For All the Wrong Reasons (2 page)

Ernie shut off his computer and walked down his solid glass spiral staircase to where Gerald, his best man, a colleague he didn't dislike too much, was waiting with the ushers.

“Ready, old man?” Gerald asked him. “Still enough time to bolt.”

The lads chuckled.

“That'd be a bit messy,” Ernie grinned. “And we'd miss the booze-up afterward.”

“True. Better get the car round.” Gerald adjusted his buttonhole and went off to summon the chauffeur.

“You know, Susie's awfully cut up,” said Gerald's cousin Harry. “She always thought you were going to be hers.”

“Plenty of fillies champing at the bit, not just Susie, thanks. Anyway, I'll be married, I won't be dead,” Ernie said, winking. “I'll need some time off for bad behavior.”

They laughed, and went out to where the car was waiting.

*   *   *

Diana leaned back in her carriage and waved, just like the queen. People stopped in the streets to cheer, watching a bride in her full glory drive past in a horse-drawn carriage, and she basked in the attention. Some of the men stared at the creamy bosom spilling out over the tight bodice of her gown and whistled and catcalled. She thought she liked that most of all. Japanese tourists and the occasional American stopped to take photographs of her, and she tossed her veil back and gave them a dazzling smile—extra-specially whitened with cosmetic dentistry just last week, so she looked like one of those American models.

So what if it was ridiculously extravagant? It was her day to be extravagant. Daddy shouldn't complain about the cost. Since she'd started dating Ernie he'd stopped going on about settling down and getting a proper job, thank God. She had a job. All right, not one that paid the bills, but Ernie was doing that for her now. Diana glanced to her right and saw a young woman striding down toward Piccadilly, carrying a briefcase. She was wearing a nice suit—tightly fitted and lemon yellow, which always goes well with chestnut hair. Diana tried to peg the designer. It looked like a Richard Tyler, almost, but you didn't see too much of his stuff in London. LA was his territory. Maybe it was though. Anyway, what a fool. Look at her, working all the hours God sends for some feeble little salary. She's a good-looking girl, Diana thought. Perhaps not quite as good-looking as me, but then again, who is? She bit on her plump lower lip to stop herself from breaking out into an unattractive and unladylike grin. She should hook herself a nice, rich husband, and do things the old-fashioned way. They might be at the start of a new millennium, but the old ways never went out of style.

Her mother had squeezed her hand as she had helped her up into the carriage, lifting the lower folds of her dress, which Diana knew Susie was hoping would trail in the gutter or something.

“You're sure you're doing the right thing, aren't you, darling? I mean, you do love him, don't you?”

“Hush, Ma.” Diana gave her mother a peck on the cheek, very lightly so her lipstick didn't smudge. “Of course I do. I love him madly, always will.”

She was pleased with that little diplomatic triumph. It was what her mother wanted to hear, and it wasn't
that
much of a lie. Of course she loved Ernie. He was dashing and he dressed beautifully, and he treated her so well. He'd never denied her anything she wanted, and they had a good time together. What more could you ask for? What was that old saying? It was as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor man. Diana had just seen to it that she'd fallen in love with the first sort.

Her mother and father did pretty well. Dad was a lawyer and had a nice practice in Lincoln's Inn. He had put three daughters through public school and had a pretty house in Kent. But it wasn't the sort of life Diana wanted; she needed more than the odd skiing holiday and riding lessons, she wanted to shop haute couture and buy herself diamond earrings, and fly first class, and holiday in the Seychelles, or better still, Mustique, on a private island somewhere. And she didn't see why she had to work like a slave to get those things. The good Lord had blessed her with beauty and style, and beauty and style were valuable.

I backed the right horse, Diana told herself, waving and smiling. Traffic slowed to a halt to let her carriage turn into St. James's and there was the church up ahead, a beautiful old Anglican pile of eighteenth-century honey-colored elegance, with a gratifyingly large posse of paparazzi parked right in front. Diana pulled her slim shoulders back and rearranged a few folds of chiffon and antique silk to give the best possible angle for the first shots. The light was going to be perfect, too. Everything was going to be perfect.

She started to sing.

“Going to the cha-pel, and I'm gonna get married…”

TWO

Michael Cicero moved very slightly under his bedding. It was hard to move a body like his lightly. He was built for the boxing ring, not subtle ballerina-like shifts. But this morning he was motivated to try and shuffle lightly out of bed. For one thing, he had a hangover that was threatening to blow up his skull, and he figured that if he moved carefully enough, he might appease it. For another, there was a naked girl in his bed. On the face of it, that was not too bad a way to wake up. The trouble was, he couldn't remember her name.

He put his foot down gingerly on the bare hardwood floors of the tiny apartment. Glancing to his right, he saw two discarded rubbers about a foot from the bed. He grinned. One less thing to worry about, he thought, as he picked them up and threw them away. His place was minute, and not in the smartest area of town, but he kept it immaculately tidy. It was a matter of respecting yourself. Michael was big on respect; it was part of being Italian. He guessed it would be respectful to remember this chick's name.

He scratched his dark head, but he still had no clue. What was the last thing he remembered? The Five Leafed Clover on Hudson, about eight
P.M.
, St. Patrick's Day and already a little buzzed. He must have picked her up there. Maybe she was Irish. The whole of Manhattan got a little bit Irish on March the seventeenth.

Michael padded to his bathroom, which was sectioned off from the rest of his studio apartment by a dark wooden screen, and retrieved his robe. It was thick navy toweling. He did not like to be seen nude in the mornings by women he didn't know in any sense other than biblically. Cicero wasn't vain, and he had no idea how good he looked in the robe. The dark color picked out his hazel eyes, a legacy from his French mother, rimmed with thick black lashes that were pure Italian. He would never be a pretty boy; his nose was crooked from where a Second Dan black belt had smashed up the bridge one Friday night, and he was big, too, with weightlifter's arms and thick kickboxer's thighs. The type of teenage girl who doted on Leonardo DiCaprio never looked twice at him.

But that was OK, because he didn't like them, either. Michael liked women. Juicy, curvy girls like the one in the bed. Her face was buried in the pillow, but she had a nice handful of breasts and a gorgeous tight ass curving out of a flat midriff. He felt his groin stir slightly. Even drunk, his radar for women was pretty good. She had dyed hair, which he normally didn't like, but with a body like that, he could excuse the lapse.

The dehydration started to kick in. Michael took a seltzer from the fridge and drank it straight down, barely pausing for breath. He felt slightly more human, and set the coffeepot to brew while he took a quick, quiet shower. The girl was snoring softly; she had probably been as out of it as he was. He shaved and looked at himself in the small mirror, then dressed in a white shirt and black suit. It wasn't perfect, but it fit. He had six suits, all the same make and cut, three navy and three black. That way you didn't have to worry about what you wore in the mornings.

Michael liked efficiency, especially when he had to get in to work. It was his own firm, so nobody was going to fire him; but that was no excuse for slacking. He reported to the mirror, and Michael Cicero looked like a tough boss. He was thirty and was going to make his business work, or drop dead trying. It might be small, but it was still his. He dressed and acted for what he wanted his publishing firm to be.

The coffee finished perking as he fixed his cuff links. He got the shirts sent over from a woman in England, an old girlfriend, married to another man now but still a little in love with him. Michael preferred the European style of shirts, with holes in the cuffs for links to pull them together. He had to walk up six flights to his studio apartment, but his shoes were shined once a week, his hair was short, and his dress was as smart as it could be without any real money.

You didn't mess with Michael Cicero, in his office or out of it. He poured two mugs of hazelnut coffee, black and steaming, and took one over to the woman, shaking her awake gently, holding the liquid under her nose.

“Wake up, sugar.” He grinned at his own foolishness. You really didn't need a name at all. All girls had the same name. Sugar, aka Baby. It worked with everyone from old ladies to high-school cheerleaders.

“Ohh.” She groaned, and sat up, which made her small tits sway in a manner that almost made him decide to be late for work. “Where am I?”

Michael wrapped her fingernails around the mug. They were too long. He couldn't stand the vogue for girls to have these take-your-eye-out monstrosities at the ends of their hands. He was scratched all along his back, the soap had stung this morning. Guess she had enjoyed herself.

“You're on Leonard Street, downtown between West Broadway and Hudson.”

“Sure,” she said, uncertainly.

Her eyes focused and she gave a little start, like it was coming back to her. Her nipples hardened into tiny pink buds, and she drew back her shoulders and tossed her long hair.

“Oh Mikey, you were so great. I don't think it's ever been like that.”

He passed his rough hands over her skin, cupping her breasts, and kissed each nipple. Hell, it was only polite. She gave a delicious little shiver and threw back the cotton sheets invitingly. There was a nice curve to her leg, but her toenails were painted, which was a bad sign. She was the kind of girl who was great to fuck, but not to talk to.

“You flung me over your shoulder and carried me right out of Mick Rooney's!” She giggled. “You're very strong.”

Memory flooded back. Her name was Denise. Great. He hadn't been wearing beer goggles last night, but it looked like he'd had beer earmuffs on. She was giggling and pouting and she used a breathy, little-girl voice that was very annoying.

“Thanks, Denise. You were great, too.”

Her face fell. “It's Elise.”

“I said Elise. But drink your coffee now, baby. I'd love to stay and play but I have to get to work.”

“Can't you take the day off?”

“No,” Michael said, bluntly.

He was remembering the sex now. It had been OK; he'd moved her around the room pretty good. She had clutched and moaned at him. At the time he had hardly noticed her scratching him.

Elise stood up and bent over, picking up her scattered miniskirt and ankle boots and tight vest and jean jacket. Michael moved closer to her and rubbed his hands over her ass. She had a great ass, definitely. She was eager and thrust back against him while he played with her.

“Can I see you again?”

“Sure. Get dressed, and I'll go get a pen.”

She obediently tugged on her clothes, not bothering to take a shower. Michael winked at her as he made a big show of writing the number down, then walked her to the door, opening it firmly as she clutched at him.

Another ship in the night he never wanted to see again. He drank a second straight mug of black coffee, letting it slightly scorch his throat to wake him up. He was late, and he fought back the queasiness from the toxins swimming around his system.

The early rush hour traffic beeped and honked faintly six floors below him. Welcome to another morning in Manhattan.

*   *   *

Green Eggs Books was Michael's dream. His father had a restaurant out on City Island, a popular place serving real southern Italian food, no Caesar salads, just herby bread and olive oil. He always left the bottle of Sambuca on the table with the espresso when his customers were done. It was a real good business, and his
gelati
were famous enough that he was thinking of adding an ice-cream parlor to the trattoria. He could have used the help, but Michael had doggedly gone his own path, so doggedly that the old man had given up. He complained, but he was proud. He liked the kid's bullheadedness.

The fact was that Michael Cicero, unexpectedly, unusually, liked books. He had never read any as a kid; his dad was big on softball but not so big on the local library. When Michael's mother died of breast cancer, he was only four, and his father had struggled to bring up the boy and his two sisters and keep food on the table. They shopped cheap for the last cuts of chicken and meat that the stores discounted toward the end of the day, and Francesco cooked everything up in a few pots and the four of them dined like princes even though they lived like paupers. One day an aunt dropped by the apartment, and left a smoked ham and an old encyclopedia she didn't want. Michael was bored, and he started to read.

Within a few months he had soaked up most of it. He was like a sponge, and outpaced most of the kids at Junior High School 124, a mundane name for a mundane school in the Bronx. After that it was a scholarship to St. Jacob's and a mile walk with another on the bus, there and back, every day. Michael loved it. He was out of the apartment, and he really got a chance to read. He had a passion for stories. Ancient Roman histories, translations of Alexander the Great, fantasies, novels. He read
Les Miserables
in ten days straight, doing nothing but reading, staying up sometimes till two
A.M.
using a candle by his bedside instead of the flashlight which might have alerted his dad.