Romeo, Romeo Read online

  Nick's eyes twinkled. He leaned forward to say something under his breath. When he did, the man two tables away came into view, kissing his girlfriend. They were so caught up in each other, they were oblivious to anyone else in the room.

  Papa?

  The shock must have shown on her face, because Nick turned to see what she was staring at. “Lee? What's wrong?”

  Jesus, she felt like Cher in a bad remake of Moonstruck. It was not a great feeling. Part of her wanted to flee out the back door and forget she'd ever seen him. Another part of her wanted to stop by their table, take the bottle of champagne he'd ordered, and crack him upside the head with it.

  Rosalie knew her mother could be difficult. But she'd been there for him day in and day out, no matter how he'd treated her, no matter how he'd ignored her. She'd cooked for him, cleaned for him, and had done whatever he'd told her to do. She didn't deserve a lying, stinking, cheat for a husband.

  “Nothing. Look, Nick, I see someone I know. Would you mind getting the bill? I'll go talk to them and meet you outside. Okay?”

  She moved to stand, but Nick grabbed her hand, holding her in place.

  “Oh, no, you don't. Who is that guy?”

  “No one worth knowing. I'll see you outside.” She pulled her hand away and picked up her purse. Nick was out of his chair and holding her coat for her before she could pick it up herself. She slid into it and started toward Pop, but Nick wrapped his arm around her, effectively shielding Pop from her, or her from Pop, she wasn't sure which.

  “Nick, the bill.”

  “It's covered. Come on.”

  They walked right past her father and his girlfriend and out the door. A waiter ran after them.

  “Sir, your change.”

  Nick waved him off. “Keep it.”

  Nick didn't ask questions, and he didn't expect explanations. He tucked her under his arm, walked down the street to a nearby pub, and led her to a booth.

  “Here, sit. I'll be right back.”

  A minute later, he set a scotch down and squeezed into the booth beside her.

  Johnny Walker Black rolled over her tongue and slid down her throat, warming her from within. “I've never drank Scotch with you. You guessed my drink?”

  She kept her eyes on the glass. In the restaurant, she'd felt only anger. Well, anger and a good bit of righteous indignation. Now she felt sorrow and pity, but most of all, sadness.

  “Hey, I'm not blind. You have two bottles in your kitchen. So, that man you'd stared at with murder in your eyes. He's your father?”

  “Yeah, how'd you know?”

  “It was the family resemblance, and the only thing I could come up with that would cause you to shoot daggers at a man his age.”

  “You know, growing up, I always resented my mother. I looked down on her. I never understood why she let him control her. He gave her an allowance like a child, told her what to wear and what to buy, and then at the end of the day, he'd ignore her while he sat by the TV, reading the paper and drinking his wine.”

  “Lee, you don't know what goes on in a marriage…”

  “'Someday you'll fall in love and want to take care of your husband the same way,' she'd say. 'He'll take care of you, too. You'll see.' I saw, all right. A long time ago. But I never expected to see it in person.”

  Nick picked up his phone and looked at the screen. “Drink up. It's time to go home.”

  Rosalie finished her drink and followed him out of the bar. He opened the door to a waiting car.

  “Lee, this is my friend, Jim. Jim, this is Lee. Jim's giving us a ride home.”

  She got in the Town Car and slid across the leather seat. She didn't care how they got home. All she knew was that she wanted to be there yesterday.

  Staring out the window as they drove over the Manhattan Bridge and down Flatbush Avenue, she wondered why she was so upset. It wasn't as if she'd never known. She'd heard the loud fights and louder silences. She'd felt the tension that had loomed like a ghost—a presence without a name.

  They pulled up in front of the apartment, and Nick opened the door. Cold wind blew into the warm interior and made her eyes water. The temperature was dropping, like her mood. Nick helped her out of the car.

  “Come on, let's get inside.”

  He unlocked the security door and the apartment door while she took her coat off. Rosalie walked in, threw the coat on the couch, and collapsed. There, on the coffee table, was the family picture they'd taken at Christmas. They were all smiling—Rosalie, Richie, Annabelle, Mama, and Papa—the perfect, happy family. What a crock.

  Without saying a word, Nick took Dave outside. When they returned, she was still staring at the picture. Nick took the frame out of her hand and put it on the table. “Not all men cheat.”

  “Really? Name one who doesn't.”

  “Vinny. He'd never cheat on Mona. They love each other. They're happy.”

  “Look at the photograph, Nick. Looks are deceiving. You said yourself, you never know what goes on in a marriage.”

  “No, you don't. But I know Mona.”

  “What? Mona wouldn't put up with a lying, cheating husband? What choice would she have? Does she know how to support herself and her kids? Her only option would be to leave her home with no money, no security, no skills—and do what? Work as a waitress in someone else's restaurant?”

  She was on a roll now. “It's amazing how easy it is for men. They marry a sweet young thing. They say, 'Oh, no, you don't have to work, I'll take care of you.' There's Cinderella, thinking she married a prince, when the poor thing is oblivious that she's sold herself into slavery.”

  “Oh, come on, Lee. Look at you. You don't need a man to support you. If you got married, you'd never be in a position where you couldn't support yourself.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So why are you so against marriage?”

  It sucked when someone argued logically. What could she say? He was right. She would never allow herself to be in a position that would make her dependent on anyone for anything.

  He thought he'd won. He looked all smug and triumphant.

  “So, Nick? Since you're such a fan of the institution, how come you're not married?”

  “I'm not the one who has a problem.” “I don't have a problem.”

  “No, you're right. You don't have a problem,” the sarcasm in his voice made her want to smack him. “You're living under the misconception that marriage means the loss of independence.”

  “Yeah, well, we all have our own little versions of reality, don't we? Most men think all women want someone who'll pay their bills, buy them jewelry, and give them a nice place to live while they spend their time shopping and getting their nails done. And in certain cases, they're right, but you can't paint all women with the same brush.”

  “What do you want, Lee?”

  How had he done that? One minute they were arguing, and then he said five words. Five words, and she went from mad to aroused. It was as if he'd flipped a switch. And he knew it.

  All of a sudden, he was standing close; so close, the heat radiating off him warmed her; so close, she saw the storm forming in his eyes; so close, she touched him.

  One touch, and she stopped thinking and started feeling. The warmth of him heated her, the strength of him supported her. His mouth, his hands, and his body were her escape.

  Nick couldn't figure out why he'd been arguing with her about marriage, of all things, but at that moment, it had seemed important to inform her that all marriages didn't sentence women to lives of indentured servitude.

  He'd almost come out and said that if he ever got married, which he wouldn't, he'd want an independent woman. One who was sure of herself and her place in the world. He'd want a woman who had a full life, independent of his. He didn't think marrying someone made a person responsible for their spouse's happiness, but should add to their spouse's happiness.

  Take him, for instance. He'd been happy when he met Rosalie, but being with her made him happier.
She added to his life, to his happiness, and he'd stay with her until she didn't.

  She looked mad, sad, and so damn beautiful. He wanted to make her forget about her cheating father, to stop her from thinking about it, to shut down her mind and give her pleasure. There was only one way he knew how to do that.

  He made love to her.

  Nick stayed awake long after Rosalie had fallen asleep, listening to her breathing. He'd never really thought about his happiness before—well, not as it related to any one person. Rosalie made him happy, and he hoped he made her happy, but he wasn't sure. He didn't know what she wanted from him. Other women he'd dated had a shopping list of things that would make them happy, and weren't shy about sharing the information. Not Rosalie. She never said what she wanted. The one time he'd tried to help her out with her car, she'd refused. At first, he wondered if she was playing a game. Play hard to get and whet a guy's appetite. Now that he knew her, he knew better.

  Nick had never lost the upper hand in a relationship. He'd never wondered if a woman wanted him. He'd never wanted a woman more than the woman had wanted him. Until Rosalie. It wasn't a comfortable situation, but it was improving. At least, she'd stopped asking him to leave.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rosalie had just gotten out of a status meeting with her boss and didn't want to go back to the dealership. She was tired; she was cranky; she was starving; and she still had two hours and thirty-eight minutes until she could go home. Gina and the back-office gang had passed her around like a hot potato, each hoping they wouldn't be the one dealing with her when she finally blew. Who could blame them? It was as if she was looking down from above, watching herself get through the day and doing everything wrong, and she could do nothing to stop it.

  What the hell was she going to do on Sunday? How was she going to sit across from her father and pretend she didn't know what was going on? She should have gone after him with the champagne bottle when she'd had the chance. If she had, this whole mess would be over and done with. Holding onto anger was so not her.

  Rosalie stared at the couch. A nap was tempting. She wondered if anyone would notice. She could still be getting over the crud, or depression could have set in.What-ever the reason, the only thing that sounded the least bit appealing was sleep.

  A knock snapped her out of her musing. The door opened a few inches. A hand stuck through the crack, waving a tissue.

  “Is it safe to enter?”

  No matter how bad things got, Gina could always make her smile. “Come on in.”

  “What has that prick done to put you in such a mood?” She heard Gina ask from beyond the door. The door swung open, and a huge flower arrangement with legs appeared. The legs Rosalie guessed were Gina's; the flower arrangement looked like something you'd see in a really expensive hotel. The kind of flowers that looked so perfect, you had to touch them to see if they were real. Of course, when you did, everyone knew you'd grown up in a house with fake flowers and plastic fruit.

  “What does the card say?” It never occurred to her that Gina hadn't already read it.

  “'Nick.' That's it. Do you believe the nerve of that man? You come to work in the mood from hell; you have everyone from the mailroom on up walking around with wastepaper baskets on their heads to protect them from the fallout; and the only clue to the puzzle that is Rosalie Ronaldi's bad mood is 'Nick'? What did he do? You can tell me. I'll call Sam, and he can go over there and rough him up.”

  “Sam's a cop. Cops don't rough people up.”

  “You're right, I'll have to handle it myself. I told you he was trouble.”

  “Down, girl. It's not Nick. Nick's been, well… you know.”

  “No, I don't know. I wish you'd tell me, so I can deal with it and go on with my terribly uneventful, boring, and tedious life.”

  “Gina, I'm sorry. I can't talk about this. It's family stuff and—”

  “Did something happen to Richie?”

  “No. He's fine. I'm sorry about today.”

  “That's okay. It was almost worth it to see the big boss confused. He had the nerve to ask me if women could have PMS twice in one month.”

  “He didn't!”

  Gina set the flowers on the credenza and took a seat across from the desk. She kicked off her shoe and pulled her leg underneath her.

  “Okay, if Nick The Prick didn't hurt you, then what happened?”

  “Gina, would you please stop calling him that? He's been—” “What?”

  Damn, why had she opened her mouth? “Great.”

  “If I had to venture a guess, I'd say you must be pretty great, too, to rate those flowers. It looks like he signed the card himself.”

  She tossed the small envelope on Rosalie's desk.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Puleeze, do I have to teach you everything? Look. It's written with a masculine hand, and you know the only people who work in flower shops are women and gay men.”

  Rosalie opened the envelope, and sure enough, there was Nick's name scrawled in his writing. She opened the top drawer of her desk and tucked the envelope inside.

  “Uh, oh. I knew it!”

  Gina launched herself out of the chair and planted her hands on the desk.

  “You're saving the card. You're falling for him.”

  “I am not. I save all my cards.”

  “Okay, then show me Joey's card from the last time he sent flowers. When was that? Oh, right, your birthday.”

  There wasn't one other card in the drawer. Damn.

  “You can't, because you threw it in the trash along with the flowers a few days later. No great loss there. They were cheap flowers.”

  Rosalie tossed Nick's card into the trash. “There, are you happy now?”

  Gina inspected her manicure. “Not especially. I'll leave you now, so you can drool over your flowers in private and dig the card out of the trash can. If you change your mind and want to talk about whatever it is that caused this lovely mood, you know where to reach me.”

  What could she say? If she thanked Gina, she'd be admitting that she'd drool over the flowers and dig the card out of the trash. Not that Gina ever doubted it, but still, a girl had her pride. “Thanks for the offer. If I need to talk to someone, you'll be the first person I call.”

  Gina rose, slipped on her stilettos, and sashayed through the door. “Have fun going through your trash.”

  The door closed on Rosalie's response, which was probably a good thing.

  After waiting to see if Gina would come back to catch her in the act, Rosalie took her time drooling over the flowers. But not even flowers could cheer her. She should be handling this better. It wasn't as if she hadn't suspected her father was screwing around, but seeing proof was a different story.

  Rosalie picked up the phone and dialed. “Hi, Ma.”

  “Rosalie? What's wrong?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “You never call unless something is wrong. Are you sure you're okay? You don't sound like yourself. Did that cafone do something to hurt you? I told you, he had the devil in his eyes. I don't know why you don't find a nice steady man like your father. You could call Joey—”

  “Ma, stop. I'm not going to call Joey. I only want to find out how you and Papa are.”

  “Tell me what it is. You never call without a reason.”

  So much for subtlety. “Okay, Ma, you caught me. I've been thinking that you and Papa should take some time and do something together. I have a friend with a time-share in Florida. On Sanibel Island. She's offered it to me any time I want. Do you and Papa want to go down for a week or even a long weekend? I can arrange the whole thing. What do you think?”

  “Rosalie, I told you, your father's working on a big project. He's not going to want to go out of town.”

  “Maybe he will, if you ask. When was the last time you two did anything remotely romantic? Why don't you go to Florida and invest time in your relationship?”

  “Ever since you met that cafone, you're talking and actin
g nuts. You know, I saw on Oprah—”

  “Ma, there's nothing wrong with me. I only wanted to do something nice for you and Papa. Talk to him. Maybe you can talk him into slowing down enough to go for a long weekend. Try. Okay?”

  “Sure, okay. Rosalie? You sure you're all right? Is something wrong?”

  “I'm feeling run down and tired. I guess it's harder to get over pneumonia than the usual crud. I'm not supposed to be working full days yet. Maybe it's catching up with me. I'm not sure I'll be up for Sunday. I'll call you.”

  “You want I should bring you some chicken soup?”

  “No, Ma, but thanks. I have soup at home.”

  “Okay, cookie. I'll talk to you soon, then.”

  A tear escaped, and Rosalie brushed it away. Her mother hadn't called her cookie in years. “'Bye, Mama. I love you.”

  She hung up the phone and looked at all the work she'd been avoiding piled on the desk.

  Her phone beeped. “Ro, a man is on line one. He said his name is Nick. Just Nick.”

  “Thanks, Gina.” She took a deep breath. “Hello?”

  “Hi. How's your day?”

  “Not so good, but the flowers are beautiful. Thanks, Nick.”

  “I thought you might need some cheering up. Plus, it gives me an excuse to pick you up from work. I'm parked across the street, whenever you're ready.”

  “I was wondering how I was going to get the flowers home. It would have been a shame to leave them in the office, but I wasn't looking forward to the subway ride.”

  “I can come up and carry them for you.”

  “No. I mean, thanks, but that's not necessary. I'll be down in a little while, all right? Let me clean off my desk and check my schedule for Monday.”

  “Okay. I'll see you in a few.”

  She hung up the phone and beeped Gina. “Can you come in here for a minute? I need to go over next week's schedule before I leave.” “Sure thing, boss, but isn't it a little early?” She strolled in with her notepad and a printout of the calendar.

  “You have lunch with Mr. Lassiter, Sr., on Monday.”

  “Okay. E-mail him the report so I don't have to shock him into a three-martini lunch.”