Where the Heart Chooses (8 page)

“I’ll have Darjeeling. I don’t know how you
can drink Earl Grey.” He followed me into the kitchen and took down
the cups while I set the kettle to boil, and then put the tea
leaves into two separate pots. “About Mann—”

“If you don’t like Nigel, Tony, why did you
practically throw me at his head?”

“It’s not that I don’t like him, Portia.
It’s just…He has that reputation for being cold. I’ve seen some of
the women he’s taken out, and by the end of the night they were
practically covered in frostbite. I’ll be honest with you. I never
expected you to come home looking as if you’d been mauled!”

“Hardly mauled, Anthony.” After all, that
would have implied I hadn’t been a willing participant.

“Well then, necking in the front seat of a
car!”

The kettle began to whistle, and I turned to
it, grateful for the excuse to avoid his gaze. That was exactly
what we had been doing, Nigel and I.

He’d pulled up to the curb in front of the
apartment building. I gathered my purse, and waited for him to turn
off the engine and come around to open the car door for me. I
glanced across at him to find he was staring intently at me. The
next thing I knew, he had shifted the car into park, pulled me into
his arms again, and had his hands buried in my hair, kissing me as
if he were a starving man who had suddenly been offered a banquet.
No one had ever kissed me like that before, not Jason Campbell, not
even Folana Fournaise.

I liked being kissed like that.

I poured the water into the pots and left
them to steep. “I don’t know where he got the reputation for being
cold, Tony.” Perhaps in the same place as I did. Or perhaps his
father was as devious as ours. “I’d like to follow this to its
conclusion, whatever that might be. I’m not a child.”

“No, you’re not. All right, Portia. I’ll
stay out of it. But if he hurts you, I’ll kill him.”

“Thank you. You’re such a good brother.” I
didn’t tell him that he would have to stand in line behind me.
“Here, have your tea. It’s getting late.”

Tony glanced at the clock. “You have to be
at work in five hours. You’re going to be like a dish rag in the
morning.”

“I’ve gone to work on less sleep and managed
to do my job, haven’t I?”

“Yes, you have. You’re a Sebring after
all.”

I gave him a clipped smile. “And I hope
you’ll remember that.”

* * * *

For some time, the heat of that first
evening wasn’t repeated, even after I moved out of my brother’s
apartment to one a mile down the road. Nigel would see me to my
door, kiss me chastely good night, and then leave once I’d entered
my apartment. I could see the desire in his eyes, however, and so I
bided my time.

Going around in a state of semi-arousal was
intriguing, but eventually it grew tiresome, interfering with work
as it did, and I determined to put an end to it.

I telephoned Nigel’s office. “Mr. Mann,
would you mind coming to my office?”

“Not at all, Miss Sebring.”

I was at my desk, chuckling over another
coded message Jefferson had managed to intercept from Sidorov, the
KGB agent, this one using a reference to
The Nutcracker
,
when Nigel walked in.

“Thank you for being so prompt.”

“I try not to keep a lady waiting.” And yet
he had. “What can I do for you?”

Take me to bed and make mad, passionate
love to me?
“I’m having a small dinner party this Friday
evening, and I wondered if you’d care to attend. If you’re
available, of course.”

“Of course.” His stare was so intense my
nipples tightened and my panties dampened. “I’d be delighted. What
time did you want me?”

“Shall we say around seven-thirty? We’ll
have drinks and hors d’oeuvres. And we’ll dine at eight.”

“I’ll be there.”

* * * *

Father had never seen any point in having me
taught how to cook, and since Mother didn’t cook, she didn’t insist
on it either. After all, once I married, that would be my
housekeeper’s concern.

But I didn’t want to poison Nigel, and so I
borrowed Mrs. Plum, Mother’s cook.

“Are you sure, Portia?” Mother asked when I
told her I’d be dining with Nigel Mann.

“I am.”

She studied my eyes. “Very well. I’ll see
young Henry drives Mrs. Plum into the Capitol on Friday
afternoon.”

“Thank you, Mother.” I was tempted to hug
her, but that wasn’t done.

“You’ll want to discuss your menu with her.”
She pressed the buzzer that would summon a maid, who would be sent
to summon Mrs. Plum.

I could more easily have gone to the
kitchen, but I didn’t even suggest it.

* * * *

“Cornish game hens will be the easiest
thing, Miss Portia,” Mrs. Plum said after she’d arrived and I’d
told her it was to be an intimate dinner for two. “I’ll prepare
everything in advance and leave a list of directions on when to
serve the hens and the side dishes. Hmm. Brussels sprouts, creamed
asparagus, and mashed cauliflower?” But she was looking toward
Mother.

“No, this is Miss Portia’s dinner
party.”

I was startled. Mother had never deferred to
me over anything before. I cleared my throat. “That sounds
ideal.”

“What kind of hors d’oeuvres would you
want?”

“Your tuna pineapple dip is always a big
hit.”

“Are you certain you want that, Portia?”
Mother asked. “It’s served with potato chips.”

“Yes. I don’t want it to be too formal.” But
I didn’t want it too casual either. “And crab salad in puff shells,
and perhaps a cheese fondue?”

“With Jarlsberg and Gruyere? As you wish,
Miss Portia.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Plum. I’ll see you on
Friday. Mother, I must go. Tony has no idea I borrowed his
Cadillac.”

For a moment I thought she’d smile, but she
didn’t. “I am pleased you’re not letting him browbeat you.”

“Not likely. I know where the bodies are
buried.”

“Really, Portia! If anyone heard you, they
would think your brother is a hooligan.”

“I apologize, Mother.” I sighed. What had
possessed me to tease her?

She walked me out to the car. “Drive
carefully.”

“I will. Thank you again.”

She offered her cheek, and the kiss I gave
her was swift and brief.

* * * *

I looked through my record albums, not happy
with what I found. None of them had the one song I was looking
for.

I called my brother Bryan.

“Good evening, Bryan. It’s—”

“Good evening, Portia. How are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you. And how are you?” I’d
seen him just the other day, but Mother had impressed on us the
necessity of the amenities.

“I’m as fine as I was on Tuesday.” He’d come
to Arlington Hall to speak with Nigel, and really, how could my
brothers think they could get up to something and not have me find
out? For some reason they wanted me to date Nigel Mann. Fortunately
for them, what they wanted and what I wanted was the same
thing.

“I’m so pleased to hear this. Now that we
have that out of the way, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Ask away, little sister.”

“You have a very extensive record
collection. Does ‘It Had to Be You’ happen to be on any of
them?”

“Hmm. I believe Billie Holiday did a version
of it.”

“Will you let me borrow it?”

“Of course. When did you need it?”

“You’re a lifesaver! I’m having a dinner
party tomorrow. Do you mind if I stop by your place and pick it
up?”

“Not at all, but suppose I drop it off at
your place? It will only take me a few minutes to get there.”

“All right. Thank you. I’ll brew a pot of
tea.”

“That sounds good. I’ll pick up some
pastries.”

“Excellent. Bye, Bryan.”

“Bye, Portia.”

I went into the kitchen, put the kettle on
to boil, and then set my table with placemats and the set of good
china that Mother insisted I have.

About twenty minutes later, Bryan knocked on
my door. He handed me the album, which I put on the turntable.

When I turned around, he was placing éclairs
and napoleons on the plate I’d left out for them.

I poured the Earl Grey, offered him the
honey he preferred to take with his, and fixed mine the way I liked
it.

Then we sat down, and while Billie Holiday
sang, we chatted of what was going on in our respective agencies,
what was happening at home, movies, books, and, of course,
music.

We didn’t talk about our love lives. Bryan
was my one brother who wouldn’t harass me about my plans. It wasn’t
that he didn’t care; it was just that he was very contained.
Sometimes I had the impression that he’d found his “one,” but it
hadn’t turned out well for him.

I hoped I was wrong.

* * * *

The doorbell chimed at the stroke of
seven-thirty on Friday, signaling Nigel’s arrival.

I gave a glance around my apartment.
Everything was neat and tidy. Billie Holiday’s
Music for
Torching
was on my console record player—there was just room
for it, a loveseat, and a coffee table in my tiny living room—and I
set the needle in the groove, leaving the stacker feature back so
it would repeat.

As “It Had to Be You” played softly in the
background, I went to open the door.

“Good evening, Portia.” Nigel wore a black
overcoat, and in his left hand he held his hat, while his right
held a bouquet of red roses.

“Good evening, Nigel. Please come in. Let me
take your hat and coat.”

“Thank you.”

I hung them up in my tiny closet.

“I brought you these.” He offered me the
bouquet.

“Thank you. They’re lovely.” As was he. My
mouth began to water. No other man, not even Jason, had caused such
a reaction in me.

“No lovelier than you.”

“Thank you again.” I’d taken the day off,
much to my brother’s displeasure, and had had my hair and nails
done. Nigel had seen me in evening gowns before when we’d attended
various functions around the Capitol, but this evening I wore a
blue silk dress with a sweetheart neckline, sheer three-quarter
sleeves, and a slim skirt that fell to mid-calf. Matching sandals
with two-inch heels revealed my Lust-painted toenails.

His eyes were hot and hungry, and I
swallowed a smile.
Whither now, Mr. Freeze?

“Let me get a vase for these.” I went into
my equally tiny kitchen, only then remembering I didn’t have a
vase. Annoyed with myself, I began opening cabinets to see what I
did have. Finally I found a pitcher in one of the upper cabinets,
but even with the two-inch heels, it was just out of my reach.

“May I help you?”

“Nigel! Yes—” His arm encircled my waist,
while his other hand encircled my throat, and I leaned back against
him. He nuzzled aside the diamond and sapphire drops that hung from
my ear and nipped the tendon in my throat. “Please.” But I didn’t
know if I was pleading with him to help me or make love to me.

A final nip, and he set me aside and took
down the pitcher, watching, bemused, as I filled it with water and
placed the roses in it. “Ah. Necessity, the mother of
invention.”

“Yes.” Fortunately, he didn’t seem to have
noticed how my hands were shaking. I brought the impromptu vase out
to the dining room and set it at the foot of the table.

“Portia, there are only two place settings
on your table.”

“Yes. Didn’t I say it would just be the two
of us?”

“Somehow you neglected to do so.”

“Do you mind?”

“Not in the least.”

“I’m pleased. What would you like to drink?”
I admired his navy suit, crisp white shirt, and the midnight blue
tie he wore with it.

“Show me where your liquor cabinet is, and
I’ll make us both Manhattans.”

“But you drink vodka tonic.”

“And tonight I’m in the mood for something a
little sweeter.” He’d never been in my apartment, and he looked
around. “It’s…small, isn’t it?”

I had to laugh. It was
incredibly
small, and I had the feeling this had been an effort on Tony’s part
to alter my decision to move into a place of my own. What he hadn’t
realized was that the apartment he considered miniscule was cozy
for me.

I pointed to the cabinet against a wall in
the dining room. Within were bottles of whisky, sweet and dry
vermouth, gin, vodka, brandy, port, and sherry. On top, glasses,
mixers, and a bowl of ice cubes were ready. Perhaps I couldn’t
cook, but I did know what was necessary to mix drinks.

“While you’re making our drinks, I’ll bring
out the hors d’oeuvres.”

He caught my hand before I could step back,
and drew me close to him. His hazel eyes were almost green,
something I’d noticed only once before, and then I couldn’t see
anything, because he was kissing me and my own eyes were
closed.

* * * *

“Dinner was marvelous, Portia,” Nigel said
as he raised his coffee cup to his lips.

“I’m so pleased you enjoyed it. Would you
care for another slice of cake?” It was a rich, German chocolate
cake that had been drenched with sweetened, condensed milk. Hot
fudge sauce had been poured over it and left to set, and then it
had been topped with whipped cream and crumbled bits of toffee. I
wasn’t going to tell him that it was called “Better than Sex.” Mrs.
Plum had told me that in confidence, because if Mother ever learned
of it, she’d refuse to have it served at Shadow Brook.

“No, thank you. One more bite, and I’ll have
to roll myself down the sidewalk to my car.”

And we wouldn’t want that.

“Cigarette?” I’d placed a cigarette case, a
gold lighter decorated with an enamel spray of violets, and an
ashtray, which was also decorated with violets on the table—how odd
that Folana would send them to me, when I was the one who first
gave violets to her—along with the coffee cups and dessert plates.
Now I opened the case and pushed it toward him.