Staying Single Read online

  Francie released the breath she'd been holding. She was determined not to get involved with any man for a very long time, eons possibly, and especially not someone who was a potential client, and certainly not someone with whom Leo had brokered a match.

  The man was worse than a woman when it came to matchmaking. Leo was notorious for choosing horrible dates. He had once set her up with a florist whom he'd sworn was perfect for her. The man had turned out to be married with six children. Then there was the plastic surgeon who insisted he could give Francie bigger and better boobs at a discount.

  Okay, so she wasn't Pamela Anderson, but she wasn't flat, either. And hers were real!

  Francie decided a long time ago that she could screw up her life on her own. She didn't need Leo to aid her.

  "I hope you don't mind, but I suggested to Mark that he join us for dessert. He said he couldn't make dinner."

  "What?" Francie's mouth fell open, then she snapped it shut. "You invited him to join us? Whatever for?"

  "Because he's a nice guy, it's my birthday and I can do whatever I want. I am paying, after all."

  She had the grace to blush. "I did offer, Leo."

  "I know, sweetie, but I've got gobs more money than you, and no one to spend it on but myself, so it seemed silly to have you pay."

  Leo was very generous with his money. Francie wouldn't dine out nearly as much as she did, if that weren't the case. Of course, she'd probably be ten pounds thinner.

  "What did you buy me? I've been conjuring up all sorts of delicious possibilities." Leo tried peering into her purse, so Francie picked it up and moved it to the other side of the table. "Too small for a Porsche. Pity," he said, grinning.

  Leo was like a child when it came to receiving gifts. In the three years they'd lived together, Francie had learned that he not only liked surprises, he wanted a big fuss made over his birthday, and pretty much every other holiday on the calendar, be it Jewish or secular.

  He said it was because he'd been raised by his aunt and uncle after his parents died—a couple of religious fanatics who didn't know how to have fun, didn't celebrate Christmas or any other "heathen" holiday, and certainly hadn't approved when Leo came out of the closet at age eighteen to announce that he was leaving home to live with another man…in sin.

  That had been the last time he'd heard from his relatives. Fortunately the trust fund from his parents had kicked in shortly after that; he'd been supporting himself ever since. And pretty much spitting in the eye of anyone who didn't like his lifestyle, or him.

  Francie not only adored Leo, she admired him greatly.

  Reaching into her purse, she extracted a small box and laid it on the plate in front of him. The gift had set her back quite a bit, but she figured her friend was worth it. "I hope you like it. I spent hours looking for just the right one."

  Tearing open the blue foil wrapping paper, Leo's eyes brightened with anticipation. "I can't imagine what it is," he said, lifting the lid on the black velvet box to find a gold money clip engraved with his initials. "I love it! I've always wanted a money clip. How did you know?"

  Francie's smile was filled with indulgence. "Your hints are not altogether subtle, Leo, but they are effective. Happy birthday!" Leaning toward him, she kissed his cheek.

  Le Bee Fin was one of Philadelphia's finest restaurants, and Leo and Francie gorged themselves on two dozen oysters, rare beef Wellington and the most scrumptious chocolate soufflé ever whipped up by a mere mortal.

  Leaning back in her chair, Francie sighed, wondering if her skirt would still fit in the morning. She rather doubted it. "That was delicious. I'm totally stuffed." And totally relieved that Mark hadn't put in an appearance tonight. She wasn't sure she could handle him after sharing two bottles of wine with Leo. Or should she say—she wasn't sure she could handle herself?

  Leo and Francie had just entered their apartment when Francie ground to a halt. Leo, following close on her heels, colliding with her back. In her inebriated condition, it was a wonder she didn't fall over on her face.

  "Damn! I left my briefcase in your car. I've got to run down and get it. There are papers in it that I need to go over before I leave for work tomorrow. Ted will kill me if I'm not prepared for our meeting."

  "Just leave it. You can get it in the morning."

  She mulled over his suggestion, then shook her head, which was a huge mistake. It was pounding. She rubbed her temples to ease the throbbing, but to no avail. "Give me your keys. I won't be a minute."

  "If you insist." He dangled them from his fingertips, kissed her cheek, and told her good-night. "Be careful," he shouted over his shoulder. "This might be a good neighborhood, but it's still filled with perverts. I'm living proof of that."

  "Wonderful. Maybe I'll get lucky and meet one." She shut the door behind her and hurried to the elevator. They lived on the tenth floor, so it took a few minutes for the ancient conveyance to reach the lobby.

  After retrieving her briefcase—an uneventful trip…not a pervert in sight—she dashed back into the historic stone building, rubbing her arms briskly against the cold wind, and waited impatiently for the elevator to descend.

  Her head was splitting in two and she wanted nothing more than to take a hot bath, pop a few aspirin, and climb into bed.

  The door to the elevator finally opened and she stepped in. Believing she was alone, Francie nearly jumped out of her skin when she discovered she wasn't.

  "Hello again. Did you have a good time tonight?"

  Swiveling, she looked up into the handsome face of Mark Fielding. Normally, Francie would care that she looked like shit. But since she felt the same way, she wasn't overly concerned that her hair was sticking out in twelve different directions, like Medusa on speed, and that her eyeliner had smeared, giving her that Adams Family look. She hadn't a smidgen of lipstick on, and her stomach was bloated and sticking out as if she were six months' pregnant.

  She was a scary sight at best.

  Francie managed a smile, though it came out looking more like a grimace. "Leo and I had a great time. Perhaps too good a time. My head feels like an anvil fell on it. And I'm old enough to know better." . "I bet you've got tension in your neck."

  She was about to agree—her neck felt like a huge knotted oak—when he reached out and began to massage the muscles there. His hands were warm, and so was she getting to be. "I'm very good at this," he said, making her wonder what else he was good at.

  Sighing at the delicious way he was making her feel, she agreed. "Yes…yes, you are. But I'm sure an aspirin will take care of my headache." She tried to pull back, but he had a firm grip and didn't release her.

  "It's not the same as having your neck rubbed. Trust me. I know what I'm talking about. Guess Leo had wine with dinner, huh?"

  She groaned in ecstasy as his thumbs made circles at the base of her neck, hardly able to believe it was her own voice she was hearing. And then she came to her senses. "Um, thank you very much, Mark. The massage helped a great deal."

  Of course, now she had tension much lower than her neck. Like below her waist.

  Damn!

  Francie was relieved when the elevator stopped and opened. "Well, here we are," she announced, rather stupidly.

  "I'll walk you to your door."

  "That's not necessary! It's just down the hall."

  "I wouldn't be much of a gentleman if I didn't, now would I?"

  Sighing, Francie nodded in defeat, wondering when her twenty-first-century sensibilities were going to kick in and she would burst into a chorus of "I Am Woman." Though instead of roaring, she was purring like a damned cat in heat.

  At her door, they stopped, and Mark gazed down into her eyes. His eyes were filled with something that looked suspiciously like passion. Francie felt her knees quiver.

  Or was that something else?

  "You look very nice tonight."

  "I'm a mess, but thanks." Her new red-silk Liz Claiborne suit was horribly wrinkled, not to mention stained, thanks to
her enthusiasm for crème frêche.

  "A woman who looks disheveled, like she's just gotten out of bed, is very enticing."

  Her mouth went dry. "Well, that's exactly where I'm headed, so I'll say good-night and thanks again."

  Practically slamming the door in Mark's face, Francie leaned heavily against it. She could hear his amused chuckle recede as he headed down the hall to his own apartment.

  "Damn cocky male!"

  Damn stupid woman!

  5

  Ted Baxter fancied himself as somewhat of a ladies' man, which was ludicrous considering Francie's boss was about the same size as Danny DeVito but lacked the actor's sparkling personality, sense of humor or talent.

  The president of Ted Baxter Promotions was arrogant, self-serving and dull, which probably accounted for the fact that he'd been divorced three times and was still looking for the perfect trophy wife to take the edge off his dullness. He was also a terrible businessman.

  Francie got along fine with her boss, having made it clear two years ago when she accepted the job as his assistant that she wasn't interested in trying out any "other" positions that he might have in mind. And she was pretty sure he'd had several.

  Ted relied on her, and she relied on the biweekly paycheck she received in return. It wasn't a perfect arrangement, but it was "doable," as Ted was fond of saying.

  "We've got a problem, Francesca." Ted always called her by her given name, believing Francie was too cutesy for the public relations business. "I've got the IRS breathing down my neck. Things have reached a crisis stage."

  Surprise! Surprise!

  No doubt Ted hadn't sent in his quarterly payments again, preferring instead to take the money owed to the government and lavish gifts on his latest girlfriend, whom he claimed was an actress, but whom Francie was fairly certain was a high-priced call girl.

  I mean, really! Hardly anyone was named Peaches these days!

  "The quarterly reports?" she asked.

  He shook his head, looking defeated and suddenly old for his fifty-eight years, despite the fact that he'd dyed his hair black and had a tummy tuck. "Nothing so simple, I'm afraid. I'm behind on my income taxes," he said, surprising her.

  She'd come to the meeting this morning prepared to discuss the Langley Real Estate account—no easy feat, considering how hungover she was from Leo's birthday party—but that was obviously not what this meeting was about.

  "The penalties are killing me," he went on. "I've got to bring in more revenue or we're going to be put out of business."

  Shifting in her seat, Francie wondered why Ted was confiding personal financial details to her. That wasn't usually his style. Ted much preferred glossing over matters, making everything seem perfect and rosy. The man was a master at B.S. "Is there anything I can do to help? Perhaps call the IRS and try to make arrangements to—"

  "Don't you think I've already done that? Hell, my accountant's becoming personal friends with the IRS agent in charge of my case. Damn blood-sucking bastard. The whole lot of them are bastards. Why can't they leave honest businessmen alone?"

  Honest being the operative word, Francie thought.

  Business had been slow of late, which was why she had tried so desperately to entice Mark Fielding to sign with the company. So far he hadn't committed. "I have Mr. Fielding close to signing," she said, crossing her fingers behind her back and hoping her optimism would pay off.

  Ted stopped pacing and halted in front of her chair. "How close? We need his business, not to mention the hefty deposit he'll give us to proceed with his publicity campaign."

  "I'm…I'm not sure. He's checking out a few more firms, trying to make the best choice possible. I was planning to call him next week to see if he's made a decision."

  "We need Fielding, Francesca. Call him today. Do whatever—" he emphasized the word in his smarmy way "—you have to do to sign him. Wine and dine him, become his best friend, let him know you're interested … in a purely professional capacity, of course."

  Of course, my ass!

  "I'm up to my ears in debt, and if you want to keep your job, then you've got to help me."

  Francie tried hard to maintain her composure. Ted had screwed everything up and now it was suddenly her responsibility to fix it? That was rich. And totally unfair.

  "One account isn't going to do that much good, is it?" And she certainly didn't intend to sell herself to save Baxter Promotions. She did want to save her job, however—a job she loved and was getting darn good at.

  "I've got several things in the works, including some associates who may be willing to invest in the company for the short term. But they need to be convinced that we are attracting clients, and that those clients are completely satisfied with our services. No one wants to kiss a pig."

  Yeah? What about your girlfriend, Ted?

  "I took a chance when I hired you, Francesca, because you were young and inexperienced. But I liked your aggressiveness, your willingness to try. I hope my faith in you hasn't been misplaced."

  "I'll do my best." Francie knew the reason Ted had hired her. She'd been willing to work cheap just to get her foot in the door. Now that foot was getting stomped on.

  "Do better than that, Francesca. Your job and my business depend on your signing Fielding, understand?"

  Francie nodded, hating Ted Baxter at that moment. Perhaps she should look for another job. But she was so tired of not sticking things out. It was bad enough that her love life was a total disaster due to her penchant for quitting midstream. She didn't want that to become her M.O. in her professional life, as well.

  "I'll sign Fielding. Don't worry."

  He smiled widely. She was pretty sure he'd had caps put on his teeth; they were a little too perfect and not tobacco stained, as they once were. "That's what I like to hear. Now get on it at once. See if he wants to have dinner tonight. You can expense it, just don't order soup to nuts, okay?"

  "I understand perfectly what's expected of me." She just wasn't certain Mark Fielding would.

  "I'm your best friend, Francie, so I'm just going to come right out and say what I have to say. I don't want you to be upset, okay? Try to remember that we've been friends since first grade and I love you like a sister."

  As if this morning's meeting with Ted hadn't been painful enough, now Joyce is going to dump on me, Francie thought.

  "Like I could stop you." Francie smiled at the absurdity of the idea. No one muzzled Joyce Rialto and lived to talk about it. The redhead was a walking, talking opinion, who didn't mince words when she thought she was right about something, which was most of the time. And since Francie had a pretty good idea of what her friend was about to say, she couldn't really blame her.

  "This probably isn't a good time to remind you that you hate your sister."

  Joyce ignored the teasing comment. "I'm sorry, Francie, but I can't afford to be in any more of your weddings. I work at Neiman's, not Fort Knox. These weddings of yours are costing me a small fortune in ugly bridesmaid dresses, even with my ten percent employee discount. It's not like I can ever wear them again."

  "As much as I want to stand up for you, be with you on your special day, I just can't do it again. You'll have to find someone else."

  Setting down her bowl of ice cream, Francie clicked off the video they'd been watching and reached out to take her friend's hand. "Joyce, I'm sorry. I never meant to create problems for you. Maybe someday I'll be able to reimburse you for—"

  The redhead shook her head. "I don't want your money. I just want you to stop placating your mother. These relationships you keep entering into have been destructive… to everyone concerned, not just you. I've hesitated saying anything up till now, but three weddings are just too much. This has got to stop."

  "I know that. Don't you think I know that? And I've already told my mom that I'm not making the walk down the aisle again, no matter how much she begs. I'm through with bridal shows, caterers and weddings, but mostly I'm through with men."

  Eyes widenin
g in surprise, Joyce said, "No need to get drastic, Francie. Men serve their purpose." Her mood changed instantly and she grew animated. "Eddie's taking me to New York City next week to see Mama Mia. I can't wait. I bought the soundtrack and memorized the lyrics to all the songs."

  "Hey, I thought we were going to see that musical together. You know how much I like Abba." They'd been planning the trip for months. Just the two of them, like when they were younger and used to take the train to New York City and pretend they were appearing on Broadway.

  With an apologetic sigh, Joyce replied, "After your last wedding I couldn't afford the ticket, Francie. When Eddie offered, I jumped at the chance. Besides, we might stay at the Plaza. It was a hard invitation to resist."

  "But you don't even like Eddie Bertucci that much. You said he had sweat gland problems." Translation: Eddie smelled.

  "So what? I don't have to marry him. That's something you need to learn. You can go out, have sex, dinner, whatever, and you don't have to get engaged. It's a new concept called dating. You should try it sometime."

  "Very funny." Francie heaved a sigh. "I'm so disappointed, Joyce. I was really looking forward to going with you. It's been ages since we've been to New York City together."

  "Maybe Leo will take you. He loves musicals. Why don't you ask him?"

  "Leo's seen the play four times already. I don't think he's up for a fifth. Besides, Leo pays for everything. If I invited him to go, he'd feel obligated to pay for the tickets. He's too generous for his own good."

  The apartment they shared was proof of that. Leo had paid for most of the furnishings, except for her bedroom suite, which Francie had brought from home and Leo hated. The maple pieces didn't meet his artistic sensibilities, he'd said.

  Leo had hired painters and wallpaper hangers, had drapes and shutters custom made. The dwelling was decorated in what Joyce called "Lord of the Manor" or English country. Heavy furniture, rich fabrics, lovely accessories, all tastefully put together and paid for by Leo.