coke and a napkin.

  "Thanks. Um … wanna sit on the couch?"

  He raised an eyebrow. Shaking his head, he sat on a chair beside her desk, straightened up the piles of papers, photos, plans, and paraphernalia to make room for his food, and unwrapped his corned beef on rye with swiss and coleslaw. Mike had been starving before he walked in on Annabelle being felt up by Ben. He took a bite, even though the last thing his stomach seemed to want right now was food.

  "Mike … I'm sorry. Ben and I usually don't carry on that way. Really, he's never tickled me before … and I doubt he'll ever do it again."

  Not if he wants to live. Mike chewed and took a sip of his drink. Eventually, he'd have to say something, and, according to her, it was innocent fun—at least on her part. Ben's intent was another story. Mike had never gotten into a pissing match over a woman—he'd never found one worth fighting about—but when he'd seen Ben holding Annabelle a few days earlier, he'd wanted to rip the man's head off and shove it down his throat. The fantasies that played in his mind today made that seem tame.

  "Annabelle, I'm not sure what to say here. I guess we should talk about expectations."

  "Expectations?"

  "Yes, as in what you and I expect from whatever it is we have together."

  She stared at him while playing with the paper wrapper of her sandwich.

  Okay, this wasn't going well. "I guess we need to talk about what you want … what we want from." She was going to make him say it, wasn't she? The dreaded "R" word. "…this relationship." There. It was out, and she wasn't running away. Not that she could, considering the shape her ankle was in, but even without her ankle keeping her still, he hadn't expected her to run. He hadn't expected to have this conversation either. Unfortunately, it seemed to be necessary for his peace of mind.

  Their relationship didn't run on the typical relationship course—at least not typical of any he'd known. You were supposed to ask a girl out. Sleep with her after the third date, if you're lucky and still interested. Make tentative plans together and feel each other out. Maybe beat around a bush or two, and then wait until she brings up the "R" word—all the while keeping your eye out for something or someone better.

  Not pick up a girl at a wedding. Have mind-bending sex. Fall all over yourself scheming to get a date with her. Think about her every spare minute of the day. Sleep with her as often as humanly possible. And enjoy every minute spent with her even when you're fighting. No, this wasn't a typical relationship.

  She still looked worried. Her embarrassment had taken a backseat to something else. Great, one look from her and he felt like an ogre. What the hell was she expecting him to do? "Do you think we should talk about this?"

  Annabelle nodded but kept her mouth shut. She was being real helpful here. Nothing like making him fly solo.

  "It's kind of hard to have a conversation when I'm the only one talking."

  She peeled the plastic label off the soda bottle. "I don't know what you want me to say."

  "Why do I feel as if you're waiting for me to punish you? I understand that I walked in on something that looked bad. I gathered it was innocent on your part. I'm not so sure about Ben's. But what he wants doesn't really matter, does it? It's only what you want that matters."

  "Whoa. Ben and I are friends. There's never been anything else between us."

  "Okay."

  "Okay, what?"

  "Okay, nothing. I just said okay. I don't doubt you believe there is nothing between you and Ben."

  "Ben knows there's nothing between me and him, too."

  "Are you sure about that?"

  "Of course I'm sure. I've worked with him for a year and a half now, and he's never even hinted there was something more than a purely platonic friendship between us."

  "Did he know I was coming by for lunch?"

  There, that got her thinking. Yeah, he sure as hell knew. Now she was getting mad, hopefully at Ben.

  "You think he planned this? For you to show up and—"

  "Think he was on top of you doing something other than tickling you? Hell yeah, I do. That way I'd draw the wrong conclusion, I'd come off like a jealous asshole, we'd fight, and you'd dump me. Because, let's face it, there's nothing attractive about a jealous boyfriend, is there?"

  "No. But there is something definitely attractive about a smart one. I'm not so sure you're right about Ben's motives. After all, he's never looked at me twice—"

  "I find that impossible to believe. Maybe you're the one who never looked twice. Besides, when was the last time you were single?"

  "Other than the last month or so, um…"

  "Not since you met Ben. Right?" Annabelle crossed her arms under her breasts, which did amazing things for her already-spectacular cleavage.

  "Right. So, all this…" She made a turning motion with her hand. "This was so that you'd catch us. This was just to make you jealous?"

  "I'd bet my next weekend off on it."

  "You have a weekend off?"

  Mike couldn't hold back his smile. He sat beside Annabelle and pulled her onto his lap. "Yeah, I have Memorial Day weekend off." He didn't mention that he'd practically had to sell his soul … and his body to get a four-day weekend. "I thought maybe if you can get off too, we could spend some time together in the Hamptons."

  "The Hamptons? As in, where the rich and famous like to play and pay?"

  "Yeah. Nick has a place on Westhampton Beach, and since Rosalie married him, she does too."

  "My sister owns a house in the Hamptons? She doesn't even like the beach. Do you think she knows?"

  Mike shrugged. "Does it matter? The less time they use it, the more time there will be for you and me. Nick said it's ours if we want it. As long as we take Dave with us. Just think, you, me, the sun, and surf for four days. Can you get the time off?"

  "I've had time off scheduled for almost a year. My plans changed, obviously, but I still have the time saved up. It shouldn't be a problem. That's one of the reasons why Ben's in town."

  Mike found it interesting that he'd show up even after he knew Annabelle wasn't taking her honeymoon, but decided to keep the thought to himself. "So we're good then?"

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. "Yeah, we're real good."

  Mike couldn't disagree.

  "He asked me to go away with him over Memorial Day weekend." Annabelle ran her pencil across the blotter on her desk, picturing Mike when he was steaming mad at her. He was pretty cute when he was jealous. She moved the pencil, enjoying the sound of carbon against paper. It was relaxing somehow, even if it was just scribbling.

  She heard Becca's sigh. She knew that sigh, even when heard over the clanking of the Acela Express and the high-pitched hum of a passing train. The sigh was the beginning of one of Becca's Little Miss Optimistic rants.

  "Oh, this relationship is moving right alo
ng. Wow, a weekend together, that's serious stuff."

  "No, it's not. It's uninterrupted sex, that's all."

  "If it were just uninterrupted sex, why leave Brooklyn?"

  Good point. She had no idea why they were leaving Brooklyn.

  "He wants to do something nice and romantic. You really should expect more. I know Chip took you away for the weekend sometimes."

  "Yeah, but that was only when he had beach volleyball tournaments."

  "Oh, right. I'll bet Mike is taking you somewhere to impress you, someplace romantic."

  "The Hamptons."

  "Wow, sometimes I amaze myself. I'm just too good. But why aren't you happier about this?"

  "I was when I thought it was uninterrupted sex. Now you're attaching all sorts of meaning to it, and well, I'm not ready for—"

  "A loving relationship?"

  "Whoa! No one said anything about love."

  "No one has to. This is like a trial weekend. To see how you'd get along if you moved in together—"

  "No, it's not. It's a long weekend, three nights and four days of sun, surf, and sex."

  "Oh honey, don't you know how this works? An overnighter insinuates he's ready to spend quality time but doesn't want to commit. A weekend means he's on the fence but likes you enough to contemplate a commitment. And a long weekend means he's over the moon but thinks it's too soon to ask you to move in with him, or he's not sure if you feel the same. Though in this case, I bet it's both."

  Annabelle tossed her pencil aside and stood to pace the floor of her new office. Back and forth from her desk to the window. Her boot made a weird sound as it thunked over the polished wood surface. "Where do you get this stuff? It's all those stupid magazines you read, isn't it?"

  "Calm down, girl. You need some time to come to grips with this. I just hope he doesn't spook you."

  "Mike is not the one spooking me. You are. Now, why don't we stop talking about my … um—"

  "Love life?"

  "Sex life. Yeah, so how's your sex life?"

  "Yours is so much more interesting. My love life and sex life are nonexistent. I am, however, considering adopting."