Читать книгу It's All About Eve - Tracy Kelleher - Страница 11

SIMONE HELD OUT a gin and tonic to Carter. “So, what did you think of the lingerie lady?”

What didn’t he think about the lingerie lady?

Not that Carter was about to admit his fascination with Eve. Instead, he rested his tennis racquet against the picnic table and lowered himself gingerly into an Adirondack chair. “I don’t know what’s going to kill me first—the thought of Eve Cantoro’s tap pants, your gin and tonic, or your husband’s kick serve into my body.” His old Grantham University T-shirt was soaked. “But since we all have to die of something, pass that drink over here.”

Ted Daniger, Simone’s husband and old friend of Carter’s, sat in a nearby chair, slouching as comfortably as if he owned the place. Which, in fact, he did. The Daniger family mansion was a tidy Georgian brick pile that oozed the right mixture of substantial wealth—hand-carved moldings, crushed-stone circular drive, servants’ quarters—and laid-back bonhomie—a horseshoe pitch in the backyard and holes in the window screens from rambunctious Labradors. A descendant of one of those canine forebears lay panting at Ted’s side, a wet tennis ball at his feet—Buster the dog’s, that is. “You’re getting old, Moran. I’ve never beaten you in straight sets before.”

“You’re the same age as I am, Daniger.” Which was thirty-four to be exact. “It’s just that you weren’t up all night on a domestic violence case, followed by a double shift.” Carter had filled in for a fellow officer who was on his honeymoon in Cancun. Carter had felt like telling him to take the money and invest it in CDs—the financial sort—rather than blowing it on a week in Shangri-La. In his experience, paradise was greatly overrated.

He watched Simone hold the tray of drinks toward Ted. “And besides, you’re constantly reenergized by the love of a good woman,” he added. Well, maybe some kinds of paradise lasted beyond a few spectacular sunsets.

Ted beamed up at Simone, who was perched on the arm of his chair. “And don’t I know it.” He reached over and took a glass, but not before offering her a full-blown kiss.

When they broke, Simone sat back with a pleased look on her face. Her own drink had sloshed on the tray during the embrace. “It must be true love. Why else would I allow your sweaty body to get this close to mine?”

“Because you love my sweaty body getting this close to you.” Ted raised his head for another kiss.

Having grown more than a little cynical and detached over the years, Carter normally would have snorted at this overt display of affection. But the thing of it was, it was genuine. And it was between two of the nicest people he knew. Check that, maybe the only genuinely nice people he knew well.

Carter and Ted had been roommates at Grantham University. Talk about opposite ends of the spectrum. Ted, the easygoing product of good taste and old money, was the archetypal scholar-athlete, a high-scoring lacrosse player who was content to graduate with respectable grades.

Not Carter. Driven could have been his middle name. He’d migrated to the elite Eastern college from just outside of Dayton, from a family that tenuously clung to its lower middle class status. His father drifted through a variety of blue-collar jobs. His mother, a homemaker, had resigned herself to maniacally vacuuming their ever-diminishing apartments and clipping coupons for Hamburger Helper.

Carter had determined not to be resigned to anything. He worked his butt off to get good grades, get into a prestigious college, and win a full scholarship to boot. He was eager to prove that he had what it took to succeed.

Did he ever. In four years, he earned a combined bachelor’s/master’s degree in economics, graduating with highest honors, while serving as editorial page editor of the student newspaper. He wasn’t sure about a career in journalism; but he knew the post was a great contact for after graduation.

He was right. One phone call, one interview, and he was fast-tracked into investment banking in New York City. Carter didn’t stop there. He became one of the youngest mutual fund managers in his firm, regularly racking up double-digit annual growth figures, even when most stocks and bonds slipped badly after the high-tech bubble burst. The “Financial Wunderkind,” Fortune Magazine had dubbed him. And he was scrupulously honest, publicly denouncing companies whose CEOs were greedy for Learjets and lackadaisical when it came to corporate accounting factors. “The Conscience of Corporate America,” declared The Financial Times.

Not surprisingly, his personal portfolio bulged as well. He acquired tidy holdings in stocks, bonds and real estate. The garage space for his Porsche Boxster cost almost as much as his penthouse overlooking Central Park. Then there was the vacation “cottage” in the Hamptons. And who could forget the tall, willowy wife with a degree in art history and a deep-seated ability to spend money—lots of money. After all, he was too hot a catch to escape the matrimonially inclined junior members of the Save Venice Society and other like-minded causes.

Not bad for a boy from Dayton.

The only problem was, Carter never saw his apartment, his country house or his wife, who he seemed to have forgotten somewhere along the way, after all. And when his wife divorced him, taking both the apartment and the summer house—not to mention a Lhasa apso he never knew he had—Carter suddenly realized he might have had it all, but so what?

And that’s when he ran into Ted, standing on a subway platform, waiting for the E-train. Ted had suggested that Carter visit him in Grantham, where he had moved back into his parents’ old place; they had retired to warmer climes and better golf courses in Scottsdale.

Carter thought of the good times he had shared with his former roomie, and he took him up on it. And he’d stayed. Quit his job and moved into the chauffeur’s apartment over the garage. First, he sat around and drank beer, swam in the pool and played tennis with Ted. Ironically, now it was Ted who was putting in the long hours building up a practice, while Carter was perfecting his two-handed backhand and sleeping in.

But retirement soon proved boring for someone who had always been a confirmed overachiever. Carter thought of joining a local investment firm, but decided that making money no longer held that much charm. In any case, he was comfortably set for life if he didn’t do anything foolish. Forsaking his Porsche had caused only momentary regret.

So, as an alternative to adding yet another zero at the end of his holdings, he worked out daily at a local gym, took an adult education course in Italian, and read the complete works of Charles Dickens and Elmore Leonard. But that was simply a way to fill in time.

And then it hit him. After years of being totally self-centered, he would help others. He no longer craved fast cars and gold watches. He created a foundation out of most of his investments, and with the aid of a local law firm—run by the husband and wife team of Ted Daniger and Simone Fahrer—he anonymously supported needy causes. He even went back to college, the state university this time, taking courses in law enforcement. He passed the state exam, and applied and got a job on the local police force.

And he loved it. Even liked the paperwork. Well, sometimes he liked the paperwork. Mostly, he liked being part of a community without having to make a personal commitment to anyone in particular. Interaction from a distance was the ticket, he decided as he contentedly sipped his gin and tonic. Secure in his new world, he admired his friends’ affection but didn’t have to feel guilty about wives he neglected or Lhasa apsos he had never known he had.

Ted, after all, was the one who had made the turnaround in Carter’s lifestyle possible, and if he and Simone wanted to smooch to their hearts’ content, so be it.

Then Carter remembered. “Actually, talking of underwear, sorry, lingerie, how’s that little number you bought?” he asked Simone.

Ted looked interested. “And what little number would that be?”

Simone grimaced. “Aw, Carter, now you’ve ruined my surprise. I was saving it for later tonight, after pizza at Tonino’s.” Tonino’s was a Grantham institution; a pizza parlor/bar that attracted adult league baseball teams and families with armies of kids. The decor was early fifties—tiny, mirrored tiles on the support columns and pink Formica on the tabletops. The waitresses had big hair and little aprons. They didn’t slop the beer, and they always remembered the ketchup for the fries.

Ted held up his glass. “Ah, the anticipation is killing me. Please, everyone, drink up, so we can move on to dinner, and get to the quote-unquote dessert as quickly as possible.” The dog, Buster, took that moment to thump his tail.

Simone beamed at Ted. “Eagerness is one of your more endearing traits, you know.” She patted him on the arm, then turned to Carter. “Speaking of eagerness, I was pretty sure I detected a certain, what you might call tension in Eve Cantoro’s store today.”

“That’s only because I’ve never been surrounded by so much black lace and sheer stretch material in my entire life,” Carter said defensively.

Ted kicked the tennis ball, and Buster lumbered across the grass to retrieve it. “You must have had an interesting day. Tell me more.”

Simone patted him on the shoulder. “It’s a new lingerie shop in town—Sweet Nothings. And it’s run by this woman, Eve Cantoro, who seems to have a good head on her shoulders.”

Carter could easily have added that she had a few other good things close to her shoulders.

Simone gave Carter the evil eye. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

“So, Carter, what brought you to the land of lace and fantasy?” Ted asked. Buster returned, and Ted leaned over and picked up the ball. He threw it farther. Ted clearly was well trained.

“I was there in a professional capacity,” Carter said.

“A little fieldwork in garters and nighties?”

“Very funny.” Actually, not funny at all. The thought of Eve Cantoro, surrounded by all those sexy little under-things, was driving Carter crazy. He remembered her description of a thong. And there definitely hadn’t been any visible panty-line showing under her black slacks.

Carter sipped his drink a little unsteadily, sloshing it down his chin and onto his wet T-shirt. “Jeez,” he wiped his front. “What a waste of good alcohol.”

“So?” Ted asked again.

“I was responding to a call about a reported theft.”

Simone sat up straighter. “Theft?”

“Seems that a person or persons has a thing for red tap pants.”

“Come again.” Ted frowned.

“Apparently, that’s just what the person or persons may have done. Three times, in fact, a pair of red tap pants has gone missing from the display window.”

Ted whistled. “Three times. A regular crime spree. Next thing to disappear will be push-up bras. And who knows, from there—girdles.” He turned to Simone. “Do women still wear girdles?”

Simone swatted him on the shoulder. “Stop it. If it were a cell phone or a wallet you’d show concern. Just because it’s women’s lingerie, you feel free to mock.” She paused, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Red tap pants. I find that very interesting.”

“As a lawyer who handles criminal cases?” Carter asked.

“No, as a woman. Not my style, at all.”

“Not mine, either,” Carter admitted.

Simone perked up. “So tell me, speaking of style, did you succumb and end up buying anything?”

“Why would Carter buy anything?” Ted asked.

Carter reached over to rub the dog under his chin.

Simone pounced. “You did. You bought something. I knew it. Well, fess up. What was it?”

Carter sat up. Buster gave him a droopy smile. “Some one-piece thing called a teddy. Kind of beige. Nothing too fancy, pretty tame really.” The price tag, on the other hand, had been eye-popping.

Simone raised an eyebrow. “I know the one you mean. It’s the type of thing that doesn’t look like much on a hanger—but put it on a woman’s body and ooh-la-la.”

Carter could easily imagine just which woman’s body. Only too easily.

“Pretty good taste, Carter.”

Carter raked his fingers nervously through his hair. “It’s for my mother.”

“Now as a criminal lawyer I find that very interesting.” She studied Carter carefully. “And as a woman, I would have thought it would have looked much better on someone younger, say late twenties, slim build, with dark hair and an attitude.”

“Speaking of women with attitudes.” Ted leaned over and whispered something into Simone’s ear. He saved Carter from having to respond.

Simone smiled knowingly and rose, wiggling her fingers goodbye to Carter.

Ted stood up. Buster did as well. “Sorry, Carter. You’re going to have to fend for yourself at Tonino’s tonight. ’Fraid the surprise just can’t wait until later.”

The dog wagged his tail. And he wasn’t the only one who was happy.

CARTER SHOWERED AND DROVE to Tonino’s. As soon as he opened the bar door, the air-conditioning hit him with the impact of a Minnesota blizzard. If he weren’t careful, his damp hair would form icicles.

Subarctic temperatures aside, life could be a lot worse. A baseball game was showing on the television, and beer was within striking distance. He commandeered a red leatherette stool and dug into a bowl of peanuts.

“Hey, Carter, What’ll-it-be? The usual?” The young bartender came over.

Carter nodded. “Thanks, Dave. And a large pepperoni pizza.” He suddenly thought of Eve Cantoro and her comment about secure men. He found himself smiling as he grabbed another handful of peanuts and turned his attention to the ball game, or at least his partial attention. The dark-haired storekeeper seemed to be occupying a significant portion of his thoughts, kind of like Otis Red-ding’s “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay” insinuating itself agreeably into his psyche, so he went through the day with his eyes half-closed and a devilish smile on his lips.

Still, women—even intriguing ones—came and went, and some, like Three Musketeers bars, melted in the heat of the summer. Baseball, on the other hand—and here, Carter munched philosophically on a peanut—went on forever. He studied the screen. It was an inter-league game—the Phillies playing the Yankees. This part of central Jersey tended to have divided loyalties, with the old-timers favoring the Philadelphia teams and the transplanted residents looking to New York. When the two teams mixed, Jerseyans tended to clash—loudly. Carter had grown up in Ohio with the Indians, so he couldn’t possibly root for another American League team, especially the Yankees. That meant he was a Phillies fan by default.

He tossed a peanut up in the air and caught it in his mouth as the popular Yankee second baseman came to the plate. Just don’t throw it high and outside, he thought. He tossed another nut in the air, catching it easily again.

About as easily as the batter met the high, outside pitch that the Phillies pitcher delivered. A lead-off homerun. Carter shook his head. This is what baseball taught you—humility, and the fact that you paid for your mistakes.

“All right,” a female voice shouted in triumph.

Carter reached for the bottle of Rolling Rock that Dave planted in front of him. “It was a lucky hit,” he muttered.

“Oh, p-lease. Even his grandmother could have hit that high, outside pitch,” the woman’s voice responded.

Carter smiled as he gulped his beer. Ah, a woman who knew something about baseball. Definitely a pleasing discovery. Turning, he sought out the voice, almost willing to forgive her misguided allegiance to the Bronx Bombers. It came from two seats down.

And he almost didn’t recognize her at first.

With her wet hair combed back straight from her forehead, wire-rim glasses slipping down her nose, and smooth skin devoid of any makeup, she could have been eighteen years old. In which case, she had no business sitting at a bar in New Jersey, a state with a minimum drinking age of twenty-one.

But no eighteen-year-old had a cotton shift that stuck to curves quite that way. And this time, she wasn’t wearing basic black.

“Lingerie and the Yankees. There must be a connection somewhere,” Carter said.

A burly middle-aged man with thinning hair, a skinny ponytail and a large tattoo on his upper arm, stared at Carter. “You say something?”

Eve looked over. She raised her eyebrows.

“Sorry, I was talking to the lady.” Carter indicated Eve with the tip of his chin.

The dark-blue entwined snakes on the stranger’s arm moved as he clenched and unclenched his own bottle of Rolling Rock. “As long as that’s the case. I don’t mind the part about lingerie.” He pronounced “lingerie” as “Lon Jerry.” “It’s the idea that you thought I was a Yankees fan. Can’t stand them. A bunch of overpriced prima donnas.”

Carter nodded. “Couldn’t agree with you more.”

“It just goes to show, not everyone can appreciate how ordinary things can be art forms,” Eve said.

The ponytail swerved, and Eve got an eyeful of disdain. She backed off. “I was talking to him—” she pointed to Carter “—about lingerie. Mentioning underwear and America’s pastime in the same breath is practically a desecration—to baseball, that is.”

Ponytail looked to Carter. “What the hell is she talking about?”

Carter shrugged his shoulders. “You’ve got me. She’s new around here and doesn’t know any better.”

The man growled softly and turned his attention back to the screen.

Eve leaned back on her stool and made a face at Carter. He leaned back, too. Don’t cause any trouble, he mouthed silently.

Actually, trouble was staring at him straight in the eye. He would have had to be cryogenically frozen not to notice two enticingly damp spots, located right where her breasts strained against the light-blue fabric of her sleeveless dress. He also saw thin straps from an electric-orange bathing suit tied behind her neck. The combination of strategically placed wetness, skinny straps and scrubbed face produced a kind of girl-next-door/bondage look.

Carter concentrated mightily on making sure his beer bottle reached his mouth. Swallowing came next—he nearly choked to death.

Eve leaned around the large Phillies fan and pounded Carter on the back. Hard. And a very solid back, she couldn’t help noticing.

He held up a hand to indicate he was all right, then covered his mouth and swallowed slowly. “Thanks. Must have gone down the wrong way.” He shifted on his stool and leaned forward. Say something clever, he told himself. “Did you just go swimming?” He groaned inwardly. This was like the cafeteria in high school.

She leaned forward on her elbows to try to talk to him directly. “Swimming? Yup. Across the street at the community pool.”

The man in the middle peeled his eyes off the game. “You two going to keep this up?”

“Yes,” Carter said. “No,” Eve answered.

“Well, maybe I should move?”

“That’s not necessary.” Carter looked at him. “That’s very nice,” Eve replied.

Ponytail looked at them both in disgust.

“We could wait until the seventh-inning stretch, if that’s any better,” Carter offered.

Ponytail harrumphed. “You sure she’s worth it?” He glanced over at Eve, then sat up straighter. The wet spots must have registered. Now he started leaning—toward Eve. And the snakes started dancing.

Carter stood up. “Would you mind?”

The snakes went still as their owner assessed his chances. Even a Phillies fan with a tattoo and ponytail apparently knew when to say no—it must have been the wisdom of his middle-aged years. “If you put it that way.” The man used two fists to heave himself away from the counter and off his stool.

“Thanks.” Carter seated himself next to Eve and slid his beer over. His adrenaline was pumping in a highly juvenile but thoroughly satisfying way. And the wet spots and the curves were that much closer. “Now what were we talking about? Oh, yeah, the pool.”

Eve looked to where their friend had banished himself to the end of the bar. She started to say something but thought better of it. She turned back to Carter. “Yes, the pool. It’s great, especially with the heat. It’s a good way to relax after work, and besides, I get to wear my merchandise.”

Carter sat up straighter. “Merchandise?”

“We sell swimwear as well as lingerie.” Eve pointed to herself. “I’m wearing one that we offer—a two-piece, really more of a bikini. You know, cut high on the leg, halter top.” She leaned forward to grab a peanut. The neck of her dress gaped open.

Carter looked. Well, he kind of looked without looking like he was trying to look. He cleared his throat. “I can see where that could be a good advertisement for your merchandise.”

“I like to think so.” Eve studied the bowl of nuts. “You’ve been swimming, too? Whenever I see you, you seem to have wet hair.” She reached for a peanut and popped it in her mouth, licking the salt off her fingertips.

Carter grabbed his beer bottle. “Ah, no, I was playing tennis.”

“Tennis? You don’t look like a tennis kind of guy.”

He looked at his clothes. “Not dressed for the country club, huh?”

Eve looked, too,—what woman wouldn’t?—at his ratty Cape May T-shirt and cargo shorts. “I suppose there’s that. But it’s more like you don’t look like someone who’d stay on his side of the net.”

Carter considered his beer bottle. “I think I like that comment, but I’m not totally sure why.”

“Well, you think about it.” Eve smiled. She saw the way his green eyes danced with an emotion that could in no way be classified as disinterest. She felt a sudden tightening between her legs. And she couldn’t blame it on her wet bathing suit riding up, since she only sold items made with the best fabric and stitching.

No, she was attracted as well. But that didn’t mean she was going to do anything about it. She quickly avoided his eyes and focused on his nose. How could an olfactory organ be so dangerous? Dumb question. “Did you lead with your nose in a fight?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

“Your nose looks like it was broken. It’s got this bump and it’s a little crooked.” A decidedly sexy bump and a delightful crookedness.

“You’re right. Happened back in high school. I was under the mistaken impression I could play football. A lines-man from an opposing team taught me otherwise.”

Eve scrunched up her face. “Ouch.”

“My feelings exactly. Interestingly enough, the injury seemed to skyrocket my stature among my female classmates. Here I thought proving my manhood on the playing field would get me to first base and maybe beyond. Little did I know that pain and suffering were far more likely to generate sympathy.” He smiled.

She smiled back. And felt the tightness escalate within.

“You got a bump, too.” He playfully pushed up the bridge of her glasses with his index finger and tapped the small protrusion on the side of her nose. The tip of his finger rested lightly on her skin.

It was just a slight touch. Really. Her throat constricted. Really.

Then he lowered his head. A fraction closer. Slid his finger down her nose, skirted her top lip, and rested it on her full lower lip. It was damp from the beer. Damp and inviting. And for a frantic moment, Eve was sure he was going to kiss her.

He almost did. Almost. Instead, he drew his hand back, clenched his fist, and quickly turned to search for his beer. He took a gulp. “So, did you play football in high school, too?” He motioned to her nose, only this time with a lift of his chin.

“Oh, no. I tried to break up a fight between my brothers.”

“Brothers?”

“Yup, four of them, all younger. This time it was the twins. What am I saying? It was just always the twins.” She looked heavenward, realizing that she hadn’t seen acoustic tiles quite like that in a long time. She turned back to Carter. “They were arguing over something completely stupid, like who was supposed to take out the garbage, when they started cuffing each other. I couldn’t take it anymore, so like an idiot, I stepped in.” She pointed to the bump. “I got bopped. Swelled up like a goose egg, and I had raccoon eyes for a good week.”

A collective shout went up from the bar, echoed by equally loud groans. Eve looked up at the television set to see what all the fuss was. An instant replay showed the Yankees’ third baseman had just clobbered a homerun.

“Looks like my team is once more showing its true colors.” She glanced at Carter and found him studying her.

Dave set a pizza in front of Carter. “Why is it every time I go to the kitchen to get a pizza, someone hits a homerun and I miss it? Oh, man, a grand slam!” He put the metal tray down.

“Maybe I should keep ordering more?” Carter offered. “That way, it’ll guarantee you a victory.” He looked at Eve. “You hungry? How about sharing my pizza? There’s more than enough.”

Eve frowned in thought.

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about the pepperoni thing you were talking about earlier? Because really, I don’t mind a few well-placed dribbles.”

Eve smiled. A man who listened. “It’s not the thought of drips exactly.”

It was Carter’s turn to be confused.

“My suit.”

“Your suit?”

“Yes, my bathing suit. I liked the style so much I grabbed it, but it’s actually a little small for me.”

“That’s bad?”

“Let’s just say it’s not exactly built for any extra pressure. And the pizza, well, it might just put it over the top, or off the top, actually.”

Carter suddenly looked very alert. “You don’t say?”

“I do say.”

“What do you know? The things one can learn about your merchandise.” He pushed the pizza in her direction. “In the interest of personal research, why don’t you test it out?”

The pepperoni did look very tempting and the smell of spices and unadulterated fat was almost overwhelming. Was it worth it? She looked at his taunting little grin. The man knew he was irresistible. Was he worth it?

Worth it? The man was already taken. Now that had her sitting up straighter. “So, did she enjoy it?”

“Who? What?” Carter asked.

“Simone. What did she say about the camisole?”

“Oh, Simone.” Carter shook his head. “You don’t want to know what she said.” He held up some paper napkins. “You want some pizza or not?”

Eve shrugged. A woman had to live dangerously sometimes, especially when she was wearing a cover-up anyway. She reached over and took the napkins. “Self-discipline was never one of my strengths.” Actually that wasn’t true.

“I wouldn’t have thought that was true at all,” he said, watching her slip off her glasses and hook them over the neckline of her outfit.

She saw Carter notice the gesture. “Oh, I only need them, the glasses that is, for distance—you know, driving, television.” She reached over and broke off a piece of the pizza. A bit of mozzarella stubbornly held on, forming a slippery strand that finally broke off when she tugged at the slice. Holding the slice above her head, she tipped her chin upward and thrust out her tongue to catch the end of the cheese. She sucked in, swallowing the strand whole. Her eyes narrowed in deep pleasure. She inhaled slowly and turned her head toward Carter.

He held a slice of pizza in his hand. It was suspended halfway between the counter and his mouth—which had dropped wide-open. Dazed appeared to be the operative description.

“You okay?” she asked.

He blinked a few times. “Okay isn’t exactly how I’d describe what I’m feeling at the moment.” He blinked again. “Do you always eat pizza like that?”

Eve smiled. “Really, Detective.” She patted the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “Sometimes a piece of pizza is just a piece of pizza.”