"MYWIFE PATTY has done a lot of needlework in her time."
Mr. Jed Baxter sent the sour-faced woman beside him a look
of adoration.
Ryan Masterson raised his eyebrows as if this was the most
exciting thing he'd heard in nearly forever, mind spinning
over the absolute nothing he knew about needlework to try
to come up with a follow-up question. He'd been sitting in
the Union Square Café for the better part of two hours
with Jed and Patty Baxter, a middle-aged couple who'd just
moved to Manhattan from Dallas. The point of the meal was
to get to know them, let them get to know him, and to
interest them in his firm's latest venture-capital fund,
for female- and minority-owned businesses in the city.
However, the ebb and flow of conversation had been heavy
on ebb and light on flow. He'd already struck out on the
topic of rodeo, a passion of Jed's. Ditto barbecue,
because what could be said after your guest emphatically
denied you could have an opinion being from the North?
They'd had to resort to a discussion of tax law, a subject
he could only b.s. his way through at best.
"Needlework. Really. What kind?" That had to be a safe and
relevant question, didn't it? Wasn't there more than one
kind of needlework? He was pretty sure Jed wasn't talking
about tattooing or body piercing.
Patty flicked a glance at Ryan and went back to staring at
something past his head. "Needlepoint, knitting..."
"Sweaters?" He took a sip of water. Sweaters? He was
scraping absolute bottom. Times like this he needed a
woman beside him, maybe someone like Christine, the woman
who lived across the hall. That might sound sexist, but
while he was sure there were men into needlework, he was
just as sure he didn't want to date any.
"Yes. And embroidery. Crewel tablecloths." She glanced at
him again and almost smiled, which was the closest thing
to an expression he'd seen all evening.
Ryan put on his most impressed face. Whatever cruel
tablecloths were, they clearly deserved a reaction. "Well.
I'm in awe. Did you ever think of starting a business?"
She blinked in apparent alarm. "No."
With that chatty and fascinating response, the waiter
brought back the signed copy of the bill, thank God, and
Ryan could end this misery. At the door to the restaurant,
he kept a warm smile on while he shook hands, sure this
was the last time he'd get that chance. Jed and Patty were
old money, liberal, new to the city and in search of a
place to leave their mark. Gilbert Capital's newest fund
fit their needs perfectly. But why would they give over
large sums to someone they couldn't connect with? Trust
and compatibility were vital to the process, and Ryan was
generally very good at eliciting both, even at first
meetings. The Baxters had defeated him. Done in by bucking
broncos and table linens.
"Well, it's been a lovely evening."
"It certainly has been." Jed and Patty exchanged glances
wearing polite smiles and made their escape, going east on
16th Street toward Union Square.
Ryan went west, turning back once to lift a hand in case
the Baxters had the same impulse.
They didn't.
He sighed and pushed impatiently at hair that insisted on
ignoring careful combing, and diving over his forehead,
aiming for his eyes. He needed to cut it, but he couldn't
bring himself to part with this last symbol of his
rebellious youth. Maybe the Baxters liked short hair.
Jed's had been buzzed close to military-short. Maybe they
liked bawdy humor instead of intelligent conversation,
maybe they liked beer instead of wine, maybe they'd rather
have gone to a deli for pastrami sandwiches. Jed was
obviously devoted to his wife, and Ryan couldn't find a
single topic to draw her out, maybe that was it. If Patty
made the decisions in the family, Ryan and his fund were
definitely going nowhere.
A man bumped into him on Fifth Avenue and Ryan
instinctively felt for his watch and wallet, then dodged
another man aiming too close. New York, New York, a
helluva town. He turned onto West 14th Street and a stiff
breeze dislodged the rest of his attempt at a controlled
hairstyle. Warm for mid-April. Nearly summerlike tonight.
At the Sixth Avenue subway stop, he paused, got a whiff of
stale subterranean air and kept walking, straight and
brisk, or as brisk as the crowd would allow. The thought
of being underground, cooped up in a metal car, squashed
among strangers' bodies never appealed, but tonight it
seemed unbearable.
Not for the first time, and more frequently in recent
months, the country's largest city felt too small, too
tight. He'd never be a country boy, but he craved less
crowded spaces, a more peaceful pace of life, a motorcycle
between his legs, a pair of female arms wrapped around his
middle and nowhere in particular to go.
Which would accomplish what?
He needed a change, but he needed to move forward, not
back. His motorcycle days were over long ago, and with
them, his reckless youth. Instead of high-speed alcohol
consumption followed by high-speed driving, his social
life consisted of low-key evenings with friends, work-
related outings or charity events, an over-thirty soccer
league and occasional dates. In short, he'd grown up.
When he left the city, he'd leave it for a commuting
suburb, maybe in Connecticut, his home state, a big
friendly house with a loving wife and a bunch of kids to
play in the green backyard. That would be his next
journey. And if his increasing restlessness in Manhattan
was any indication, he was due to be starting it soon.
A taxi screeched to a halt near him, horns blared, people
shouted.
Very soon.
He reached home, a typically New York nineteenth-century
brownstone on Bank Street, and got into the elevator with
a middle-aged woman and her yappy little dog who lived a
floor above him. The woman looked, as usual, as if she'd
just had a horrible fight with a loved one. The dog was
one of those jittery bug-eyed ones that always looked as
if they were about to explode. Hostility. Suspicion.
Stress. Daily facts of life. He'd had enough.
On the fourth floor, he got off the elevator, calling out
a good-night that wasn't returned, and strode down the
narrow cool hall. The second his key hit the lock of 4C,
the door to the apartment across from his opened.
"Hey, Ryan." The soft throaty voice filled the hallway.
Christine. He turned and nearly dropped his key.
Christine? Wearing the kind of negligee he'd only seen in
the pages of Victoria's Secret catalogs.
Er, not that he ever wasted time looking at those. Of
course.
"Hi, there." He suppressed his cave man reaction and
grinned, glad to see a friendly familiar face after the
strained evening. Christine would have been a welcome
addition at dinner tonight. He'd bet she could have
chatted easily with the Baxters, as she seemed to be able
to do with everyone. The tone of the evening and the
outcome would have been decidedly different. He'd probably
still have a chance at their participation in the fund.
"Just home from work?" She hefted a small bag of trash,
her apparent reason for being out in her nightgown. She
worked in the office suite next to his firm's and had
asked him six months ago, shortly after she started, if
there were any vacancies in his building. He'd hesitated
when the first one that came open was across the hall. Did
he really want to invite a stranger he'd see fairly
regularly at work to be his neighbor?
But something about Christine brought out his protective
side — maybe that she was relatively new to the city and
Manhattan could batter people who weren't used to it — and
he'd given in. A few weeks later, she was his neighbor,
and had proved to be as friendly and sweet as she seemed,
with a knack for baking — and more importantly, sharing
what she'd made — that made his eyes roll back into his
head with pleasure.
His suburban-house fantasy crystalized. A harborside
mansion in Southport, Connecticut. His lovely wife,
Christine, not only at his side wining and dining clients,
but beside him at home as well, the beautiful, gentle
mother of his kids. The picture was pleasant, comfortable
and logical. If her face weren't so innocent, the outfit —
and the fact that she often appeared when he was either
coming or going — would make him wonder if she'd had
similar thoughts herself.
Maybe Fate had put her in his path tonight, when he'd been
thinking about settling down.
"Yes, I'm just back. I had a dinner with prospective
investors."
"Oh, how'd it go?" She appeared all wide-eyed interest and
he managed to keep himself from visually exploring her
generous cleavage, displayed by cream-colored material
that looked delicate enough to snag on his hands. Her
blond hair had been twisted up into a clip with just
enough strands loose to make her look soft and vulnerable
and...luscious.
Luscious? That was a new one where Christine was
concerned. Everything about her seemed different tonight.
Was it how she looked? Or how he was seeing her?
"It...went." He gave in and examined the negligee and the
body in it, not at all sorry once he started. She was
tall, five-seven or eight, with endless legs, one of his
favorite female traits — physically speaking. "Did you
wear that to work?"
She laughed, blushing, and clutched the semitransparent
robe closer. "You caught me. I was hoping to sneak to the
trash chute and back before anyone saw. I was trying to
play it cool when you appeared, but frankly, I'm
mortified."
He chuckled, and in deference to her discomfort, dragged
his gaze reluctantly back to her eyes, hazel and luminous,
looking at him with something primitive he'd never seen
there before. His body reacted; he moved backward toward
his door. He needed to think this through before he let
his other brain take over. "I didn't mean to embarrass —"
"It's okay. Really." She spoke hurriedly and he stopped
his retreat.
Was he nuts? Was she sending him a yes, please signal? Or
was she only being her usual cordial self and her outfit
had turned him into a testosterone-driven beast?
"Well, good night." He turned resolutely away, put his key
in the lock, jiggled it slightly while twisting and opened
his door. Dating someone who worked and lived so close to
him could turn into disaster.
He kept the door open with his foot, reached in and
flipped the light on in his entrance hall.
Or it could turn out great.
He'd gotten a pretty good sense of Christine over the past
few months. He'd helped her out here and there,
recommending restaurants, hardware stores, auto repair
places, giving her directions and advice. He'd also helped
with a few heavy-lifting and handyman chores in her
apartment, which he had a feeling would have been done
better by Fred Farbington, the building super. Several
times they'd found themselves leaving the Graybar building
at the same time on their lunch hours and had joined
forces. He liked her. A lot. And with the sudden sexual
zing in the air tonight, he wanted to get to know her
better. A lot.
She didn't strike him as a complicated person, but far
from dull, she seemed intelligent and ambitious, already
earning herself a promotion at the insurance firm where
she worked. And anyone who could move to Manhattan without
knowing a soul and appear to thrive had strength in
spades. As far as he could tell, there wasn't a mean-
spirited bone in her body. She was calm, beautiful and
elegant, but didn't come across as snobbish or —
Okay, he'd convinced himself.
He went back into the hall, found Christine at her door
again, having gotten rid of her trash. "Christine."
"Yes?" She turned and smiled, not blushing this time, not
clutching the robe closed, and he saw again, more
distinctly, that flash of awareness that she looked good
and she knew he noticed and was glad he had.
Well, well. The fantasy house in Connecticut suddenly
acquired a detailed master bedroom.
"Do you do any needlework?"
She laughed, a sudden nervous burst he didn't blame her
for. She probably thought he'd lost it.
"What kind?"
"Tattooing, piercing...I want to get my nose done." She
started to look horrified and he grinned to show he was
kidding. "I meant craft needlework."
"Oh." She put a hand to her chest and his eyes followed it
enviously. "Sure. I used to sew a lot. I still knit
occasionally, when someone in the family has a baby. I
never did needlepoint or embroidery —"
"But you know what they are."
"Yes." She gave him a "you-feeling-okay?" look. "I know
what they are."
"I could have used your help tonight."
"You're stuck on a knitting project?"
He laughed at her joke, feeling keyed up and happy, the
way he always felt when a promising relationship was
starting — though it had been well over a year and he'd
had quite a few disappointments before this. His decision
had made itself for him. "Have dinner with me tomorrow?
Been a while since I had a good Thai meal. I'd like to
share one of my favorite places with you."
She looked astonished at first, then her sincere delight
made him feel as if he'd been crowned king of a small
nation. "I'd love that, Ryan. Thank you."
"I'll knock at seven?"
"Perfect." She smiled again, and he watched her go through
her doorway, then pause and half turn as if she wanted to
say something or look back. She must have changed her mind
because she continued on and the door swung slowly shut
behind her.