My Front Page Scandal (6 page)

Brooke chuckled. “No, I had a semester abroad in Copenhagen.”

“Sfoglatella is the lobster tail.” They stared at the layers of buttery pastry, interlocked like the segments of the tail of a crustacean and filled with cream or custard.

She was familiar with the pastry. Actually, she felt like one, all soft and oozy. “And the other?”

“Honeymoon, roughly translated because I’m not sure what they call them in Italy. Isn’t that a strictly American word?”

“I have no idea.” Grief, she was blushing. Why should she care if he knew that she fantasized about a Venetian honeymoon? “That’s just, you know, a girl thing.

Dreaming about your wedding and honeymoon—all that mushy stuff.”

“So you’re a romantic.”

“I suppose I am. Inside.” She gave him a saucy wink, trying to live up to the stylish boots and designer dress that advertised a much more daring woman. She splayed a hand over the sparkly metallic fabric. “What, you don’t believe me?”

It was actually her inner rock chick that rarely saw the light of day. During her teenage years, she’d spent a lot of time dancing alone in her bedroom. The one time she’d managed tickets, to a Nirvana concert when she’d been sixteen or so, her father had caught her sneaking upstairs in the wee hours and put her on a month’s probation.

Playing the sexy rebel role with David the other night had been a tantalizing treat. She’d tried to keep it up tonight, but couldn’t seem to stop slipping into the old, familiar ways whenever their conversation turned meaningful.

“I’m not sure what to think,” he admitted. “I can’t figure you out.”

She tried on a mysterious smile. “You don’t need to know. Let me remain an enigma.” For probably the first time in my life. There was no mystery in being good, proper and reliable.

He took her hand again. “We’d better order.”

She scanned the cases, too riveted by his touch to concentrate on picking out a goodie. “You promised to speak pastry to me.”

He looked at the clerk, a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and purplish lipstick, and asked for an espresso macchiato. Brooke ordered a latte. Smiling, the woman turned away to work the levers of an immense machine with so many levers and chrome doodads that if it’d had wheels David might have driven it down the street.

He crisscrossed his arms over Brook’s body to hold her in a loose embrace.

“Boconne,” he murmured into her ear, swaying her with each word. “Biscotti.”

The visceral experience of his velvet voice, the smells of coffee and vanilla, sugar and rising yeast, combined into a warm syrup that slipped through her veins. She floated. She might have been alone with David, snuggled in a gondola that skimmed the canals as sunrise gilded the stone palazzos.

“Tarali, pasticiotti, torrone.”

A humming sigh rose out of her and the espresso machine whirred as if in counterpoint. Its steam fogged the windows, shutting out the outside world.

“I’m not really Italian,” he whispered, “but thanks to the Carerras, I can fake it.”

His voice had hitched at the end. He rested his cheek alongside her head and was about to speak. She felt the importance of his next words in the swell of his chest. But the bell clanged and the door opened for three men in police uniform, working the late shift. The mood broke at their cheerful bluster and the blast of cool air.

Brooke roused herself. “I’m convinced. The calories don’t count in Italian. Give me one of everything.”

David laughed and asked the clerk for an assortment. They took their coffees and a platter of pastries to one of the small café tables lined up at the front of the bakery. Huddled together over its marble top, they sipped the hot coffee and sampled sumptuous bites, chatting about anything that came to mind until the plate was almost cleared.

Brisk caffeine cut through Brooke’s sugar daze as she savored her latte. “The Bridge of Sighs, the most romantic spot in Venice to a fifteen-year-old girl. I was in love with the name alone. Too bad my father’s glare scared off the cute Italian boys.”

“Did you get whistled at?”

“And pinched. And cupped. I was sheltered. The overt approach came as quite a shock.”

“Cupped, huh?”

She ran her tongue along the lip of her cup. “In various places.”

“Places I’d like to visit,” he said with dancing eyes, before adding, in all seriousness, “The Charles River at sunset. If I’d had time, I would have taken you out onto the water.”

“On a Duck boat?” She shook her head over the ubiquitous tourist conveyances, which most of his teammates had ridden in the Red Sox victory parade. “Or a sailboat?”

“Speedboat.”

“Hmm. I should have guessed. You have a consistent need for speed.”

“Don’t you?”

“I’m more the sailing type.” She’d forgotten again that she was supposed to be playing a woman who dared. “But I’m willing to experiment. Um, this plain tarallo is good. Not so sugary.”

David scooped up a dollop of the yellow custard from a lobster tail and extended his finger toward her. “Here, try the sweet stuff.”

Staring into his eyes, she closed her mouth over his finger and licked the custard in short strokes, gently flicking his fingertip with her tongue until it was clean. They leaned closer, their foreheads almost touching. Beneath the table, their knees pressed. He shifted, tangling their legs and feet, then their fingers. Tiny shocks of sensation scattered across her skin, like mini-fireworks. She couldn’t catch a solid breath.

“La vita dolce con una donna dolce,” he whispered.

She knew enough Italian to translate a couple phrases. Sweet life, sweet woman.

“Is that what you’re doing in retirement?” she asked, to deflect the sexual tension just a bit. Her heart was pounding too hard. “Living the sweet life?”

“Bittersweet at best,” he admitted.

She remembered the bible verse that had been read at her mother’s funeral.

“Everything has its season. You’ll find yours again, I’m certain.”

“At this point, short-term pleasures are all that I expect.” With his gaze pinned to her face, he dipped to place small kisses on each of her fingertips.

“Come back to my hotel.”

She wanted to. So very much. The Lindsay voice urged her to say yes. Yet she hesitated, and wasn’t sure why. Although she’d been a careful, considering soul for all of her life, it wasn’t as if she’d never experienced instant lust, or gone to bed with a man after only a few dates.

Perhaps the explanation for her hesitation was simple. Trying on a daringly different identity wasn’t as easy as putting on a new dress.

But what if it was?

What if, just for once, she let herself go without worrying about the consequences?

Go with him, said the voice. Dare.

Brooke shut her eyes. Leaped. “All right.”

David hadn’t expected that. He pulled back in surprise. “All right?”

She nodded. “Let’s go.”

“I’M SORRY ABOUT THAT,” he said, after pressing the elevator button for the fourteenth floor. Which meant he was really on thirteen. But she didn’t believe in bad omens. She didn’t.

“It’s okay. I ducked.” One lone photographer had popped out of nowhere at the entrance to the hotel and snapped them going inside. Blessed with fast reflexes, Brooke had kept her head down. No one would recognize her from the dress.

Probably not even from the body in the dress, since the real Brooke never showed hers off.

David turned to face her, standing closer than was comfortable. The vibrations of the motorcycle ride to his hotel had already set her on edge. Opened her up.

Now hot shivering arousal poured inside.

She backed off a step, into the corner of the elevator.

He followed. “I should have warned you. Going out with me is hazardous to your privacy.”

“And my reputation.”

He slid his hands along her arms as he stepped even closer. “Do you care about that?”

She swallowed. “Not tonight.”

He kissed her. Hard.

Brooke swooned. Actually swooned, her eyes rolling back—and catching sight of the camera high in the corner. She put her hands on his chest to hold him off.

“There’s a camera filming us.”

He chuckled and went for her neck, nuzzling and nipping. “Can’t get away from them.”

“Please.” She pushed.

“I guess I can wait another five seconds.” He put his arm around her waist and stood with her directly in front of the doors. But five seconds was too long, apparently. He caressed her hip, then dropped lower along her flank until he was fingering the hem of her dress. His hand slid past the slit to her bare thigh.

“David,” she said, unmoving. Too aware of the camera recording them. From the front, but not the back.

“What?” His voice was all innocence. His fingers, however—they were making wicked, wicked forays. He’d reached her bottom and was tracing its curve with his fingertips. “I’m only checking to see if you’re wearing panties this time.”

He squeezed a cheek. “Aha. A thong.”

She was stunned, frozen. He’d known!

One finger slid along the crease of her cheeks, following the narrow strip of thong to the juncture of her thighs. He rubbed her there, boldly, and she sucked in a sharp breath, bolting for the doors as the elevator chimed and they parted.

She rocketed into the hallway. She might have even bounced off the damask wall if he hadn’t captured her between his arms and hustled her a few rooms down. He ran the key card and they burst through the door, already kissing even before it shut behind them.

“Oh, David. Oh…” Brooke panted. “David.” She was completely overwhelmed. The underground stream had become a torrent, sweeping away every one of her inhibitions. She was nearly as wild and aggressive as he, lost in the tumult of hungry kisses and almost painful caresses. Without turning on the lights, they fell into bed, wrapped in each other’s bodies so tightly that removing clothing was practically an impossibility.

He slid her dress up to her waist, caught the back of the thong and yanked it down.

For one millisecond, a protest hovered on her lips. This was happening too fast.

She couldn’t think. Couldn’t react.

David’s mouth came down on hers, hot and sucking and invading, snapping her last thread of control. His body was hard, thrillingly abrasive, rubbing against her, all of her, and she let herself fall open to the rough pleasure of it. Her thighs spread wide as he pushed hard with his hips, grinding his hard-on against her yielding flesh. Lightning jolts of sensation crackled between them.

Straining, she reached for his fly. His jeans were black and tight. Way too tight. She got them unsnapped but he had to do the rest, shoving his hand inside so he could get the zipper down. The room was too dark and they were so entangled she couldn’t get a look at him, but she felt him. Oh, my, how she felt him, hot and thick and pulsing with life between her thighs.

He managed to roll on a condom and stroke her at the same time, ensuring her readiness. With any other man, she might not have been. But right here, right now, free of rules and expectations, she was ready.

His first thrust drove her a couple of inches up the bed. The second slammed the breath from her lungs. When he lunged a third time, she was prepared, and wrapped herself around him, absorbing the thrust like a blow that reverberated through her entire body.

“Jeez, Brooke,” he said in a hoarse voice she didn’t recognize.

“Keep going. I want it like that. Hard and fast.”

And that’s how she got it. Her climax burst from her like fireworks, a sudden blinding flash that was over in an instant, raining sparks across her nerve endings. He held himself still for a moment, embedded inside her, then let go with a low groan and a deep shudder.

Brooke went limp, so exhausted, so shattered, that she felt on the verge of passing out.

David collapsed on top of her, nestled his face in the side of her neck and mumbled something. Even though physically she was done for, her mind spun off into another orbit entirely, she was fairly certain that he’d whispered, “Stay the night.”

Which was the one thing she would not do for him.

David said, “Hunh,” and slid a folded copy of the Globe across the counter so he didn’t have to talk. They’d run a more thorough rehash of his adventures in the city, framing him in an even worse light. The idea that had been in the back of his head, to schedule an appointment with the Red Sox brass while he was in town, was looking like the right move at a very wrong time.

Rick sat and ordered his usual massive breakfast before reading the article about David’s flight from the paparazzi and resulting motorcycle crash.

“Nice picture.” He put the paper down. “How’s the Shadow?”

“A few dings and scratches.”

The waitress put a thick ceramic mug in front of Rick. He slurped. “You?”

“Ditto.”

“Good enough.”

The food came. David stole a piece of Rick’s thick-cut rye toast. When he attempted to grab a strip of bacon, he got his hand stabbed with an eggy fork.

Rick waved the waitress over and circled his fork above his plate. “Give him one of the same.” He mopped yolk with a crust, considered his friend’s glum expression, then sliced into the pancakes. “Hangover?”

David frowned. “Nope.” Unless a sex hangover counted. “I’m a little sore from the crash. Haven’t had much sleep the past couple of nights.”

He rubbed his throbbing temples. The small headache he’d wakened with had turned into a skull-buster once he’d realized that Brooke had sneaked out in the middle of the night. He’d done his share of that in the past, but being the left-behind half of a one-night-stand was another thing. Once again, karma was proving to be a bitch.

“You gotta take better care of yourself, man. I thought you claimed that a couple of months of pulling beets had straightened you out.”

Rick was a starting pitcher for the Sox. The two of them had become good friends over the course of several years of extended road trips. They’d taken advantage of their status as eligible bachelors, too, until Rick had married Emily, a pretty editor for a small but prestigious Cambridge press, and moved into a big new house near her office. It was the kind of place that came with a gardener and pool service. David had been invited over a few times, but he’d never fit in with the bookish crowds at Emily’s cocktail parties. They talked about Sartre and the best place to buy fresh tilapia. He and Rick had always talked strikes and balls and the best place to scout fresh trim.

David shrugged. “Maybe this city’s just plain old bad luck for me.”

Rick added blueberry syrup to the cakes. “You’re being one helluva downer.” He guffawed. “Aren’t you here to cheer me up over the heartbreak of my wife yanking me from the lineup?”

David peered from below the lid of his baseball hat. A man whose infant marriage was breaking up shouldn’t sound so upbeat. Two nights ago it had been another story, when they’d hunkered down in Flaherty’s and David had listened to Rick’s lament over the way Emily had brushed her hair and rubbed his bad shoulder with mint-scented liniment and put cute little love notes among his jockstraps when he went away on road trips.

“What’s got you so happy?”

“I talked to Em this morning. She agreed to counseling.”

“Hunh.” The Rick David used to know would have scoffed at marital counseling; now he was the one to push for it. Something strange happened to a guy once he put a ring on a woman’s finger.

The waitress plunked down David’s breakfast and he dug in. Maybe there was more to life than hitting baseballs and chasing broads. He hadn’t expected quitting the team would leave him so rudderless. Even the down-home comforts of the farm hadn’t been enough to hold him for long. Learning of Rick’s misery over his separation had been a good excuse to come back to Boston and try to right a wrong. Unfortunately, the paparazzi chase had been just as good a reminder of why he’d left.

“So what really happened the other night after you left me at Flaherty’s?” Rick asked.

“Got chased by photographers.” David salted the greasy hash browns. “Crashed my bike. Met a girl.”

“There was a girl?”

“She took me to the hospital.” The caffeine had blown a hole through the static in his brain. “An angel of mercy with a body made for sin.” He gestured with his fork. “You should have seen her.”

“That’s all I’d need, for Em to hear I was out partying with the likes of you.”

“Then she still hates me?”

“She never hated you. She only thought you were a bad influence.”

“She’s probably right.”

“No.” Rick stroked his square chin, which bristled with a week-old beard. The first thing a man did when he lost a woman or a job was quit shaving. “She never accepted that I was already just like you, even before we met.”

In David’s opinion, Rick and Emily had always been an unlikely couple. He’d been flattered that a classy woman like her would be interested in him, and she’d been caught up in the glamor and excitement of dating a celebrity athlete. Their adjustment to married life had been bumpy.

“You mean a dumb jock?”

“Anyone’d feel dumb around Em’s friends. One of them asked me if I’d ever read Henry James. Gah. And did I tell you she took me to the ballet? The friggin’ ballet. She said I’d like it if I tried it, but after two hours of tutus all I could think was what kind of pretzel a ballerina would be in the sack. After, when Em asked what I thought, and I told her flexible joints made me hot, she said—”

“Wait. You don’t tell your wife that.”

“I s’pose not. Except she said to be honest. And then she looked at me with this sad face, and made a tch-tch sound, like I was such a damned disappointment to her…” Rick sighed. He stared at the soggy remnants on his plate. “So tell me about the girl.”

“We spent the night together.”

Rick hooted. “Score!”

“It wasn’t like that.” At least, he hadn’t thought it was until she’d vanished on him. David tested his own stubble. “We had dinner at Vicenzi’s, then we drove all around the city.” He sliced a piece of ham into ribbons. “We talked a lot.”

“No action?”

“Some.”

“Details, man.”

“Not with this one.”

Rick reared back, his knuckles bulging as he gripped the steel edge of the counter. He was a big man, stocky and muscular. A real presence. He’d won sixteen games the past season and had been briefly touted for the CyYoung until the Sox had their nose dive. That was another reason for David to feel guilty, even though Rick wasn’t the type to lay blame.

“Not this one,” he repeated in a voice a few shades too loud. “What does that mean?”

David shrugged. “She’s different. I think I like her.”

His friend’s eyebrows met in a V. “Who is she?”

“No one special.” Except she was. “No one you know.”

Rick settled down with his elbows on the counter. He rubbed his beard, whistling under his breath. “A body made for sin. No wonder you like her.”

David shrugged again. It was easier not to explain that his attraction to Brooke went deeper than that. He felt lighter when he thought about her. Full of energy and potency, as if he hadn’t cocked up his life over a shame he’d never been able to shed. A shame that shouldn’t have even belonged to him.

“When do you see Emily?” he asked, to change the subject. His nights were haunted by the bad memories of what had happened in his old hometown—he tried not to think about it during the day.

“Our first session is this afternoon.” Rick lifted a haunch and yanked a thick wallet out of the back pocket of his ratty jeans. Emily had bought him a brand-new wardrobe after they married, but he must have reverted. “I bribed the counselor to squeeze us in by promising her an autographed ball for her kid.”

David nodded. While he had his doubts about the couple’s compatibility, he’d support his friend in any way possible. And Rick wanted Emily. For whatever reason, he loved her.

“Good luck. And don’t forget to shave before you go.”

BROOKE DIDN’T WAKE until ten o’clock. By the time she’d taken a long, hot, super-sudsy shower, gulped down two coffees, dressed in the most comfortable clothes she could find and fed the fish, it was almost eleven. She sat at the kitchen table and looked out the window for ten minutes. Her mind was blank. She could feel it circling around the events of the previous night, but she was afraid to look at them too closely.

Did it qualify as a one-night stand if you’d met the man once before and he had your number? What were the rules of these things?

She pushed the questions out of her mind and finally picked up the phone to call the store. She spoke to her assistant, Margaret Song, letting the part-time design student know the obvious—she’d be late.

Fortunately, her hours were her own to manage. Since Elway Sinclair’s retirement a couple of years ago, she’d been in charge of the display department. She was too conscientious to take advantage of that, however, and was rarely late. And never because she’d been out having fast, dirty sex with a man she barely knew.

Stop. Stop obsessing. If you don’t think about it, maybe you can believe it never happened.

Which sounded like a great plan, except that she didn’t want to forget. She wanted to remember every detail, regardless of the fact that she’d slunk out of David’s hotel room like a criminal. Her fleeting change into a woman who’d do that sort of thing had been liberating. Exhilarating. Transforming.

Which was a hard notion to keep hold of in her tip-tilted brain. How could she feel so good and yet so lousy at the same time?

Putting on a floppy hat to go with her slouchy sweater and tailored slacks, she slung her portfolio across one shoulder and strolled outside, remembering too late that she hadn’t checked for lurking great aunts.

The redoubtable Josephine Winfield Parrish was raking garden debris out of the flower bed that separated the driveways of her Victorian and the stately Colonial that was Brooke’s family home. She waved a hand clad in a Smith Hawken gardening glove. “There you are, Brooke. I saw your car in the driveway and wondered if you were sick. I was about to knock on your door.”

Brooke pulled up a few steps short of her Prius. The woman might be in her dotage, but she never missed an opportunity. “I’m not sick, Aunt Josephine. Just going in late.”

“I suppose even Mr. Worthington must make concessions to the artistic temperament.”

“I’ve been working overtime the past couple of nights, changing the window displays.” A small prevarication, but true enough.

Josephine’s eyebrows arched upward on her high forehead. Her hair was white, pinned and twisted into the customary knot. She wore a canvas apron over her herringbone tweeds. “I’ve never known you to work quite so late before.”

It was obvious that she was dying to know where Brooke had been and what she’d been doing, but Great Aunt Josephine would never ask outright, even though she was the self-appointed family watchdog and arbiter, and Brooke didn’t intend to explain. Her great-aunt’s standards were as high as Katharine Hepburn’s collars, and she certainly wasn’t ready to hear that her beloved nephew’s daughter had pulled an all-nighter that didn’t include textbooks.

Brooke beeped her car door lock. “It’s been an unusually eventful couple of nights.”

“Oh?” With the rake, Josephine scraped a clump of leaves onto the brick pavers of the driveway. Nearby, a bushel basket waited to be filled. “Nothing untoward, I do hope.” She was the type of lady to use words such as untoward and mayhap and goodness me.

“Not at all. Only busy.” Brooke tossed her bag into the car. Keeping up a brisk front was the only way to deal with Aunt Josephine.

“A moment, please, Brooke, before you go.” The elderly widow stepped through the border. “It’s about Evelyn’s wedding. We thought that you and your sisters would like to join the wedding party.”

Ugh. Brooke’s head was not into dealing with that right now. Eve Parrish Browne was Josephine’s granddaughter and Brooke’s cousin, a frequent visitor next door and just as frequent tormentor. Planning was at full steam for her sure-to-be-pretentious wedding.

Brooke frowned beneath her hat brim. Family was family. She had to accept the offer, even though she knew what would happen. Joey would talk her way out of the “honor,” then Katie would come up with an outlandish excuse. Only Brooke would remain to fulfill the commitment, probably while wearing twenty yards of the most expensive imported scarlet silk available. Eve wasn’t a girl to choose subtlety over splash.

She tried to stay noncommittal. “I’ll talk to Joey and Katie. I’m sure they’ll be honored to be asked.”

“You must do it.”

She must. The last Brooke had heard, Eve was planning for eight bridesmaids. As the quiet cousin, she’d be lost in the crowd, which would have once been the most appealing aspect of the duty. The prospect wasn’t as attractive to the new, daring Brooke.

Josephine set her lips, taking a beat before launching into the next item on her agenda. “I’m reluctant to press, but have you had the chance to go through your mother’s belongings?” At Brooke’s desolate expression, her demeanor softened. “I don’t mean to make you sad. I only ask because we’ve begun collecting for the Ladies’ League clothing drive. You remember, don’t you? It’s the one you weren’t available to chair.”