His gaze raked down my face to my chest, stopped a half sec and then proceeded all the way down to my wooly neon socks. I swear I could feel the heat from his stare as he made his way down my body. His cheekbones rose when his mouth pulled up into an open grin. He looked back at my face when he said, “Nice socks.”
Holy Madonna.
A girl could get seriously lost in that grin. And the rest of him, too.
I swallowed, the sound loud between us in the empty stairwell.
“Thanks.”
“You gonna make me stand out here in the hallway all afternoon, Donna?”
I didn’t want to let him into my apartment. It seemed too…personal. But years of ingrained manners had me shoving the door open and waving a hand into the interior of my space.
“Come on in.”
He preceded me through the door and was shaking out of his overcoat when I secured the lock behind us.
“Give me that.” He handed his coat over with a “Thanks.”
Yup, I was right. Cashmere, and as soft as rose petals. I tried not to sniff it when I hung it up on the wall peg, but I sneaked a whiff even though I told myself not to. The spicy citrus aroma that clung to him did to his coat, as well.
Hoping he hadn’t noticed what I’d done, I took a bracing breath and turned around. I shouldn’t have worried because he wasn’t looking at me but out the bank of windows over my couch.
“Great view,” he said, his attention focused on the Hudson River. If the weather was clear you could look across to New Jersey on most days. Today was one of them.
“I like it.”
Tony turned from the window and his gaze took a slow stroll around my living room. I wondered how he saw it from a man’s perspective.
I’d painted the eight-foot high walls a soft cream, the trim in copper, an unusual color for molding. One entire wall was filled with various charcoal etchings I’d found over the years at fairs and estate sales. Each had a different street scene from a famous city. I’d made the curtains myself using nonna’s old Singer from a tapestry fabric I’d found at a garage sale. Corded tassels held the sides back.
If given a label, my furniture would have been called shabby chic, each piece bought from a local consignment shop. I used the two-cushioned love seat as my sofa and had reupholstered it from a drab brown to a dull mustard that went well with the molding color. Throw pillows in scattered hues of reds, browns, and umbers from fabrics I’d found in a specialty novelty store on the lower East Side covered the sofa. Two art deco lamps sat atop twin tables bookending it, with a low cocktail table I’d painted red, in front of it. Two single wingback chairs finished the seating part of the room.
A wall wide bookcase housed my flat screen, surrounded by framed pictures of my family and knickknacks I’d picked up on my shopping treks over the years.
“This is nice,” Tony said. “Homey. Not fussy or too much. My place is bare bones. You use a decorator?”
“No.” Why I was secretly pleased he’d thought a professional had helped me I couldn’t begin to fathom, but a tingle of pride sluiced down my spine at his question.
He cocked his head a bit, his eyes focused on me now. “Did you do this?” He sliced his hand around the space, surprise lacing his tone.
I nodded.
“No shit? Jeez, Donna, you got skills. I should hire you to do my place.”
Heat raced up my chest at the compliment. “You couldn’t afford me. Now, why are you here?”
One corner of his mouth tipped up. “Mind if I sit?”
I did, because the sooner I got rid of him the sooner my pulse rate would go back to normal. But, ever my gracious mother’s daughter, I waved at the sofa.
“Would you like something to drink? I’ve got water, tea, coffee.”
I also had an open bottle of a very good red in my cupboard but I wasn’t offering that.
“I’d love a cup of coffee. Black. Thanks.”
I’d made myself a pot in my grandmother’s old percolator when I’d gotten home, and while I warmed it, I repeated my question.
“I just came from your parent’s house and your old man suggested I drop by and clue you in on what I’d told him.”
“Clue me in? Did you arrest whoever killed Chico already? Does that mean we can open tomorrow?”
“Slow your roll, babe. That’s not what I came here to tell you.”
Okay, babe? A little condescending to be sure.
Tony didn’t seem to notice my back go stiff or my mouth slam into a hard-pressed line since he was still glancing around the room.
“I’m pretty sure Track killed Chico, or had one of his men do it, but I’ve got no tangible proof. I spoke with the Chief of D’s – detectives - and told him I had a plan. I needed his okay before I could go through with it, though.”
While I took a mug from my kitchen cabinet I asked, “And did he?”
“Yeah. He was on board because it made the most sense in order to trap Chico’s killer. So, after I got his okay I figured I’d talk to your father next, get his thoughts on it, and get his consent.”
Why would he need Daddy’s consent? I poured his coffee and then brought it to him. Tony took a long, long chug, his eyes closing as he swallowed.
A deep sigh broke from him before he opened them again and lit on me. A flash of him at eighteen in the back of his car bolted through my brain.
We’d been messing around with him introducing me to the pleasures of French kissing. He’d already gotten a hand under my shirt and had wormed a knuckle under my bra strap to toy with my nipple. I was equal parts mortified and aroused. No boy had ever done this to me before. Tony pulled back from the kiss, his eyes half closed and a panty-wetting grin dancing on his lips as he looked over at me.
He had the same look on his face right now. My toes flexed in my socks and I found it difficult to breathe.
“Nothing ever tastes as good as fresh perked.” His grin widened, showing lots of perfect white teeth.
Never mind not being able to breathe, it was my heart I was more concerned about since it had decided to stop beating.
“Forget all the fancy six-bucks-a-cup crap.” He lifted the mug again to his lips, sipped. “Nothing can compete with this.”
Because I couldn’t just stare at him all day, I willed myself to say something so I wouldn’t look like a total moron standing there.
I managed to clear my throat, then asked, “So, this plan?”
“Yeah.” He ran his free hand through the side of his hair before saying, “I need to get someone close to Track and since Chico had established a relationship with him through your store, I figured it might be a good idea to do that again.”
It took a moment for his words to filter through because I got lost in staring at his mouth while he spoke. When they did, I blinked a few times and shook my head.
“Wait. You mean you want to put someone in our store? Like Chico? Another…spy?”
“That’s the plan. This time though—”
“No. No way. No friggin’ way.”
His brows tugged down over those gorgeous eyes, eyes that had narrowed at my words.
“Donna, listen, I—”
“Are you insane?” My voice rose a good two octaves and bordered on shrill, but I didn’t care. “One of my employees is dead, which I know for a fact because—hello!—I found him with a knife in his chest and something shoved into his mouth. Believe me, having to go through that once was more than enough for ten lifetimes. No.” I shook my head and crossed my arms defiantly over my chest. “You’re not gonna get another one killed—”