Spicing Up Trouble: a romantic comedy (20 page)

"Marry her or I will," Mr. Cobb said.

"I doubt at this moment she'd have either one of us," Ben said as he cut his steak.

The cutlery sawed on the fine china.

"I like the museum idea. Did you buy that dress?" Mr. Cobb asked.

The clinking of ice in a glass told me he had sipped some water.

"How could you tell?" Ben asked..

"A woman like Alexia would never wear a seductive outfit to meet her prospective father-in-law."

"I wanted to throw you off. Distract you to gain the upper hand."

"Son, it will never happen." He patted Ben's shoulder. One solid thud met another.

"Alexia doesn't realize you're her future relative yet."

"When are you going to spring it on her?"

"I'll see if she's still speaking to me first. How did you figure the marriage angle out?" Ben's knife stopped. He must be drinking the scotch.

"One, you have never invited a woman to live in your apartment. Two, I've never met any of your women. Three, you already have a staff. They answer your mail, handle your accounts, and schedule your life. What is Alexia doing?"

What?

"She wanted to earn her keep. She feels she needs to contribute. So I asked at the office. Mary's taking time off to be with her mom. She broke her leg and will be laid up for a couple of weeks. Alexia sorts through mail and types letters. Doris is impressed with her progress. Plus Alexia came up with the museum idea."

"What will Alexia do when she finds out about your staff?"

"I'm hoping things between us will be settled by then."

Who ordered the wedding to go? I put a hand on the counter to steady myself as Denise beamed at me.

"Good luck. I don't mean to kill this budding romance, but I like her."

"I knew you would. I don't plan on holding it against her."

Humiliated, and it was all my fault. I continued to play the fool. Spin me every which way he wanted, and I continued to dance. I pushed past Denise to get to the ladies room. Marriage? Did he believe the newspaper's marketing department? We just met. My reflection in the mirror told me what I already knew. Ruined makeup, raccoon eyes and all. My hair, a discarded nest of horror. I should leave now before I scared someone, but instead, opened my purse and began to repair myself.

I straightened my shoulders and took the long walk back to the boxing ring. Both men stood and moved the table so I could resume my seat.

"I value honesty above all things. You should have told me I was filling in for someone," I said to Ben.

"I forgot about your eavesdropping skills."

"I see them as survival skills."

"Touché," Mr. Cobb said as he sliced up his steak.

"Alexia, I meant to tell you about the staff, but you have been doing a great job," Ben said without skipping a beat.

"I know. I've brokered the peace between two warring nations. I expect to hear from the Nobel committee in the morning," I said as I slid my napkin on my lap.

Mr. Cobb laughed as he put his fork down.

"So, when do I meet my co-workers?" I asked.

"You're in charge of the schedule. Make a date."

We ate the rest of the meal in silence. Mr. Cobb paid the check, bid us adieu, and left.

*   *   *

I decided, on the ride home, Ben was entitled to his secrets. I should have realized more the one person was necessary to oversee the Cobb empire. One more cog in the wheel.

"Alexia, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about my staff," Ben said when we arrived at his building.

"I should care, but I don't. I like being paid and being useful. Plus this is part time. I'll need to look for a real job soon," I said as I let myself out of the car.

"No, you don't get off that easy. The museum is your job now. No reason to look any farther. Plus I want you to stay and model for me," he said as he fell in step with me.

"Do you have any other reasons for me to stay?" We crossed the lobby to the elevator.

He exhaled and smiled at me as the doors closed. His dimple would be my undoing.

"When we met, you took my breath away, made me stutter, even had to leave the room to get a handle on my emotions. I've been waiting for you all my life. I opened the right door and found my love." He leaned in for a kiss.

I hiccupped and my nose ran, but I did my best to pucker up.

"Bad timing?" he asked.

"Perfect." I shook my head and hugged him tight.

I didn't know about patience or kindness, but love was ours and, hopefully, here to stay.

In the morning, I caught a flash of his muscular thigh as Ben sported a towel skirt. He answered a text then rifled through the armoire for underwear. I pulled up the sheet and plumped up his pillow for a better view.

"Better hurry up. We have a meeting scheduled for this morning in forty-five minutes. The architect called to reschedule due to a family emergency," he said.

He spoke more after that, but my hearing shut down as I drooled. I'd fantasized about mythical gorgeous guys. They spoke to me, danced with me, and sometimes kissed me. I didn't go all the way because I knew I'd have a new dream lover by the end of the week. I didn't want to hurt anyone's fake feelings. If I had one, I'd have to have them all.

"Alexia?"

He wasn't a figment of my imagination. Ben loved me. He told his dad he might marry me.

"Are you all right?" he asked as he sat on the bed, buttoning his shirt.

I kissed him because I was more than okay, I was happier than everyone on the planet and beyond. My brain knocked on my libido to see if anyone had heard what he said.

I sat up and put my hand on his chest.

"Who we?" I asked after a quick rewind.

"You, me, and my father."

"What?"

"The architect's assistant said a distant family member died, he has to take his mom to the funeral and will be out of town for a few days," he said as he dropped the towel and slid on his boxers. "You need to get dressed."

"I'm not going. This is between you and your dad."

"Alexia, it's time to own your brilliant idea and get into the details of the museum. Plus my dad likes you. He'll ignore me if you're there."

Naïve little me, the girl who wanted to be interesting, accomplished, and noticed. I trudged to the shower and turned the faucet to cold. Hopefully, I would wake up from this nightmare before I made a fool of myself.

A half hour later, we met Mr. Cobb in the lobby of our building, and Mark drove us to the architect's office. The meeting lasted an hour with the Cobb men battering the architect with questions and comments. I silently took notes and hoped I got all the information right.

As we headed home, conversation in the back seat revolved around Mr. Cobb telling silly stories about Ben as a child. I laughed and tried to imagine my ultimate male as a little boy.

"At age eight, Ben decided he could draw. Quite proud of his first painting. So I said, 'What is it?' 'My dog, Tar.' It resembled a bus with a tail. Helen framed it and put it in Ben's room. Every day he came with a different picture. He believed all of them were suitable for framing. His mother complied until his wall dripped of dreadful artwork."

"My official gallery," Ben said with a smile.

"Two weeks later, little league started. Some of his friends came over to trade baseball cards. They went in Ben's room and surveyed the wall. Ben's first show so to speak. They all asked the same question. 'What is it?' He couldn't believe they couldn't see the obvious. Imagine what ten pictures splattered with black paint looked like to four eight-year-old boys? Absolute junk," Mr. Cobb said as he laughed through the recollection.

"They still have no taste," Ben added.

"He told them to have their eyes examined and leave. All the boys praised his mother's framing and encouragement. Their moms never did that. As for art, you see his fondness for black is long and deep. Also it left a deep scar. He still refuses to show much of his work in public. Afraid, boy?"

Ben scowled at his father.

"What happened to Tar?" I asked, hoping to keep the conversation light.

"He died a warrior's death. He chased a squirrel up a tree, didn't watch for cars, and got nailed," Ben said.

"How did that make him a warrior?" I asked.

"He followed the ancient inborn creed of dogs. Chase all small fur balls," Ben said with a hint of emotion.

"Were you upset?" I asked.

"Almost a man at thirteen. I cried for days."

"Did you get another dog?" I asked as I slid my arm around his shoulders.

"He discovered girls instead and has followed the other ancient inborn creed ever since," Mr. Cobb said.

"Another creed?" I asked.

"Chase every one," his father said.

We arrived at his hotel.

"And on that cheery note, children, I shall leave you. I hope to see you soon, Alexia. I enjoyed your company immensely. You're enchanting. The museum will be glorious," he said as he took my hand and kissed it. "I expect to see you, too, Ben."

"I'll have to check my schedule."

Mr. Cobb had set him up with me. Would we discuss the past and all the painted ladies?

"Good day, all." He flashed a triumphant smile and left.

He had won round two.

"My father has a charming wickedness about him. He seems courtly one minute and a complete rogue the next."

"Just like you."

"You think I'm wicked." He put his hand to his chest to feign innocence.

"Yes, I feel I'm under a spell. Your father is implying you have been well acquainted with numerous women."

"There haven't been that many women."

"Do you have an actual total or a vague estimate?" I asked and didn't want to know.

Mark dropped us at the curb of our building. The sympathetic look he shot Ben told me he'd heard our conversation.

We hiked up to the condo, and he led me to the couch.

"Do you want to play truth or dare?" he asked.

Not especially, but I went first.

"You're my fourth lover," I offered.

"This year?"

"Ever," I said as I crossed my legs.

With a surprised look on his face, he cleared his throat, and then studied me again.

"How many guys have you dated?"

"Ten or so. Some were one and done. He never called back or I didn't answer. Do you keep a complete list of your past flings?"

"I dropped out of college after a month, moved to Paris, and would wake up with women I didn't remember. I drank heavily then. Full self-destructive mode. Whiskey, women, painting, and cigarettes were my only interests. I drew some of my conquests. Two of those paintings hang in the Art Institute."

"I've seen those. The titles are appropriate."

"Yes, most of my models at that time were one-night stands. Women found out I was an American painter, and their clothes would evaporate. They threw themselves at me, and I happily obliged."

"Sounds familiar," I said, pretending to notice my chipped nail polish.

"When I finally sobered up and made my reluctant return to America, the cycle threatened to start again. I crushed my remaining cigarettes and adopted scotch with a three-drink maximum. I stopped painting portraits of my dates and paid models instead. It dawned on me the women I chose wanted my fame and money, not me."

"Do you have any STDs or children?" I asked.

The drugs and drinking didn't lend themselves to safe sex. Look who was talking? I hadn't insisted on a condom every time either. This guy became my drug of choice. I'd do anything for one more taste.

"My lab reports have come back negative for years. As for offspring, I think I would have been notified by now," he said.

I didn't know him then, there were no vows between us, and the past was better left to gather dust. Nothing to be forgiven, our life together started now.

"You could drive me crazy and tell me about the men you dated," he said as he put his arm around my shoulder.

"I don't want to bruise your delicate feelings."

"I appreciate it."

"One more question is nagging me. If it's too personal, tell me to back off. How old were you when…"

How rude and none of my business. And if he mentioned a brothel, I would choke.

He smiled and rubbed his chin. He enjoyed his trip down memory lane, compliments of my curiosity.

"I lost my virginity at fifteen. Richard Grant's eighteen-year-old daughter made the rounds. Grant tried to do a business deal with my father. He invited us to dinner when my mother was out of town. The fathers retired to the patio, and we dashed upstairs. The whole thing took twenty minutes. She drained me and went back downstairs to dry the dishes. I never saw her again but heard she married a Congressman and is living in Washington, DC."

"Did you tell your father?"

"Didn't have to. He could tell by looking at me."

"How did you look?"

"Relieved."

Since he was in the mood to be interrogated, I continued.

"How many paintings have you done? I know the Art Institute has a couple. I've seen a few photographs in magazines from the ones you sold."

He winced.

"I hate myself for selling any. Young and flattered, I wanted to prove to my father I could make money from painting. A few savvy buyers showed up at my loft one day with a lot of francs. I sold eighty and have cursed myself every day since. They reproduced the paintings on note cards and posters. It made me sick, but I couldn't admit it. I had bragged to my father about the easy money. Afterward, I stopped cold. Never let another painting out of my sight. I've done over one thousand paintings. I've kept one hundred and fifty."

"You still have all of them?"

"Yep. Under lock and key. Air-cooled comfort. Twenty-four hour surveillance."

"They are worth a fortune. Are they insured?"

"No, they will be worth real money when I'm dead."

"That's a horrible but true thought. Where are they?"

"In a bank vault. I rent space in the old Continental Bank building. The empty vaults are perfect. They are happy to have me. Would you like a tour?"

"Very much."