He picked up the carrier and walked in. “I brought you a latte. Figured you’re now one of those West Coast coffee snobs. But from the look of you I should have brought Theresa instead.”
“I’m so sorry, Tony. I don’t know what’s going on. This is the second morning I’ve overslept and I never oversleep. Never.” She took the cup he offered and inhaled a slug of coffee. “Thank you for this. It’s just what I … ” She stopped. “Bring Theresa? Your sister?”
“Yeah, the one who owns a salon.”
She put a hand up to her hair and realized that she desperately needed a brush.
“Oh, God, I’m a mess. Here,” she handed the cup back to him and headed for the bedroom. “I’ll be ready in half an hour, I swear.”
“Half an hour would be great. I said I’d be in before eleven to finish up some paperwork from last night before we eat. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. Make yourself at home. TV’s over … ” she said gesturing toward an armoire, which he was already opening. “Oh, good. You found it.”
As she pushed the door shut, she heard the crack of a bat hitting a ball. If he’d found a Phillies game, she had lots of time.
Fifteen minutes later, out of the shower and wrapped in a towel, her hair brushed and twisted up with a clip, she was pulling clothes out of drawers, trying to decide what to wear. There was a tap on the door and Tony said, “Coffee’s getting cold. Want it while you get ready?”
“Yes, but hold on a minute,” she answered and looked around for her robe. She had only just found it under a pile of rejected outfits when the door swung open and he walked in, her cup of coffee in his hand. She clutched at the front of the towel, holding it close to her breasts.
He stopped halfway across the room. “Sweet Jesus, Margo,” he said. After looking at her for a few seconds, he crossed the rest of the way to where she stood and set the coffee on a table. He’d apparently seen what he wanted to see on her face because he drew her close. As their mouths met, her hands slid up his arms and around his neck.
Margo had tried to confine her memory of kissing Tony to that inaccessible place in her mind where she kept the details of the periodic table of elements and the family tree of Elizabeth the First of England, things she needed out of her consciousness for one reason or another. She always failed. The symbol for plutonium or the name of Henry the Seventh’s mother she had to work at recalling. But not Tony’s kisses.
He started soft and slow, and let the kiss build in intensity seemingly without any effort on his part. When he persuaded her to let him explore her mouth with his tongue, her knees slowly melted and sparks showered through her, burning away the memory of any other man she’d ever kissed. By the time he ended the kiss — and it was always Tony who ended the kiss — she had temporarily forgotten how to breathe on her own and needed his arms to hold her upright.
He had just hooked his fingers into the top of the towel she was wearing when his pager beeped.
This time he swore only in English. “Damn it to hell,” he said under his breath. He shook his head, kissed her forehead and walked out of the room to answer the page, firmly closing the door behind him.
Margo stood in the middle of the floor for a long moment, apparently incapable of movement. Eventually feeling returned to her limbs and she was able to gulp down the coffee and get dressed. Ten minutes later, she stood at the closed door of the bedroom ready to go out to the living room. A couple deep breaths and she opened the door.