Fair Play (14 page)

“It still amazes me you
like
to cook,” Theresa marveled, sidling up to Janna, who had just started chopping basil. Careful of her fingers, Theresa reached out and took a taste. It was tart but not too bitter.

“It still amazes me you don't,” Janna returned.

“I know,” said Theresa, resting her elbows on the counter. Since Janna was a control freak when it came to cooking, she knew it would be pointless to ask if she should help. “It just seems like so much work for so little payoff.”

“The payoff is nourishing the people you love,” said Janna, scooping the basil from the board and reaching for a colander full of mushrooms.

“You sound like my mother.”

“Your mother's right.” Theresa watched as Janna's small, nimble hands made short work of the mushrooms. “I bet she's also the reason you don't like to cook.”

“What do you mean?” Theresa asked.

“I think it is so important for
you
not to be like her that you deliberately reject anything that even resembles domesticity.”

“Tell me more, Dr. Freud.”

“You know what I mean.” Dumping the mushrooms into a bowl, Janna reached next for a small block of fontina cheese, giving her friend a concerned once over. “You look tired.”

A Mona Lisa smile played across Theresa's lips. “I was out late last night,” she said cryptically, knowing it would get Janna's attention.

“With?” Janna asked, her gaze divided between Theresa's face and the cheese she was now cutting into cubes.

“Reese Banister.”

Janna's eyes darted quickly to Theresa's. “You're kidding, right?”

“No.” Theresa wasn't sure why, but she felt mildly wounded by the hint of incredulity in Janna's voice. “You yourself said you noticed us making eyes at each other at that first meeting.”

“Yeah, but I never thought—” Janna seemed to stop herself, taking a long break as she concentrated on finishing the cheese. “I guess I don't know what I thought,” she concluded lamely.

“He's wonderful,” Theresa gushed, determined to make Janna see him through her eyes. “He's smart, tender, considerate and artistic.”

This time Janna didn't mask her skepticism. “Whoa, slow down, sister,” she ordered. Crossing over to the fridge, she pulled out half a stick of butter and a carton of eggs. The butter she set to melting in the skillet atop the stove. She broke six eggs into a large metal bowl and began beating them.

“I want to hear everything,” she told Theresa.

So Theresa told her everything, ending with the mutual confession that they felt like they'd known each other for ages. Through it all, Janna listened intently. By the time Theresa was through, the omelet was done, the fresh blueberry muffins were sprung from the oven, and the coffee was poured and creamed. Theresa sat down at Janna's table with a satisfied sigh and waited for her friend's response.

“He sounds perfect,” Janna said dryly, biting into a muffin.

Theresa felt her hackles rise. “I know that tone of voice, Janna. What's wrong?”

“Don't take this the wrong way, Ter, okay?”

Theresa nodded, feeling her shoulders knotting.

“Did the subject of the Butler buyout come up?”

“Yes.”

“In what context?”

“Reese wanted to know if we'd given any thought to the proposal, and I said we'd been too busy to talk about it.” She slashed away at her omelet. That was the smallest, most insignificant part of the evening. Why was Janna focusing on it? Then she realized. “You think he's using me, don't you?” she asked.

“I didn't say that.”

“No, but you do,” Theresa accused, now sure of it. “You think I'm so desperate for a man I can't tell whether someone wants me for
me,
or for their own
agenda.
You think I'm too stupid to see the difference.”

“Theresa.” Janna's voice was gentle as she put down her knife and fork. “I don't think that at all.”

“Good, because it's not the case. We really connected, Janna. I don't know how to explain it without sounding crazy, but it was like some
soul
thing.” She looked to her friend for confirmation. “Didn't you feel that with Ty?”

Janna nearly choked on her omelet. “No! With us, it was some
sex
thing. The soul stuff came later, after I stopped thinking he was just an arrogant, uncooperative jackass.” She glanced down at her plate, breaking off a piece of muffin. “I'm sure Reese is all you say he is—”

Theresa frowned. “But.”

“There's something about him,” Janna continued thoughtfully. “I don't trust him.”

“Why? Because he's a lawyer?”

“Because he's a lawyer being retained by a company who wants to swallow us up.”

“One thing has nothing to do with the other,” Theresa insisted. “You're confusing who he is with what he does, Janna. That's not fair.”

“Maybe,” Janna allowed. “But I still think . . .” She trailed off. “Never mind.”

“No, tell me. You're my best friend and I want to know what you're thinking.”

“I was turned off when he showed up unannounced with his uncle. I felt like we were being ambushed.”

“Go on,” Theresa urged, pausing for a sip of coffee.

“Who brought up the Butler buyout when you were having drinks last night?”

“He did,” Theresa admitted reluctantly.

“And that doesn't bother you?”

“Janna, we were talking about work. People
do
talk about work in the course of getting to know each other, you know. It wasn't like he just brought it up out of the blue.”

Janna's gaze was steady as she drank some coffee. “Did he offer his opinion about what he thought we should do?”

“Of course he did. He's a lawyer. Lawyers always offer suggestions whether you want them to or not.”

Janna was unblinking. “Let me guess: He thinks we should sell.”

“Are you surprised?”

“None of this bothers you?”

“No, because unlike you, I'm able to separate who a person is from what they do.”

Janna wasn't buying it. “I don't know. There's something about his bringing it up that I find unethical.”

“My friend, the moralist,” Theresa snickered.

“Don't make fun, Terry. You know I believe in gut instinct. And mine tells me—”

“That there's more to him than meets the eye,” Theresa finished for her, pressing her lips into a hard line.

“I guess,” said Janna, sounding deliberately noncommittal.

“Well, then, we've got a problem here.”

“Because your gut tells you the opposite,” Janna deduced.

“Absolutely. I don't want to sound completely nuts, but I think he might be
The One.
” The mere words brought a suffused glow of warmth to her body.

Janna, meanwhile, was staring at her as if she
were
nuts. “What about Michael Dante?” she asked.

“Oh my God.” Theresa's head dropped down to her chest in mock defeat before she snapped it back up again. “What are you, his agent?”

“I don't see Reese Banister wooing you with homemade pastries and sweet little notes.”

“That's because Reese isn't desperate and insane.” Once again, the image of Michael in his “Italian” outfit came to mind and against her will she found herself suppressing a smile.

“What?” Janna pressed.

“Nothing.”

Janna snatched the muffin basket from the center of the table and held it hostage. “Tell me or the carbs are history, baby.”

In her best bored voice—because, really, it was a boring little story, and kind of pathetic when you thought about it—she told Janna about Michael's sensitivity lesson.

“He went through the effort of finding hideous jewelry and clothing and you won't even have a cup of coffee with the guy?” Janna couldn't believe it. “Jesus, Theresa. You
are
heartless.”

“And you're relentless. Stop shilling for Michael Dante. He's a nice guy, but he's not my type. Repeat: Not. My. Type.”

“Because—”

“Yes,” Theresa cut in tersely, “and because he's simply not what I want in a man.”

“Okay,” Janna conceded, backing off. She put the muffins back in the middle of the table. “You know what's best for you.”

“Thank you for acknowledging that.” Theresa took another bite of her muffin. “Maybe you and Ty and Reese and I could go out for dinner sometime.”

“Actually, Ty and I are planning on having a small cocktail party in a couple of weeks, nothing fancy.”

“Can I bring him?”

“Why do you think I brought it up?”

Happy thoughts filled Theresa's head until she realized who most of Ty's associates were. “Will Michael Dante be there?” she asked.

“No. Nobody from the team is coming. Well, only Kevin Gill and his wife, and maybe that new rookie van Dorn and his girlfriend so Ty can build him up a bit, help him acclimate to New York. Otherwise it will be Lou and his wife, and my sister Petra and her girlfriend. As soon as we have a definite date in mind, I'll let you know.”

“Then I can't wait,” Theresa said, relieved. “I know once you get to know him, you'll really like him, Jan. Wait and see.”

“
I
'
m sorry
,
miss
.
Mr. Banister appears to be out.”

Theresa blinked twice, staring at the doorman as if he'd just spoken Esperanto.

“I—that's not possible. He told me to meet him here at six.”

The doorman raised his palms plaintively. “You saw me buzz his apartment. There's no answer. Would you like to leave a message?”

“No, I'll stop back in a little while. Thank you.”

Stunned, Theresa walked out the lobby and headed west on Eighty-ninth toward Central Park, wondering what to do. Reese had invited her to come by before Ty and Janna's cocktail party, so she could see some of his photos.

Yet here she was at the appointed hour being told he wasn't in.

Could he have forgotten?

The question bit at her as she tightened the silk scarf around her neck against the cool breeze. Now October, the nights were getting colder. Soon it would be time to break out the hats and gloves.

Walking down the quiet, tree-lined street, oblivious to everything around her, she came up with a couple different scenarios. The most obvious was that he'd completely forgotten. She found that hard to believe; they'd spoken just two days before, and Reese had sounded so enthusiastic. But what if it
had
slipped his mind? If that was the case, then he was a jerk. Especially since coming uptown was out of the way for her. A few choice Sicilian curses bubbled at the back of her throat, eager for voice, but she squelched them.

Another possibility—something had happened to him. Something bad. He'd slipped in the shower and cracked his head. He was lying in the tub right now, blood and water mingling as they trickled down the pristine white porcelain towards the drain.
Oh, God!
Panic rattled her until she convinced herself she was giving in to her overactive imagination. Imposing calm, she tried to construct more rational, less violent explanations for Reese's absence.

He was in the shower and didn't hear the doorman buzz.

He was on his way home from an errand that had run late.

He was so distracted crossing the street on his way home from his late-running errand that he'd been struck by a psychotic cab driver.

She reined in her thoughts, taking notice of where she was. She'd walked to Fifth Avenue and was standing in front of the Guggenheim. She had to stop spinning scenarios and
do
something. She could go into the museum and distract herself in the gift shop, or grab an overpriced cup of coffee in the cafe. Or, she could try calling Reese herself.
Bingo.

Whipping out her cellphone, she dialed his number.

It was busy.

Mild relief pulsed through her. See, he
was
home. He must've been in the shower when the doorman buzzed. Or, maybe he'd been out running errands and they'd just missed each other. Theresa dialed her own number to see if he'd left some kind of message. He hadn't. Clearly he was still expecting her. Proud of her powers of deduction, she turned and started walking back toward Reese's building.

The breeze was blowing across her face now, but she minded it less, finding its touch invigorating. She was tempted to sprint the remaining distance to Eighty-ninth and Park, but didn't want to risk turning an ankle in her heels, or worse, appearing overeager. What if he happened to look out the window and saw her jogging up to his building? No, slow and steady won the race. Besides, there was no reason to hurry. He was there; that was all that mattered.

Reese's building was a magnificent old limestone edifice, clearly prewar. Breezing back into the lobby, Theresa ignored the irked look that flitted across the doorman's face and marched right up to him. “I'm here to see Reese Banister,” she said, repeating word for word the statement she'd made less than twenty minutes earlier. “My name is Theresa Falconetti.”

“I'm afraid I haven't seen Mr. Banister come in since you were last here,” the doorman replied in a condescending tone.

“No, but he and I spoke on the telephone,” Theresa lied. “Please buzz him.”
And wipe that supercilious look off your face while you're at it.