Got the Look (3 page)

This was all about Mia.

She was truly gorgeous, as Theo had so enthusiastically pointed out, but attracting beautiful women had never really been Jack's problem. Finding one with her head screwed on straight, however, was another matter. He was over six feet tall with dark eyes that hinted at his half-Latin heritage. His ex-wife used to say that he had the rugged good looks to be an instant heartthrob as a country singer, except that he couldn't sing worth a damn, he looked ridiculous in hats, and he was only slightly less country than Art Buchwald. Now that she was out of his life, he relied exclusively on Theo for backhanded compliments that cut him to shreds.

He inhaled, drawing in the aroma. Fresh, spicy cinnamon. Those candles were working their magic. Barely a hint remained of his paella A la napalm. Oh, yes, burned to a crisp. Who knew that one hour at 325 degrees didn't translate to half an hour at 500 degrees? Not that the meal would have been edible anyway. It was beyond Jack's comprehension that a so-called celebrity chef could have his own TV show when his best-selling cookbook didn't even tell you to boil the rice before putting it in the freakin' oven.

Jack, what's that smell?

He turned to see Mia standing in the hallway. She was wearing one of his dress shirts, which was now the odds-on choice to be his favorite article of clothing.

Cimamanonon, he said, then untied his tongue. Cinn-a-mon. There. See, I can talk.

She'd been napping while he cooked, and there was still some sleepiness in her expression. She smiled as she came to him, then draped her arms atop his shoulders, looking him in the eye. Are you cooking?

Trying.

What is it?

I call it paella DOA.

Paella what?

Nothing. Let's make it a fun Saturday night. I'll take you out to dinner.

Her expression fell. Dinner? I thought you were making lunch. What the heck time is it?

Almost six.

Oh my God! You mean I've been asleep all afternoon?

Jack grinned like a proud nineteen-year-old. They'd seen the sun rise, slept for a couple of hours, then done a morning encore. Nothing like starting your day with six or seven orgasms.

Don't flatter yourself, bucko.

Three or four?

Mmm no.

A mild tingling sensation that beats the hell out of pressing your privates against a washing machine on spin cycle?

She laughed through her teeth, but her smile slowly flattened into a tight line of disappointment. I can't do dinner with you tonight. I have to go.

Go where?

Home.

Why?

I have plans.

He took a half step back, leaning against the counter. Oh. Would that be something like I-gotta-wash-my-hair plans, or some other kind of plans?

It's not a date, if that's what you're asking. I told you I'm not interested in seeing anyone else.

Then why do you have to go?

It's my friend Emilia. She got divorced a month ago. I've been promising to do something with her for three weeks now, and so we agreed on tonight.

Can't you cancel?

Jack, come on. You're divorced. You know I can't do that to her.

Yup. He definitely knew. Okay, you're right. I really should stay home and start chiseling that paella out of my baking pan anyway.

I knew you'd understand. She took his hand, then kissed him on the corner of the mouth.

He started to kiss her back but pulled away. You should get going. Let's not start something we can't finish.

I can stretch it out another half hour, for sure. That's plenty of time for me to teach you a thing or two.

Oh really? And what exactly do you think you can teach me?

Lots of things.

For example?

Well, she said, do you know what kisses have in common with real estate?

He thought for a second, though the atmosphere was becoming less and less conducive to coherent thinking. No, can't say that I do.

She pressed against him, lightly kissing his mouth, his chin, his neck as she spoke. Location location location.

Yeah, uh. That's, um, definitely, you know -

Jack? She was suddenly up on her toes, meeting him eye to eye.

Yeah?

We're down to twenty-nine minutes, and we've got a lot of zip codes to cover.

Tough job, he said as he led her toward the bedroom, but somebody's gotta do it.

Mia left before seven o'clock, and by 8 P. M. Jack was on his way to the Ritz-Carlton. Jack had made the mistake of answering the phone after Mia left, hoping that she'd changed her mind and was on her way back. Much to his disappointment, it was William Bailey of Bailey, Benning, and Langer. One of his partners had canceled out on a big fund-raising event over at the Ritz. The firm had an extra invitation. William thought of Jack.

Sorry, I don't have a date, said Jack.

Just come for cocktails. Stag's fine.

Thanks, but -

Jack, the CEO of Rubillo and Porter is one of my guests, and his accounting firm happens to be the seventh largest in the country. Between you and me, his head's probably about to roll in another one of those funny-number Wall Street accounting scams. Odds are he'll need a damn good criminal defense lawyer.

Jack considered it. William had promised that if Jack did him the favor of taking the statue of David case, better things would come his way. Of course, he could hear Theo's voice in the back of his mind, accusing him of selling out. But he could also hear his landlord calling for last month's rent, which the Law Offices of Jack Swyteck, PA, still hadn't paid.

All right. I'll do cocktails.

The Ritz in Coconut Grove was a twenty-minute drive from his house on Key Biscayne, but that was plenty of time for second thoughts. He'd never worked at a big firm, except in law school as a summer associate. But he knew how the invitations to these high-priced social events were distributed. The marketing director made it sound like the most sought-after ticket since the World Series, but there were rarely any takers until the final threatening e-mail from the managing partner. Come on, people, this is utterly embarrassing! If I don't have twelve bodies to fill the firm's table by noon today, then I swear the annual partners' retreat will be catered by the same slophouse we use for the staff holiday party. No, I am NOT kidding!

Jack's cell phone rang just as he valeted his car. It was Theo.

You have radar or something? said Jack. Or is it already plastered all over the Internet that I'm being fitted for golden handcuffs?

Does that mean you're seeing Mia again?

No. She has plans tonight.

Sorry, dude. You need a Xanax or something?

No, I don't need a Xanax.

Stripper?

No.

Hooker?

Hardly.

Then what, Jack?

What do you mean then what'? You called me, remember?

Oh, right. Just checking up on my old friend, that's all. I hardly hear from him no more, now that he's in love. He said in love like one of those smarmy DJs who played old Barry White tunes at 3 A. M.

Jack was about to deny it, then stopped himself. The first George Bush was president the last time Jack had carried a personal relationship this far. Although he and Mia had yet to exchange I-love-yous, even a guy on romantic life support could see that the only remaining question was who would be the first to utter those three little words. That was where he stood, at least. He hoped she felt the same.

Things are going really well with Mia. You should be happy for me.

I am. Let's go out and celebrate.

Can't. I got this thing.

Thing?

Jack saw no easy way to spill it. It's something William Bailey invited me to, all right? Purely a networking opportunity.

There was silence on the line. Finally, Theo spoke, his voice dripping with disapproval. Man, you got it bad. He hung up before Jack could answer.

Jack started to dial him back, but he didn't see the point. Better to let his friend have a few drinks and cool down while pondering one of the essential mysteries in the life of Theo Knight, such as, If a tree falls in the woods, will its in-box suddenly be flooded with Viagra e-mails? Jack tucked his phone away and entered the Ritz.

The cocktail reception was in the Grand Ballroom. Jack took the escalator up two flights and got off at the terrace level, where the party was in full swing. Lots of designer dresses and carats on loan from Van Cleef & Arpels. The murmur of countless conversations buzzed all around him, but it couldn't drown out Theo's voice in his head. Do I really have it bad? Jack wondered. And what was it, anyway? Like Mia said, there was nothing wrong with wanting to be paid what you're worth. Jack had done plenty of public-service work, jobs that didn't even earn him enough money to pay off his student loans. He'd walked away with virtually nothing from his divorce except a car that was later torched. He wasn't about to jump into William Bailey's lap. But if he was going to continue to be his own boss, he needed to earn the trust of someone like Bailey, a consummate rainmaker who had no stomach for a criminal courtroom, and whose clients would gladly hand over both Park Place and Boardwalk to any lawyer who made sure they did not go directly to jail.

Jack, glad to see you made it, said William Bailey with a smile.

Guess I'm just a sucker for an open bar.

Actually, drink tickets are ten bucks each.

A thousand dollars per person and still a cash bar. All for a good cause, however, like a new Mercedes for the CFO of some not-for-profit health plan.

Bailey pulled a roll of tickets from his pocket, ripped off about a half dozen for Jack. My treat. But first, let me introduce you to some friends of mine.

Jack felt his elbow being pulled away from the bar, and his body reluctantly followed. Over the next twenty minutes, he met several dozen people who assumed that, because his last name was Swyteck, Jack yearned for war stories about his famous father. So he pretended to be amused as they carried on about the time they'd golfed, drunk, fished, or campaigned with former governor Swyteck, though he wasn't at all in the mood for a bunch of name-droppers who knew the real Harry Swyteck about as well as they'd known the real Elvis Presley.

In the midst of the mind-numbing drivel, Jack's gaze was drawn toward the vision across the room. She was standing with her back to him, wearing a spaghetti-strapped black cocktail dress. Her hair was up in a braided twist, and the sparkle of diamond earrings played nicely against the olive skin and the gentle curve of her neck. He didn't mean to stare, but for some reason he couldn't take his eyes off her.

The sound of William Bailey's voice brought him back to reality. Jack, I'd like you to meet Ernesto Salazar. One of my best and oldest clients.

Jack smiled and shook hands as the other men kidded each other about Who you calling old? Jack only half listened. He was shooting subtle glances across the room, checking out that same spot near the bar, searching for the captivating woman in the black dress.

Bailey said, Ernesto just got back from Argentina this afternoon. He's been in Buenos Aires for the past nine weeks putting together a huge wireless cell-phone deal.

Ten weeks, said Ernesto.

Jack said something to keep up his end of the conversation, but his focus was on catching a break in the crowd and gaining a clear line of sight toward the bar. He wasn't sure why, but something - no, everything - inside him was telling him to find that woman in the black dress. Finally, he spotted the sparkle of her diamond earrings, and for a split second he caught just a glimpse of her profile. But the crowd shifted, and a server stepped up to offer him a glass of champagne. By the time he found another opening, the black dress was gone.

There she is, said Ernesto.

Who? said Jack. He suddenly felt like a middle-schooler caught with a stolen Playboy magazine.

Ernesto's wife, of course, said Bailey.

Let me introduce you, said Ernesto. It would have been futile to call out to her with all the noise, so he hand signaled, trying to catch his wife's attention. Either she didn't notice or she was ignoring him, showing him only the slender curve of her back. Ernesto excused himself and strategically maneuvered his way around several circles of conversation.

Bailey laid a hand on Jack's shoulder, his voice low but showing some irritation. You seem distracted, Jack. Something wrong?

I'm fine, said Jack as he watched Ernesto approach the woman in the black dress and take her by the hand. She turned, but the crowd around Jack had swollen, and not until Ernesto and his much-younger wife meandered back through the maze of laughing and chatting guests did Jack get his first look at her face.

His instincts had been dead-on.

Jack Swyteck, please meet my wife, Mia.

Jack couldn't move. The words seemed to echo in his brain my wife, Mia my wife, Mia. It was as if someone had switched on a giant vacuum beneath his feet and was trying to suck his very soul down through the floor. He just looked at her, and she at him, her eyes pleading: Don't say a word.