Hardest to Love Page 5

  She jerks free. “You aren’t busy.” Her eyes sweep over my white business shirt and dress slacks. “You look like you’re awaiting harem girls and grapes.”

  “What?” Grapes . . . harem girls? Who thinks like this? The professor had overdosed on tweed. “How the hell did you find me?”

  “In the package your real estate agent messengered over.”

  “Lana, Lena—”

  “Elena.” She blows long dark bangs from her eyes. “Don’t forget the E.”

  “You and your E, then. I’m busy.”

  “I happened to be busy last night, too, but that didn’t stop you from interrupting my class.”

  “How’d we do?”

  Her dark eyebrows wedge together. “What?”

  I nod at the manila envelope. “Class evals.”

  “Oh. You think this is funny.” She flings her beetle-shaped pouch on the couch. Withdraws her cell, scrolls, and then slaps the phone at me. “She blogged about it.”

  I take it, recognizing the anorexic at the microphone, the one fixated on the guy dating the twenty-year-old. There’s a blurry photo of me, too. Holding up that goofy torso book. Chad.

  I hand her back the phone. “So what? She has five followers. And Fluffy can’t post likes.”

  The Professor folds the pages into quarters and jams them into the envelope. “This could hurt our sales.”

  I snort. “Your sales. Right.”

  “You had no right to ruin my class or insult the women attending it.”

  “C’mon. It was a man-bashing circus in there. ‘What women want,’ my ass. What those chicks want are eunuchs. Yeah, sign me up for that.”

  “Precisely my point. You weren’t signed up.”

  “Don’t waste your time on those rinky-dink classes. Listen. You’re a pretty girl. Wear a suit and heels and do corporate training. You’ll make twice the money, Miss, Miss—”

  “Mufson. Elena Mufson. I’ll do that when you wear matador pants and strut around shirtless.”

  I laugh out loud. A zing even better than the zebra thong. “Professor Mufson. Classic. You probably got your Ph.D. in some obscure degree, some Medieval #MeToo. You eat veggie burgers and sponsor a wildlife animal. Based on the stray hair on your sweater—and this isn’t a stretch on my part—you’re a cat owner. I’m allergic to cats.”

  “I’m allergic to wolves.” Her lips thin. “Well, okay, since we’re doing shallow. You’re one of those eat-or-be-eaten. Means to the end.”

  “Throw in some Darwinism and you’ve about got it.” I’m staring at her, damn near in a trance. The shorter hair makes her mouth stand out, and she has exceptional lips. Pouty and made for epic blow jobs. “You didn’t want to teach that course any more than I wanted to be sitting in it.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Bullshit. You were antsy as hell.”

  “No, I’m antsy now. Hear this. We’re not selling. Not. Selling.”

  “Are you tracking with the staggering amount of brick and mortar retailers going belly up? Or the fact that people don’t read anymore?”

  “When science proves how reading benefits the brain, reading will make a comeback.”

  “Yeah, and so will the dodo bird.”

  “Of course you don’t think it will, because your idea of reading is the picture on the value menu. Or what you can read sitting on the toilet.”

  I both laugh and sputter. The insult’s funny, I have to give her that.

  During our debate, we stray closer to the kitchen. She narrows her eyes at the kitchen backsplash, at an item partially blocked by the Keurig. “What’s that?”

  Too late. I can’t catapult across the room to hide it. My heart pounds. No other single girl I’ve ever brought here has commented on it.

  She rushes toward it. She pulls off both mittens and stuffs them into her coat pockets. Off comes her knit cap, sending dark hairs everywhere from static electricity. She reaches the Carrara marble counter and picks up the little wooden box. “Oh, this is darling. I love the retro design.”

  The wooden box says RECIPES on its lid, and stamped on the front, a 1960’s coffee pot, a cutting board, and olive oil bottle, a spoon and a sprig attached to an orange.

  She runs her fingertips on the raised paint. “They’re like cute cartoon characters. Any moment, they’ll start dancing around.”

  I rush over. “Put it back.”

  “Whose is it?”

  The lid opens a little, exposing dozens of yellowed note cards with faded handwriting. Out spills memories: Mama’s hands covered in light flour, the rolling pin with the red handles. What the hell is happening here? I’m lightheaded, and my ears ring. I take the box from Elena’s hand and slide it back onto the counter.

  She blinks up at me. Bambi and Thumper combined could not look at me with more innocence. She reaches for the recipe box again. “Whose is it?”

  I move to block her. “Leave it alone.” With my forefinger, I push the box against its Carrara resting spot.

  As I draw my hand back, our fingers brush against each other.

  The moment’s electric.

  Her breath hitches. She’s frozen, trembling like a fenced-in rabbit. She stares up at me, lips parted.

  Beyond beautiful.

  If she can shake this hard with a slight touch, how might she respond if I were inside her, pushed up the hilt, pumping furiously? I can feel the potential between us, a violent spectacular rhythm, rocking and pushing, ripples of pleasure. Fantastic wild sex, her moaning and writhing underneath me.

  This is a passionate girl. She can’t fake her feelings. She can’t fake anything.

  My hand wanders the length of her thick red wool sleeve, moving up to the pale skin of her jaw.

  So soft.

  Again her breath catches.

  Our eyes meet, and I hold her gaze. I lean into her, caging her with my arms, my hands on either side of her hips, my fingers curled around the edge of the counter.

  “I think I’m getting the picture, Elena with an E.”

  “What’s that, Mr. Zaccardi?”

  “You wanted to venture into my forest.”

  “I already see plenty of bones between your big bad teeth.”

  But she doesn’t move. Her eyes scan my face and drop to my mouth. Her breathing is quick. Shallow.

  Way the hell attracted.

  “I’m like an FBI profiler.” She’s trying so hard to act cool. “I study evil up close.”

  I smile and curl a dark tendril of hair around my finger. “Silk. Beautiful rare silk.” My fingers continue upward until they reach flesh, the porcelain skin around her chin.

  She lets me kiss the side of her neck. “Oh, God. What am I doing. I barely know you.”

  “We can fix that.” I nuzzle her ear.

  She averts her head to avoid my mouth but doesn’t push me away. So I take a different route. I take her hand and drift a light kiss over the knuckles.

  “There’s a theory about men like you.”

  I lower my head and come within inches of kissing her lips. The space between us crackles, we’re both so turned on. “What’s that, honey?”

  “The Pareto Principle, the 80/20 theory. Pareto was an—”

  “Economist.” Heard of him at Wharton. I lift the flipped ends of her dark hair, letting strands catch between my fingers. “An Italian guy like me.”

  “Eighty percent of the sales come from twenty percent of the clients. You’re part of that twenty percent of the men who get eighty percent of the sex.”

  “Hmmm.” I lean over, closing in. My left hand slips under her open coat, and I lift the hem of her sweater. I encounter a warm, slick back. “Oh, baby. You’re burning up. We’ve got to get you out of these clothes.” I’m kissing her throat and tug on the right sleeve of her coat, trying to pull it off.

  She’s trembling, rolls in the opposite direction to dodge my hand. The sleeve is off her shoulder and she still lets me nuzzle her neck. “Zaccardi . . . two C’s, right?”
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  “Nick, honey. Nick.”

  “You know what I’m going to do?”

  “Make this morning a lot more interesting?”

  She breathes out, shaking crazily. “Contact a real estate attorney.”

  “Grrreat.” I kiss the tip of her nose. “Speed things up.”

  “We’re going to entertain multiple offers, drive up our asking price and push you right out of the picture.”

  I jerk back my head.

  She’s staring at me, face red, upper lip sweaty. She is hot. Incubator hot. Between the coat, the sweater and being turned on, she’ll have a heat stroke.

  I sober up as fast as the guy who’s just been told they have to amputate. Shit. The bookstore is located on a high-traffic corner, a block from a parking structure. The area’s almost ninety-eight percent built out; there aren’t a lot of commercial spaces to exploit.

  Like hell, I’ll be pushed out of the picture.

  She yanks the strap of her purse over her shoulder and charges toward the door, shoes clomping on the floor.

  I sprint after her. “Elena.”

  My cell phone rings, and while my feet keep moving, I pull it from my pocket. It’s Cos. I’ve got to talk to him about a chef he knows. Goddamn it, she’s almost at the door. “The decision’s not up to you. Your aunt decides.”

  “She’ll listen to me. I’ll get her to listen.” She grabs her pouch, digs inside and withdraws a white napkin, which she flings in the air. “And you’ll have to huff and puff and blow someone else’s house down.”

  The napkin flutters to the wood floor as the entrance door closes with a click.

  I run over to pick up the napkin. The sketch I did at Division One.

  Except she’s added an embellishment. Underneath the building, she’s sketched a wolf with big teeth and ears.

  Where is it?

  She had everything else, her keys, her coat, scarf, mittens . . . where was her cap? The wind chill was five below.

  Two hours after her “close encounter of another guy,” Nick Zaccardi, she’d called to arrange an appointment with a local real estate agent for advice. The woman said she could meet Elena at her office ten minutes from now . . . provided she could locate her darn hat.

  “Sweetie?” Her aunt approached her near the kitchen table. A Golden Girls rerun blared from the living room TV. “You okay?”

  “Yes,” Elena bit out. She upended the spare glove box in the closet in a fruitless search, for she never stored her mittens there. She wasn’t thinking. Her dumb body was still back at his condo, numb and aroused, while her distracted brain struggled for coherence here.

  She charged down the narrow hall, Auntie Rob following her.

  “A package arrived for you downstairs,” she said. “A big box.”

  “Probably those Christmas books I ordered. I’ll tell Kathy to put them on display.” Kathy was one of their part-time employees and attended college nearby.

  “Speaking of Christmas. I printed out our latest sales spreadsheet.” Auntie Rob wrung her hands. “We’re down fifteen percent.”

  Wonderful. More reality granules to rub into her wound. She dug around bedroom drawers for the missing hat.

  Her aunt hovered at the door jamb. “I’m only making you worry more. You already worry too much about Chris and me.”

  “You’re my family. Of course, I worry.” Elena brought back an elbow and jarred the rose découpage vase sitting on the dresser. She barely caught it in time.

  “Why are you so upset?”

  She set the vase on the dresser, on top of the macramé table runner. “I’m mad. Mad at myself.” She tossed a turquoise throw pillow on the bed. Don’t think of him. Don’t.

  But she couldn’t help herself. At his cold, beautiful mausoleum of an apartment, she knew he’d try something. She’d encouraged his wicked skills, moving into him so he could pounce. Just for once, she wanted to experience a sexual virtuoso like him, and he’d made her knees buckle. Being close to him shook her to the core. Those golden eyes, his lean hands. His potent cologne and musk scent. Intoxicating. Opium and sin rolled into one.

  But to him, she was a real estate transaction, a hookup on his way to a signature.

  She renewed her search with gritted teeth.

  “What on earth are you looking for?”

  “My red-and-black knit cap.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, no. It’s at his place.”

  “Whose—” Her aunt stopped, lower jaw falling slightly open.

  Elena grimaced as warmth flushed her face. “I went there because I don’t want him taking advantage of you. But he turned the tables on me. I’m lucky to have my underwear still around my hips.”

  “Elena Glynn.”

  “It’s nothing. My brain short-circuited because I’ve not dated in a while.” Yes, that had to be it. Shallow, great-looking men like him never did it for her. Uh-huh. Sure. Keep telling yourself that. She fisted and un-fisted her hands, pushing away how eagerly she’d responded to his touch. Face it, her dating history fell into two camps: nice men who sparked nothing hormonally, or one of those horrid fabulous-looking con men from the true-crime shows, who’d clean out a girl’s bank account and pass along an STD.

  “He must be something else for you to have such an instant attraction.”

  “Oh, he’s attractive, all right,” she said. “But he’s hopelessly shallow. Thinks he can order the world from his smartphone, including women.”

  “All that matters is his offer.” Her aunt stepped closer to pat her arm. “You know, I’ve been thinking about it. We’d have actual grass. Real grass! Big shade trees. Maybe you and I can plant a garden. I know you love this old place, Leen, but—”

  “The writing’s on the wall.” She shook her head. “Is that a pun? It’s not a very good one.”

  Lips pressed together, her aunt fingered the macramé tassels dangling off the edge of the dresser.

  Elena looked up to the photo of her and Chris standing under the lion statues guarding the Art Institute. She and her brother wearing hoodies, hands shoved in the middle pockets, grinning. They’d never been able to afford Disney World, but her aunt had taken them on many weekend trips to museums. “This has always been home. But he might be right. About books and dodo birds.”

  “Dodo birds?”

  “People don’t read anymore. I’m not sure they even think.” Including me.

  “No, they do. People are just busy.” Her aunt picked up the photo she’d been looking at and put it back on the white shelf. “The happy things accelerate everything: starting a career, falling in love, having a baby. We only slow down and evaluate when we’re forced to. An accident, an illness. A loss.”

  Even he slowed down, didn’t he? She frowned. That sweet little recipe box. He’d way overreacted when she picked it up, as though she’d sullied it.

  “Leen? Be sure to see about the box downstairs.”

  Right. She had to get going. “I’ll have Kathy put those Christmas books out front. I’ll have to reclaim my hat later. Or send a hitman after him.”

  “Elena.”

  “He’s Italian, isn’t he?” She grabbed her purse and hustled downstairs. Kathy was ringing up a male customer in wire-frame glasses, who’d purchased a stack of half-priced hardbacks.

  She stepped around her and easily spotted the cardboard box, a big one. If placed on the ground, it would come up to her waist. She rounded the counter and set aside her purse and mittens. Scanned the top and sides.

  Odd. No return label.

  She took a letter opener and sliced through the packing tape.

  Her hands continued tearing at the clear plastic wrap, peeling back tissue paper to reveal black, red and white balloons that sprang upward like the gag gift, the snake in the can. Anchored inside was a massive flower arrangement of white and red roses. Next to the flowers, stuffed inside a basket, were three official NHL red jerseys. Starbucks coupons. Hot chocolate mix, expensive chocolate truffles.

  She ripped open the greeti
ng-card-sized envelope.

  Three Blackhawks tickets fell out onto the counter.

  On a plain white card was a sketch in black magic marker.

  Her puff cap.

  Below the drawing, scrawled in bold print, a telephone number. Under that, ripped magazine letters had been pasted down, ransom note style.

  The Hawks were up by one over the Carolina Hurricanes, November Eighth, a Thursday night game. I’d rented one of the United Center’s private suites—black leather couches, dark brown square tables, about a dozen viewing seats.

  The view I’m fixated on isn’t talking to me. She’d win the gold at cold-shouldering. I can hear the broadcaster play-by-play: “And representing the U.S. is Elena Mufson, taking female hostility to new heights. How many medals is that, Jim? Three so far, Bob. She’ll collect another gold tonight, when Nick Zaccardi drops to his knees and starts crying like a little girl.”

  It’s not like I’m chopped liver. I’m wearing a navy suit with a white-collar dress shirt open at the collar. And she’s sneaking looks. The instant I catch her, she glances away.

  Wench.

  Forget touching her, too. I tried to help steady her by the elbow as she stepped down into the spectator seat section, but she slipped free, even arched her back to avoid my hand.

  A loud thump comes from the suite next door.

  “Cage fight?” I ask the waitress, nodding toward the wall.

  The attractive blonde laughs, exposing pink gums and small teeth. “Birthday bash. Three families and lots of young kids.” Our serving host wears a no-nonsense uniform, white shirt, black vest, and slacks, and pushes a cart farther into our suite. The top level’s crowded with silver-plate-covered bakers. She raises both arms. “Gather around, everyone. I’d like to tell you about our dee-lish appetizers.”

  She lifts the lid to each sterling silver serving dish. Lobster toasts with avocado, warmed spiced olives, spinach puffs, seared steak lettuce cups, mini-tacos. Hands clasped together, she dips slightly and says she’ll be by to check on us later.

  I console myself with the food. As I lift an ornate lid, steam rising, her laughter floats across the room.

  “I know so little about sports,” Elena says.