ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT? (Running Wild) (7 page)

“Wine, perhaps?” Harry asked. “White, red?” She looked undecided. “White, please.” Harry glanced at the wine list and ordered, thankful that he’d written some of the press releases for the place and knew which vintages were highly recommended.

"It’s a nice evening,” Harry began, feeling like a dork. A dork with a very persistent hard-on. "The sunset on English Bay was spectacular tonight. Did you see it?”

The only reason he had was because Mrs. Campanato had arrived forty minutes early, and Harry was forced to either vacate the house or listen to one of her lectures on child rearing. She was fixated on the fact that Sadie didn’t have enough contact with other kids, and she went on about it until Harry was dizzy.  It seemed her daughter, Rosalie, ran something called Motoring Munchkins at the community center, not ten minutes' drive from Harry’s door.

Mrs. Campanato was on a mission to get Sadie enrolled, and Harry suspected it had more to do with Rosalie's recent divorce than with Sadie’s social development.

Mrs. Campanato started in again the minute she came through the door, so he left early and spent the time sitting in his car in an English Bay parking lot, watching the sun disappear into the ocean.

“I missed the sunset, but the sky was still beautiful when I got to the hotel," she replied.

He was having a tough time connecting the voice from the telephone, with the demure and unbearably sensual flesh-and-blood lady across from him.

It was a tough connection to make; if he’d met her under other circumstances, not knowing what she did for a living, he’d have guessed teaching or maybe nursing. She had the open countenance and healthy looks that should go with those jobs.

The waiter brought the wine. Harry gave it his stamp of approval, and when they each had some in a fragile glass, he lifted his in a toast.

"To friendship,” he said, “and an enjoyable evening.”

She smiled at him and sipped.

He watched her lips, marveled at the soft roundness of her face, and at last met her eyes. She was watching him.

"You’re beautiful, India." He hadn’t planned to say it; it just spontaneously came out, and to his amazement she blushed and ducked her head.

“Thank you.” She looked at him and for the first time he saw a hint of flirtatiousness. “You’re not bad yourself, Harold.”

Her sexy voice made the compliment erotic, and, delighted, he laughed. “Thanks.” Her words made the trip to the men’s stylist and the new shirt worthwhile. And the sample of men’s cologne that had come in the mail must be potent. “And now that we’ve got a mutual admiration society going for us, we can both relax and have fun, okay?”

“Okay.” She sipped her wine again, and he saw a dimple come and go in her right cheek. “Are you about to go out of town again on business, Harold?”

Was he? He was flustered. He tried to remember the last lie he’d told her about his mythical business and couldn’t.

“It depends," he temporized. “There are a couple of deals pending. I may have to go and complete them.”

“Exactly what kind of business are you in?” He wished to hell he knew. He understood that she was just trying her best to make conversation. She had no idea that she was making him miserably uncomfortable.

“Mergers,” he lied, wondering if his nose was growing the way his penis had a moment before. “I’m a freelance adviser, sort of a peacemaker. I go in when two companies merge and I make the situation as smooth and painless as possible.” He hadn’t realized how rotten it was going to make him feel, looking across at her and outright lying to her. She had the kind of face that really shouldn’t be lied to, damn it.

“Harry, you old son of a gun, how are you anyway?"

The jovial voice, the pudgy hand that landed on his shoulder, made Harry’s stomach clench and his heart skip a beat.

"I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age, I was over at the wine bar and I thought I’d come and say hello.”

God help him, the game was up. His cover was about to be blown, and he’d be lucky if she’d ever speak to him again

Harry made a monumental effort to hide his aggravation as he turned and smiled at the short, stocky man behind his chair. "Hello, George.”

George Joost was the owner of a small software company for whom Harry had written an overview and business plan when the company filed for a listing on the stock market a year ago. George, whose wife in Toronto refused to move west with their two children, had spent several evenings at Harry's house, and he’d made a huge fuss over Sadie, even bringing her a Barbie doll with a wardrobe of clothes.

"Good to see you out and about, you old hermit, you." But George’s spectacled gaze wasn’t on Harry. His eyes were feasting on India.

Harry knew the other man was waiting for an introduction.

Harry couldn't chance it. George, affable and talkative, would undoubtedly say something about Sadie, or ask what Harry was writing these days.

“I’ll call you, George. We’ll get together for lunch," Harry said in the most dismissive tone he could muster.

"Sure, Harry.” George took the hint, good-natured as always. “Enjoy your dinner. Oh, and give Sadie my love and tell her I said hi." He gave them a small salute and then walked away.

“Business acquaintance," Harry' managed to croak through a throat that was suddenly parched. "Sadie’s my, er, secretary'."

India’s expression told him nothing, and he could only pray that she bought this new addition to his fat folder of lies.

He was relieved that the waiter brought the menus just then. They studied them in silence for a while.

"It all looks wonderful,” she said, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been afraid she’d ask him more about George, or worse, about Sadie. But obviously she’d bought his explanation.

He studied the menu. Now that the crisis was over, he was starving. Lunch had been baked beans on toast. Since Sadie, he’d mastered some of the absolute basics of cooking, but his menus ran strongly to stews and soups and Kraft dinners, because he’d learned there was little possibility of going too far wrong.

India, undoubtedly, was accustomed to far more sophisticated fare.

He was convinced of it when she ordered mustard herb-basted free-range chicken and some complicated salad he’d never heard of.

Harry had a steak.

Awkward silences filled the interval between ordering and the arrival of their food. India wasn't as talkative as he’d imagined she’d be, and there was a strain between them that hadn’t been there when they had talked on the phone.

It might have something to do with the powerful sense of attraction he felt every time he looked over at her. He kept thinking about kissing those lush lips and forgetting that this was really just an interview. The neckline of her suit dipped low enough to show the swell of creamy breasts, and he kept breathing in her seductive perfume.

When the food arrived, they ate for a while in silence. Harry was having a hard time remembering the list of questions he’d compiled. He finally came up with a couple that needed answering.

“You mentioned that your mother had died. Is your father still alive, India?”

She paused with a forkful of food halfway to her mouth. She set it down and picked up her wineglass instead, taking a hearty gulp before she answered.

“Yes, he is.”

He could sense this wasn’t a subject she was comfortable with, but it would make a difference to the article to know about her family.

“What does he do?” As he pursued the subject, Harry realized it wasn't just the article that made him want to know about her; she fascinated him. She had interested him when they’d had only a telephone relationship, but now that he’d met her in person, the attraction was even more powerful. . . and disturbing.

She was still toying with her wineglass.

“My father’s a minister in the small town where I grew up.” Her words were emotionless, but when he looked at her face, he could see strain there. Those full lips were compressed, and a tiny frown came and went between her eyebrows.

A minister’s daughter? He couldn’t have imagined a more ironic scenario, or one more perfect for his article. He should have dropped the topic; he knew by her expression he should have. But some demon made him go on. “Does he know what you do for a living?”

Her voice was brittle. “Not to my knowledge. I haven’t spoken to him in seven years. He didn’t exactly approve of me then; I doubt he would now.” She smeared butter on a piece of roll and then abandoned it on her butter plate. She pinned him with those green eyes and his breath caught.

“Did you get along with your father, Harold?” There was a subtle challenge in her tone.

Here, at least, he could be honest. “I wasn’t close to him, but we got along fine. He was a colonel in the Canadian army, and he was strict but fair. He died five years ago.”

She nodded, and he thought she might be trying to imagine what his childhood had been like. He was doing the same thing about her.

“Being a minister's daughter must have been tough. I guess you’d have to be sort of a model for the community?”

She smiled, an ironic twist of her mouth. “Can you imagine me as the perfect minister’s daughter?” Her voice changed, and he knew she was mimicking her father. "Ladies don’t walk that way. A proper young woman doesn’t wear makeup. That dress is too short; it’s a disgrace. You’re a disappointment to me, Ma—India McBride.”

She’d caught herself quickly, but he now had a clue to her real name. "Ma” what? Mary, Matilda, Maureen?

"After Mom died, when I was sixteen, I quit school and came to Vancouver. I stayed with an aunt for four years. She was sick and I took care of her until she died. She was my mother’s only sister.  They both died really young.”

“And after that?” He had an insatiable need to know about her, to know what path had led her to where she was, to what she did.

He didn’t want her to be someone who did phone sex. That sudden realization shocked him, surprised him. Scared him, too. There was no way he should be having opinions about what she did. He shouldn’t care.

She gave him a quizzical look, and he wondered what his face revealed about his thoughts. He cleared his throat, tried to assume an interested but bland expression, and repeated his question. “What did you do after that, India?”

“After that I worked as a waitress, went to night school, got my high school diploma. Then I applied for and was accepted for training as a stewardess with a regional airline."

He nodded. "I remember your telling me that you developed a fear of flying. Isn’t there help for that? I remember reading—”

"I didn’t go for help,” she interrupted.

The waiter arrived, collected their plates, and asked about dessert. She declined, but Harry ordered Grand Marnier chocolate cake and amaretto ice cream, with two forks. "You'll share, I hope?”

She didn’t reply. Instead she gave him a long, considering look that made him apprehensive. He knew he’d been clumsy about questioning her. He shouldn't have asked so many questions. She’d guessed that he was interviewing  her. For an instant relief poured through him. He’d welcome a chance to be truthful, whatever the cost. They could start all over again, on different footing.

“It bothers you that I do phone sex, doesn’t it, Harold?” Her voice was unemotional, but her eyes weren’t. They shot green sparks.

It caught him totally off guard. In some uncanny fashion, she’d picked up on his unspoken thoughts.

"Not at all, India.” His denial was too quick and too formal, and it sounded phony. He did his best to repair the damage. “Hell, no. Why should I mind? It’s the way we met, isn’t it?”

Even to him it sounded overly earnest, less than honest. He saw a flash of hurt in her eyes. She looked away, and he silently cursed himself.

“I should have realized it would bother you. I guess I’m not exactly someone you could introduce to your friends. Especially not when they know your wife.”

“My wife?” He felt stunned. “I haven’t got a wife, India.” Harry cursed his own stupidity. She was hurt because he hadn’t introduced her to George, and she’d gotten the wrong slant on Sadie. He should have guessed that she’d misunderstand his reasons for not introducing her.

“And as far as George goes . . .” he began, but she was getting to her feet. It wasn’t until she tossed her shawl around her shoulders that he realized she was planning to walk out on him.

"India, please sit down. I'll explain.” He got up and reached toward her, but she moved sharply away.

"Thank you for dinner, Harold. Please don’t follow me out.” She snatched up her purse and moved quickly toward the doorway to the dining room.

He tried to catch her, but there was the bill to deal with, and by the time he finally managed to race out of the restaurant, she was gone, and the room key in his pocket felt like hot lead.

It took Maxine a long, frantic time to find Edna’s car. She was shaking, on the verge of tears, and her brain wouldn’t work properly. There seemed to be dozens of sleek black cars in the parking lot, and she’d foolishly forgotten to mark down the exact location where she’d parked—or Edna's license number, for that matter.

By the time she finally located the car, her feet hurt in the high heels, and her heart felt scalded by the way the evening had gone.

Trembling, forcing herself to concentrate only on driving, she made her way home through the heavy Saturday evening traffic. She parked the car in front of her house and sat for a moment, trying to control her runaway emotions before she ventured inside.

Polly and Edna were seated at the kitchen table having coffee and cookies, and they both looked surprised when Maxine walked in the door.

“You’re back early.” Polly got a glimpse of Maxine’s face and scowled. "Okay, what’d that jerk do to you?”

She got up and put her arm around Maxine’s shoulders, and Edna quietly got another cup from the cupboard and poured her some coffee.

Their warmth and concern were more than Maxine could bear. The tears she’d been fighting all the way home began to pour down her cheeks, and sobs made her gulp and snort. She sank down in a chair and put her face in her hands.

“Did that dickhead attack you?" Polly’s voice was fierce. “Because I’ll have him up on charges so fast. . .”

Maxine shook her head and blew her nose on the tissues Edna tucked into her hand.

“You were . . . right, Polly. I... I should ne- never have gone out with him,” Maxine managed to choke out. "He’s . . . he’s way out of . . . out of my league.”

"Don’t even start with that rot,” Polly snapped. "Just for God’s sake tell us what happened. What’s this dork like?”

Maxine got control of herself. “He’s . . . he’s tall, and he’s got thick black hair that curls a little around his ears. And clear, sky-blue eyes, and I liked his smile. He’s got good teeth and a strong jaw. He’s got a cleft in his chin, and sort of a crooked nose. He’s not really handsome; he's more, I guess. ... I’d say rugged-looking. And he’s confident, but also a little shy, and . . . and I really liked him. I liked him right away.’’

“Okay, so he didn’t make you scream and upchuck on sight. So what’s the story?" Polly shoved the plate of chocolate cookies over, but food was the last thing Maxine wanted.

Her throat tightened and she had to clear it. “He was ashamed to be seen with me," she said in a tight voice. “At first I tried—" She suppressed another sob at the memory. “I tried really hard to pretend to myself that I was wrong, but he kept asking me these questions, like how my fa—” Her voice broke. She bit her lip and Edna patted her back until she could get hold of herself again.  “How my father felt about my doing phone sex. And it didn’t take a genius to figure out Harold was embarrassed about being seen with me. A friend of his came by and Harold nearly passed out. He didn't introduce us or anything, and then the guy asked about someone named Sadie.” She swallowed. “Harold’s married; I’m sure of it."

“The bastard. The low-down, dirty—” Polly swore fluently, a long string of curses, graphic and, Maxine thought, very satisfying.

They didn’t ease the hurt, though.

“I should have guessed. I thought I heard a woman’s voice once when he was talking to me, then his voice changed and he hung up fast.”

“Lots of our clients are married,” Edna said matter-of-factly.

“Which doesn’t matter as long as they stay just clients,” Maxine agreed. “But I thought he was an honest guy," she added bleakly.

“It’s just like I always say, their brains are wired differently. There’s no sense in expecting logic or reason or especially honesty from them,” Polly concluded. “They’re men.”

The business phone rang and Edna went to answer it.

"I’m sorry, but she’s not available,” Maxine heard her say.

Edna made a face and gestured at the receiver, and with a sick feeling in her stomach, Maxine knew it was Harold. She was going to have to deal with him, and she might as well do it right now and get it over with.

"I’ll take that.” With trembling fingers, Maxine reached for the phone.

“Don’t you let him charm you,” Polly said in a hiss. “Give him hell. He deserves it.”

"India here.” Her voice shook a little.