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And damn you for noticing, Fielding.
Francie Morelli was a tight little package. Nice boobs—not too big, yet not small, either. Her legs, he recalled, were quite shapely, and he supposed that if she stood, he’d find that her ass was equally as appealing as the rest of her.
Taking Ms. Morelli to bed and making love to her wasn’t going to be much of a chore, that was for damn certain. Mark intended to enjoy every minute of it, before dumping Little Miss Fickle on that cute little ass and saying, “Hasta la vista, baby!”
“YOU BREAK a mother’s heart, Francie. I don’t know how you can treat me this way. Three times you have been to the altar in front of God, not to mention all of our relatives and friends, and three times you have disgraced me and your father.” Josephine crossed herself and then murmured a little prayer, clearly hoping for a little intervention from on high.
Seating herself at the ancient red Formica table in her parents’ kitchen, Francie sighed at the hurt flickering in her mother’s dark eyes, then filled both of their cups with strong, hot coffee.
Josephine’s coffee was so strong you could stand a spoon up in it. And coffee did seem to make bad news digest better, though chocolate was better, of course. But this morning wasn’t a good time for chocolate. It wasn’t a good time for conversation, either. But like Leo said, now was as good a time as any. Francie couldn’t run from the truth indefinitely. She’d already tried that these past two weeks.
“Ma, I never wanted to hurt you or Dad. But you keep harping on me to get married and have babies, and I’m just not ready to take that step.” Not that she’d ever be ready, but there was no sense in dashing all of Josephine’s hopes in one fell swoop.
“What do you mean, you’re not ready? You’re twenty-nine, Francesca, practically an old maid.”
Francie did her best not to wince.
“Your aunts talk behind my back about how you’re never going to have a husband and children. And your sister is no better. She doesn’t even date nice men. Soon they’ll be saying that both of my daughters are lesbians.” Josephine crossed herself again, on the off chance that it might be true.
Her mother tolerated Leo, but Francie didn’t think for a minute that tolerance would extend to any of her children or family members should they choose an alternative lifestyle.
Francie was a tried and true—not to mention, proven—heterosexual woman, but she thought there was a lot to be said for the lesbian lifestyle.
First, if you were lucky enough to find another woman who wore the same size, you could expand your wardrobe. That couldn’t happen with a man, unless you were built like a fullback. A woman didn’t care about another woman’s lack of makeup or weight gain. And they had oodles more experience when it came to knowing what women wanted in the sex department.
Some of the men Francie had dated hadn’t known which end was up and could have benefited from a sex education class. Lesson One: Orgasms We Have Known and Loved.
“My heart is breaking from this, Francesca. I want to see you married and settled before I die. Is this too much to ask? I’m not getting any younger and neither are you.”
“Before I die” was one of Josephine’s favorite expressions. It was conjured up whenever guilt was needed to make her children toe the line. No matter that she was as healthy as the proverbial horse, in Josephine’s mind death was imminent if she didn’t get her way.
“Stop it, Ma! You’re not going to die.” In the immortal words of Billy Joel, “Only the good die young.” Francie left that unsaid, however. Her mother had never been a Billy Joel fan, preferring Placido Domingo instead.
“You can’t keep trying to run—” make that, ruin “—my life. Yes, I’m twenty-nine years old. But I’m very happy being single. I don’t need a man to complete me, and I’m not a lesbian.”
Josephine seemed inordinately relieved by that admission.
“Someday maybe I’ll meet someone.” Mark Fielding’s face flashed before her eyes, but Francie blinked it away, wondering why she suddenly thought of the handsome photographer, a man she hardly knew—a man who set her toes to tingling.
Sipping her coffee, she wished fervently for chocolate and issued a cease and desist order for her toes to stop misbehaving.
“But I’m not ready now. There are things I want to do with my life—travel, meet interesting people—” men who worked for the Associated Press were definitely interesting “—achieve success in my career. I’m just not ready to settle down.”
Eyes raised heavenward, Josephine clenched her hands and shook them. “All meaningless things. Without a husband and children, a woman’s life is nothing. Why would you want to work when you can find a good man to take care of you? You women of today don’t make any sense at all.”
“These are different times, Ma. Women don’t need to be married to feel fulfilled. You’re happy doing for Dad, and that’s great. But it’s not what I want.
“Didn’t you ever just want things for yourself, without thinking about how it would affect other people? I know it sounds selfish, and maybe it is, but so what? Since when did it become a crime to want independence? It’s what this country was founded on.”
Josephine stirred more sugar into her cup. The spoon hit the sides, clanking and clanking as she formed her answer. “I would not have done anything to disappoint my mother and father. It was expected that I marry, and I did. In my day children were dutiful.”
In your day women were orgasm-less.
“But what about falling head over heels in love?”
Looking somewhat insulted, her mother sat back in her chair, her mouth opening and closing like a floundering fish. “I love your father. Don’t talk crazy. You young people have too many romantic notions in your head. You watch movies, read those romance books, and you think that is what real life is supposed to be. But it’s not.
“Real life, a good life, is taking care of others, making sure your husband has clean underwear in his drawer and hot food on the table when he gets home tired from work. It’s taking pride in your children’s accomplishments, like when you made your first communion, or when Jackie pitched the no-hitter in Little League, remember?”
Francie did, and she smiled at the memory of how thrilled her parents were for her little brother. Her mother celebrated the event with a cake and a party for all of Jackie’s friends. “You’re the best, Ma. We kids couldn’t have asked for a better, more caring mother. But you shouldn’t expect any of us to lead the same life as you. That’s not fair.”
Josephine grunted her disapproval. “What’s fair—growing old alone?”
“I’ve tried to be the daughter you want. I’ve gone along with these weddings, to make you happy. But it’s making me very unhappy. Not to mention the poor grooms in question. I’m sure Matt Carson will never speak to me again. And I truly liked Matt, as a friend.”
“His mother said there were no hard feelings. She’s a lovely woman, that Mrs. Fielding. She would have made you a good mother-in-law.”
A good mother-in-law! Now there was an oxymoron if ever she heard one.
“I agree. Laura is a lovely woman, and a very gracious one to have said that. I know the Fieldings spent a lot of money on the reception and I feel terrible about it. And that’s just what I’m talking about. These weddings have hurt a lot of people, including you and Dad. Your savings account has got to be suffering. And you need that money for your retirement. Dad can’t sell appliances forever.”
In fact, her dad had been talking retirement for the past two years, but had never gotten around to it. She wondered now if it was because he couldn’t afford to.
Francie’s guilt multiplied.
“I have money put aside for such things, Francie, you know that. And I will make you another wedding when you come to your senses. An even nicer one. We’ll pick out a new dress, make our own arrangements for the reception, hire a better caterer…”
Francie knew that her mother hadn’t heard a word she’d said, and probably never would. It was useless arguing with the headstrong woman. But she could be just as stubborn as Josephine, now that her mind was made up to remain single.
Francie would not be coerced into another wedding. And nothing or no one would convince her otherwise.
“IT WAS NICE OF YOU to have lunch with me today, Ms. Morelli, especially on such short notice. I found after returning to my hotel yesterday afternoon that I still had a lot of questions that needed answering, being new, as I am, to the publishing and promotions game.”
“That’s understandable, Mr. Fielding.”
Francie and Mark were seated at the City Tavern, the oldest dining establishment in Philadelphia, located down by the waterfront, and Francie wondered at her acceptance of the luncheon appointment.
Of course, it was a business lunch. And she wanted Mr. Fielding’s business for the company. But still…She didn’t like mixing business with pleasure, especially when that business was over six feet tall, had deep blue eyes and a face that could rival Pierce Brosnan’s.
Mark Fielding was definitely eye candy.
Francie was definitely addicted to candy.
Francie needs candy like a hole in the head!
“I was happy to oblige,” she went on. “Baxter Promotions prides itself on being a very hands-on company.”
His right brow shot up and she felt her face heat at what her words implied.
Way to insert foot in mouth, Francie!
“Really? How interesting.”
Ignoring his teasing grin, she said, “As I explained, our firm is a small one, so we’re able to give our clients more individualized attention. Details are very important in this business, as you are certain to find out, no matter who you decide to sign with.”
He smiled that devastatingly sexy smile again. It was a sin for a man to have such straight, white teeth. Francie had paid a fortune to have hers fixed. In fact, she was still paying the orthodontist, would probably be paying Dr. Rosenblat until the day she died, or needed dentures.
“I like the sound of that, Ms. Morelli, or can I call you Francesca, since there’s a good possibility that we’ll be working together? I hope you’ll call me Mark.”
“How did you know my—”
“The brass plate on your desk.”
She nodded. “Ah, of course.” Francie was dying to ask Mark about his last name. Though Matt’s last name was Carson, his parents’ last name had been Fielding, due to a divorce and remarriage in his family. He had never mentioned anything about having a brother.
Matt had made a habit out of surprising her with all sorts of things—romantic gifts, tickets to concerts she’d been dying to see—so when he refused to give her the name of his best man and had insisted on issuing the invitation himself, saying only that it was a big surprise and she would have to wait until the day of the wedding to find out, she didn’t insist.
Most grown men were really just little boys at heart, and Matt had been no different.
At any rate, Fielding was a pretty common name in the Philadelphia area, so she wasn’t going to start getting paranoid about every person she met with that moniker. And Mark Fielding didn’t look a thing like Matt, who was at least three inches shorter and had brown curly hair, not black waves that tempted a woman’s touch.
Stop it, Francie! This line of thinking is only going to get you into trouble, and you have plenty of that already.
Not to mention that Mark starts with the dreaded letter “M,” Francie reminded herself.
What is it about M names anyway? First Marty, then Mike, Matt, and now Mark. She had a serious alphabet problem.
“Was it something I said?”
Her cheeks filled with color again. “Sorry. I have a bad habit of zoning out. And yes, you may call me Francesca or Francie, if you like, which is what most of my friends and family call me.”
The waiter came to take their order. Francie decided on the crab cakes, which was the chef’s special for the day, while Mark opted for scallops in white wine sauce. They shared a bottle of chardonnay.
“So what kind of media coverage can I expect, if I decide to sign with Baxter? I was hoping to get on some talk shows, maybe a few radio spots.” Mark forked salad into his mouth as he spoke, and Francie had a difficult time concentrating on his words and not his lips.
“There’ll be book signings, of course. And with your affiliation with the Associated Press, I don’t see a problem getting the TV talk shows interested. From the little you’ve told me, your work sounds fascinating, not to mention topical.”
“It can be. But it can also be heart-wrenching at times. There’s a lot of poverty, death and disease in this world, and I’ve seen and photographed most of it.”
Over their main course, Mark told her what he’d seen in Africa—the deaths from AIDS, the famine—and detailed many other atrocities he’d witnessed in the countries he’d visited and photographed.
“I admire your ability to be able to deal with such things. I don’t think I could.”
“It’s been difficult at times,” he confessed, sadness filling his eyes. “I’ve had the opportunity to photograph some of what’s been going on in North Korea, and it sickens me. The children look like prisoners in a concentration camp. They’re so undernourished and badly treated. I wish our government could do something about it.”
“You talk with a great deal of passion, Mark. That will be an asset when you’re interviewed.”
“It’s not just talk. I feel very passionate about my work. I’m passionate about a great many things, actually.”
His gazed dropped to her lips and Francie reached for her water glass, trying to quench the heat she suddenly felt between her legs.
What on earth was wrong with her? She’d just broken off her engagement, left her groom at the altar, and here she was affected by yet another man!
Not good, Francie. Definitely not good.
“Is there a problem? You look a little flushed.”
She pasted on an innocent smile. “Why, no. I just think it’s rather warm in here, don’t you?”
“Not at all. I think it’s perfect, as a matter of fact. Great food, a charming companion. What more can a man ask for?”
Think about work, Francie, she told herself. “What made you decide to become a photographer?”
“It was something I’d dabbled with in high school. Once I knew I was pretty good at it, there was no holding me back. I snapped photos of everything, almost drove my parents nuts.”
Noting Mark was finished with his lunch, she asked, “How was your meal?”
“I enjoyed it very much. This restaurant was an excellent choice.”
“Would you care for dessert? The pastry chef is very good here.”
“No thanks. I need to stop by my new apartment, make sure the furnishings have been delivered as promised.”
“You rented an apartment? Does that mean you’re planning to stay on awhile? I thought Associated Press photographers were on the road a lot.”
“We are. But I requested assignments closer to home. I’m a bit travel weary and like the idea of putting down roots for a while. With my seniority, it wasn’t a problem.”
“So, where’s your new apartment?”
“It’s called The Stones at Rittenhouse Square. Do you know of it?”
Francie’s mouth fell open, and her eyes widened. “But…but that’s where I live.”
Mark smiled, his right brow shooting up. “Really? What a nice coincidence. I guess that means we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, then. I hope so, anyway.”
Warning bells clanged in her ears and red flags waved wildly in front of her eyes, but as she gazed into Mark Fielding’s big blue eyes, so filled with promise and passion, Francie ignored them completely.
4
PUSHING the rented sofa to a position beneath the bay window that overlooked the park across the street, Mark stood back, hands on hips, and surveyed the room.
Depressing at best, he decided.
It didn’t come anywhere close to his elegantly furnished room at the Ritz-Carlton. But hey, it was temporary. Which was good. Because if he had to spend any significant amount of time with the red-brocade sofa and green-velvet wing chairs he might have to commit himself to an asylum for the criminally design challenged.
This had been a last-minute arrangement, so he couldn’t afford to be too picky. Plus, it accomplished an important goal—living in close proximity to Francesca Morelli. Beggars can’t be choosers, his stepmom always counseled, and she was usually right.
As if conjured up by his thoughts, the cell phone rang, and it was Laura on the other end. “Mark, are you okay? We haven’t heard from you in days.”
