Sweet Caroline (14 page)

The phone rang again. She struggled to find enough voice to say hello.

"Caroline? I don't mean to hurry you, but I'm double parked," an irritated Ian Foy said. "There's no space on either 130

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

side of the street, so if you'll be a few minutes longer, I'll start circling..."

She walked to the window and pushed the drape further aside. Ian was standing at the passenger door of his BMW, which he'd double-parked parallel to Mick's Jeep.

"I'm sorry, Ian, I dropped my earring. I'll be right down." In the hall, she pulled her door shut then made sure the lock held, a ludicrous gesture considering what she'd just found under her bed. Someone had easy access to her place. No wonder Mick never locked his door. The deadbolts offered no real protection.

At the bottom of the steps, Caroline reached for the door and turned the handle, ready to step out and onto the sidewalk until she saw the sour expression on Ian's face. He was standing next to his car staring at the front door of her building as if he were in a trance. He stood almost at attention, his lips drawn into a fine line, jaw set, hands clutched into fists at his sides—a volcano ready to erupt. Granted she'd taken longer to come down than he'd expected, but not enough to cause this degree of exasperation.

She grasped the handle, drew a deep breath, and with her sunniest smile, stepped outside. An instant later she saw the cause of Ian's angst—Mick.

He lounged against the rear fender of his Jeep, arms folded loosely across his chests, no sign of anger or agitation, only a sly, intimate smile that told Caroline he really liked what he was seeing. Compared to Ian, whose combative 131

Sweet Caroline

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stance made him look like an overblown windbag, Mick looked irresistible.

She had left him sweaty and rumpled just as she'd been when they returned home. Now clean-shaven and freshly showered, he'd dressed in a pair of tan jeans, obviously new and custom tailored to fit tightly enough for him to breathe and little else, a white shirt sewn from a fabric so soft she could almost feel its richness from where she stood, and a tan suede sports jacket, with a hint of rust to catch the color of his hair. To Caroline, he looked like he'd just stepped off the covers of
He Man, GQ,
and
Play Girl
all at the same time. The width of a car and half its length separated the two men who were becoming central to her life. On her right, Ian, seething, and looking as if he'd gladly strangle Mick; on her left, Mick, scintillating, obviously ignoring the older man's presence. And she, Caroline, stuck right in the middle.

"Good evenin', y'all," she called to both of them, taking a neutral tack while she turned and pulled the front door closed behind her. She had to decide how she was going to handle this, and do it quickly. If she walked around the front of the Jeep, Ian would have to close the passenger door for her to pass by before she climbed inside. If she walked around the back of the Jeep, she could easily slide into the waiting Beamer, but she'd have to pass close to Mick en route. She saw the mischief in his eyes and knew he wasn't about to move.

The pull from each side grew stronger. She owed Ian her loyalty, but her heart wanted her to stay right there. As much as she hated to admit it, the more time she spent with Mick, 132

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the more she wanted to be with him. His smile, so warm and inviting, made her feel like the most desirable woman on the planet. She wanted to rush into his arms and follow wherever he led.

From the look in Mick's eyes as they leisurely trailed from the top of her sapphire-colored sheath that stopped well above her knees, to her freshly painted toes that wriggled under his scrutiny, she knew he wanted her, too. Several times during the day, they'd come so close to really touching—the second or two he'd rubbed her foot, when their hands barely brushed, when she turned one way and he the other, and they collided, when he'd slipped off her sandals so she could walk in the sand, when he'd held her hand and helped her into the Jeep. The mundane things she wouldn't have thought twice about with anyone else had electrified both of them. She saw it in his eyes, in the way his breath caught, in the surprise he tried to hide while the tiniest tremors betrayed him.

But Ian was paying her. This was a business dinner, not a date. She'd spent most of last night and a snippet of this afternoon preparing a report they'd be discussing. She owed Ian her loyalty far more than she owed Mick the rush of her hormones. Mick, who might very well be related to her. Ian was the first to return her greeting. "You look lovely this evening, Caroline."

In all fairness, Caroline had to admit Ian had tried to look his best, too. Nattily attired as always, he wore a suit that cried out Armani or Bijan, a white dress shirt and Gucci tie. Unfortunately, the gray of the suit drained the color and life 133

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from his face, just the opposite of how the touch of rust in Mick's jacket added to his vitality. If they'd stood side by side, Ian would appear old enough to be Mick's father yet she knew they were no more than ten years apart.

"Thank you," she answered, and made her decision about which path she'd take. Mick's magnetism won over her good sense.

"Not as good as straight out of bed in your nightshirt," he whispered when she passed close to him. Close enough that he'd managed to snag her hand. She'd tried not to look down and call attention to the fact that their fingers were entwined, and yet the slightest touch of his skin against hers had rendered her speechless. More loudly, he said, "Indeed you do look lovely, Ms. Spring."

Reluctantly she pulled her hand away. "Are you joining us?" she asked, hoping Ian hadn't guessed what was happening below his line of vision.

"Absolutely not," both Ian and Mick answered simultaneously and so forcefully that Caroline's steps faltered. She looked first at Ian then at Mick. Neither man looked at the other. This was ridiculous as a duel. Would they draw Derringers next?

Ian blinked first. In seconds, his sour expression disappeared, and the gracious and charming Ian she'd first met took his place. Caroline had seen the chameleon side of him before. The changes were usually subtle, and to those who knew him well, probably went unnoticed. To someone new to the scene, like Caroline, these changes were 134

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sometimes comical, other times unnerving, and always unsettling.

He turned his wrist and fingered back a French cuff to check his watch. "Caroline, we're really quite late." Reluctant to put distance between Mick and her, yet knowing she had no choice, Caroline said, "I'm right here, Ian," and to Mick added, "We'll be out of your way in a minute."

He shrugged off her apology. "No problem."
He's headed for the Golden S & T.
At least, that's what she wanted to believe, but something about the fragrance of his aftershave told her he was more likely meeting a friend than family. Apparently he'd recovered from his disappointment about the dinner they wouldn't share.

"Enjoy," she said, hoping her voice held more enthusiasm than she felt.

Once seated in the fine leather bucket seat, Caroline dared a look back and caught Mick staring at her and the already short skirt that had risen high on her thighs. In the same instant, Ian slammed the car door, effectively blocking Mick's view, and Caroline's as well.

"That son of a bitch has more
cajones
than the full herd at Pamplona," Ian groused while he buckled up and started the engine. "He was standing at the window, watching when I pulled up, like he knew I was coming..." Caroline shifted her position, so she could catch a last glimpse of Mick before Ian put too much distance between them. He now stood opposite the driver's seat of the Jeep, a hand resting on the frame of the windshield, the other hand 135

Sweet Caroline

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on his hip. They were too far to make eye contact, but she knew he was looking back at her.

"...I don't understand why women fall all over him," Caroline heard Ian say, and had to bite back the retort that danced at the tip of her tongue, the one that would have gladly told him what Mick had that he did not.

"Ian, let's not spoil the evening talking about
him
," she said, hoping the use of a pronoun rather than Mick's name might still troubled waters.

"You're right, my pretty Caroline." He startled her by reaching over and resting his hand on hers. She fought the instinct to pull away. That would only make matters worse. "Oh look," she said, "the light's changed. You can go now."

They'd driven several miles in silence except for the Beamer's incredible sound system that immersed the car's interior first with Mozart then Chopin.

"We're going to L'Etoil," Ian said. "It is
the
place, the crème de la crème of Marin." He frowned. "It took me weeks to get this reservation, and I'm fairly well known in Marin." She knew she should tell him that he was very well known, that he was one of Marin's movers and shakers, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. She owed him loyalty, not an evening of kissing up. She smiled sweetly. "Ian, I'm very flattered, but wouldn't you prefer being with a special lady this evening?" To punctuate her point, she thrust the file folder she brought with her between them. "We can always discuss this on Monday, if you'd prefer..." 136

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"My sweet, lovely Caroline," he interrupted. "There's no one I'd rather spend time with than you. Forget the report. You're working too hard as it is. Let's enjoy the evening, shall we?"

Oh, good God.
She cringed at the idea that he might try to pat her hand again. She fetched her purse and riffled through it.
This wasn't a date!
"Look, Ian, I really appre—"

"I'll bet they're headed for L'Etoil, too," Ian interrupted, pointing to the stretch limo that had coasted to a stop next to them. "You'll see, Caroline, it's truly first cabin." She glanced at the chauffeur-driven vehicle.
So what?
she wanted to snap at him. She didn't give a damn if he were taking her to the Court of St. James, so long as he didn't consider it a date. "I'm sure it will be lovely, but, Ian, you have to understand—"

"Of course, I understand, Caroline, Dallas has many impressive places, too. I've been to the Petroleum Club several times." The signal changed, and the limo shot ahead and cut in front of them. "Damn it!" Ian slammed on the brakes. "What the hell's the matter with that driver? I almost smashed into him."

Caroline had to agree. Only the seatbelt kept her from sliding to the floor at Ian's quick stop. "Whoa," she said, righting herself. "I admire your restraint. I think I would have laid on the horn until he went deaf."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, now as I was saying—"

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"See that," Ian interrupted her a third time. "
That's
why he cut me off." He flipped on his turn indicator, smiling, eager.

"Just as I'd thought, they're going to L'Etoil, too." Caroline couldn't believe what she was hearing. One second Ian was furious about being cut off, now, because they'd all be dining at the same stupid restaurant, it was okay that they'd caused a near collision. "The food had better be good."

In the long drive that circled in front of the restaurant, the limo pulled well ahead of them, leaving room for Ian's car right at the valet station. In seconds, a young man in his early twenties helped Caroline from the car and whisked Ian and her into the lobby.

"Two for Foy," Ian said to the maître d', a swarthy-looking fellow in a tux who took his time running his finger down the list of reservations. After a second pass, he looked up at them and smiled. "We have a lovely little table in back, but it will be about half an hour. Would you care to wait in the bar or on the terrace?"

"In back?" Ian said. Caroline saw a splotch of crimson color the back of his neck. "We'd talked about the table right there." Ian craned his neck and pointed to a table near a fabulous marble sculpture, two lovers that rose at least twenty feet above the floor. While the table was in the center of the room, the statue provided enough privacy to stave off curious eyes.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Foy, you must have misunderstood. That table is permanently reserved."

"There's no one sitting there."

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"Mr. Foy, please keep your voice down. That table is out of the question."

"Even if it's not being used?" Ian reached in his pants pockets and pulled out a money clip. He pushed a $50 bill toward the maître d', who stepped back, as if the currency were a dead rat. "Mr. Foy, please."

"Ian, we don't have to stay," Caroline said, embarrassed.

"It's all right."

"No, it's not. That's the table I reserved, and that's the table I intend to have."

"Give it to him, Pierre," Caroline heard a familiar voice say.

"Mrs. Mustafa and I can always dine at the little table in back."

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IF CAROLINE HADN'T stepped aside, the maître d' might have plowed right through her in his rush to greet the beautiful, dark-skinned woman who stood beside Mick and who made Caroline's stomach ache and her throat turn dry.

"Ah, Mrs. Mustafa, Dr. Mahoney," Pierre gushed. "Your table is waiting as always." He leaned back, dramatically clutching his hands against his chest. "You should have called. We would have put your champagne on ice."
Mrs.
Mustafa, Pierre had called her. Where was
Mr.
Mustafa? Certainly not one of the two lackeys who stood a respectful distance behind them. "Tonight we cannot stay, Pierre," the woman said in delicately accented English, her voice a lush contralto, smooth and sensual. She took Mick's arm and to Caroline's surprise, addressed Ian. "Mr. Foy, I am Lisette Mustafa. I am sorry my driver was so careless. Dr. Mahoney pointed out to me that we might have hit you. Please, take our table. It's the least we can do." Ian stood straighter as the woman spoke, preening like a peacock about to billow its feathers. "That's very kind of you."