Caught Redhanded (10 page)

Well, he could give me some turpentine to remove the paint and I’d be fine. I stood in the front hall and called his name, my voice echoing most satisfactorily up the stairwell. No answer. Tony banged on the locked door of his office though we both knew it was useless. Mr. Weldon had gone for the day and was probably home having dinner with Mother.

I sighed as I slid into a booth at Ferretti’s across from Tony. What I needed was Curt and his artist’s supply of turpentine. I smiled to myself. What I needed was Curt, period. Then I frowned. In Pittsburgh.

Astrid appeared and held out menus to us. She looked at me curiously. Then she spotted my red palm as I reached for the menu.

“Hah! Caught redhanded!” She looked from me to Tony and laughed at her sad joke.

“Astrid, this is Tony Compton, the new partner in Grassley and Jordan.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “He’s in here a lot.”

Tony smiled that gorgeous smile, this time focused on Astrid. “We’re already old friends, aren’t we, Astrid?”

She twinkled back at him. Astrid. Twinkled. The words had never before gone together. I shook my head at the power of Tony’s charm.

When Astrid left with our order, I reached into my purse for my notebook and tiny recorder. “Let me ask you a few questions while we wait.”

Tony leaned forward, all his attention concentrated on me.

Please, Lord,
I thought,
don’t let me twinkle.

“Okay,” I said, trying to be as professional as I could manage in spite of my red hand and Astrid’s stare over the computer monitor where she punched in our order. “Why did you decide to leave a large practice like the one where you were a partner in Harrisburg and come to a small town like Amhearst?”

“Because small towns are full of fascinating people like you.”

Give me a break!
“And Harrisburg didn’t have any fascinating people? I’m sure the governor would be upset to know your opinion of him.”

He grinned. “I decided I wanted to be in a place with a slower pace of living, a place where I would know people and they would know me, a place where people would recognize the name Tony Compton as someone interested in helping them.”

I wrote quickly, wanting to get the quote accurate in case the recorder’s sound was bad. Suddenly Tony reached out and grabbed my left hand. I was so surprised I dropped what I was holding.

He turned my hand palm down and looked at my engagement ring. He ran his thumb over the stone. “Very nice.”

“Thank you.”

“Someone is a very lucky man.”

“Thank you.”

“Local guy?”

I nodded. “Curt Carlyle.”

“The artist?”

I nodded, feeling self-conscious as he continued to hold my hand. I tried to pull free, but he held tighter.

“There was one of his paintings on the wall of my office when I came. Some stone building somewhere.”

“Curt’s paintings are worth many thousands of dollars, you know.” Okay, so I overstated a bit, but his offhand disregard for Curt’s work made me mad. And the big, complicated paintings were worth between $2,000 and $5,000.

Tony smiled, not the least put off by my show of pique. “Getting married soon?”

“A week from Saturday.”

He looked up from the ring and concentrated all his charm on me again. “Then I still have time.”

Oh, pul-ease!
“Tony, don’t.” I was feeling more and more awkward by the moment, especially when Astrid arrived with our salads, saw our hands and slapped the plates on the table with a sniff.

“Thanks, Astrid,” Tony said without taking his eyes from me.

I looked up apologetically and she looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “Redhanded,” she muttered and stalked away.

Red-faced, as well, I thought as I felt myself flush. I pulled harder and Tony finally released my hand with another smile, not, I’m sure, because I wanted him to but because he wanted to eat and needed both hands. No lunch.

I concentrated on pouring the little plastic container of blue cheese dressing on my spring greens, tomatoes and cucumber slices. By the time I was halfway through the salad, I’d convinced myself that Tony had meant nothing by holding on longer than was polite. I was just being supersensitive. I listened to his stories of life in Harrisburg with interest. He was a great raconteur.

I had taken my last bite of salad and laid my fork down when Tony suddenly reached across the table and took my hand again, this time my right one. He turned it palm up. He traced the life line crease across the red flesh.

“Tony,” I remonstrated, tugging.

“Do you have turpentine at home?” he asked, ignoring the tug and my tone of voice. “If not, I’ll get you some.”

“I don’t have any, but Curt will have some.”

He looked at me, his face for once serious. “I hope he deserves you.”

I decided I liked him serious more than smiling. At least I felt the emotion was sincere. “What would you do,” I asked slowly, “if your fiancée had a great job opportunity in, say, Pittsburgh? Would you move there for her?”

“Hypotehtically speaking?” he asked.

“Oh, of course,” I assured him.

“If you were the fiancée, I’d move in a minute. Hypothetically speaking. There are plenty of excellent law firms in the greater Pittsburgh area and one would certainly be happy to have someone with my experience as part of their firm.”

“Huh,” I said, loquacious as always. Why hadn’t that been Curt’s answer?

A shadow fell over the table and I looked up to see Curt standing there.

“Well, hi,” I said. “This is a surprise.” Immediately I tried to pull my hand free, but Tony just tightened his grip again. Unless I wanted to look like we were arm wrestling, I was stuck. I fired Tony a fierce look, but he was busy smiling at Curt.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Curt said, staring at my imprisoned hand with a raised brow.

“Oh, you’re not,” Tony said with a smile, this one very cool. “Merry and I were just enjoying dinner together, weren’t we, sweetheart?”

ELEVEN

S
weetheart? Get real. “You’re not interrupting anything,” I assured Curt. “I’m just interviewing Tony for the paper. He’s the new partner at Grassley, Jordan.”

“Mmm,” said Curt, clearly unimpressed.

I gave one more mighty yank in an attempt to reclaim my hand and Tony released me. My arm flew back and I cracked my elbow on the edge of the back of the bench seat, sending lightning bolts surging up to my shoulder.

“Yow!” I grabbed my arm and rubbed.

Both men ignored me in my hour of pain. They were too busy eyeing each other like a couple of male dogs wanting the same fire hydrant. I frowned.
Bad analogy, Merry, at least the part about the fire hydrant.

Tony held out his hand. “Tony Compton. Merry and I were just enjoying each other’s company, right, darling?”

I rolled my eyes. Now I was darling? Tony was clearly an agitator.

“I’m Curt Carlyle. Merry’s fiancé.” He gave Tony’s hand the barest of shakes.

When Curt’s hand was free, I grabbed it. He didn’t seem to notice, so I squeezed as hard as I could.

Curt broke away from the stare down with Tony and deigned to look my way. “I stopped at the paper, but you had already left,” he sort-of accused, though I knew his ire wasn’t really directed at me but Tony.

“I had this appointment with Tony. I thought you had a meeting.” That didn’t sound like while-the-cat’s-away-the-mouse-will-play, did it? Because I definitely wasn’t interested in playing.

“It was canceled. I thought we could have dinner together.” He looked at my empty salad plate.

Astrid took that moment to appear. “Hey, Curt. Welcome.” She smiled widely at him and he smiled back. I couldn’t remember an evening of so many smiles.

Astrid placed a steaming plate of eggplant parmigiana in front of Tony with great care. She plopped my fettuccine Alfredo down with a thud, grabbed my salad dish and stalked away.

“Well, I’m in the doghouse.” I glanced at Curt. “She’s on your team.”

He smiled. “She’s a very nice lady.”

And I was certain her version of this dinner à trois would be all over town by tomorrow.

He took a step back. “I’ll let you continue with your interview.”

I was reluctant to see him go. I found that these days I was always reluctant. I couldn’t wait until we were married and there’d be no more good-nights of the leaving kind. I was very open to good-nights of other kinds, though.

“Nice meeting you, Carl,” Tony said cheerfully.

“Um.” Curt inclined his head. Then very deliberately he bent and kissed me hard on the mouth. I kissed him right back.

He paused a few inches from my face and said softly, “By the way, I got the call today that I got the commission for the painting that will be the cover art on next year’s Fetteroff Allied Services annual report. A very nice chunk of change.”

“Sweet!” I was delighted for him. “I’m proud of you.” I gave him a congratulatory kiss.

Tony cleared his throat and looked at his watch. “I don’t mean to be intrusive here, but I have a meeting this evening. We need to finish our business.”

I had my doubts about both his lack of desire to be intrusive and the meeting, but Tony was right about one thing. This was supposed to be a business dinner, at least as far as I was concerned. I smiled apologetically at Curt.

He’d already taken several steps toward the front door when I called, “Do you have any spare turpentine?” I held up my red hand.

He shook his head in disbelief, but his smile was warm.

A half hour later Tony and I left the restaurant.

“Where’s your car?” he asked as we walked down Main Street.

“In
The News
lot.”

“Let me walk you there.”

“You don’t have to do that.”
I wish you wouldn’t do that.
I was finding Tony didn’t wear well.

He insisted, so I gave in. It wasn’t worth a discussion. When we arrived at the car, he grabbed my red hand again, tuning it palm up and looking at it.

“Poor palm.”

“It’s only paint,” I said. It wasn’t like I was going to lose the hand or anything.

He acted like I hadn’t spoken. He lifted my hand and kissed the center of my palm. I think he meant it to be dashing and romantic, but it tickled and I had to stifle a giggle.

It was a relief to climb in the car and drive away.

When I got back to my carriage house apartment, I was surprised to see Curt waiting for me in the parking area. He climbed out of his car as I climbed out of mine.

“Hey!” I was delighted to see him. “I didn’t expect you.”

He held up a plastic container. “Turps.” He took my hand and studied it. “How’d it happen?”

I told him about tripping over Tony’s box. “Poor Mr. Weldon. He’s going to have to fix my mistake.”

“And he’ll be happy to do it. You know him. Now let’s go clean you up.”

We walked to my front door past the lilac tree that had been so terrifying to me last winter and was now full and green. I missed the wonderful froth of blooms that had crowded it a couple of months ago. The air had smelled so sweet every time I walked past, and I cut great bouquets for my dining room table and my desk at work.

Whiskers met us at the door. I didn’t even have time to put my purse down before he began butting me in the ankles.

“Are you out of food, baby?” I asked as I rubbed my hand down his back. “We’ll fix that problem right away.”

Whiskers seemed to understand and led the way to the kitchen. Once there, he sat by his empty dish and stared at me. I grabbed his dry food and poured some into his bowl. He sat, still staring.

“Sorry, baby. No canned food tonight. You had plenty this morning.” I turned to Curt. “Let’s get me cleaned up.”

We moved to the kitchen sink and he opened the container he’d brought. The strong smell of the solvent made me want to sneeze. He took my hand and held it over the sink in a firm but gentle grip.

“I can do this on my own, you know,” I said.

He grinned lazily at me. “But I want to do it for you.”

My heart went pitter-pat. Yowzah, I loved this man.

Slowly he drizzled turpentine over my palm, then began to rub with his thumb. The fluid instantly turned red. More turps. Dish detergent. Rinse. More turps, his thumb working the creases in my palm and fingers. I closed my eyes and leaned against his shoulder, enjoying his TLC. No wonder people paid big bucks for a good massage.

When my hand was once more its normal self, we went into the living room and sat on the sofa. Curt leaned against the arm and I leaned on him. Whiskers immediately jumped up and nestled close. Apparently I was forgiven for not coming through with wet food.

We talked in a desultory manner, Curt telling me the details about his new commission, me telling him about Good Hands, Tug, Candy and Bailey.

“I was thinking that it would be a wonderful thing to give each of the people Good Hands helps a Curt Carlyle print,” I said. I glanced up to see his reaction.

“Those prints sell for a hundred dollars each, sweetheart,” he said. “I can’t just give them away in quantity and at the same time ask others to pay full rate.”

“Yeah, but you make up a small version for promotion and stuff. What about them?”

“They’re not the high quality of the big prints.”

“But if you signed them and they were matted, I think people would be proud to have one.”

He nodded. “Maybe. Let me think about it.” Then he looked at me sharply. “You didn’t volunteer me, did you?”

I sat up straight. “Hey, I’ve got some smarts. I’d never do that without asking.”

“Easy, sweetheart.” He kissed my forehead. “Just asking. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Mollified, I settled back against him. We sat quietly, the only noise Whiskers’s purring. Curt started playing with my hair, his fingers killing the mousse effect. Soon I’d be a flathead. Well, he might as well get used to it. I looked a lot worse in the morning. I relaxed and enjoyed.

“I got a call from the art institute today,” he said.

So much for relaxation. “Um?” I thought I sounded noncommittal and neutral.

“They want to interview me next week.”