Seeing herself in a full-length mirror after donning her new dress, she wondered if what had seemed like a good idea in Portland looked a bit sluttier than she’d intended. Cobalt blue to set off her dark hair and dark blue eyes, the dress hugged her body like a second skin on the way to a hem that almost brushed her knees. One shoulder, both arms and a good part of her back were bared. All she could fit under it, other than herself, was a pair of black bikini panties.
She shrugged. Too late to back out now. It was either this, court clothes or casual pants. After slipping on the black, peep-toe Manolo Blahniks, she tamed the layered waves of her hair with a brush, dabbed on makeup, made a pass at her lashes with a mascara wand, applied lipstick, sprayed on perfume, pushed an armload of silver hoop bracelets over her hand and called it good. She was putting on some dangly earrings when there was a light rapping at the door. She glanced at the clock. Five, exactly. Tony, as always, was right on time.
And, also as always, he looked gorgeous. In place of the denim of the night before, he wore cream-colored trousers and a black linen jacket, a white shirt open at the neck, and what she was sure were Italian loafers. His short, dark hair was brushed back from his face except for the cowlick where a part might be if he had one. A curl from the cowlick punctuated his hairline with the tail of a comma. She wasn’t sure if it was the curl or the spicy-sexy stuff he’d splashed on after he shaved, but something made her want to bury her hands in his hair and do things with his mouth she shouldn’t be thinking about.
Realizing she needed to say something, she got out, “Oh, hi.” She could feel herself begin to blush. “I mean, come on in.”
He was so busy staring at her, he didn’t seem to notice her stumbling over her words.
“Holy Mother of God, Margo.” His voice was so low and hoarse she thought he might have picked up a cold since she’d seen him. “‘Fairly outrageous’ hardly does it justice.”
“Too much, do you think?” she asked, smoothing the dress across her hips.
“Absolutely not. Not from where I’m standing.” The kiss he gave her was definitely not perfunctory and made her wonder if he could read minds. Even more uncomfortable now, she moved away and walked to the bar.
By the time she got there, she’d regained some control. “I was just about to pour myself a drink. What would you like? I have a bottle of my favorite single malt Scotch and I have a mini-bar, your choice.” She brought out two glasses, removed the lid from the ice bucket and started putting ice cubes in the glasses.
But when she turned to get his answer, she felt the floor give way and with it, her control. He was leaning on the counter, looking at her with his pools-of-chocolate eyes as if she was the only thing he wanted to see.
Now if only she could remember how to put square ice cubes into round glasses.
“ … single malt?” His words began to come back into focus. “They must pay DAs better in Portland than they do in Philly.”
“Ah … no. No, not really.” Unsure what else he’d said, she grabbed onto the last part of his sentence. “But since I never seem to do anything except, you know, work, I splurge occasionally on good Scotch.”
“I’ll take advantage of your splurge, then.”
She finally managed to get both the ice and the liquor into the glasses, spilling only a little. When she’d handed his to him, she led him to the living area. He settled back at one end of the sofa while she sat at the other, sipping carefully at her drink, caught again by his candy bar eyes and hesitating to mix too much Scotch with all that chocolate.