Just then a man at the table across the aisle made an audible remark about Leigh being “a very merry widow,” and she dropped her hands, sobering.
“I’ll be taking care of you myself tonight, just like you wanted,” Frank said. “I’ll tell your aunt you’re here.” He turned to leave, but Michael said something to him in a low voice, and he nodded.
Leigh watched him walk away; then she looked at Michael. “The ‘Billy’ in those stories was Trumanti’s nephew, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t Frank know how he died?”
“Of course.”
“Then, I don’t understand why Frank would bring Bill up, when he clearly has a deep affection for you.”
“That’s why he does it,” Michael said, anxious to move to another subject before her mood was irreparably darkened. “It’s his way of proving that he has no doubt that what happened between Bill and me was an accident. Put differently, Frank thinks that the act of hiding something implies guilt—or in his case, a belief in the guilt of another.”
“That makes a kind of sense—” Leigh began; then she faltered as she noticed two waiters marching down the aisle carrying a large piece of lattice about four feet wide and eight feet high that was covered with silk ivy. They deposited it on the floor directly beside the table of diners across the aisle who’d been talking about Leigh moments before. It completely blocked the group’s view of Leigh, but it also crowded the other table enough to make one of the men complain that he couldn’t move in his chair.
“Is that better?” Michael asked.
Leigh tore her gaze from the ivy-covered barrier he’d just had installed, then she looked at the man who’d arranged for it without a qualm or concern for the paying customers’ rights or comfort. It hit her then why there were still two empty tables on either side of theirs, even though at least fifty people were still waiting to be seated. She had no doubt that Michael had provided the money for the restaurant, and that if Logan had been in Michael’s position, he, too, would have felt bad that she was uncomfortable. However, he would never have done anything that might have had negative financial repercussions, including offending four customers. She looked at her self-appointed protector and felt a surge of gratitude and poignant tenderness that she didn’t attempt to hide. “Thank you,” she said simply.
Michael looked into those candid, long-lashed eyes and marveled anew that fame and success hadn’t changed or hardened her one bit. She could walk past a battalion of reporters with the poise and grace of a queen, but when he’d joked about their pictures on the front page of the Daily News, she’d hidden her laughing face against his chest and clung to his lapels. Seated across from him wearing a sophisticated black sheath and expensive gold choker, she was still as artlessly provocative as she’d been in blue jeans, chasing oranges. He smiled at the memory and said, “You’re very welcome.”
Leigh registered a new, subtle change in his voice, but instead of recognizing it as intimacy, she chose it as a topic. “I can understand why I didn’t recognize your face when we met at the party, but I still can’t believe I didn’t recognize your voice. I should have begun to realize who you were while we were speaking. You had—have—a very distinctive quality to your voice.”
“What kind of quality?”
She glanced away, trying to describe it for him, oblivious of any double meaning he might infer from her choice of words. “Very smooth. Very . . . sexy. Very, very deep.”
Leaning back in his chair, Michael let his eyes drift over the elegant curve of her cheek and the soft swell of her breasts, his finger slowly stroking the curve of his wineglass.
NEARLY TWO HOURS LATER, Leigh declined dessert while Mrs. Angelini again urged her to have it. “I can’t swallow another bite of food,” Leigh told her. “I really can’t.” The meal had been wonderful and so had Michael. He didn’t try to make her forget her problems, but he made her feel as if she were completely safe from them—as if nothing could wound her or touch her because he wouldn’t let it. It was more than a feeling, it was a fact. Leigh knew it was, as surely as she knew she did not want to examine the reasons for any of it.
Mrs. Angelini leaned down and gave her an impulsive hug. “It is so good to see you smiling. Michael knows how to make you happy, and you know how to make him happy. Life is good.”
During their meal, she had appeared at the table several times, hovering over them as if she could not tear herself away. She hesitated again, knowing they were leaving. “Long, long ago, when Michael went to see you in that play, I told him he should tell you how he felt.”
With her senses delightfully dulled by fine wine, rich food, and cozy candlelight, Leigh’s only reaction was one of surprise that Michael had seen her in a play “long, long ago.” “What play did you see?” she asked.
“Constellations.”
Stunned, Leigh burst out laughing, and looked from Mrs. Angelini’s happy face to Michael’s unreadable one. “I don’t have to ask him how he felt about that play; it was awful! That was my first professional appearance as an actress.”
“The play was bad,” he said impassively. “You weren’t.”
The odd timing finally hit Leigh. “But—but that was back when you were working at the store. I didn’t know you liked the theater. You never said you did. Of course,” she added with an accusing smile, “you never said you didn’t, either. In fact, you never said much of anything to me, period.”
Mrs. Angelini looked up at a signal from a waiter and nodded. “I must go in a moment,” she told Leigh. “You must stop in the store tonight before you leave.”
“We already did. I should have bought pears there,” Leigh added. “There’s only one other place in New York that has pears as good as yours always were, but they’re very expensive.”
“Dean and DeLuca?” Mrs. Angelini asked.
“Yes, that’s right—”
She nodded. “That is where your pears always came from.”
“What do you mean?”
“Every week, Michael went to Dean and DeLuca to buy your pears.” She shook her head, remembering. “He was going to school, and he had no money, so he stretched every penny like this—” She made a motion as if she were pulling on a rubber band. “But he wanted you to have the best pears. For you, only the best would do.”
Leigh’s gaze bounced to Michael, who was leaning back in his chair, an indescribable expression of resignation and amusement on his face, then she said good-bye to Mrs. Angelini and watched her leave.
When she looked at Michael again, he was still lounging back in his chair, but now his gaze was leveled on her, his fingers on the stem of his wineglass, slowly turning it in a circle.
“You went to Dean and DeLuca and bought pears for me?” she uttered.
He nodded imperceptibly, his inscrutable gaze unwavering.
Leigh could not believe the only explanation that came to mind: He’d bought her those pears, and gone to see her in Constellations. He remembered their first meeting in the store, right down to where it had occurred and what she had been wearing. Fourteen years ago, he’d rescued her from an attack on the street that he shouldn’t have been able to see from inside the store—unless he’d gone to the door to watch her. Or watch out for her? She’d always wondered about her amazing good fortune that night. And now he’d come to her rescue again, at the worst time of her life.
Her heart gave a little lurch at the only possible explanation, but she tried to spare them both embarrassment by pretending confusion when she looked at him. She was, after all, an actress.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
His deep voice was quiet, but his reply forbade further pretense from either of them. “I think you do.”
“No, I’m not sure—”
He didn’t like her continued attempt to evade the issue, and he made it clear by putting his napkin on the table and saying, “Are you ready to leave?”
“Michael, please!” She felt admonished, ashamed, wro
ng. She leaned forward. “You can’t expect me to believe you—you had some sort of crush on me?”
In answer, he lifted his brows and regarded her in silence.
Leigh still couldn’t believe this was possible. She stared blindly at a tree in the fresco beside her, wondering how the man she’d married could have cared so little for her that he regarded adultery as a recreational sport. While the man she was with had—
Across from her Michael said quietly, “Haven’t you had enough lies and deception in your life already?”
She nodded, but focused on a point just to the right of his shoulder because she couldn’t quite meet his gaze.
“There’s nothing to gain by arguing with me about something that you yourself already know to be true, is there?”
She shook her. “No.”
“On the other hand,” he said with a smile in his voice, “it was a long time ago.”
Leigh suddenly felt silly for making so much out of ancient history. “Yes, it was.” Drawing a shaky breath, she shoved her hair back off her forehead and smiled one of those breathtakingly warm smiles that always made Michael want to lean forward and cover her lips with his; then she added, “Thank you for insisting on honesty, and thank you for tonight. It’s been a lovely, unforgettable evening in every way.”
Michael’s body, as well as his intellect, made the decision for him. “The night isn’t over.”
“What do you mean?” she asked as he got up and came around the table to pull back her chair.
“I’d like you to see where I live.”
Leigh’s heart slammed into her rib cage.
Chapter 47
* * *
Leigh slid into the backseat of the Bentley and sat next to Michael in the same place she’d occupied on the way there, but this time, he draped his arm across the back of her seat, a possessive gesture only if he touched her, but he wasn’t touching her. For that she was as profoundly relieved as she was confused about his intentions later.
“How was dinner?” O’Hara asked.
“Very good,” Michael replied after a pause that told Leigh he’d expected her to say something.
Leigh barely noticed. She couldn’t seem to grasp all the implications of the last ten minutes in that restaurant. She hadn’t been able to fully adjust to the things his aunt had told her, and she hadn’t known how to cope with the way he acted after that. At first, he had looked at her in silence, steadily, neither apologizing nor making light of what he’d done. But when she tried to pretend she didn’t understand the meaning of it, he’d made it clear he wouldn’t tolerate evasions. On the one hand, he was perfectly willing to put up a wall in the middle of a restaurant to protect her and he was willing to show her the most amazing kindnesses, but he drew the line at a minor little deception.
She did not understand him at all. She honestly couldn’t believe he intended to try to seduce her tonight; she couldn’t even imagine why he would want to try. And yet . . . there was something about the decisive way he said, “The night isn’t over,” and “I’d like you to see where I live,” that still alarmed her. He was such a magnificent man in so many ways, and she didn’t want anything to spoil the amazing fledgling relationship she’d formed with him. She didn’t know if it was strong enough yet to withstand a conflict over sex, and she didn’t want to put it to the test.
Leigh gave an unsteady sigh and looked out the window. As if he sensed the tumult in her mind, his arm settled around her shoulders, drawing her close for a quick, reassuring hug. He released her almost instantly, but his hand stayed on her upper arm, drifting up and down, soothing.
O’Hara pulled to a stop in front of Michael’s building on Central Park West. “Should I wait here?” he asked Michael as he helped Leigh out of the car. “Or should I come back in a while?”
“Don’t you ever get a night off?” Michael joked.
Leigh’s entire body seemed to lean in the direction of that conversation.
“Nope, never. I’m on duty twenty-four hours a day. It goes with the job.”
“Then tonight’s your lucky night,” he said, closing the car door and the discussion. “I’ll bring her home in a taxi and pick up my car then.”
Chapter 48
* * *
He owned the penthouse, Leigh realized as he put his key into that slot inside the elevator. Too nervous to attempt idle conversation, she rode with him in silence to the twenty-eighth floor.
It was pitch black inside his apartment, but instead of turning on lights, he stopped close behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “May I have your coat?”
His fingers brushed the bare skin of her shoulders when he started to draw it off, and Leigh shivered, pulling it back on. “I think I’ll just keep it on. It’s a little chilly in here.”
“I’ll turn up the thermostat,” he replied firmly.
Leigh relinquished her coat, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness as he opened a door next to them and hung up her coat, then his.
“Ready?” he asked her.
“For what?” she asked uneasily.
“For your first look.” He stepped to one side, and a moment later a series of lights came on, illuminating what looked like an empty acre of gleaming black marble floors that were divided into two circular areas, each on a raised dais with graceful white columns and arches.
There was no furniture! No furniture . . . no bed. No bed . . . no danger to this extraordinary relationship that she treasured more every day.
“I haven’t moved in yet.”
Leigh’s tension over his intentions evaporated in a rush of happy relief. “This is . . . glorious,” she breathed, walking down the foyer steps. “You can see the Hudson from there.” She pointed toward the huge dais on the left and looked questioningly over her shoulder at him.
“That’s the dining room,” he told her. “The dais on the right is the living room.”
She turned back toward him, studying the wide curving staircase near the front door, her gaze moving along the intricate wrought-iron railing that had once adorned a palatial old New York mansion, tracing it across the balcony overhead. “It’s exquisite.”
From there, he guided her toward an arched hallway adjoining the dining room, their footsteps echoing hollowly in the high-ceilinged room.
“You dislike closed-in spaces,” Leigh said, smiling. “So do I.” A big, inviting kitchen was completely open to a family room whose two glass walls at either end had a view of the Hudson River to the west and overlooked Central Park to the east.
The south wall had a stunning alabaster fireplace surrounded by mellow wood panels and wide carved molding, all of it so distinctive that Leigh recognized it at once. “This came from the Sealy mansion.” Clasping her hands behind her back, she slanted him a knowing look over her shoulder. “You were the ‘unnamed bidder’ who paid ‘an undisclosed fortune’ to get it.” She walked over to the windows on the east. “Your views are all breathtaking. I can even see our—my—apartment over there across the park.”
As she spoke, Michael walked over to the bar that was recessed in the wall, the family room shared with the dining area. He took off his suit coat and tie, tossing them over a barstool; then he loosened the top button of his shirt. She joined him at the bar, walking toward him with the same unconscious grace that he’d always admired in her. She’d relaxed the moment she realized his apartment wasn’t furnished, so he intended to give her a glass of brandy to help her relax before she discovered that his bedroom suite was furnished.
She slid onto a barstool, folded her hands, and perched her chin on them. “I had such a lovely time tonight. I love your aunt. It must be nice to live where you grew up, and be able to see people like Frank Morrissey who’ve known you all your life.”
“And whose personal lifetime goal is to assault your dignity every time he has the chance,” Michael joked, locating the bottle of brandy. “The night I walked you home, you told me you were from Ohio. Is that where you were born
?”
“No, I was born in Chicago. My mother was a nurse and I lived with her there until I was four.”
“What about your father?”
“He left her as soon as she got pregnant with me. They weren’t married.”
“How did you end up in Ohio?” He bent down and located some brandy snifters in the moving boxes behind the bar, and then he straightened, but what she said next made him forget the snifters were in his hands.
“When I was four, my mother was told she had what was then an incurable form of fast-spreading cancer, so she sent me to live with my grandmother in Ohio. She thought it would be easier for me to make the adjustment to living permanently without her if she did it that way, in stages. She came to see us often at first, while she was undergoing an experimental treatment at her hospital, and she kept working as long as she possibly could.”
“Then what happened?”
Leigh dropped her hands and spread them, palms down, on the bar as if bracing herself. “One day, when I was five, she hugged me and kissed me good-bye and said she’d see me soon. She didn’t realize there wasn’t going to be another chance for that.”
Leigh’s eyes, her face, her gestures—they were so expressive that they’d drawn him into the story with her, just as they mesmerized and drew in audiences that paid to see her perform. But she wasn’t performing now, this wasn’t a script, and he was a hell of a long way from being an impersonal observer. He had to look down and concentrate on pouring the brandy to break free of the spell. “Do you remember her well?”
“Yes, and no. I remember loving her and being excited to see her. I remember she read me stories at bedtime, and—as odd as this seems under the circumstances—I truly remember her as being happy and gay when we were together. And yet she knew she was dying, that her life was ending before it had a chance to begin.”
This time, he met her gaze. “You must have inherited her gift.”
“What gift?”
“Her gift for acting.”