Staying Single Page 11

  "I'm glad you enjoyed it. So did I. And I doubt I would have gone, if you hadn't agreed to go with me. Although I like musicals, when I think about going to them it seems like such a girl thing to do."

  Francie laughed. "A typical male reaction." She then added, "I don't think I've ever eaten dinner quite this late before. I have absolutely no chance of getting rid of any of these cheesecake calories. They'll go straight to my hips. But it's worth it."

  "My mom makes a very good cheesecake, but it's not as good as this. Don't you dare tell her I said that, or I'll never hear the end of it."

  "My lips are sealed." Glancing at his Tag Hauer wristwatch, Mark noted that it was almost twelve o'clock. "Do you turn into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight?" he asked. "Is that why you're worried about the time?"

  Francie's smile lit her dark eyes. Bedroom eyes, some would call them—dark, mysterious and very sexy. "No, I turn into the ugly stepmother and big warts grow all over my nose."

  He swallowed his smile. "Impossible. Your features are much too perfect. You could never play that role. I was thinking more of Cinderella, the fair damsel in distress who is waiting for her prince charming to come along."

  "There's that romantic streak in you again. Careful you don't allow it to get you into trouble."

  He gazed into her eyes. "Too late for that, Francie."

  She blushed, quite charmingly, Mark thought, as if it were a truly genuine response. But how could that be? She was used to dating and discarding. Francie didn't know how to form lasting relationships. He wasn't sure she wanted to, judging by her track record.

  No, Francie was fickle, just like all the other women he'd known.

  It was too bad, because he liked her. He hadn't at first, but now that he'd gotten to know her, he really did find her enchanting and likable.

  Not that it would do him much good. He still had his plan to implement—he might like her, but he didn't trust her. And there was also the matter of his younger brother.

  Even if he wanted to form a relationship with Francie, Matt would always stand in his way. And Mark would never do anything to hurt his brother, especially not over a woman.

  "You look so serious. Is something the matter?"

  Shaking his head, Mark smiled. "Just thinking. I don't say my thoughts out loud, like you do."

  "That's probably a good thing. I'm not sure I'd want to know what you're thinking, especially when you frown like that. You look positively fierce."

  "Mostly wildly erotic thoughts about you. All X-rated, of course."

  Francie didn't respond to the provocative comment, instead she squirmed restlessly in her seat and said, "I'm done with my dessert, Mark. Maybe it's time that we pay the check and head for home. It's going to be really late by the time we get there. And I've got the family dinner thing to contend with tomorrow, since it's Sunday." She made a face at the prospect.

  "I'm still scaring you, huh?"

  "Maybe a little," she admitted.

  He grinned. "That's good."

  Mark's SUV was parked in a garage about two blocks away from the restaurant. They walked quickly, hand in hand, in the brisk night air to reach it.

  The streets were crowded with people, even though it was way after midnight. Of course, in New York City that was nothing unusual for a Saturday night. It truly was "the city that never sleeps," as old Blue Eyes used to sing.

  Once they located the car, Mark turned the key in the Explorer's ignition, but nothing happened. There was a clicking sound, but otherwise dead silence.

  "That's odd." He glanced over at Francie, who had a suspicious look on her face, and shrugged. "I'm not sure what's wrong. It worked fine when we got here. I'll get out and check. I've got jumper cables in the rear compartment, if we need them. Be right back."

  "All right," Francie said, snuggling deeper into her wool coat and wondering if Mark had somehow set this up in advance, although he didn't seem to be the secretive type. After all, he'd just come right out and told her that he wanted to make love to her, and he hadn't seemed to mind when she'd insisted that they drive home after the play.

  Looking angry when he came back a moment later, Mark was plowing agitated fingers through his hair. "The battery's been stolen. We'll have to wait until morning to get it replaced."

  "What? But…but that's impossible!"

  All of Lisa's warnings came flooding back. S-words loomed dangerously on the horizon: seduction, sensuality, sex…

  Surrender!!

  "Don't worry. I've got a friend who lets me use his apartment when I'm in the city. It's only a block or two away from here. He's out of the country at the moment, and I've got a key. We can spend the night there."

  Well, how convenient was that?

  And how stupid did he think she was?

  Francie shook her head, a determined look on her face. "Mark, I'm sorry, but I don't think that's a very good idea. I mean, this is our first date, and I have no intention of sleeping with you tonight."

  He grinned, which took a bit of the wind out of her sails. "That's good, because I'm tired. And this wasn't a planned seduction, if that's what you're thinking. If you want to get out and take a look, you'll see that my battery's been lifted. I won't be able to buy a new one until tomorrow. And that's if we're lucky, because there are not a lot of automotive places open on Sunday in the city."

  "Don't you have an automobile club, like AAA, you can call?"

  "Afraid not. My membership expired while I was in the Philippines. I haven't gotten around to renewing it."

  Well, that sounded like a typical male. Not that she could talk. Her membership to Gold's Gym had expired oh…about five years ago.

  "How many bedrooms does your friend's apartment have?" If she had to sleep overnight in New York City, she was determined to sleep alone. Not as much fun, but a whole lot safer.

  "Just one, but I can sleep on the sofa. That won't be a problem. I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to do, Francie. And like I said, I'm tired. I doubt I could muster up the energy to make love to you tonight."

  She didn't know whether to laugh or to feel insulted, "All right. I guess we don't have much of a choice."

  He came around, opened her door, and the cold air hit her right in the face, as did the prospect of being in such close proximity to Mark for the entire remainder of the evening.

  Francie then thought of another S-word that fit the occasion—shit!

  11

  Mark's friend's apartment was cozy, to say the least. Francie wasn't sure they'd be able to walk around without bumping into each other. The place gave new meaning to the word "compact."

  "It's smaller than I remembered," Mark said, an apologetic look on his face. "I think I may have been drunk the last time I was here. Everything looks bigger when you're drunk."

  Yeah, she'd had a few boyfriends she could say that about. "Didn't you hear? Size doesn't matter." Which was an absolute crock. That was like saying one scoop of ice cream was as good as two, and everyone who ate ice cream knew that was a bald-faced lie.

  He grinned, and she smiled, adding, "Just show me where the bedroom is and I'll get out of your way so you can get ready for bed." Just saying "bed" in front of him made Francie feel itchy all over, especially in certain unmentionable places.

  "Follow me." He opened the door to what was probably the bedroom. "What the hell!"

  "What is it?" Francie tried to see over his shoulder, but couldn't. She surmised from his remark that it didn't bode well for a good night's sleep.

  Where was a Ritz-Carlton when you needed one?

  "The bedroom has disappeared."

  She ducked under his arm and saw what he was talking about. Instead of the usual array of bedroom furniture, there was a mass of expensive-looking photography equipment, not to mention blackout shades at the windows. The photographs on the walls—the ones she could make out, anyway—were downright macabre. Dead body after dead body, and not all of them intact. There was actually one photo of a head w
ith an ax stuck in it.

  Toss in a couple of butcher knives and Hannibal Lechter would have felt right at home.

  "Is your friend some nut who sleeps on the floor, or something? I mean, it's nice to have a hobby, but isn't this getting a bit carried away? And those photos— Creepy!"

  "Steve's a photographer with the A.P., same as me, only he covers mostly homicides. Those are crime scene photos." Rubbing the back of his neck, Mark shook his head and said, "Well, what now?"

  "I'll take the couch. You can have the floor," Francie suggested. "How does that sound?"

  "Terrible. I'm really tired, and I don't do well on floors."

  They walked back into the living room area and found the couch. The edge of a blanket hung out of it, so Francie surmised that it was a sofa bed. "I think your friend sleeps in here." She pulled off the cushions, unfolded the mattress and proved she was right. There was a blanket, but no sheets.

  "It looks big enough for two," he said, trying to gauge her reaction.

  Optimism was all well and good, but Francie didn't think this was the right time for it.

  "I think it might be a queen size," he added hopefully.

  "As much as I'd like to accommodate you, Mark, I don't have any nightclothes with me, so I don't think it would be a good idea to share this bed."

  And she had no intention of allowing him to see her hairy legs, which she'd neglected to shave, despite her good intentions of this morning.

  "Even if I promise to be on my best behavior and find you something to wear? I'm sure Steve has a clean shirt you can substitute for pajamas."

  "I don't wear pajamas. I haven't since I entered puberty. I wear a nightgown, usually purchased at Victoria's Secret." In fact, after three almost weddings she had more lingerie than she knew what to do with. It figured that the one time she could actually put some of it to use—not that she would, mind you!—it was nowhere to be found.

  "As kind as your offer is, I still wouldn't be comfortable parading around in front of you with just a shirt on."

  "Tell you what. You can go in the bathroom and change. I'll close my eyes until you're safely under the covers, then I'll hop in. How does that sound?"

  It sounded indecently delicious, but she wasn't about to tell him that.

  "And what are we going to use for sheets?"

  "Be right back." Mark hurried toward the back of the apartment and scrounged up two mismatched sheets—one actually had tigers on it—and a white dress shirt that had obviously just come from the cleaner's—the tag was still fastened to it.

  "Here," he said, handing her the hanger. "You go use the bathroom and change, while I make up the bed."

  "Are you always this insistent when it comes to your comfort?"

  "I've slept on too many bare floors in too many foreign countries to want to do it again. Guess I must be getting old, because the thought of it sends shivers of fear down my spine. I'm really a wuss at heart."

  Francie shook her head and smiled, wondering how any woman on the face of the earth could resist Mark Fielding when he grinned the way he was grinning at her now.

  Good grief! I'm in trouble.

  And there were still her hairy legs to consider!

  True to his word, Mark had the sofa bed made upon her return. He was standing next to it, with just his pants on, his shirt tossed casually aside, as though he paraded around half-naked in front of women every day, which was probably closer to the truth than not, she thought, remembering the photographs of all those bare-breasted exotic Polynesian women.

  Francie was having a major pectoral moment as she ogled Mark's chest and the rest of his body. "Holy sh—shoot but it's cold in here." His abs were washboard-flat. And there was a nice sprinkling of chest hair. Not too much—she couldn't take the gorilla look—but just enough to be sexy and touchable, sort of like…her legs?

  "I turned up the heat. It should warm up in here in a few minutes."

  Francie thought it was pretty hot already. In fact, she was already in serious meltdown mode. If it got any hotter, she was likely to incinerate right on the spot.

  Mark's gaze drifted intently over Francie's body, making her squirm. "You look quite fetching, I must say."

  "You aren't supposed to be looking, but since this shirt comes down to my knees, I guess it's okay. What is your friend, a giant or something?"

  And who uses the word "fetching" in this day and age? Mark was right out of a Jane Austen novel. Mr. Darcy come to life. And she could be his Miss Elizabeth Bennett, only with a less eloquent vocabulary.

  "Steve Slaboda is an ex-football lineman. He played for Syracuse, but a knee injury kept him out of the NFL so he turned to his other love, photography. His heart is as big as the rest of him. He's a great guy and a good friend."

  "Steve sounds very nice, and I'm grateful we can make use of his bed, such as it is. Speaking of which— I'm ready to get in, so I'll need you to turn your back until I'm settled under the covers."

  "Why? I've already seen everything there is to see. That shirt's transparent in this light, you know."

  "What?" Francie's face turned beet-red as she looked down at the stiffly starched white cotton shirt, then back up at Mark, who was grinning from ear to ear like a naughty schoolboy.

  "Gotcha!"

  Her eyes narrowed. "Watch it, buster, or you're going to end up on the floor. My good humor only extends so far at one o'clock in the morning. Now, close your eyes."

  Francie eased onto the bed, glad that the sheets were clean, even if the blankets smelled like Polo aftershave. There were definitely worse smells than Polo—Eddie Bertucci came to mind—so she knew she should be grateful. "Okay, I'm under."

  "Close your eyes, unless you're up for a cheap thrill," Mark said.

  Francie did as instructed, but she could still see beneath the fringe of her lashes and nearly gasped when he removed his pants. The man looked like a Chippendale dancer, only better. He had on a pair of very brief black underwear and, if the impressive bulge in the front was any indication, he wasn't tired anymore.

  She squeezed her eyes shut tighter and tried to swallow around the large grapefruit-size lump in her throat.

  "You didn't peek, did you?"

  She felt her face warm. "No."

  "Liar," he said, and she felt the mattress dip beneath his weight. There was no turning back now.

  "I've never slept under tiger sheets before. It's a whole new experience," she said, trying to lighten the awkward moment.

  "I've got some black satin ones you should try."

  So much for the lighter moment, Francie thought, trying to ignore the fact that her palms were sweating. Wiping them on the shirt, she told Mark, "Just re-member to stay on your own side. I like my space when I'm sleeping."

  He chuckled. "You sure do have a lot of rules when you go to bed with a man. Are you this way with all your dates, or just me?"

  "First of all, I do not go to bed with all my dates! And I think you'll agree that this is an unusual circumstance, so rules are necessary."

  "I see." He laughed again.

  Francie could feel his body heat and knew she needed to do something to keep her mind off the "other" thing she was thinking about. "Tell me something about yourself that I don't already know."

  "Hmm. Well, I come from a pretty normal family, so my childhood was quite happy, for the most part. And I have no homicidal tendencies that I'm aware of, though there have been a few women I could have gladly strangled."

  That was reassuring. Not!

  "Do you have any siblings?"

  "Yes, a brother."

  "Does he live around here?"

  "At the moment he's in Hawaii."

  "That's lucky for you. My sister is always under my nose. Lisa would live with me, if I let her, but I won't. We get along better at a distance. I don't need another mother—one is quite enough, thank you very much!—and Lisa tends to smother."

  "I like your sister. She's very refreshing, very honest in what she says—a trai
t you don't find much in women these days."

  It was obvious from some of the things he'd said that Mark had been hurt in the past. Francie wondered who the woman was and if she was still in the picture. The idea that there might be one was depressing and distressing, to say the least.

  "Not all women are dishonest, Mark. I try to be truthful in my relationships with men. Well, there have been a few instances where I wasn't totally honest, but I've learned a lot about myself since then, and I'm determined not to repeat past mistakes."

  Easier said than done. Because unless she was wrong, Francie was in bed with her next big mistake.

  He was quiet for a moment, as if weighing her comment, then said, "Now it's your turn to tell me something about yourself that I don't know."

  "Okay, but you have to promise not to tell anyone, or laugh."

  He crossed his heart. "Promise."

  "I harbor a deep dark secret that is known only to my best friend, Joyce, and my parents. You met Joyce at the party the other night."

  "The redhead with the attitude. I remember."

  "Yeah, Joyce is pretty hard to forget. Anyway, she and I had this absolutely wonderful idea—at least it was wonderful when we were sixteen—that we would come to New York City and dance with the Rockettes."

  "Really? But neither one of you is tall enough, are you? I thought there was some kind of height requirement, or something."

  "I don't know. There probably is. When you're sixteen and have your whole life ahead of you, you don't think about things like that. You're naive enough to believe that anything is possible, that you can grow four inches overnight if you need to."

  "So why didn't you do it?"

  "In a word—Josephine. My mother didn't think becoming a dancer was a suitable profession. She threw such a fit when I first told her, you'd think I had expressed a desire to become a prostitute."

  "So you listened to your mother and didn't follow your heart's desire? That's too bad. We only go around this world once and we need to make the most of our dreams."

  "As I told you before, my mother is one of my biggest problems. I love her, but trying to please the woman has gotten me into more trouble than it's worth. Not that you could please her, mind you. She's got a huge heart, but a streak of stubbornness a mile long."