Читать книгу Promises, Promises - Shelley Cooper - Страница 9

Something was up with his landlady.

Marco Garibaldi didn’t know precisely what that something was, only that she was behaving totally out of character. Even worse, her out-of-character behavior was making it impossible for him to sleep.

Gritting his teeth against the swell of music echoing off his bedroom walls, Marco rolled onto his back and stared wide-eyed at the shadows flickering across the ceiling. A wave of frustration consumed him. The sheets were a tangled mess around his waist from all his tossing and turning. Air-conditioning, set on high, did little to cool a body that refused to stay in one position long enough to benefit from the chilled air pumping into the room.

The music ended and silence fell. A blessed silence, during which Marco closed his eyes and prayed for sleep to finally claim him. Just when he thought his prayers might be answered, once again the lilting notes of a piano sonatina filtered through the wall separating his half of the duplex from his landlady’s.

Marco groaned. Would it never cease?

It wasn’t that the music wasn’t nice. On the contrary, it was beautiful. Chopin, if he wasn’t mistaken. Or maybe Beethoven. He was too tired to try and figure out which.

Which was the entire point. Having just come off a sixteen-hour shift in the E.R., he was exhausted. Not only that, he was expected back there, bright and early tomorrow morning at six. And tonight, of all nights, his landlady had decided that midnight was the perfect time to play a CD at top volume, an unprecedented action on her part.

But what really had him stewing in aggravation was that she had programmed her CD player to play the same blasted sonatina over and over again. Thirty minutes listening to the same piece, no matter how beautiful, was about twenty-five minutes too long by his reckoning.

For two years he’d lived next door to her. Two years, during which they’d waved hello and goodbye to each other whenever their paths happened to cross, which wasn’t often since she seemed to work as many hours as he did. Two years, during which he’d dutifully placed his rent check in her mailbox on the first of each month. Two years, during which she hadn’t thrown so much as a tea party, let alone a wild, anything-goes free-for-all. Two years, during which she’d kept her stereo and television volume muted, and during which he’d never heard a peep from her after eleven o’clock at night.

Until tonight.

The sonatina swelled to its now-familiar finale, making Marco’s head throb. He winced. Oh, yes, something was definitely up with his landlady. And he didn’t like it one bit.

The music wasn’t the entire problem, he acknowledged with a sigh as he wrapped the pillow around his ears and turned on his side. Yes, he couldn’t sleep, but the music coming from his landlady’s apartment was only part of the reason why.

During his years as an intern, and then later as a resident when he’d worked practically around the clock for days on end, Marco had perfected the art of sleeping on his feet. Normally he could sleep anywhere, at any time and through anything. But tonight his brain wouldn’t shut off, no matter how hard he willed it.

He’d had a hell of a day. A record breaker, just like the heat wave that was smashing records that had stood unchallenged for decades. Heat always tended to bring out the worst in human nature. Add alcohol, drugs and handguns to the mix, and you got a violent combination that would inevitably, at some point, find its way into the E.R.

Today had been no exception. Since it was only July sixth, and the mercury had already soared past one hundred for three days running, Marco hated to think what the rest of the summer held in store.

His shift had started at 6:00 a.m. By noon, he’d already seen three shootings, a husband and wife who had knifed each other in a domestic altercation, a child that had been shaken mercilessly by his mother’s boyfriend and who might have permanent brain damage, and two drug overdoses.

Things had gone rapidly downhill from there. A bus accident had flooded the E.R. with victims at one-thirty. At three, a heat-provoked quarrel over whose turn it was to walk the dog had sent five members of the same family through the E.R.’s pneumatic doors. Then, at four, just as he was preparing to leave, three of his fellow physicians, who had all eaten a late lunch at the same fast-food restaurant, had come down with a virulent case of food poisoning, and Marco had known he’d be working a second shift.

The icing on the cake, though, had been the appearance of his current steady at six o’clock, demanding a commitment she’d assured him she didn’t want at the start of their relationship. When he’d asked if she could wait until he had time to speak in private, she’d refused, insisting he answer her questions there and then. She didn’t care who was listening. She’d left him no choice but to tell her that he had no intention of ever entering into a commitment with her, at which time she’d told him they were history. He hadn’t wanted things to end that way; he had in fact hoped to enjoy her company for a long time yet to come, but she had given him no choice.

Afterward, the patients who had witnessed the scene regarded him as if he’d suddenly sprouted a tail and horns. At least the nurses, who were even more overworked than the doctors, had gotten some entertainment out of the episode. He knew he’d be the object of a fair amount of ribbing for days to come.

Still, the breakup with Pamela, unpleasant and unexpected as it had been, wasn’t what was keeping him awake. The memory of the shaken baby was what tormented him. Despite his best efforts, he hadn’t been able to keep the eight-month-old from slipping into a coma. Given the probable prognosis, he didn’t know whether to pray that the child would succumb or survive.

Most of his fellow physicians did their best to distance themselves from their patients. Distancing helped to numb the pain and grief they encountered on a daily basis. Despite being advised to do the same himself, when he’d graduated from medical school Marco had vowed never to lose touch with the human side of his job. He never wanted to forget that the families, as well as the patient, were in pain. He didn’t want to become immune to that pain, no matter what the personal cost to himself.

Sometimes, though, it all seemed so hopeless. He patched up drug users and battered women who refused to press charges against their abusers and sent them on their way, only to treat them all over again days, weeks or months later. He’d lost count of the number of homeless people who relied on the E.R. to give them some basic human dignity and to help them with medical conditions that were solely a result of their homelessness, and thus totally preventable.

Then there were days like today, when an innocent child was entrusted to his care and he could do little to help. A day like today made Marco question whether what he did made any difference at all. A day like today left him wide-eyed and staring at the ceiling while he prayed for silence and the forgetfulness of sleep.

Five minutes, he thought in desperation. Like the woman married to a chronic snorer, five minutes of uninterrupted silence was all he would need to drift off into lullaby land. After that, his landlady could play that blasted sonatina a thousand times, and he wouldn’t hear.

When the song repeated yet again, Marco knew the only way he was going to get those five minutes was to demand them.

Wearily he climbed out of bed. For the sake of propriety, he shrugged a seldom-worn bathrobe over his naked body, then trudged in his bare feet to the front door.

The night air felt like a hot breath on his skin. Raising his right hand, he loudly rapped his knuckles against the aluminum screen door marking his landlady’s side of the duplex.

He had to repeat the motion three more times before the music stopped. A few seconds later he heard the soft patter of feet across hardwood. The pattering was followed by a pause while his landlady peered out at him through the peephole.

Then she was opening the door and regarding him through wire-rimmed glasses. It had been months since they’d actually spoken face-to-face, and he’d forgotten how tall she was, just an inch shy of his own six feet.

“Dr. Garibaldi,” she said, clearly surprised to see him. “Is there a problem?”

Something was different about her tonight, he realized. He was used to seeing her in suits, so the sleeveless, calf-length sundress was a surprise. But her attire wasn’t what had caught his attention. Maybe it was just a trick of the light that silhouetted her figure in the doorway, but he could swear her face was flushed with excitement and that her eyes actually sparkled behind the thick lenses of her glasses.

Was she entertaining? Had his unscheduled visit interrupted a languid seduction scene? Was that what was up with his landlady?

He’d never seen her like this before, so animated, so alive. Prior to that moment, if anyone had asked him to describe her, he would have said she was a woman who took life seriously and who dressed the part. She wasn’t plain, nor was she pretty. Sensible looking would be an apt enough description. He’d always thought of her as quiet and self-contained, a woman content to fade into the background with her books and ledgers, while other, more vibrant personalities hogged the limelight.

Since when had he turned so poetic?

Since he’d realized that his landlady had gorgeous, thick, waist-length hair. Normally, or at least whenever he’d seen her, she wore it in a French braid or in a bun fastened at the nape of her neck.

Suddenly, Marco was looking at her in a whole new light.

“Dr. Garibaldi?” she repeated, seemingly puzzled at his nonresponse.

He gave himself a mental shake. Given the acrimony with which his most recent relationship had ended, he was in no hurry to jump into another one. Even if he had been, Gretchen Montgomery would be the last woman he’d choose. For one thing, Marco was fairly certain she was a marriage-minded woman, and he was definitely not a marriage-minded man. What was more important, she was his landlady. Never mix business with pleasure, that was his motto.

“I’m sorry to disturb you so late, Ms. Montgomery, but I was wondering if you could turn your CD player down.”

She looked more puzzled than ever. “My CD player?”

He felt a surge of impatience. “The piano music. It’s keeping me awake.”

“You think—” She broke off. A quick glance at her wristwatch, and her eyes filled with contrition. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize it was this late. Of course I’ll turn the music down. I apologize for disturbing you, Dr. Garibaldi. I won’t be so thoughtless again.”

“Thank you.”

“Can I do anything else for you?”

You can let me run my fingers through your hair.

The unexpected thought shot a tingle of awareness through him. Before he could control the impulse, he actually felt his arm reach out as if to do just that. He definitely needed to get some sleep.

“No,” he said, quickly backing away. Snatching back his outstretched arm, he thrust his fingers through his own hair. “Nothing else.”

“Have a good night, Dr. Garibaldi.”

“You too, Ms. Montgomery.”

“Dr. Garibaldi?”

Hand on the door to his own apartment, Marco slowly turned. “Yes?”

“Before I forget, I should probably warn you that I’m having some cosmetic work done on the outside of the house over the next few weeks. Most of it should be carried out between nine and five, but if it causes a problem, please let me know. I realize your hours can be erratic, and I don’t want to disturb your sleep again.”

“Thank you. I’ll notify you if there’s a problem.”

She seemed to hesitate. “Well, good night.”

“Good night.”

He’d just settled back into bed and closed his eyes, the blessed silence cocooning him like a soft, cotton blanket, when the phone rang. Marco swore. He wasn’t on call. Unless there was a huge disaster in the making, or a member of his family needed him, his phone had no business ringing at this hour.

“What?” he barked into the receiver.

“It’s me,” Brian, his best friend, said.

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Sorry, buddy. It’s just… Well, it’s Val.” A long sigh traveled the phone lines. “We had another fight. A big one. She’s threatening to file for divorce. Can I come over? I really need someone to talk to.”

Marco swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Sure,” he said, running his hand over the stubble on his cheeks. “I’ll put the coffee on.” What had ever made him think he was going to get some sleep?

As he stumbled into the bathroom to toss cold water on his face, Marco’s thoughts turned to Brian and Val. Married just four years, they had already separated and reunited twice.

The problem was that, like him, Brian was a physician. A pediatrician who’d just started a practice of his own, he often worked more than eighty hours a week. And that didn’t take into consideration the hours in the middle of the night that he was on call. With a new baby to care for, it was no wonder Val often felt overwhelmed and neglected as far as attention from her husband was concerned. For his part, Brian justifiably felt torn between the pressures of the practice he’d built to assure his family’s financial security and the emotional demands of that family.

Marco was thankful for one thing. The day he’d promised to never forget the human side of medicine, he’d also promised that he would never marry. The marriages of too many physicians ended as a result of the very issues with which Val and Brian were now struggling. Issues they would continue to struggle with in the future. If, that is, they stayed married.

During those rare times when the thought of a wife and family to come home to became too tempting, all Marco had to do was think of Brian and Val, and his weakness would vanish. The one thing he never questioned were the promises he had made. His determination to keep them remained steadfast.

So why, even though he knew it was inappropriate, couldn’t he stop thinking about the light in his landlady’s unexpectedly bewitching eyes? And why couldn’t he stop hoping that she wasn’t entertaining a gentleman caller, that some other man wasn’t this very minute running his fingers through her beautiful, long hair?

Gretchen stood with her back pressed to her closed front door. Her heart thudded and her cheeks felt hot.

“‘Well, good night,’” she muttered in disgust. “Is that all you could think to say to him? What about, ‘You make my toes curl and my heart pound, and I was wondering if there was any chance I could do the same to you?’ Or, ‘I made a promise to my best friend that I’d have a wild, crazy affair. You game?’”

Groaning, she buried her head in her hands. She really was hopeless. Having a wild, crazy affair with any man, let alone one as virile as Marco Garibaldi, wasn’t going to be easy. In truth, she had to face the fact that it might prove downright impossible.

Gretchen felt herself grow as hot as the air outside as she remembered the way her tenant had looked, his thick, nearly black hair tousled, his well-muscled legs and broad chest on view in a way she had never glimpsed before beneath his loosely belted bathrobe, his smoky, heavy-lidded eyes half-closed from exhaustion. Heaven help her, if he had smiled that slow, crooked grin of his, she would have melted into a puddle at his feet. And the heat would have had nothing to do with it.

There was no denying that he possessed all the qualities Jill had stipulated. Just as there was no denying that, since Jill had put the notion into her head, having a wild, crazy affair with Marco Garibaldi was just about all Gretchen could think about.

She had always pictured herself as the PTA-baking-cookies-and-sewing-Halloween-costumes type of woman. And, if no man ever gave her a chance to exercise those skills, she gave a bang-up presentation before a board of directors and could summarize a company’s financial situation in thirty words or less.

When asked for a résumé, seductress and temptress had never made the list. For heaven’s sake, she wore high-necked cotton nightgowns in the summer and flannel pajamas in the winter. She never slept in the nude, something—if that loosely belted bathrobe was any indication—she suspected Marco Garibaldi was quite comfortable doing. Face it, she knew as much about having a wild, crazy affair as she did about flying a rocket to the moon.

Her recent encounter with the doctor in question more than bore out that conclusion. She hadn’t exactly gotten off to a rousing start, so far as seduction was concerned. Although she could have sworn that, for the briefest of seconds, she’d actually seen a flare of interest in his eyes. She’d even imagined that he’d reached out to her. Of course, the minute he’d all but tripped over his feet in his haste to get away from her, she’d realized how mistaken she’d been.

Good thing Jill hadn’t given her a time limit to accomplish everything she’d promised she would do, because something told Gretchen her powers of seduction needed a complete overhaul.

She was making headway on the rest of her promises, though. Over the three weeks that had passed since she’d listened to Jill’s tape, she’d done a lot of thinking on how she would spend the money Jill had left her. To date, she’d solicited bids to have the years of grit and grime covering the outside of her duplex sandblasted away and to have the bricks themselves repointed. Next week, central air-conditioning would be installed, and she and her tenant could throw away the window units that were working overtime in this heat. While the expenses could hardly be called impractical, it was money she normally wouldn’t have spent.

She’d also filled out an application to compete in a piano competition in Morgantown, West Virginia, next November. The age cutoff was thirty, which meant she would just squeak in under the wire. This truly was her last chance to find out whether she had any talent, and, if she was accepted, she had only a little more than four months to prepare. She was nervous, but she was also excited.

Filling out the application and writing the check for the entry fee had been the easy part. Much harder had been sitting down at the piano itself.

Though she’d kept the upright in tune, she’d rarely played it these past years. She didn’t know why, other than that when she’d given up her dream she’d also given up playing. She’d even, after her parents died, had the piano moved from the living room into the spare bedroom on the second floor. Out of sight, out of mind, she supposed.

Tonight, however, the minute she’d rolled back the lid from the keyboard, she’d lost herself in the wonder of the music. It had been obvious from the first note that she had a long way to go before she was ready to compete. But, oh, the joy of playing again. She’d forgotten how wonderful it felt to run her fingers over the keys and the sense that always filled her when she sat down to play—that the world was a wonderful place and that all things were possible.

She’d played the same piece over and over again, a Beethoven sonatina that was perfect for stretching lazy fingers. Marco Garibaldi had thought she was playing a CD. Surely that was a good sign. Surely that meant she hadn’t grown irredeemably rusty and that she had a chance.

Yes, she decided as she pushed off the door and turned to see that it was properly bolted, she was making progress. She was doing everything she could to keep the promises she had made.

Everything, that is, except try to find a way to seduce her tenant. She’d been putting off the hardest task for last, which was totally unlike her. When it came to work, she had always done the thing she least wanted to do first, getting it out of the way so she could enjoy the tasks that made her job such a pleasure.

She supposed she was dragging her feet because she had little confidence that she would succeed. Also, she’d never been lucky where affairs of the heart were concerned. An engagement had ended when she’d decided to care for her dying father. Subsequent relationships had all been unsatisfying. When Jill got sick two years ago, Gretchen had abandoned dating altogether, in order to spend as much time as possible with her friend.

She thought of the men she’d dated: sedate, sensible, dependable. Or, as Jill had so succinctly put it, dull, dull, dull. Then she thought of the women she’d seen on Marco Garibaldi’s arm. Beautiful. Vibrant. Vivacious. Anything but dull. She’d have to do something drastic, if she was ever going to compete with them.

Just how did a person go about having a wild, crazy affair? How could she make Marco Garibaldi look at her like she was one of the beautiful women he frequently squired, instead of his landlady? Gretchen didn’t have the first idea, but she knew someone who might.

“Do you have a minute?”

Gretchen peered around the office door of the senior partner of Curtis, Walker, Davis and Associates. Gary Curtis had been her mentor and friend from the day she was hired to work for the firm. Aside from Marco Garibaldi, he was the most virile-looking and devastatingly handsome man she had ever met. Good thing she loved him like a brother because he was also gay. She’d seen more than one smitten woman delude herself into believing she could change the way nature had made him, only to wind up heartbroken in the end.

Gary closed the file he was reviewing and smiled at her. “For you, I’ve always got time. Come in.”

After carefully closing the door, Gretchen took a seat.

“What’s the problem?” Gary asked. “Is this about the Harrison account?”

“No.” She made a show of crossing her legs at the ankles and smoothing her skirt while she gathered her thoughts. “It’s…personal.”

“Sounds serious.”

She drew a deep breath. “It is. I need your advice, Gary. About men.”

A light of interest gleamed in his eyes. “What about them?”

“This is going to sound stupid, but I was wondering if you could tell me how I should go about attracting one.”

Gary spread his arms. “Gay men I know. Straight men…” He shrugged. “That’s a whole ’nother story.”

“Your brother’s straight, isn’t he?”

“As a ruler.”

“Does he look like you?”

“People have been known to remark on the resemblance. Why?”

“That means he’s a handsome devil, which means women must like him.”

Gary’s lips curved. “Let me put it this way. They often come to blows over the favor of his company.”

“That’s what I was hoping for,” she said. “I want you to pretend you’re him for a few minutes. Can you do that?”

“I think I can manage it.”

Like an actor preparing for a role, he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and drew in a deep, cleansing breath. When he opened them again he said, “Okay. I’m a macho, heterosexual male who is irresistible to women. What do you want to know?”

She knew he expected her to smile, but she regarded him intently instead. “What would I have to do to get you to want me?”

“Are we talking purely physical here, or something deeper?”

“Purely physical.”

He nodded. “You want it flat out on the table, or sugar-coated?”

She squared her shoulders. “Flat out on the table.”

Tilting his head, he ran his gaze over her. “Okay. For starters, stop slouching. You’re tall. Accept it. And lose the suits. They’re way too businesslike, and I assume you have a figure under there, somewhere. Your legs, what little I can see of them, seem nice. You need to accentuate them. Buy lots of dresses. Short dresses. By short, I mean nothing longer than the top of your knees. And a push-up bra. It’ll give you cleavage.

“You also need to have a total makeover. Hair, nails, makeup, the works. Take notes. You need to get fitted for some contacts. And you need to go to the bookstore.”

Her eyebrows raised. “The bookstore?”

“The bookstore. I want you to buy every book you can find on attracting a man. Study them the way a theology student does the Bible. Once you’ve done all that, come see me, and we’ll talk some more.”

Gretchen couldn’t help laughing. “You sure you’re not secretly straight, and just waiting for the right moment to burst into the closet?”

He grinned back at her. “Not a chance. So, I assume this all has a purpose. Whom are we trying to attract?”

She told him about Jill, the tape and Marco Garibaldi.

“It must have been hard for you to listen to Jill’s voice like that.”

“In the beginning it was. After a while, though, it was just comforting. I miss her a lot, Gary.”

Sympathy filled his eyes. “I know you do. What do you plan on doing with the money?”

“I’m not entirely sure. I’ve scheduled some maintenance work on the house. I’ve also made an appointment for lasik surgery, so you don’t have to worry about me wearing glasses anymore.” She spread her arms. “Other than the makeover and a new wardrobe, I’m still thinking.”

“May I make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“Buy a sports car.”

“Why a sports car?”

“Because the car you’re driving now is ten years old, and there’s nothing sporty about it.”

“It’s a Volvo, Gary. It’ll still be going strong ten years from now.”

“And what does Volvo say, when the man you’re trying to seduce sees you in it? Especially a ten-year-old Volvo.”

Her smile was wry. “Point taken.”

“Good. Buy a sports car. Park it in your driveway. I guarantee it won’t be long before the illustrious Dr. Garibaldi will be begging to take you for a test drive.”

She raised her eyebrows at the vision Gary’s words formed in her brain. “The double entendre was deliberate, wasn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“You really think I have a chance?”

“Why would you doubt it?”

“Look at me, Gary. I’m not exactly the temptress type.”

“So what if you’re not a raving beauty. Neither are most supermodels before the makeup department gets their hands on them. All you need is a little confidence in yourself. A makeover and the appropriate wardrobe should give you that.”

“If you say so.”

“Smile for me, Gretchen.”

She curved her lips in a perfunctory motion.

“No.” He shook his head. “Really smile.”

This time the smile she gave him let him know how precious he was to her.

“Honey,” he said gently, “when you smile like that, you make me wish I hadn’t been born to an alternative lifestyle.”

“Have I ever told you how good you are for my ego?”

“A time or two.” Gary regarded her for a long minute. “Can I ask a personal question?”

“Sure.”

“Are you a virgin?”

Gretchen felt her cheeks heat. “I was engaged at one point, remember?”

“So?”

“No, Gary, I’m not a virgin.”

“Thank God.” He looked relieved. “There are some things I just can’t teach.”

Gretchen laughed. “I love you, Gary.”

“Where did that come from?” he asked, looking startled.

“From Jill. She told me to tell the people who are most important to me how much I care for them.”

He seemed to think it over, then his expression softened. “I love you, too. Now get a move on. You’ve got a lot of work to do. And I don’t mean in the office.”

“Thanks for the advice.” She headed for the door.

“Anytime. Know something? I like this. I’m starting to feel like Professor Higgins in My Fair Lady. Between you and me, I always thought the man was gay.”

Gretchen laughed. “Well, Professor Higgins,” she said, “I’ll let you dress me up and make me over. But I’m telling you right now, this Eliza Doolittle draws the line at filling her mouth with marbles and singing about the rain in Spain.”

“We’ll see about that.” Gary waggled an eyebrow at her.

Chuckling, Gretchen returned to her office. As she opened one of the Harrison files, she thought about what she’d jokingly told Gary. When it came down to it, for Marco Garibaldi she just might fill her mouth with marbles and sing about the rain in Spain. Because he was worth it.