Читать книгу The St James Affair - Сьюзен Виггс, Susan Wiggs - Страница 7

CHAPTER THREE

“WHOSE PAST?” Jenny demanded.

“My past.” Shaken, Elaine propped her chin in her hand and continued to gaze across the room at the tall, unforgettable silhouette, outlined by frosty winter light streaming in through the wide window.

Memories flooded her, of a brief time when Christmas had meant more to her than juggling a social schedule with a business plan. Against her will, she remembered those nostalgic days when the softest, most vulnerable part of her had felt safe with an unexpected stranger.

They never should have met in the first place. She belonged to a social class governed by strict but invisible rules. One of those rules prohibited her from fraternizing with guys like Tony Fiore. He came from a different world entirely, and that world had rules of its own. He’d been raised in a large Italian-American family in Brooklyn that believed, as much as the St. Jameses did, in sticking to its own kind.

At eighteen, she was only just discovering the world outside her privileged, insulated life. He was definitely a major discovery.

Now an older, possibly even more interesting, Tony Fiore stopped at a crowded table across the room. He started talking to the well-dressed patrons there. Every face at the table turned toward him as he spoke.

Elaine’s friends followed the direction of her rapt stare. “Holy mistletoe,” Mel said. “That guy?”

“Who is he?” asked Jen.

Bobbi patted Elaine’s arm. “Whoever he is, he’ll make Byron seem like a bad dream.”

“His name’s Tony Fiore. We met a long time ago, when we were in college.” Their lives had intersected for the first time at the ice rink at Rockefeller Center during Christmas break. Tony was attending Notre Dame on a hockey scholarship. She’d never forget her first glimpse of him. Crowds of tourists and regulars had jammed the ice, yet Tony Fiore had glided effortlessly between couples and children and daredevil teenagers. His imposing profile and swift athletic strokes across the ice had caught her attention.

“Fiore.” Jenny studied him, her expression that of a jeweler inspecting a flawless gem. Elaine followed her gaze. Pale daylight flickered on his thick indigo hair, which lay in glossy, unruly waves that defied a conservative haircut. “I’ve never heard of him,” Jen continued. “How can that be?”

Elaine struggled to act blasé. She reminded herself of the way things had ended between them—or failed to end, depending on how you looked at it. They’d been Romeo and Juliet without the messy final act.

Hardening her heart, she said, “You wouldn’t have. He’s nobody.” Even as she said the words, her throat went tight. Nobody but the only guy who had ever convinced her that magic was real. Nobody but the guy who, on the night she’d gone to offer her heart to him, had stood her up.

“He looks like somebody to me,” Melanie said. “I can’t quite place him.”

“Maybe he’s a movie star,” Bobbi suggested, reaching across the table to snatch the cherry from Mel’s drink.

“If he was a star, we’d know who he is.”

“What’s he doing?” asked Bobbi.

Holding a clipboard with a pen attached, Tony Fiore moved to another table and greeted the people seated there. Again, everyone turned to him, and their faces lit up as though he’d flipped a switch.

“Maybe collecting pledges or donations,” said Jenny. “Who cares? Look at him.”

He set down the clipboard, bracing his hands on the table and bending slightly to lend someone a pen. They could now see the reflective lettering on the back of his bulky parka.

“Well, how about that,” said Melanie. “He’s a cop.”

Elaine stared at him. A cop? He was supposed to be a hockey star. That was the only way she’d made sense of what had happened to them. She’d assumed he’d realized he wouldn’t be able to juggle a professional athlete’s career with falling in love. Now she was forced to consider the idea that he’d thrown her over for the dubious glories of being a cop.

Bobbi shifted in the booth and fussed with the pashmina bunching in her lap. “He’s coming this way, isn’t he?”

Before anyone could reply, he approached their table.

Oh, that smile, Elaine thought, suppressing a groan. Those eyes, the color of melted chocolate. This man, she realized, had a face she couldn’t seem to stop dreaming about no matter how many Christmases had passed.

“Afternoon, ladies,” he said. That voice was another haunting memory that wouldn’t leave her alone. It was deep and self-assured, faintly brushed with the real-world tones of his native Brooklyn.

Elaine fixed a smile on her face, though everything from the neck down froze in panic. “Tony Fiore. It’s been a long time.” She wondered if he realized that tonight was the anniversary of their doom.

“Six years tonight,” he said, staring down at her with appreciation.

Well, thank God, she thought. If he’d failed to remember her, she would have died, right in the middle of Fezzywig’s. But the warmth in his eyes, the extra layer of color in his face, confirmed that he had not forgotten her.

She wondered if he recalled the feeling of holding hands, gliding across the ice, if he could never listen to Christmas music without thinking of her, if he lay awake nights and wondered what his life would be like if only he had dared …

“Seven,” she corrected him, not at all surprised he’d gotten it wrong. “But who’s counting?”

He smiled, his generous, sensual lips forming a dangerous curve. Yet, like the young, unpretentious man she’d known, he appeared to be completely unconscious of his devastating effect on women. There was nothing so sexy as a guy who didn’t realize he was sexy. His gaze frisked her from head to toe. “You look good, Elaine.”

“You, too.” She glanced questioningly at his clipboard. What she was really doing was looking for the expected wedding band. Surely a guy like this had a plump, happy wife and a couple of bambinos. Long ago, he’d told her he wanted exactly that, along with his NHL career. But to Elaine’s surprise, she saw no ring. “What’s up with that?” she asked.

“Fund drive,” he said unapologetically, nodding to greet her companions.

Aha, she thought. He was just like Larry the elf. Only taller. Darker. Handsomer.

Then he did the grinning thing she remembered so well. His eyes, with their thick, criminally long lashes, took possession of everyone around the table. Elaine’s friends opened to him like budding flowers to warm sunshine.

She had never been able to figure out how he did it, but he had a mesmerizing effect on people. Maybe it was the way he leaned forward a little, the warmth in his expression reaching out to everyone. It was like … magic. She flashed on another memory of the elf, promising her miracles.

Even Melanie, who was so cool she made ice cubes shiver, sighed audibly.

Elaine felt curiously exposed, running into Tony again like this. The past was behind her for a reason—so she wouldn’t have to look at it. Straightening her shoulders, she was determined to hide her vulnerability and brazen it out.

She made the introductions in the smooth, polished way she had perfected over the years, and with a little laugh that completely covered everything she was feeling, she said, “This is Tony Fiore, who broke my heart back when we were in college.”

“Yeah?” Jenny aimed a blatant invitation at him. “He’s breaking mine now.”

“I broke your heart?” He grinned, incredulous. “Very funny, Elaine. I did you a favor.”

She gulped down the rest of her drink. Could he really believe that?

“So spill,” Mel said. “You two were an item?”

“We dated like … three times,” Elaine said blithely.

Jenny gave a low whistle. “For most guys, that’s a long-term relationship.”

“So what are you collecting for?” asked Bobbi, squirming in her seat.

“Kids’ hockey league,” Tony said. “It’s a pet project of my division. We fund coaching and ice time in all five boroughs.”

Elaine wasn’t surprised. Hockey used to be his life. It was supposed to be his future, his career. She couldn’t help wondering about him as she studied this new, different Tony who hadn’t changed a bit, who still set her heart on fire. What was his life now? Expired licences and shoplifters?

“What can we do for you?” Melanie asked.

That entrancing smile never wavered. “Anything you can spare. It’s Christmas Eve,” he reminded them needlessly.

“That’s great that you’re helping out inner-city kids,” Jen said.

“It’s an outstanding idea,” Elaine announced.

“Thanks. I’m sorry to say, funds are low this year. We’re going to need a miracle to keep the league going.”

“You ought to have a gala.” Jenny beamed at him. “Trust me, we know about this stuff. We’re publicists.”

He looked blank.

“We are responsible for getting our clients’ faces in front of the press, or getting their products mentioned in magazines as the hot new must-have. That sort of thing,” Elaine said. “I’ve never heard of your organization. You should do some PR for exposure. It would increase your contributions tremendously. Trust me, I know the benefits of PR.”

“Yeah? What do you charge?” When she didn’t answer, he grinned. “I can’t afford you. Anyway, the time I put in is just as important.”

Everyone went for their bags. It struck Elaine that she hadn’t always hated Christmas. Sure, her self-disciplined approach to life had never allowed her to indulge too freely in the frivolities of the season. But, now that she thought about it, she once loved the warmth and joy of the season, the sentimental music and the spirit of generosity that took over even the most miserly of individuals. When had that hardened into annoyance and exasperation?

Watching Tony, she knew precisely when. It began the night he’d let her down. Right then had begun a slow erosion of the spirit. Hope had deflated, giving way to bleak reality. She’d begun to view the world through the eyes of a cynic. In the most holy of seasons, she saw greed instead of generosity, phoniness instead of sincerity. She’d learned to expect the worst of people and she was never disappointed.

Hiding her troubled thoughts, she rummaged deep in her handbag, sifting through gear she toted everywhere but the shower.

No wallet.

She frowned and rummaged some more, searching for the smooth leather case stuffed with plastic cards and folded bills.

No wallet.

“Something’s wrong here,” she muttered. She dumped the contents of her purse on the table, then put them back one by one. She felt Tony watching, and realized he had focused on her key chain, the one with the silver skate. It had been a gift from him, years ago, the only thing he’d ever given her. So what? she thought. Let him make what he would of it. She knew why she carried it.

As she sifted through the clutter on the table, a sinking feeling plummeted through her. “Somebody stole my wallet.”