Rooted (The Pagano Family Book 3) (9 page)

In the end, she bought the shoes.

~ 6 ~

Carmen had backed off dramatically, and Theo wasn’t sure why. When they’d been in her bedroom, she’d been right there with him, feeling and responding to the same intensity of connection that he felt. He had not been alone in that heady moment. He
knew
it. She’d been
there
.

But then Rosa and the boys had come back, and somehow something had changed for her between the moment that they’d heard the elevator, and he’d pulled his hand out from under her top, and the moment that she’d sent them away for the night.

He had no idea what. Was it the way Rosa had returned? Was she holding him responsible for Eli and Jordan not taking care of her little sister? He was disappointed himself, but she’d seemed last night to have been more accepting than he had, putting more of the responsibility on Rosa.

He didn’t know. He also didn’t know why he cared so much. Or, rather, he knew why. He simply didn’t know why
her
, why
now
. After years of wanting little more than the solitude that came with marriage to a memory, why had a woman like Carmen—resistant, elusive, possibly uninterested—woken need in him again?

But she’d called in the morning, and they had fixed their plans for the day. Nothing had changed, after all. Until lunch, when she made a point to keep her distance, embedding herself in the conversation among the youngsters rather than speaking to him.

While Jordan shopped with Carmen and Rosa, Theo and Eli took care of extending Eli’s visa, so he could stay longer in Paris. Then they went back to the apartment, changed, and went out for a run. Theo knew he was being a terrible companion, unable to keep up his end of any conversation, until Eli simply stopped trying, and they spent the afternoon mostly in companionable silence. He was distracted, working through the new puzzle of Carmen Pagano.

Theo was a writer, a poet, and that made him a student of the mind. The human condition in both micro and macro scale. His job was to reach into people’s heads and draw pictures on their brains. Perhaps the years had made him rusty in the ways of the female mind, but he knew he’d figure Carmen out.

By the time he, Eli, and Jordan were dressing for dinner—Jordan in a midnight blue tuxedo, with his patent leather slippers and a crème-colored silk scarf, Theo and Eli simply in dark suits and ties—Theo thought he might have gotten it. She was afraid of the intensity. The roar of the connection, transcending the physical, that had turbo-charged his interest in her had instead spooked her.

But then, he was the one who’d felt understood, who’d been read in more ways than one. She hadn’t given him enough yet for him to return the favor.

As he stood at the mirror in the bathroom, straightening his tie, he decided that he’d play it cool. Let her decide when she wanted to be read.

~oOo~

Hunter had given him the keys to his Range Rover, which was a ridiculously large vehicle for Paris, but Theo was sufficiently comfortable driving in the city, even in a yacht like the Rover. They were only a few blocks from Carmen and Rosa’s place, but the restaurant at which he’d made reservations was in the Latin Quarter, too far to walk, especially dressed for dinner. So he and the boys drove to pick them up.

Rosa answered the door upon Theo’s knock and immediately looked past him to smile over his shoulder at Eli. “Hi! Come in. We’re just about ready. Carmen is whining about her shoes.”

Theo tried to imagine the woman he was getting to know whining. Nope. Couldn’t see it.

They followed Rosa in. She looked…festive. Lovely and sparkly in a vibrantly sequined, strapless dress. Theo turned to Eli; she certainly had his son’s attention.

He and Eli had talked a little about Rosa while they were out on their own in the afternoon. He thought she was fun and ‘hot,’ and he was interested in ‘hanging out’ with her. He hadn’t minded that she’d gotten so drunk; he’d seen lots of girls like that in college and ‘that’s just what they do.’ He did mind that he’d caught flack for not stopping her, asserting that it wasn’t his place to make her choices. He’d kept her safe. End of job.

Theo assumed that Eli had the kind of attitude he should adopt as well. The kind of attitude he’d had briefly about Carmen, after that first encounter. Fun. Companionship. And then, when it was time, a parting.

And then Carmen came out of the bedroom, her shoe problem evidently solved, and he just
wanted
her. All of her. Her dress was snug and black and looked pasted on somehow, caressing her sinewy body. Her legs were
miles
long. She—or maybe Rosa—had done her hair up, in a sleek bun or roll or something. And she was wearing makeup. Theo realized that he didn’t think she had been wearing it when they’d been together before. Her beauty was simply natural. Now, it was dramatic.

“Jesus.”

“I know, right?”

Theo turned to Jordan. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken until his son had answered him. Now Jordan was grinning at him with something like pride. “When she tried it on, I knew she had to wear it tonight. You know, for you.”

They were across the room from Carmen and speaking quietly. Hoping she couldn’t hear their muttered exchange, and unable to resist, Theo asked, “She bought it to wear for me?”

“Pfft. Dad. Not that she knows—or not that she’ll admit, anyway. She’s a cagey one.”

His twenty-year-old gay son was better versed in the female mind than he was. Sheesh.

It was becoming awkward, their standing in a far corner and not greeting Carmen, so Theo walked over. She smiled as he approached. In her high heels, she was as tall as he was. Six-two.

“You look…breathtaking.”

For a flash of a moment, her responding expression was open and young, vulnerable. Pleased. Then it formed itself into something more skeptical, but still warm. “Thanks. You clean up nice, too. All three of you.”

Eli asked, “Are we ready to go?” His arm was around Rosa. They both looked pleased about that.

Carmen turned back to Theo. “Where are we going, exactly?”

“To a place I’ve heard about. Great reviews. Had to name drop to get a reservation. La Chanteuse. It’s like an old-style nightclub, jazz vibe. Dinner, music, dancing. Apparently, they do it all up so Duke Ellington would have felt right at home. Sound good?”

“I don’t dance.”

Rosa sighed dramatically. “Carmen. You do, too, you liar.” She looked at Theo. “She did dance lessons for like a thousand years when she was a kid. There’s pictures all over the place of her in her little tap shoes or her tutus or whatever.”

Carmen gave her sister a deadly look. “I didn’t say I
can’t
dance. I said I
don’t
dance.” She faced Theo again. “But it’s fine. Just setting the expectation. I don’t dance. I’m not good with a partner. I tend to lead.”

At that, Theo laughed. “Why am I not surprised? Well, if you change your mind, I’m willing to tangle with you for the lead in a tango or two.”

~oOo~

La Chanteuse came as advertised. Crossing over the threshold was like crossing back through decades of time. The staff was dressed in period clothes. The décor was straight from the Jazz Age—lush and gilt, art deco with a patina of age. It appeared to have been designed to look like a club built in the Twenties and then worn by use. The lights were low, and tables lit by candles in colored glass ringed a large, gleaming dance floor—no dancers just yet, and no live music yet, either. But on one side, a full orchestra was set up in the period style, and front and center stood an old-style microphone, its head massive and ideal for a torch singer to clutch passionately in mid wail. The music would be live soon enough.

Carmen and Jordan both stopped dead as they were all being led to their table by a hostess wearing a slinky, satin dress, her hair sleekly coiffed.

“Wow.” Carmen’s eyes scanned the whole room.

Jordan was much more effusive. “Is this the best thing ever, or is this
the best thing ever
?!”

Theo reached out and, for the first time that evening, touched Carmen, his hand curling around her arm. “Acceptable?”

When she turned to him, she was smiling completely. “I might even take you up on that tango.”

“I embellished about the tango. I can dance, but not that. Sorry.”

She rolled her eyes. “Men. All talk.” But her smile remained sincere. Theo tamped down the urge to move his hand from her arm to her face.

“Come on. The food’s supposed to be good, too.”

~oOo~

The food
was
good, a nice blend of French and American cuisine. Jordan and Carmen split a bottle of wine. Eli had beer. Rosa kept to Shirley Temples, and Theo had his usual bourbon. He was drinking more than usual since he’d been in France, more than he had since the early months after Maggie’s death, while he was writing
Orchids
. He’d started to slide down a rocky slope back then, but had caught himself before anyone but he knew he’d been slipping.

He wasn’t near that slope now, but he was definitely drinking more. Probably a feature of eating out most of the time, and of writing about Maggie again. Trying to, anyway. But it was good he was aware of it—that awareness should keep him from sliding.

The band had started playing right before their entrees arrived. At first, they played some standards, just background music by which the crowd—the tables were full—could dine. After about thirty minutes or so, a lovely young woman in full period dress slunk to the big microphone and began to sing. She had a voice like Lena Horne. Looked like her, too.

When the waiter came around to ask about their dessert order, Carmen declined and ordered a second bottle of wine instead. Theo smiled. He liked her with some wine in her. The others ordered sweets, but Theo stuck to his bourbon, in allegiance with Carmen.

While the youngsters were eating their
crèmes brûlées
, Miss Lena’s doppelgänger crooned the first notes of ‘Stormy Weather,’ and Theo leaned over and put his lips to Carmen’s ear. Christ. She was wearing a perfume that must have been pure pheromones. She’d been stingy with the scent, not bathing herself in it, so he hadn’t picked it up until he’d gotten this close to her—which was, hands down, the absolutely best way to smell perfume. His cock charged into his pants leg, and for a second he reconsidered the question he was about to ask. He might need to stay seated. Then he went for it anyway. He was wearing a suit; the jacket would probably be sufficient camouflage.

“Have you made up your mind about that tango?”

“You can’t tango to ‘Stormy Weather.’”

“I can’t tango at all. Will you dance with me anyway?”

She tipped her head back and stared at him for a long second. He could smell the wine on her breath, mingling with that astounding perfume. “You’re trouble, Theodore Wilde.”

He grinned. “Not trouble. Fun. I’m a good time.” He stood and held out his hand. She shook her head but put her hand in his, and he led her onto the dance floor.

She had downplayed her ‘tendency’ to lead. It was more of a demand. But Theo knew only how to lead, so there was a bit of awkwardness at first, until he stopped trying to gain her cooperation and simply moved her. Her eyebrows went sky high as he used his strength to force her into following, but he merely grinned at her—right at her; she was eye to eye with him in those shoes—and kept moving. Finally, she acquiesced, and they moved smoothly together.

As a writer, Theo thought in metaphor. If he had a religion, it was symbolism—which was, in his estimation, all any religion really was. The metaphor of their first dance, vying for the lead, was not lost on him. He considered it a primer for the future with this woman, however long that future might be.