Jim hadn’t moved, not an eyelash, not a finger, not a flicker of emotion betrayed his thoughts. “Let me get this straight. Amy says you’re engaged. You say you’re not. But if I’m thinking about jerking my financing, you’ll marry her?”
Rocco’s grip on the chair arms turned white-knuckled. “I don’t know. I thought I could.” He looked out the window, as though some solution would appear streaming out behind a small plane in little puffs of skywriting smoke. But the sky was empty of advice. “It seemed like a semireasonable solution when I walked in here,” he said, while every nerve and cell in his brain was screaming NO! “But, now”—he suddenly shook his head—“no . . . I can’t.”
“I’m gratified to hear it,” Jim said with a faint smile.
“Really?” Rocco felt like the guy in those old grainy black-and-white movies strapped in the electric chair who gets the governor’s last-minute reprieve. But his relief was short-lived, quickly replaced by renewed apprehension. “What about your financing?” he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.
“Look,” Jim said, gruffly, “I didn’t decide to put money into your company just for the hell of it. I expect to make a profit on my investment. So, this isn’t about Amy. Although, don’t get me wrong, she’s going to be disappointed. Marcy and I will be too.” Jim half-smiled. “I would have liked you for a son-in-law. But this is business, Rocco.” His voice suddenly took on an edge Rocco had never heard before. “I don’t put my money in start-up ventures on a whim. I’ll get a good return on my investment or know the reason why. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Just so we don’t have any misunderstandings.”
The office shrunk back to normal—only half a football field. “I’m really sorry about—well . . . all the rest—how everything got out of hand.”
Jim’s gaze was warm once again, familiar. “What the hell—we can be business partners anyway. Although you know I do have to talk to Amy about this. Hear her side of the story.” He smiled. “She can be a little high-strung and demanding at times. Hell, I can be too . . . and maybe Marcy and I have been a little too indulgent. But she can be a sweet kid. And I’m her dad. You see my point.”
“Yes, sir. Of course.” Shit. As if the words “sweet” and “Amy” were within missile range of each other. He knew it had been going too damned easy.
“Now, tell me about this woman who’s swept you off your feet,” Jim went on as though he’d not just put the Holy Toledo fear of God into Rocco. “I hope she’s not going to take your mind off our business.”
“No, sir. I’m pretty focused.” He took a deep breath, debating how much or how little to say. Then he went with his what-the-hell-more-did-he-have-to-lose play. “But Chloe’s something else. If I knew what it was about her that was rocking my world, I could put it into words. Let’s just say, I was willing to take a real chance to keep her.”
Jim smiled. “I know the feeling. It’s pretty much put me where I am today. I wish you the best.”
But there was that caveat Jim hadn’t mentioned—his talk with Amy. “Thank you, sir.” Rocco wasn’t about to open any can of worms when he’d gotten his conditional okay, though. “I appreciate your understanding,” he said.
TWENTY-NINE
“YOU DID WHAT?” IF EYEBALLS COULD actually spring out of people’s heads like they did in cartoons, Anthony’s eyeballs would have hit the wall. “You fucker!”
“It all worked out. Calm down. Everything’s copacetic.” Okay, he was lying a little, but it was mostly good—save for the loose cannon Amy.
“You’re in love and I almost lose my fucking house! I should nail your cock to the fucking wall!”
“Jeez, relax. No one’s losing anything.” Rocco was the youngest in the family. He was used to being hollered at and told what to do. He was pretty much immune. He was also more of a gambler than his brother. “Jim’s happy as a clam. He wished me the best with Chloe. He wouldn’t say that unless he was cool with everything. Have you got those two samples for me?”
“The way I feel right now, I’d rather throw them down the drain! It would serve you right, asshole!”
“Come on. Lighten up.” Rocco was counting on Jim’s business sense trumping Amy’s lies. “Look at it this way. None of us will have to see Amy at our meetings anymore. She’ll have to find someone else to harass.”
“She could still come.” Anthony wasn’t in the mood to be mollified.
“She won’t, believe me. She was always bored as hell.”
“She’s still going to want to be in the ads.”
“Mary Beth can take care of that.”
“Take care of what?” Mary Beth walked into their small lab.
“Tell her what you did, dipshit. How you almost made us all into street people because you’re in luuuuv.”
“I would have married Amy. I told Jim that. I was going to sacrifice myself for your stupid house.”
“My stupid house? And maybe this stupid business and all the stupid employees we have working for us and your and Beth’s stupid houses too!” Anthony snapped. “I could fucking kill you.”
Mary Beth calmly took a seat. Her brothers regularly disagreed, but their arguments were always short-lived. “You talked to Jim?”
“Yeah. And everything came up roses.” So he had his fingers crossed against the lab table; anyone would. “I don’t know why Anthony’s going nuts. Jim’s still onboard. I don’t have to pretend to be engaged to Amy. I don’t have to marry her, and if Anthony will get over his tantrum, I’d like to get those perfume samples he made for me so I can decide which one I want. Sam at McGillicutty is doing an ad for me.”
“Really, no repercussions at all?” His sister watched him closely.
“No, I swear. Jim’s interested in our company as an investment. He doesn’t require any pound of flesh.”
Mary Beth smiled. “Good, because I didn’t have any luck with financing.”
For a flashing moment Rocco experienced a terrible sinking feeling, like suffering an aftershock after you’ve survived the worst earthquake of the century. He braced himself on the counter top. “Holy shit.” He wasn’t able to suppress his outburst. Maybe he’d better go to church and pray this week.
“No kidding,” Anthony said curtly. “I hope like hell she’s worth it. Here’s your fucking perfume.” Scowling, he shoved two small vials across the white counter top toward Rocco and stalked out of the lab.
“He’s just worried about his family,” Mary Beth murmured.
“I know. In hindsight, it’s pretty scary just thinking about worst-case scenario. I probably was too rash.” Rocco hoped like hell not.
His sister shrugged. “It wasn’t as though you didn’t know Jim. He’s always been reasonable. And the possibility of being married to Amy for the rest of your life might have caused anyone to take a few risks.”
“Thanks. But, I’m feeling a little shell-shocked.”
“Try out the perfumes—see which one you like. I like the first one. The second is a little too citrusy for my taste.”
Mary Beth had always been the voice of reason in a family of hot-tempered people. “Let’s see,” Rocco said, picking up a vial, grateful for her diversion. He could feel his pulse rate lessen as he uncorked the first sample. Holding it under his nose, he inhaled a heady mixture of attar of rose and jasmine with a soft underlay of lily of the valley and an unmistakable let’s-get-naked touch of musk and bourbon vanilla. He looked up and nodded. “Perfect.”
“I like the hint of lily of the valley. It’s playful in contrast to the more potent, sensual scents. Try the other one.”
Rocco tested the second sample and then smelled it again. “Light, sweet, you can smell the freesia, but it doesn’t remind me of passion.”
“It’s a day fragrance—delicate, with a transparent lemony base . . . for work or shopping.”
“Let’s keep it, though. It’s good. But I want this one.” He smiled. “This one is just like her
—memorable, sexy, reminding you of a bed of roses—or any bed.”
“So, now what?”
“I have to find her. She left town this morning.” While all else might be in tumult, he was laser-sure about his search.
“Where did she go?”
“Good question. I talked to her last night from Chicago and everything was fine. But she wasn’t home when I got there. I talked to her mother, though. She thinks she might have gone to the North Shore.”
“You talked to her mother?”
“I couldn’t think of anyone else to call. It’s not as though I know any of her friends. I went through the phone book, called up several Chisholms, most of whom didn’t answer or hung up on me, and found her mother by chance.”
“Did she wonder who you were?”
“She asked me if I was the Rocco who was engaged, so I guess she knew something about me.”
“This reminds me of the time you decided you were going to walk around the world the summer you were sixteen. Single-minded.”
He grinned. “I got as far as San Francisco before I needed a passport.”
“Father and mother were counting on that.”
“Did I tell you I arm wrestled her latest boyfriend for her?”
“I thought you were her latest boyfriend.”
“I’ve been gone a week.”
Mary Beth frowned. “She might not be the type who wants to settle down. I suppose you thought of that before you went in and talked to Jim.”
“If she isn’t, I figure I’ll change her mind.”
“How long have you known her? Seriously, Rocco. I’m afraid you’re going off the deep end for a woman who doesn’t give a damn. I’d hate to see you hurt.” She’d never seen her brother like this—obsessed with a woman. He’d spent most of his life avoiding women obsessed with him. If nothing else, she was curious as hell to meet this phenomenal female.
“I’ll just give this my around-the-world attempt. If I get stopped in San Francisco again, I’ll survive. I did last time.” He grinned. “Don’t worry.” He didn’t want his sister anxious about him when she had enough to concern her, what with the company accounts, her indecisive boyfriend and her baby craving. Anyway, he had no intention of losing on this one. Not a chance. “I’ve a couple of calls to make and then I’m driving north. Any requests from the North Shore—smoked whitefish, one of Betty’s pies, a birch bark basket?”
“I’ll take a pie—blueberry. And good luck.”
“Thanks.” Although, he didn’t need any more luck. His major hurtles were behind him. The rest was like coasting downhill.
THIRTY
CHLOE REALLY WOULD HAVE TO FIND OUT that actor’s name on The Forsyte Saga. She’d had such lovely orgasms thanks to him and her handy dandy vibrator. And she’d forgotten to think of Rocco for vast minutes at a time—once for almost twenty minutes. Of course, it was while she was watching a terrible program on some gruesome murder that had sucked her in like those semi-documentary programs do, titillating you with little bits of evidence until you’re compelled to find out if the husband murdered the wife or vice versa, or whether some man killed five wives in succession before he was finally caught because he tried to sell his last wife’s really fabulous piece of family jewelry to the jeweler who had originally made it.
But once that gruesome program was over, she was back on her emotional, no-win track, desperately wanting a man who didn’t deserve to be wanted desperately by anyone. He was altogether too selfish and philandering and mendacious to regard with any kind of permanence.
The word “permanence” leaped out and hung in the air, as though she’d exhaled it and it had become a helium word.
Was she really so besotted that she was thinking of Rocco as an object of her affections—permanently? It was laughable, but when she tried to laugh, she found herself crying instead.
Perhaps she shouldn’t drink any more wine. It was making her maudlin. As was the continuing unhappiness in The Forsyte Saga, she decided, switching the channel to the news. Which was not entirely happy either, she realized, quickly switching to the Home and Garden channel, where some man was building a pergola in only five hours—shown in fast-forward sequences. When he was done, he hung a hammock inside, set a few pots of flowers about and made it seem as though anyone could drill those holes and lift those heavy beams and balance on those tippy ladders. In a way, she found his unrealistic optimism depressing as well.
Or maybe she was in the kind of mood where nothing would raise her spirits.
Surveying the ravages of various meals and snacks strewn on her bed, the crushed packages of chips and cookies, the half-eaten food on the room-service trays, the various wine bottles and dishes of melting ice cream, she found herself dissolving in tears once again.
Was this scene a metaphor for her life?
Discarded food, discarded men, discarded opportunities for happiness?
Maybe she should change rooms.
How typical, she chastised herself. Never facing difficult choices, always moving on, looking for happiness in the next relationship or the next party or the next chance meeting.
Now there was an idea—her mind fixated on it as though it were a life line. Maybe she should go to the bar or the tennis court or the swimming beach and meet someone who would be entirely different from Rocco, who had turned out to be disastrous to her peace of mind—or if she wasn’t precisely the peaceful mind type, disastrous to her particular style of contentment.
This notable resort catered to people who led serious lives and spent their leisure time in equally serious endeavors. It had three golf courses, a dozen tennis courts, boating, swimming, horseback riding, a complex list of activities for children—all supervised by accredited individuals so their parents could partake in the energetic physical activities they regarded as de rigueur to a vacation without worrying about dirty diapers or childish temper tantrums. No one here actually did nothing—as she had done. All the resort guests worked as hard at their leisure as they did at their upwardly mobile lives.
If she was intent on meeting a serious, committed man, what better place than a resort that catered to that precise type of individual? Particularly when they were currently hosting a convention for members of the pharmaceutical industry.
Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was seven, and if truth be told, found herself just a little bit relieved. She didn’t like golf or tennis—and it was a bit late as well for swimming or boating. Even in her serious effort to turn over a new leaf, she couldn’t have considered getting on a horse’s back and sitting there—well . . . just sitting there. It seemed so pointless unless you were on a mission to map some new territory perhaps, or bring a medicine to areas without roads. But the romance of the west was still a strong thread running through the warp and weave of American culture, and every resort or vacation venue that had pretensions to grandeur offered riding.
Fortunately, she’d had the presence of mind, even after her annoying run-in with bitchy Miss Heiress, to pack her little sequined purple cotton dress that looked like a Guatemalan peasant dress only shorter and cuter. It would be perfect out here in the woods—like back to the earth in a trendy way. And since all the other activities were unavailable at this time of the evening, as fate would have it, she was left with but one choice. The bar.
It was really refreshing to have a sense of purpose once again. Calling room service, she had all the clutter removed from her bed and also had a pile of fresh towels delivered along with a pot of tea. The kitchen even had some of that Dragon Well tea that everyone raved about for its healthful properties, and she managed to drink half a cup. But perhaps her northern European ancestry, evolution and the great distance dividing China from Northern Europe had tempered her body’s sensibilities in regard to green teas, because she always felt a little sick after drinking it.
Which slight nausea required just a few very small Famous Amos cookies from the mini fridge and all was well. Could evolution have incorporated F
amous Amos cookies so quickly? It indeed made one wonder—what with global warming and frogs with six legs and the rapid depleting of the world’s natural resources—whether the evolutionary clock was being speeded up as well. She would have to ask one of the scientifically erudite men she was bound to meet tonight.
A short time later, when she stood in the doorway of the faux rustic bar awash with tartan and timbers, a great number of male heads swiveled to look. Her long legs looked even longer in her spiky heels and short shirt, her spiky hair glistened with rosy highlights in the subdued light, the sequins on her little purple dress further drew eyes that were already staring—riveted.
She always liked those first few seconds when she walked into a room—it gave one such a sense of power. Not that male desire was necessarily terribly discriminating. But for what it was worth, it was gratifying. Now to see if any of these men were able to displace Rocco’s image from her mind, she thought, moving toward the bar.
She was literally swarmed with attention. Apparently some of the pharmaceutical-industry types had not brought their families with them to this family-oriented resort. She talked and drank and talked some more to any number of men, waiting to feel some spark, although as the evening progressed, she would have been willing to settle for less than a spark. But she might have been talking to her uncle or her brother if she had one; she might have been talking to a wall for all the excitement she felt.
It was both alarming and consoling.
One, she realized she really preferred less sensible, earnest men.
Two, and this was the alarming part, she came to understand that if she was going to wait for someone to come along and set her senses on fire—as someone who shall remain nameless had—perhaps she was going to have to wait a very long time.
But alarming or not, the experience was significant in terms of setting some new goals in her life. Because, slothful as she may have been this weekend, she was also capable of viewing the world with a mission-from-God mentality.