Nothing Personal (23 page)

Desiree heard the voices outside, recognized Alec’s. Here to pick her up, right on time, for their first big date. He’d taken her for a quick dinner after work on Wednesday, and then to his apartment for the night, which had all been, well, great. But, he’d told her, not good enough.

“I meant what I said,” he’d told
her very early Thursday morning when he was dropping her back at her house. “I want a romance. Tomorrow night, it’s the real deal.”

So here they were. Really, truly d
ating. And it was apparent that however well they might succeed in being discreet in the office, here at home, their cover had already been blown.

She unwound herself from her spot on the couch and stepped out through the French doors to find
Alec, as she’d surmised, having a cozy chat with Javier across the hedge in the last dim glow of twilight.

“Hi,” Alec said with a smile that cut right through the faint illumination provided by her porch light
as he took in her clingy chestnut-brown knit dress, the shoulder bared by its asymmetrical neckline, her delicate heels. Her hot-date clothes, purchased just for tonight, because it had been so long since she’d had a hot date. “We were just talking about you.”

“I’ll bet.” She eyed his stylishly cut
black jacket and slacks, his usual trim white shirt. His own hot-date clothes, which she was sure he’d had more than a few occasions to use, but that was all right, because he looked so good in them. And just as a bonus, he had a satisfyingly large tissue-wrapped cone in his hand. “Did you bring me something?”

“I did.” He held it out to her. “I almost gave them to Javier after all the nice things he said about the show, but I decided to save them for you.”

“Mmm. Good of you.” She wrapped her hands around the tissue paper, held the bouquet to her face and filled her nose with the sweet scent. “They smell wonderful. What are they? I can’t see that well.”

“Peonies,” he said, and she could see the warmth in his eyes just fine. “Beautiful, just like you.”

She looked across at Javier, saw his eyes go wide, the mouthed “Wow,” and smiled happily back at him.

“Well, thank you,” she told Alec. “For both. The flowers, and the compliment.”

“That was good,” Javier told him. “You’re wasted on that show. Your brother got all the best lines.”

“Yeah, but Alec took his shirt off more,” Desiree pointed out loyally.

“Hmm. Good point,” Javier conceded. “Tell you what, I’ll watch till the end, then I’ll let you know who was hotter.”

Alec laughed. “I’ll tell Gabe the challenge is on.”

“So,” Javier said. “What I
really
want to know is, did they get creative with the editing, or did you actually hate Scott as much as they’re making it look?”

“No. I actually hated him more. At the point where you are now in the show, I was pretty much consumed by fantasies of getting some excuse to take him out.”

“So did you?” Javier probed.

Alec smiled. “You’ll have to watch and find out, won’t you?”

Javier sighed. “Spoilsport.”

“Hey,” Alec pointed out, “I signed a contract. Even Desiree doesn’t know.”

“Oh, even Desiree, huh? All righty, then.” She could see Javier storing that nugget up.

“And I’ve got to take this lady out to dinner,” Alec said. “We have a reservation, and anyway, she gets cranky when she’s hu
ngry. Good to meet you.” He reached across the hedge and shook Javier’s hand. “Thanks for watching. Hope you keep tuning in. ”

“Oh, I’ll be watching,” Javier said. “Don’t you worry.” He looked at Desiree. “Have a nice dinner, baby girl. And you were right, by the way. Absolutely habanero.”

“I’m not even going to ask,” Alec said when she’d taken him inside. “Leaving that right there on the table.”

She laughed. “Probably best. I’m going to have some interesting questions to answer pretty soon. Good thing for you that I don’t kiss and tell.”

She
stretched to open the big cabinet above the fridge, was about to grab her stepstool from its recess, then realized she didn’t have to. “Could you get down that big vase for me? Can you reach it?”

“Sure.” He pulled it down with ease, handed it to her. “Benefits of a tall lover.”

She had to smile at him, then. “Is that what you are? My lover?”

“I sure hope so.”

She set bouquet and vase down on the counter, reached for him. “Then I think you’d better kiss me quick here, don’t you?”

“No,” he said, wrapping his arms around her lower back and pulling her close. “I think I’d better kiss you slow.”

“Flowers,” she said a few minutes later. “Water.”

“
Mmm.” He pulled her curls aside, kissed the back of her neck, just under the hairline. “Got to get those flowers into the water.”

She stepped back with reluctance, and a laugh, too. “Alec. I do. And I thought you said we had a reservation.”

“Not for another half hour. I just wanted to get you alone.”

She was unwrapping the flowers. “Oh. These are gorgeous. You shouldn’t have. ” Eight huge, drooping heads in varied shades of pink, their lush clouds of petals wafting gentle fragrance, tendrils of green ivy twining between the blooms.

“I thought they’d match your house,” he said. “Your secret feminine side, which, in case I haven’t mentioned it, is one of my very favorite sides of you, though it has some fairly strong competition.”

She let herself feel the pleasure of that as she ran the water, added the little packet of flower preservative, cut the stem ends carefully off, and arranged the blooms lovingly. Swept tissue, ribbon, and stem ends into the kitchen trash and wiped down the counter, then set the vase in the middle of her round oak dining table and stood back.

“Gorgeous,” she said again. “Thank you.” And she had to give him another quick kiss, just to show him how much she liked them.

“Well, I was kind of hoping that I’d get to see your bedroom tonight,” he said. “So I decided I’d better pull out all the stops.”

“Oh, are we going someplace romantic?” How much better could he make this?

“I hope you think so.” He was smiling again. “And I chose someplace we could walk to, so I can hold your hand.”

I want to bring you flowers. I want to hold your hand. I want to sweep you off your feet.

“But how about showing me that bedroom now?” he suggested. “Give me a little inspiration for the evening, make sure I work hard enough to charm you.”

“Reservation,” she reminded him.

“I said
see
it,” he protested. “I didn’t say
use
it. Yet.”

But when he saw it, he wasn’t so sure. The crystal chandelier wall sconces were pretty, and so were the pale green walls, the glossy white trim, the soft, thick cream-colored rug with its pattern of roses around the border that stood beside the bed. It was all soft and warm and feminine, and made him want to stay. But the bed made him want even more.

“That’s a
fairly good bed,” he told her.

“It’s my dream bed. I bought it last year after I got my bonus. It reminds me of sleeping in the clouds.” She laughed. “That’s pretty fanciful, but it does.”

“I can see that.” The puffy white comforter and pillows, yes. “But you know, as a guy of the male persuasion, it kind of sends a different message.”

“Oh, yeah? What message is that?”

He gestured at the drift of white net curtains at each corner of the four-poster. “Well, I can’t speak for every guy out there, but to me . . . I look at those curtain things, one in every corner, conveniently right there at the bedposts, and I think . . .”

“Wait a minute,” she said, and her mouth was hanging open a little. “You look at my pretty bed, and you immediately think
bondage?”

“Well, yeah,” he admitted. “I do. I’m a guy.”

That forced another laugh from her. “It’s like a whole different world. But check this out.” She flipped off the light switch—sitting inside a curvy porcelain switchplate, of course, painted with more roses and edged in gilt, of course—leaving them in the dark. But only for a moment, because she was doing something at her bedside table now, and the white net was suddenly illuminated with dozens of tiny lights casting a glow through the fabric.

“You have a light-up bed,” he said slowly.

“I do. Isn’t it pretty?”

“It is. And I’ve got exactly what I wanted. Inspiration. Let’s go out to dinner.”

He took her walking up the rest of the Filbert Steps, all the way to the top of Telegraph Hill, down the other side along the curving path. Another five minutes past stately buildings from the beginning of the last century, angular structures from more recent times, until they reached the lighted window, the hanging sign outlined in gilt that announced the tiny French restaurant tucked into a block of retail shops, more apartments rising above them in this densely populated old neighborhood.

Soft lights and candles, white tablecloths and red roses, the corner table he’d specified, Vivaldi playing softly in the background. And watching Desiree eat. The way her eyes closed when she tasted the first mouthful of perfectly fried sole, her sigh as she sipped from the glass of white wine the waiter had just refilled from the bottle set in its ice-filled gondola. It was all pure pleasure, and his own meal wasn’t bad either.

“Now for the best part, at least the best part here,” he told her when their plates had been whisked away, thick black decaffeinated coffee had been set in front of them in white porcelain cups. “Dessert.”

“Oh,” she sighed. “I don’t think I can. Not if you don’t want me to fall asleep on you. All that food, and the wine . . .”

“Just taste it,” he coaxed. “Because here it comes.”

“What? How . . .”

“I ordered it ahead of time,” he explained. “Because it takes a while to prepare.”

The waiter appeared bearing a dessert plate, in its center the white ribbed ramekin with its crusty brown dome, set it down with a flourish. A dollop of vanilla bean crème fraiche in the center of the rich concoction, a sprig of mint garnishing the plate, just because it looked nice.

“Et voila,” the waiter said, standing back. “Le soufflé au
chocolat.”

“Two spoons,” Alec pointed out helpfully, holding up his own dessert spoon. “Help me out here, Desiree. You wouldn’t want
me
to fall asleep.”

“I don’t think I can help myself,” she admitted. “I’ve never had chocolate soufflé.”

And, again, her eyes drifted shut as she held the first spoonful in her mouth, let the chocolate melt over her tongue, and he watched her loving it, and loved watching.

He walked her home, held her hand, kissed her in the light of a streetlamp at the very top of Telegraph Hill, the golden shaft of
Coit Tower behind them, the lights of the City spread out beneath them, the suspension cables of the Bay Bridge rising and falling in a graceful arc, a silver necklace across the darkness of the Bay.

And then he took her home, put her on the white bed like a cloud, and made love to her, long and slow and sweet. Not using the curtains at all, because he didn’t need to, although he did turn on those little lights, because he needed to see her.

There would be another time for the curtains. For tonight, he wanted to touch her, and taste her, and feel her touching and tasting him. He wanted her hands, her mouth against his skin. He wanted to hear her breathy sighs, and, later, her cries, to know how much she wanted him, and to know that he knew exactly how to touch her, how to kiss her, how to please her. He wanted to love her.

“That’s it,” he told her in the morning when they were drinking coffee and eating toast with jam in her comfortably upholstered dining chairs, the smell of peonies filling the air, the crystals in the chandelier overhead casting rainbows onto the wall next to them, the patio beyond the French doors all dappled sunlight and blooming lavender in terra-cotta pots. “I’m moving in.”

“What?”

He laughed at her startled expression. “Nah, just kidding. But I like your house better than mine.”

“Well, so do I,” she admitted. “I’m sorry, I know it’s the best address, and I’m sure it’s all the latest thing, but . . .”

“It’s cold,” he agreed. “And not . . . comfortable. How did you get everything to look like this? Did it come this way, or did somebody do it?”

“Somebody did it. Me. With help from a contractor,” she hastened to say. “It was all carpeted, and it had fussy wallpaper everywhere when I bought it five years ago. It took me three years to do all this, to get it exactly the way I wanted it. I moved a lot when I was a kid, and I wanted someplace that was . . . all mine.”

“Security,” he guessed.

“Yes,” she said with surprise. “I guess, now that you say it . . . yes. Or maybe, you know . . .” She shrugged, a little embarrassed now. Why did she keep revealing herself to him like this? “Women, the nesting thing.”

“Hey,” he said. “I’m impressed, I’m not criticizing. All I did myself was write a check, and you saw how that turned out. I can’t imagine how you had the time.”

“I didn’t do it all at once,” she explained. “I went slowly, one room at a time when I knew what I wanted and I could afford it, and I found everything myself. My kitchen tiles, my light fixtures, my big bathtub, everything. I had magazine articles, and I looked at websites, and I went around and looked at open houses and stores and salvage places, and, well, everything, every chance I got. But the nice thing is, it’s so small, it was doable. Javier and Philip designed the garden,” she thought to add. “Because they’re into that. That’s why it blends so well with theirs.”

“Turned out great,” he said. “I guess if you get tired of making my life easier, you could go into business for yourself.”

She laughed at that. “I could, if anybody else liked what I like. I think it’s fairly obvious that my secret inner self is a 70-year-old grandma.”

“No,” he corrected her. “Your secret inner self is a pretty girl who likes pretty things. And I’m pretty crazy about your secret inner self.”

“Well, thanks.” Boy, did he know the right things to say. “But none of my selves can cook, so what do you want to do for breakfast?”

“Eat,” he said promptly, making her laugh again. “What do you usually do?”

“I normally go over to the farmers’ market in Ferry Plaza, Saturday mornings. Have a walk, get something to eat, pick up a few things for later.”

“Let’s do that, then, if you want company. I have to go into the office today, but what do you think about my coming back again tonight? Since, as we know, I don’t like my apartment. Maybe we could even buy something and heat it up, and, I don’t know, watch a movie? Or I could take you out again,” he hastened to say.

“No, that sounds good. I have work to do too, but later—that sounds good.”

“So I’m wondering,” he asked when they were walking back through the Saturday-morning quiet of the Financial District, comfortably stuffed with various delicious delicacies and laden with their purchases. Fruit, salad vegetables, artisanal bread and cheese, Greek and Vietnamese and Italian treats, each in its own little container, ready to be heated. “Why don’t you cook, when you do everything else so well? I mean, I know why
I
don’t. My mom did it for us growing up, and then I started working pretty hard as soon as I was out of school, and there were restaurants, so . . .” He shrugged. “Gabe learned how, but I never did. But I’d have thought you would’ve had to.”

She hated this kind of question. It always made her feel like a freak. But then, he didn’t cook either. And he hadn’t judged her yet, so she put one more cautious toe into the water.

“I grew up eating frozen dinners,” she tried to explain. “And school lunches.
Free
school lunches, and breakfasts too. Food never tasted all that . . . tasty. Sometimes I’d go to somebody’s house, and they’d have this good food, you know? Mashed potatoes with little lumps in them that tasted like . . . potatoes. Gravy. In the morning, they’d have pancakes that fluffed up. I would wonder how they did that, how they got it all to taste that way, but I didn’t have a clue. So I just figured, that was something some people knew how to do, but I didn’t.”

“Your grandma, though,” he suggested.

“Umm . . . remember that Jell-O salad?”

“Oh. Yeah.” He made a little face.

“Well, that’s her best dish. That’s her signature. So there you go. She’s great, but cook? Not so much.”

“And you never learned. Like me.”

“Just like you, although I don’t eat out all the time like you do. I eat a lot of salads, things like that. Energy bars,” she said, and saw his smile. “And I can make eggs. But cooking needs special pans, and measuring cups, and ingredients. I don’t have any ingredients. And I don’t have time. I’ve hardly ever even used my oven. Maybe three times?”

“Really? You bought a blue oven, and you don’t even use it?”

“Nope. There you go, my guilty secret. How often have you used yours?”

“I’ve heated things up,” he admitted. “And that’s about it.”

“Well, you know,” she said, “that’s what they make the Ferry Plaza market for. So we can heat things up. You can be in charge of that.”

He was quiet for a few minutes as they reached the steps and began to climb. She’d been right, he hadn’t seemed to judge, to her relief.

“So this is what you do?” he asked as they finished the first block’s worth of stairs and started on the second. “For a workout, I mean? Walk the steps? Because I have to say . . .” he leaned back, shot a sly glance behind her. “It’s working great for you, though I suspect you were naturally gifted to begin with.”

How did he manage to make a too-tall, too-slender woman feel so sexy? That was
his
gift. Well, one of them.

“If you like it,” she said, trying not to let her smile betray her foolish heart any more than necessary, “I guess you should tell my yoga teachers ‘thanks,’ because that’s where
it comes from. I mean, yes, I walk a lot too, but that’s where the sculpting part comes from.”

“Really? Yoga?”

“What, never heard of Yoga Butt?”

“
Mmm, no. But I’m appreciating the hell out of it.” Which made her feel even better.

“Three times a week or so. Drop-in, whenever I can make it. In fact, Saturday evening is one of the times I usually go, because it isn’t as crowded. You know,” she added with a little laugh, “just the lonely boys and girls going with Plan B.”

“And you want to go tonight,” he guessed.

“Well, yes, if you wouldn’t mind. I’d be back by seven, so we could still do something after that, if that’s not too late.”

“No, I’m fairly sure I’ll still want to do something.”

“I mean, dinner.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Dinner too. But why don’t I go with you? You can show me what it’s all about. If they let men in, and if you don’t have to wear special yoga clothes made of weird stretchy stuff. I don’t look too good in tights.”

“Men go. It’s not ballet class.” Really? He wanted to go to yoga with her?
That
was new. “And it’s not fancy, it’s Yoga to the People. You put your donation in a Kleenex box at the end. Shorts, and shirts are optional.”

“Wow. I’m
definitely
going. Topless yoga girls? I am so there.”

That time, she giggled. She
never
giggled, but she did it now. “No, sports bras. But I wear a tank top.”

He sighed. “Well, that’s sad, but I’m coming anyway.”

“We should be discreet, though,” she warned. “It’s on Mission, lots of techies. And you don’t exactly blend.”

“Out of context,” he pointed out.

“Still. You, the show . . . and, well, let’s face it. You. Discreet. No kissing me.”

“All right,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll just save it up.”

“You do that.” Boy, he made her smile. “And it’s a 90-minute class,” she realized. “That might not be the best for your first time. We can do a different one if you’d rather, earlier in the afternoon. The others are only an hour.”

“Hey, I’m in shape. I work out almost every day.”

“I know you are. I’ve been watching you chop wood with your shirt off on TV, remember? It’s a little different, though. Different muscles, and you’re using them in different ways.”

“Desiree. It’s
yoga.
It’s stretching. How hard can it be?”

A half-hour into it, he would have laughed at those words, if he’d had enough energy left to do it with. An hour in, and he was holding on purely out of pride, hoping that he could finish the class, that he wasn’t going to collapse in an ignominious heap on top of the puddle of sweat that had collected on his mat.

“Lower halfway,” the instructor was saying now in a soothing voice that was rapidly getting on Alec’s last nerve. “And hover in your plank. Move your right palm so it’s centered under your body and turn onto the outer edge of your right foot, stacking your left foot on top of your right.”

Alec figured it out, mainly because he could follow the girl next to him, shifted so he was supporting his weight on his right palm, the side of his right foot, slowly straightened his right arm. Put his left foot precariously on top of the right and wobbled more than a little, but he was doing it.

Except that it wasn’t over. “Lift into your hip, and now, if you choose, raise your left hand to the sky,” suggested the syrupy voice. “You might want to raise your left leg as well, find some variation in your pose.”

Or you might just want to stay right here,
Alec decided. All right, the 22-year-old next to him, the one with the tattoos snaking over her shoulder, disappearing under the brief coverage of her sports bra, and emerging again to continue down her back, was doing it. Because she was clearly some kind of freak of nature.

But then they were on the other side, and
Rae was doing it all, both arms in a graceful line, one long leg lifting into the air at a full 45-degree angle as if it were no problem at all. And he was sweating more than ever, and wondering who the hell thought this was a fun time.

Desiree came slowly out of the depths of her shivasana, opened her eyes, wiggled her fingers and toes, then turned onto her side. A few class members were quietly rolling up their mats, preparing to leave, but she took her time, enjoying the moment. The 90-minute class was her favorite. She always emerged relaxed and rejuvenated.

The tinkling instrumental music stopped for a moment as a song ended, and she heard another sound amidst the rustles and shifting. A snore. She pushed up onto her knees and looked to her left.

Alec was on his back all right, and yes, he was relaxed. In fact, he was asleep.

Another snore, and she giggled. Put a gentle hand on his shoulder, gave him a little shake.

“Alec,” she murmured, leaning close. “Sweetie. Wake up.”

“Huh?” He raised his head with a start, looked at her above him. The startled look turned to a smile. “Uh . . . what?”

“You fell asleep,” she told him.

“Oh. Guess it worked.” He got up, moving pretty slowly, she couldn’t help but notice, hung his rental mat on the ballet bar that ran along one wall. It dripped onto the hardwood floor, and she felt another giggle rising.

“OK,” he sighed when they were outside again and walking to his car. “Consider my ass kicked.”

She laughed out loud. “A little harder than you expected?”

“As always, Desiree,” he told her, “you’ve outclassed me.”