Right Place, Wrong Time Read online

  He was being judgmental. But viewing Gina’s home with a critical eye was essential if he was going to evaluate whether whatever existed between them was worth pursuing. He’d tracked Gina down not only because he wanted to see her but because he had to know who she really was. And here was his answer: she was someone who had chosen to live in an apartment not much grander than a prison cell—no bars on the window, and the toilet was hidden behind a door, but other than that…

  Sitting on her bed, hearing her spicy laughter as she chatted with her sister, he was forced to acknowledge that her choice to live in this cramped little room in a part of New York that was only halfway to gentrification was a significant indication of who she was.

  He stood, crossed to the window—all of three steps away—and drew up the shade. Craning his neck, he could see a tiny scrap of sky. The only greenery visible through the glass was a lawn chair perched on the third-floor fire escape of a building across the street. The seat of the chair consisted of woven green strips of plastic.

  He lowered the shade and turned back toward the couch. “No kidding, really?” she was saying into the phone. “Mo, that’s so cool!”

  He gazed at the rumpled sofa bed and felt his mouth curve in a smile. All right, so she lived in a too small dwelling and ate overly greasy omelettes at a neighborhood dive. Remembering what had just occurred on her bed helped him to overlook the worrisome details of her life. The bed was one place where they were in sync. He recalled her warmth, her weight on top of him, the satiny smoothness of her skin, her responsiveness and honesty. The way she’d felt coming. The way he’d felt.

  Damn. They were definitely going to have to buy more condoms.

  He glanced toward the kitchenette and saw her leaning against the counter beside the sink. She grinned at him, then said into the phone, “I’d love to, Ramona, but I can’t. Not tonight. I’ve got plans.”

  Plans to spend the evening with him? Or plans with someone else? When he’d called her yesterday and begged for the chance to see her, he hadn’t demanded that she free up her entire day for him.

  “You know,” she explained, averting her eyes. “All the Fashion Week stuff. Parties out the wazoo. Why don’t you use that teenager who lives down the street from you? Yeah, I know, Alicia likes me better. I like her better, too. But I can’t do it tonight.”

  He returned to the bed, trying not to worry about whether her plans for that evening included him. She’d made love with him, hadn’t she? She’d lain on these very cushions with him, her skin still golden from the week she’d spent soaking up the sun in St. Thomas, her eyes so wide and dark, her feet so pretty. She’d given him everything, held nothing back. If she could love him like that just minutes ago, knowing all the while that she was going to be spending the evening with another man…well, he’d be surprised. And gravely disappointed. And pretty damn mad.

  “Hi, sweetie!” she chirped into the phone. “No, I can’t baby-sit you tonight. I’d love to, but I can’t…. Right—Fashion Week.”

  Was Fashion Week her justification for everything? Would she use it as an excuse to send him on his way?

  “She did? Well, maybe you could sleep over at Caitlin’s house tonight. Then Mommy won’t have to get a baby-sitter…. Yeah, you should check with Caitlin and see. Of course it’s a good idea. Don’t I always get good ideas?”

  Her voice mesmerized him. He loved its gritty texture, its brash accent. He wanted her to get off the phone and talk to him. And kiss him. And untie the sash of that sexy little robe of hers, and let it fall open, and…

  “Sorry about that.” Her voice was normal, aimed at him. She strolled across the room to the bed and tossed her cell phone onto the footlocker. “Ramona’s got a date. Her first one since Jack moved out. This is big news.”

  He nodded, pretending he gave a hoot about Ramona’s romantic adventures. His fingers itched to tug at the sash. His hands ached to roam her body. When she flopped down onto the sofa bed beside him, it took all his willpower not to haul her onto his lap and kiss her senseless.

  “It’s a guy who works for my father. Nick Balducci. He’s known Ramona for years. I think he’s loved her for years. Now that Jack’s out of the picture, he’s making his move.”

  “Good for him,” Ethan said. He wanted to make his own move. How could he ask her about the condoms without sounding as if he had a one-track mind?

  “She wanted me to baby-sit Alicia tonight.”

  “But you’ve already got plans,” he said, searching her face for an indication of what those plans might entail.

  Her smile reassured him. “There are always tons of parties around Fashion Week. They’re crazy but fun. I was figuring on hitting at least one of them. Will you come with me?”

  “To a fashion party?” He could think of a lot of things he’d rather do, but as long as she wasn’t sending him away, he’d count his blessings.

  “It’s not a ‘fashion’ party. Just a bash with folks involved in Fashion Week. I’ve actually got three different invitations for tonight, but I’d just as soon go to Jean-Claude LeMonde’s blowout in SoHo. He always has the most interesting people, and he doesn’t blast the music so loud you can’t talk.”

  “That sounds fine,” Ethan said. And it did, really. Just as he’d needed to see Gina’s home, he needed to learn about her social circle. He needed to know whether the compatibility they shared when they talked—and when they got naked—existed in the world beyond just the two of them. He stared at her cell phone until she leaned toward him and kissed his shoulder.

  One little kiss, and he was as hard as steel. But his gaze remained on the phone. “Gina.”

  “What?” She traced a meandering line across his chest with her index finger. Her nails were polished a creamy shade, like pearls. He watched her hand move on him and felt himself grow impossibly harder.

  “A few things, actually,” he said, amazed that he could keep his voice calm and steady while her aimless touches were driving him crazy. “One—you haven’t given me your phone number.”

  She recited the ten digits, then grinned. “I’ll write it down for you later.”

  “Okay.” Better than okay. When a woman gave a man her phone number, it meant she wanted him to stay in touch. Gina had already opened herself to him, her apartment, her body, her mind. But giving him her phone number meant opening her future to him.

  “Also…” He sighed as she teased one of his nipples into a little point. “Your name.”

  “What about it?”

  “How is it spelled?”

  She burst into laughter.

  “I mean it. With a J or a G? And Morante—”

  “G,” she told him. “G-I-N-A. M-O-R-A-N-T-E. You want my social security number, too?”

  “No.” Her caresses were too distracting. He covered her hand with his and peeled it off his chest. “This is important, Gina. I don’t have any more condoms with me.”

  She drew back and stared at him. “You only brought one?”

  “And I was afraid it might be one too many.”

  Slowly her smile returned. “Today’s your lucky day, Ethan.” She rose, strolled to the bathroom and vanished inside. When she returned, she was carrying a cellophane-wrapped box of prophylactics. She dropped it into his lap and resumed her seat beside him. “I was wondering when I was going to get around to using them.”

  He grinned. “You can stop wondering now,” he said, attacking the knot of her sash.

  THEY FELL ASLEEP at some point during the afternoon—between the second and third time they made love. A good thing, too. Ethan would never have had the energy to face a night at a crazy but fun fashion party with Gina if he hadn’t gotten some rest. He was relieved he could even walk after all that sex.

  Not that he was complaining. Every moment of it had been spectacular. Gina was as passionate underneath him as she was above him. She was as tender, as adventurous, as attuned to him no matter what they tried, what position they found themselves in. She wasn’
t afraid to laugh, or to guide him, or to let out a cry when she climaxed. As a lover, she was fearless.

  She was fearless as a woman, too, he was beginning to recognize. The rumble-tumble of the city didn’t faze her. She had no hesitancy about marching into the middle of Ninth Avenue, dodging cars, trucks and bicycles as she flagged down a cab, or about fending off the man who’d appeared out of nowhere and tried to climb into the cab Gina succeeded in summoning for Ethan and her.

  Ethan did his part by paying the driver, who deposited them in SoHo, a part of the city he’d never visited before. Large industrial-looking buildings stood interspersed with more residential-looking buildings, and galleries and boutiques lined the sidewalks of roads that didn’t follow the familiar numbered grid of the midtown streets. Ethan held Gina’s hand; if he lost her, he’d never find his way out of this neighborhood.

  He also held her hand because he wanted to. She looked ravishing, in a snug-fitting black top, even snugger black jeans and a pair of flamboyant shoes constructed of patches of bright turquoise and orange leather. “They’re a prototype,” she told him, modeling the vivid shoes. “Bruno—my boss—would kill me if I didn’t wear them to the parties.”

  “Are they comfortable?”

  “Well, the heels are a little high, but other than that, yeah.”

  The heels weren’t that high; he still stood a couple of inches taller than her. But they made her legs look even longer, and those tight black jeans made her legs look longer yet. Holding her hand made him realize he’d rather be back in the privacy of her microscopic apartment than out on the town with her.

  He forced himself to act as enthusiastic as she seemed to be. She swept him into a sushi bar on a corner, saying, “We probably should eat something, but not anything heavy. Jean-Claude usually has excellent catering at his parties, and all the models are anorexic, so we don’t have to worry about all the food being gone before we get there.”

  Ethan would have been content with a sandwich, or even another greasy omelette. Raw fish had never appealed to him. But tonight belonged to Gina. She was showing him her world, and he couldn’t act like a close-minded tourist, contemptuous of the local customs.

  He managed to get down some raw tuna and a few shrimp thingies that were cooked and actually tasted pretty good. Gina dipped everything she ate into a puddle of soy sauce mixed with wasabi before popping it into her mouth. She wore little makeup, and she didn’t need much. Her lashes were so thick and black, mascara would have been redundant. Her lips were full and alluringly rosy. Those lips had done some amazing things to him that afternoon. Merely remembering the way they’d felt on him, nibbling his belly, tasting his shoulder, luring his tongue into her mouth renewed his appetite, not just for the sushi but for this entire evening. He was with Gina, in her world and at her command. Wherever she led him in her garish turquoise-and-orange shoes, he’d gladly follow.

  They’d finished snacking on cold fish and seaweed by ten, which Gina pronounced a good time to show up at Jean-Claude’s. She hooked her arm through the bend in his elbow and promenaded with him down a narrow block to a warehouselike building with several limousines double-parked in front of it. A uniformed guard at the door stopped them. Gina provided her name and told him Ethan was her guest. He scanned a list of invited guests, checked her off and held the door open for them.

  They entered a dark, vaulted room swarming with people—mostly tall, thin people, mostly clad in black. In his white shirt and khakis, Ethan felt like a beacon, glowing through the gloom. The crowd was dense enough for him to tighten his hold on Gina’s hand as she pulled him along. She’d told him the music wouldn’t be blasting at this party, but the mechanical beat of European techno-punk was loud enough to resonate painfully in his molars. The din of voices was almost as loud as the din of music.

  Gina moved with a purposeful stride through the crowd. Occasionally, she shouted a greeting to someone or paused to kiss an offered cheek. But she appeared to be on a mission, and Ethan, clutching her hand, dutifully followed. To his left, he spotted a fellow whose hair settled around his face in a cloud of tight pink curls; to his right, two skinny women in sheer blouses that hid nothing danced erotically with each other. Enough people held classic martini glasses with pale liquids in them to make him suspect that getting a beer at this bash would be something of a challenge.

  At last Gina reached her destination—a quiet pocket of space around a corner, where the light was marginally better and a bartender was busy filling orders. Ethan released a pent-up breath. The bartender had a row of beer bottles lined up on his table like icy brown soldiers. Things were looking up.

  When Gina asked for a beer for herself, things looked even more up. She might belong at a chichi downtown party like this, but in her heart she was a down-to-earth beer drinker like him.

  “Do you know a lot of the people here?” he asked, gazing around the bend in the wall at the crowd, enough of whom were moving in some sort of rhythm to make him realize they’d trekked across a dance floor to reach this oasis.

  “What’s a lot?” She shrugged, accepted an open bottle from the bartender, then waited while the bartender snapped open another bottle for Ethan. A wisp of vapor rose from the mouth of the bottle before he lifted it and took a bracing sip. “I recognize plenty of faces. Some of the players, yeah, I know them. And here’s a person I know very well,” she added, waving to someone behind Ethan. He turned in time to see a compact man with leonine brown hair and strong features. He was about Gina’s height—or about what her height would be if she weren’t wearing her multicolored shoes.

  The man’s gaze zeroed in on them and he smiled. “Sweetheart! How do they feel?”

  “You know me—I hate heels,” she said before air-kissing his cheeks, one and then the other. “Other than that, they’re fine.”

  “Is the leather soft enough?”

  “Like a second skin.”

  “And don’t complain about the heels. Those are, what, inch and a half?”

  “I’m spoiled. I’m used to flats.”

  “We ought to drag you in front of the cameras, wrestle your tootsies into some three-inch stilettos.”

  “You’d have to kill me first.” She gave Ethan’s arm a squeeze. “Ethan, this is my boss, Bruno Castiglio. Not everyone cares as much about shoes as he does.”

  “They should care,” Bruno said indignantly. “Your job and mine depend on them caring. You gonna go out there and circulate? Anyone comment on them yet?”

  “I just got here,” Gina told him. “And it’s kind of dark and crowded in there. I don’t know if anyone’s going to notice them.”

  “You should dance. People’ll see your feet if you dance.”

  “Don’t be a pain in the butt, Bruno. In fact, if you’d shut up a minute, I could introduce you to my friend Ethan Parnell.”

  “Ethan. A pleasure,” Bruno said, pumping his hand. “You in the business?”

  Ethan swallowed a laugh. Surely it was obvious, from his staid apparel and boring hairstyle, that he was not a card-carrying member of the Fashion Week Brigade. “No. I direct a foundation for environmental protection.”

  “Uh-oh. An environmentalist? You’re not gonna give us a hard time over the use of leather in the shoes, are you?” Bruno touched the lapel of his leather jacket as he spoke.

  “No,” Ethan assured him. “My shoes are leather, too.”

  “So’s his belt,” Gina said, shooting him a sly grin. Evidently, his belt was a point of particular interest to her.

  Bruno’s gaze shifted toward the dance floor for a moment, and then he smiled at Gina. “Isn’t that Delores de la Mancini?” he whispered, as if a woman standing in the current of that loud music could hear them talking by the bar.

  “The little princess?” Gina squinted, then nodded. “Yeah, that’s her.”

  “I want her to see those shoes. Go make nice.”

  “I’m not kissing her hand,” Gina warned, then patted Ethan’s shoulder. “I’ll be
back,” she promised before abandoning him to cozy up to the petite woman in the silver lamé minidress hovering near the edge of the dance floor.

  “The little princess?” Ethan echoed.

  “She’s some kind of minor royalty,” Bruno told him. “A duchess, a countess, I can’t keep all those titles straight. But she’s a shoe fanatic. She’s the doyenne of European shoe fanatics. She’s gonna love our new line. And thank God Gina’s the one wearing the shoes. She can make any pair of shoes look special.”

  That was only one of her assets, Ethan thought, watching from the safety of the bar as Gina embraced the smaller woman, began chattering, then kicked up a leg so the woman could view her shoes without bending over.

  “So, you’re a friend of hers?” Bruno asked, drawing Ethan’s attention away from the sales job Gina was performing on the European shoe doyenne.

  Gina had warned him that Fashion Week thrived on gossip. He didn’t believe anyone would care about his identity, but he was willing to protect Gina’s reputation if he could. “Yes, we’re friends,” he said noncommittally.

  “She’s in love with you,” Bruno guessed.

  Ethan felt his eyebrows rise. “I don’t think—”

  “Last guy she fell in love with was a straight arrow, too,” Bruno said. “Neat, quiet, wouldn’t know cashmere from mohair. He was a cop.”

  “Her brother’s a cop, isn’t he?” Ethan said, eager to steer the discussion away from love.

  “That’s the thing about her. She’s a city girl, funky, brilliantly talented—but on those rare occasions when she falls in love, it’s usually with a clean-cut guy in an oxford shirt.”

  Ethan opened his mouth and then shut it. What could he say in his defense? He was a clean-cut guy in an oxford shirt. “I don’t think she’s in love with me,” he assured Bruno. “We just…we met in St. Thomas last summer and became friends.”

  “Be that as it may…” Bruno smoothed the collar of his jacket and edged over to the bar. “A Campari on ice,” he requested, then turned back to Ethan. “Just do me a favor and don’t break her heart, okay? Last time she fell in love, with that cop, he broke her heart. I swear, I would have gone after him with both fists if he hadn’t been a law enforcement professional. You can’t avenge a friend’s heartbreak when the heartbreaker carries a service revolver, you know what I mean?”