Fair Play (28 page)

“Fifty years,” Anthony boomed proudly.

“No, forty years,” Michael corrected as Anthony's massive head slowly turned to challenge him. “Do the math, Ant: You're thirty-six and Mom and Pop opened it four years before you were born. That's forty years.”

“Whatever,” Anthony muttered.

“And why is that veal dish you made so special to Dante's?” Sonia chirped.

“I'll take this one, Michael,” answered Anthony quickly. He turned to the camera, smiling broadly. “The recipe is one that's been in the family for close to seventy years. It was handed down from my paternal grandmother to my parents long, long ago.”

“No,” Michael found himself saying again, “the recipe came from Mom's mom, Anthony.”

But Anthony was obstinately shaking his head. “You're wrong, Mikey. I distinctly remember Mom telling me Grandma Dante gave it to her when she got married.”

“Yeah?” Michael gave a curt laugh. “Well, I remember Pop saying the recipe was the only freebie Nonna Maria ever gave away in her life.”

“Cut!” Whipping off his headset, the director approached them. “Can we cut the Cain and Abel act and get this in the can, please?”

“Maybe we should just talk to the cook,” Sonia suggested delicately. She looked at Michael, addressing him like he was a four-year-old. “Does that work for you?”

“Sure, it works for me,” Michael managed through clenched teeth. He turned to his brother. “Does it work for you?”

Anthony chuckled affectionately. “I told you, Mike. Stick to the ice. This is my domain.”

“Right.” Michael bounded out of the chair and proceeded to watch the rest of the shoot from the sidelines with Theresa.

“He's doing really well,” Theresa whispered to him at one point. For the first time all morning, she really looked at him. “Are you sure you're all right with Anthony being the star?”

“Oh, yeah,” Michael lied. He was fine with Anthony being the star. And with being demoted to the fourth line. And with Theresa shattering his heart. He was fine with all of it. Fuck, he was Mikey D, right? Not sure he could stand a minute more of Anthony's sucking up to the camera, he stood. “I'm going to take off.”

Theresa barely seemed to hear; her eyes remained fixed on Anthony. “Okay. As soon as I know when this is going to air, I'll give you a call.” Suddenly, she craned her neck to look at him, and for a split second, Michael thought that maybe she was going to say something like “Hey, let's go for a coffee afterwards” or “I really miss you, let's do dinner.” But instead, all she said was, “Take care.”

“Yeah, you, too,” he replied dully, struck by how casually people used the phrase without really stopping to think about its meaning. Did he really want her to take care? God, yes, with all his heart and all his soul. But did she want the same for him? He would never know.

Sitting at a small table in Cafe Des Artistes, Theresa imagined the deliberately neutral calibration of Dr. Gardner's voice. She imagined her own response.
I felt tense. Sad. Uncomfortable. I felt . . . desire.

Speaking to Michael on the phone was one thing.

But coming face-to-face with him at the “Mangia” shoot was another. She was unprepared for the conflicted feelings that poured out of her when she walked into Dante's and there he was, all alone in the chilly dining room, inspecting a glass from a nearby table. How handsome he looked, much more rugged than the picture she'd been carrying of him in her mind's eye. Desire for him had rippled through her like an unexpected breeze kicking up on still water, catching her by surprise. Peeling off her coat, she had tried not to be too obvious about checking him out. But even the most furtive of sidelong glances revealed to her how sad he looked. All she could think was:
You did this to him. You kicked him in the teeth, and now look at him.
But then she'd remembered Dr. Gardner saying guilt was anger turned inward, and she started to get mad.

It wasn't her fault that things ended with a bang, it was his.

Wasn't it?

Seeing him at the shoot, she had zigzagged madly between extremes of emotion. She didn't want to talk to him. She wanted to spill her guts. She wanted to ask who the hell he thought he was, humiliating her at Met Gar. She wanted to apologize for jerking him around. She pictured her emotions as a waterfall in reverse, feelings flowing back into her where she could dam them up once and for all.

Unfortunately, it wasn't that easy.

She got the impression that seeing her was hard for Michael as well. Usually assertive, he was tentative, his amiability turned down a few notches. Theresa thought that had she been warmer in her responses, Michael would have loosened up and they might have had a friendly conversation. But she had kept him at arm's length. So that neither of them would get hurt.

Besides, there was Reese to consider.

Ever since he'd returned to New York, they'd been seeing a lot of each other, though physical contact between them was minimal. He rarely did more than hold her hand, or press his lips lightly to her forehead at the end of an evening. Since she was still grappling with the shadow, this was fine with her. “Taking it slow” was Reese's motto. But after eight weeks, shouldn't they be taking their relationship to the next level? Maybe that's why he called today, and told her to meet him here, at one of the most romantic restaurants in the city, saying he had something important he needed to discuss?

She massaged the back of her neck and checked her watch. Reese was always late. Her parents would say it showed a lack of respect; that it was a sign he didn't care enough to get there on time. But her folks didn't understand how easily someone with an artistic temperament could get caught up in something else. She knew he worked too hard, and that his head was often in the clouds, thinking about photos he wanted to take.

Even so, she'd been sitting alone for forty minutes.

Peering through the subdued, romantic lighting at one of the lush, gorgeous wood nymph murals, a thought appeared like a flash on a blank screen:
Michael would never make you wait for forty minutes.
These comparisons happened all the time. Theresa did her best to get rid of them, especially since they always favored Michael. Why did the man who'd yelled at her in public and pushed relentlessly always fare better? Dr. Gardner would claim Theresa knew the answer. And maybe Dr. Gardner was right. But Theresa knew one other thing: Reese could provide her with the life she'd always dreamed of.

Whether it made emotional sense or not.

Fifteen minutes later, Reese came strolling into the dark-paneled room, his blond hair wind-whipped, the shoulders of his camel hair coat dusted with snow. In his left hand he carried a single white rose. Theresa watched as he deposited his coat at the cloak room and deftly made his way through the maze of closely packed tables buzzing with discreet conversation.

“I know, I know, I know,” he sighed regretfully, handing her the rose. “We had to finish up the last minute details of an acquisition.”

“I was about to abandon all hope.” Theresa lifted the delicate bud to her nose. What mattered was he was here now—and he'd been considerate enough to bring her a flower. A rose, no less. Surely that canceled out his tardiness?

“What are you drinking?” Reese asked.

“Merlot.”

“I guess I'll get the same.”

He flagged down a waiter, got his drink, and raising the glass to his lips, drank deeply. “Mmm. That hits the spot.” He looked around the room, eyes carefully taking in the other patrons as well as the lush, playful murals before his attention came back to her.

“So, how was your day?”

“Boring,” Theresa replied.

Which was true. She'd spent much of it catching up on E-mail and making follow-up phone calls to press kit recipients, both chores she hated. She preferred meeting with clients or the challenge of putting together a campaign.

“Maybe this will help,” Reese offered, reaching down into his ever-present leather satchel and presenting her with a small silver box tied with a red ribbon.

“Reese.” Theresa's voice was gently chiding. Perhaps to make up for the lack of time they were able to spend together, he was always buying her gifts. Last week it had been a hand-tooled leather journal with her initials on it. The week before, an original first edition of
Wuthering Heights.
When he was out of town, he sent flowers so often that Janna joked the office was starting to smell like a funeral parlor.

“Open it,” he urged, eyes crinkling up as he gave that crooked, boyish smile that she adored.

Theresa tugged clumsily at the red ribbon, holding her breath as she lifted the lid of the box. Inside was a beautifully wrought, sterling silver cable bracelet.

“Do you like it?” Reese asked anxiously. “It's David Yurman.”

“I
love
it,” Theresa murmured, slipping it on her wrist and admiring it.

“Good.” He sounded relieved. “I noticed you wear silver a lot, and the bracelet reminded me of you, it's so delicate.”

“Thank you,” Theresa whispered, overcome. “You know, you don't have to buy me presents all the time.”

He sweetly chucked her chin. “Maybe I like to.”

She blushed. “I'd better start returning the favor.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Being able to spend time with you is present enough for me.”

Reese's expression was watchful as he took another sip of his wine. “So, not to change the subject too abruptly, but I was wondering: Have you given any further thought to . . . ?”

He didn't finish, because he didn't have to. It had become somewhat of a running joke between them, his asking about the buyout and her refusal to discuss it.

“I thought we agreed that subject was off limits,” Theresa reminded him.

“Just looking out for your interests,” Reese murmured, cracking open his menu.

“Janna and I are big girls. We can look after ourselves.”

Opening her own menu she wished to God the waiter would come by with some bread, crudités, anything. She was dying of starvation.

And curiosity.

Reese made her wait through dessert before explaining, and by the time coffee was served, she was too nervous to even taste her apple tartin.

“So, the big announcement.” There was a hint of self-deprecation in his voice.

She braced as his hand reached across the table for hers. Warmed from wine and, she hoped, good conversation, his flesh was soft, supple, his long, tapering fingers curling around hers with confidence.
His hands are so delicate,
Theresa thought to herself.
Not like Michael's, which were strong, broad—Stop.

She waited.

“I know we've been spending a lot of time together,” Reese began, his thumb nervously tracing back and forth over hers. “And I know you've been wondering what, exactly, is going on between us.”

Theresa felt a small blush rising to her cheeks as she recognized how easily she'd been read.

“Well,” Reese said, pausing to take a slow, deep breath. “I brought you here tonight because I wanted to say that I think I'm falling in love with you.”

Theresa pitched back slightly, colliding with the hard wood of her chair. His words felt swift as a blur, impossible to get a hold of.
In love?
She had expected something else, a declaration of intent, maybe, but not this.

“I know what you're thinking.”

She disliked when people said that, especially men, especially in the context of a serious discussion. “What?” she challenged.

“You're thinking ‘How can he say he loves me when he's barely touched me?' ”

Theresa's eyes dropped down to the table. Either Reese was a mind reader or she was transparent as glass. Perhaps it was a bit of both. Looking back to him, she was surprised to note his expression seemed unusually blank. Was he afraid she was going to bolt if he betrayed too much emotion? Or was he waiting for a gesture, an acknowledgment of what he'd said so far, before he continued?

Surprised to find her hand trembling slightly, Theresa reached for the security of her coffee cup.

“You're right,” she admitted quietly. “Go on.”

The coffee was lukewarm, but she drank it anyway. She would have gulped down Drano if it promised to quell the feeling of unreality burgeoning inside her.

“I haven't touched you
because
I'm falling for you,” Reese explained ardently, the fervor in his voice snapping Theresa to attention. His free hand tapped out a nervous beat on the table. “I have an aunt named Letitia MacGeorge; she's a psychotherapist. I assume you've heard of her?”

Letitia MacGeorge . . . the name sounded vaguely familiar to Theresa, but for some reason an heiress kept coming to mind, not a therapist. Theresa shook her head. “No. Haven't heard of her.”

Reese looked surprised, but continued. “Well, be that as it may, when I started to develop feelings for you, I spoke with her about what happened to you.”

A lump came to Theresa's throat. “You talked to your aunt about me?”

“Yes.” His eyes scanned hers for approval. “I knew you'd been traumatized, and I didn't want to risk doing anything that might make it worse.”

“I see.” She could feel her voice slipping away in the undertow created by impending tears and fought to hang on to it. “And what did your aunt, the famous psychotherapist, say?”