ROMANCE: MAIL ORDER BRIDE: The Other Man’s Baby (A Clean Christian Historical Western) (New Adult Inspirational Pregnancy Romance) (25 page)

She worked all day Saturday on her studies so that she could spend Sunday with her father, taking the subway to Queens to the house where her father lived.  It had been her grandmother’s custom to have the family over for Sunday lunch after church.  Carlos Jimenez continued the custom even though his mother was gone. The gathering varied from week to week, but there were always a couple of aunts or uncles and some cousins.  But today, Carli noticed, there were only two cars: Aunt Rosa’s van and Uncle Lonnie’s pick-up.

She entered the house and was greeted with cries of enthusiasm; Aunt Rosa always treated every meeting as a reunion.  “How’s the college girl?”  Rose’s voice boomed from the couch.
No one in the Jimenez family had graduated from college.  From the time she was young, Carli’s report cards and awards had been family celebrations, especially after the death of Hilary, when her father’s family had been determined to make up for the loss of a mother by surrounding her with so much love that the hurt, which could never be diminished, could be shared.

Over lunch, as she ate, Carli filled her relatives in on her school life.  She wasn’t sure how they’d react to the news of her interview with Mick Mantoro, but it was important for her to tell them.  “I interviewed someone you know, Daddy,” she said.

“Me?  Who do I know who’d be interviewed?”  Her father passed the bowl of mashed potatoes to her.
“You know lots of people,” said Aunt Rosa, the family historian and celebrator, who knew more about her brother’s achievements than he did.  “Remember after the Dolorosa fight in Madison Square Garden, when you were on Jay Leno the next night?”
Carlos waved a hand, brushing those episodes back into the past where he felt they belonged.  “Long time ago. So who’d you interview, baby?”

“Mick Mantoro.”

Silence.  No one spoke.  Rosa’s expression as she looked at Carli was accusatory.  “Mantoro,” she spat the name out.  “Why would you want to interview him?”
 

“That show-boating, flashy―“ Lonnie began to list the flaws of the family’s arch-enemy.

Carlos held up his hand.  “He won, I lost.  You interview anyone you want to, baby.  Someday you’ll write a book.”

Conversation moved on.  Carli realized that they didn’t want to learn, or couldn’t bear to hear, about Mick Mantoro, the name from the past that had taken not only Carlos, but also the rest of the family who had shared his pride and triumph, from the heights of success to where they were now: ordinary.

As she and her father were doing the dishes later in the afternoon when Aunt Rosa and Uncle Lonnie had gone, Carli brought the subject up again.

“He mentioned you, Daddy.”
“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she imitated her father’s tone.  “He said you fought with more heart than anyone in the ring.”

“Yeah, well, I had a lot to fight for.  Before you got here, your Aunt Rose told me that Alma is pregnant again.  Rose says you’d think five babies is enough and she asked her if she didn’t know how to stop.”  Carlos chuckled.  “Five babies, that’s a lot of kids.”

“She’s a good mother,” Carli said, recognizing that the subject of Mick Mantoro was not a welcome one.  She followed her father’s direction and the talk turned to family events.

Her attempt to tell her family about her interview had failed.  It was probably a good thing she hadn’t told them that Mick Mantoro had asked her for a date and she’d accepted.

She’d told him that he couldn’t pick her up.  She’d meet him, she said, at the coffee shop.  “Try to be inconspicuous,” she’d told him when they’d finished their meal at the restaurant and he’d said he wanted to see her again.  She’d agreed, but she didn’t want to attract attention.  He’d sounded amused; was she ashamed of being seen with a boxer, he’d asked.  No, she’d replied; if boxing was good enough for Joyce Carol Oates, it was good enough for her.  But she had studying to do and if the paparazzi found out that Mick Mantoro was robbing the cradle, they’d start hounding her and she’d never get her work done.

Why had she agreed to go out with him?  Why hadn’t she just left the interview where it ended, at the restaurant? She had pursued the interview so that she could prove that Mantoro was all show, no substance, an icon with nothing but image, a statue without a plinth.  Her father was the real hero.  But she had been disarmed by Mantoro’s praise of the boxer he’d beaten; and, if she were honest, she had to admit that her curiosity was piqued by the reference to her, to Carlos Jimenez’s daughter.  She wondered what he’d been intending to say about her before she’d interrupted his sentence by choking on her wine.

He didn’t tell her where they were going; he just told her to dress casually and comfortably.  Which was a good thing because her wardrobe didn’t lend itself to red carpet events. She chose black jeans, a black-red-and-cream sweater with a knitted red scarf that complemented her pale hair, and black boots.  She wore, as she always did, the diamond stud earrings that her father had given to her mother on the day Carli was born.  When Hilary Hanover Jimenez died, Carlos, his eyes red and wet with tears, had given them to Carli.  He’d told her, “Your mother was my diamond. Now you’re her diamond.”  It was more than a bequest; she’d understood that, even as a nine-year-old girl.  It was a charge.

She was standing in front of the coffee shop when she noticed the driver’s side window of the red Mustang across the street.  It was rolling down.  “How inconspicuous do I have to be?”  Mick Mantoro’s face appeared.

She crossed the street.  By the time she’d reached the car, Mantoro was out of the car and on the driver’s side, holding the door open for her.
“Is this what you call traveling incognito?”  she asked when he entered the car and got behind the wheel.

“There are lots of Mustangs.  I’m still not sure why I have to sneak you out on a date.”
“I told you, I don’t want people to see me with you.  They’ll think I’m looking for a father figure.”

Stopped at a red light, Mantoro used the time to give her a long, speculative gaze, eyebrows raised, eyes intent and searing.  “I should warn you,” he told her as the light turned green and the Mustang moved forward, “I’m not feeling fatherly right now.  Are you feeling daughterly?”
If he only knew.  She kept her eyes focused ahead although she knew that he’d turned his head again to look at her.  “Now that you mention it, no.”
“That’s better.”

“So where are we going?”
“You limited my options.”

“Because I said we couldn’t go anywhere where photographers would be likely to notice you?  Why?  Is it that hard for you to stay away from the limelight?”

“Most reporters who interview me are a little less cynical.”
“Boxing inspires cynicism.”

“You’re too young to be cynical.”
“Are you cynical?”
“No. I’ve been too fortunate to be cynical.  Am I still being interviewed?”
“Will that change your answers?”
“Maybe.”
They were in an unfamiliar part of town, one with tree-lined streets in a residential neighborhood where the houses were well-maintained but not extravagant.  Christmas decorations, not yet taken down although the holiday had ended three weeks earlier, lighted the street with joyful angels, reindeer, and sleighs.  Mantoro made two more turns and then pulled into the parking lot of what, according to the wooden sign in front, was the Community Public Library.

“The library?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.  Do you think boxers only hang out in bars and gyms?”

Those were two of her father’s favorite haunts, not for the drinking—he could make a bottle of beer last until halftime when he was watching Monday Night Football—but for the camaraderie, the memories of games and matches, and the aroma of sports. Her father had given up smoking when he married her mother, but he liked the fermented scent of tobacco and alcohol.

“Are you going to check out a book?” she inquired, getting out of the car.

“I’m a regular here, believe it or not.”
It was a nice-looking library, in a sedate, other-century kind of way. Even when she went inside, the row of computers against the wall almost seemed out of place among the wooden shelving and tables.  The mural on the wall was an array of book covers, and author names from Homer through Steinbeck.  Mantoro led the way past the circulation desk into a rabbit warren of offices.

“Mickey!” greeted a dark-haired woman wearing a brightly colored skirt that reached past her knees and a bright red shawl over a cream-colored blouse.  She arose from her desk; the nameplate on the door read Rita Mantoro Rothstein.

Mantoro?  The billionaire boxer was related to a librarian?
There was a glint in Mantoro’s eyes as he stood next to the woman, as if he knew what Carli was thinking.  “Reet, I’d like you to meet Carli Hanover. Carli, my sister Rita Rothstein.”

Carli’s hand was taken between Rita’s two hands, the nails extravagantly manicured in red tips dotted with silver stars.  “Carli, nice to meet you.”  She gave her brother a speculative glance.  “A little young for you, isn’t she?”
“That’s what she keeps saying,” Mantoro said, unperturbed by his sister’s candor. “She’s convinced I’m five steps away from AARP.”

“Boxers age faster,” Rita Rothsten said.  “When are you getting out of the ring?  Are you going to fight Guerrara?  He says you’re afraid of him.”
“I read that,” Mantoro replied.  “You saw my answer.”
Carli had read it too, in the
New York Post
.  When asked if he would accept the younger boxer’s challenge, Mantoro had replied that he had to wait for his social calendar to accept the challenge.  It was a glib answer, and a popular one, but it revealed the truth of the sport.  There was always a younger boxing prince climbing his way up, waiting to dethrone the sitting king.  Carli wondered what Mantoro really thought.

“I wish you’d just quit,” Rita said. “You’ll mess up that pretty face if you wait too long.”  She smiled at Carli. “Mickey got all the looks in the family.  We want to preserve him.  So this is where he takes you on a date?”
“It’s not a date—“ Carli disputed.

“Yes it is,” Mantoro retorted.  “She won’t let me take her any place where she’d be seen. She’s ashamed of being seen with a boxer.”
“No, I’m not,” Carli protested.

Rita patted her hand.  “Relax, honey. If you can keep Michael Mantoro guessing, you’re managing to do more than most women.  You’re here for the movie?”
Mantoro nodded.  “I figured it’ll be good for her.  Young thing that she is, she probably knows nothing about boxing movies.”
 

Following Rita, they walked down a hallway into a small room seating forty or so chairs. On an easel was a sign that read “Box Office Boxing: Featuring Commentary by Boxing Heavyweight Champion Michael “Mick” Mantoro.

As Mantoro was greeted familiarly by the audience, Rita explained.  “We did a fundraiser in the fall. Anyone donating $250 or more would be a guest at one of our movie nights.  The theme for tonight is boxing, and we’re showing ‘Rocky.’   You’ve never seen it?”
Carli had seen every boxing movie ever made: all the
Rocky
movies,
Raging Bull, Million Dollar Baby
—Carlos Jimenez didn’t like it, he didn’t like girls in the ring—
The Champ, the Joe Palooka
films,
Cinderella Man, The Joe Louis Story,
and others. Her father was no film critic but he was a relentless critic of bad boxing and he enjoyed ranking the movies based on their authenticity.

“I’ve seen it,” she replied.

“That’s a relief,” Mantoro said.  “I was wondering if there’s any hope for this younger generation.”

Rita ushered Carli to a seat and sat beside her while Mantoro went to the front of the room.  A large-screen television was mounted on the wall. It was a room designed for function rather than esthetics, but framed movie and television posters from
Lawrence of Arabia, Gone with the Wind,  Roots, To Sir With Love
, and others attested to the its purpose. Stenciled above the posters was the legend “From Book to Box Office.”

“Mickey didn’t mind me using him as a pledge reward,” Rita whispered.  “We made quite a bit of money off this campaign.  We’ve been running a movie a week since January and we’re going into the first two weeks of February; that’s how many people donated money so that they could listen to Mickey give some boxing play-by-play for the series.  Are you really dating Mickey?”
 

Fortunately, Carli was saved from having to answer because the move started, the score wrapping the audience in the beloved tale of Rocky Balboa.  Although she’d seen it many times, Carli was caught up in the drama, and at the conclusion, she joined the audience, crying out “Adrian” along with Rocky as his victory extended beyond the boxing ring.  “Can you lend me a hand?” Rita asked.  “We’ve got cookies and coffee after the movie; Mickey will be chatting and signing autographs.  He’s really good about things like this; I know that you’ve probably heard a lot of things, but he’s a good guy. I’m sorry if I sounded rude when I met you.”
“You didn’t sound rude.”
“I shouldn’t have made that comment about you being so young.  But he’s my brother and I just don’t want him to end up with a broken heart.”

Mantoro insisted on driving her home.  “I promise that I won’t start stalking you,” he said.  “But I’m not leaving a woman alone to make her way home at ten o’clock at night.”

She couldn’t argue with his logic.  He didn’t know that her father had made sure she knew how to defend herself.  So, reluctantly, she told him where she lived, in an old 19
th
century mansion that had been turned into apartments for college students.
“How’s the security?” he asked her as he parked in front of the house.

“It’s fine.  I don’t need an escort.”
“What about a guest for the night?”
She laughed.
“It was worth a try.  I’d like to see you again.”
“Why?”  She was genuinely curious.  She’d seen photographs and footage of the women he’d dated.  She wasn’t in their league.  Sure, she was a natural blonde, and people told her that she had beautiful blue eyes, and she figured that her features were okay.  But she was short and slender, small-breasted, and compared to the statuesque cleavage queens that he was usually seen with, she just didn’t measure up.  Rita’s concern that her brother’s heart would be broken by a 21-year old graduate student who took the subway because she didn’t own a car and owed her wardrobe to the thrift store was sheer fantasy.  Her involvement with Mick Mantoro had begun as an assignment to camouflage her need to bring him down as he had brought her father down.  Now she was confused.  He was charming; she acknowledged that.  He was a good listener.  He could laugh at himself.  He was smart.  Smart enough to take her to the library for what was an unexpected kind of date, if they’d been on a date.  She wasn’t sure what to call the evening, and she wasn’t at all sure if she should see him again, as much as she wanted to.

“Because I want to.”

“That tells me nothing.”

“Go out with me and I’ll tell you more.”

“Go where?”
“My place.”

No-holds-barred brown eyes met wary blue eyes. He made no effort to conceal his desire for her. His eyes were naked and she wondered what he would look like when his body was an exposed as his expression.
“Your place?”
“You said you don’t want to go anywhere in public.  So we’ll go out to dinner somewhere and then we’ll go back to my place and get to know each other better.  If you want me to take you home, I will.  If you want to stay the night . . . I’ll make it a night you won’t regret. What do you say?”

“I don’t know.  Let me think about it.”
“What’s to think about?” he asked reasonably.  “You either do or you don’t.  Attraction isn’t something you think about.”
“Okay.”

“Saturday night?  I’ll pick you up at six?”

“Okay.  Remember, I’m a jeans and boots girl.”
“Do you own a dress?”
 

“Yes, I own a dress, I own several, but it’s January, and it’s cold.  Why?  I can’t go out in jeans?”
Mantoro leaned back against the car seat.  “A woman who looks like you do can wear anything she wants.”
“Is there a dress code?”

“No,” he said.  “I just want to see your legs.”

He was smiling, waiting for her to react, implicitly acknowledging that he had spoken the truth and daring her to challenge him for a compliment that was based on more than her physical appeal. She could defend herself against his lust, it was what she expected from him.  But if he undermined her with an interest in something deeper, in her mind, or her thoughts, she would have no armor against him, or against her own growing yearning to know him as something other than the man who defeated her father in a boxing match.

She spent the next morning writing the article from the interview with Mantoro. It was hard going because, no matter how objective she tried to be, her writing was interrupted by subjective intrusions: the intoxicating eyes that drank to her over the rim of his wine glass; the full-lipped smile that dared her to acknowledge his desire; the touch of his hand that, even through the barrier of winter gloves, conveyed heat.  Was she infatuated with him, she asked herself angrily, or had it just been so long since she’d been in a relationship that she was falling for the blatant sexual attractions of a man who had trophy women at his beck and call. Bed and call, she thought ironically.  How many women . . .

And was she jealous of those women, she wondered?   How could she be jealous of women who had loved and been loved by a man she claimed to despise, a man who was an enemy in her family’s eyes, who was the cause of her father’s fall from boxing’s heights?  

It wasn’t working.  She shut down her computer and put on her boots before heading to the library.   She earned a small income by tutoring undergraduates in English; the money helped pay the rent and honed her teaching skills.  Her writing was another sideline to earn money; Carli’s goal was academia, to teach American literature as a professor.  She wondered what Mick Mantoro would have thought of that.  American literature; the poetry of Phillis Wheatley, the melodrama of Harriet Beecher Stowe, as well as women like Louisa May Alcott, women who unwittingly built the foundation for the feminism that would catch fire a century later.  Her father, who had never read any of the writers she admired, was proud of her ambition.  Having a professor in the family, he had told her, would have made her mother proud.

Tutoring struggling students in a subject she loved was frustrating.  As she rode the subway back to her apartment, she let her mind wander.  Mick Mantoro had known financial struggles as a student, but he’d managed to turn his talents and his degree into an empire. He did what he wanted to do, he bought what he wanted to buy, he didn’t worry about paying the rent or his father’s lost acclaim or what he was going to do to achieve his goals.  He’d achieved them.  He was rich, famous, a champion not only of boxing but in the business world.

By the time Mantoro came to pick her up on Saturday night, she’d worked herself into a dizzying whirl of thoughts.  Why had she agreed to go out with Mantoro when she knew the destination was ultimately his home?  Would seeing his opulent lifestyle close up and personal make her resent him more for all that he had?  Could she stand firm against his allure?

She was prepared for him coming to the door; she was standing on the porch, waiting.  He was early, but she’d expected that as well.  “You look frozen,” he said.  “Why did you wait outside?  Because you didn’t want anyone to see me?” he answered his own question.

Thinking about him had made her weary. “It’s not quite that simple.”

“This might surprise you, but I can handle complicated thoughts.”
“That’s not what I meant.”

“Dinner first?”
“I’m starving.”
“Good.  What are you hungry for?”
You, she wanted to say. I’m hungry for you, and I don’t want to be.
“Anything. I’m easy to please.”
“I doubt that.  When in doubt, Italian.”

The restaurant he chose was a small one with only ten tables in the dining area and a tantalizing scent of tomato sauce, garlic, and seasonings that met them at the door.  Here again, the staff knew Mantoro by name, but their greetings were friendly and discreet, with no attempt to call attention to their famous guest and his date.  As soon as they were seated, and they had removed their coats, a waitress came out with a basket of thick-crusted bread.  The wine wasn’t a five-digit vintage, but it was tasty.  Mantoro raised his glass.  “To an evening with a beautiful young woman.”
Carli raised her glass.  “To an evening with a handsome older man.”
“Give me a chance,” he said, his voice playful, his gaze pinioning her with its intensity, “and I’ll show you the benefits of those years of experience.”

She looked down at the menu.  “I’m going to order something with lots of garlic; you may rethink that overnight invitation.”
“I’m Italian, remember?  Garlic is perfume to us.  What about you?”
“What about me?”

“Hanover is a pretty unrevealing name.  English? German?”
“Yes,” she replied.  It was true, at least her mother’s half of it.  “But we like garlic too. What about your Irish side?”
“My mother is many things, but an enthusiastic cook she is not.  My father did the cooking.”
She’d read that his mother was widowed; his father had died five years ago from a heart attack.  At least he’d had both of his parents into adulthood. 

Was she glad that her mother had died before Carlos Jimenez lost his title?  No.  There was no championship that was worth her mother’s life.

Mick Mantoro hadn’t been responsible for her mother’s death.  Trying to hold him accountable for the hard times her father had experienced was irrational.

‘What are you thinking about?”

“My dad,” she said before she had time to filter her answer.

“You’re close to him?”
“Yes. I think I’ll have the shrimp scampi.”

He had noticed the abrupt change in topic, but made no comment.  After their orders were taken, he took her hand in his.  She tried to pull her hand away but his grip was firm. “You don’t want your father to know about us,” he deduced.

That was certainly true. “No, I don’t.”
“That doesn’t give us much of a future.”
“No, it doesn’t.”

His touch, the clasp of her hand in his, the warmth of his skin against hers, told them both what she didn’t want to admit in words. Mantoro released her hand; his face wore a winner’s smile.