Wait for Me (4 page)

“I am too,” he said, and then he watched her walk away.

“Not much room to kick yourself in here,” Holly muttered to herself, glancing at the walls of the employee’s rest room/lounge that wasn’t much bigger than a closet. She bent to splash cold water on her face.

The thing with Oliver’s coffee had been bad enough, but it hurt in a way that was totally unreasonable that his family hadn’t liked her. Except Johanna. Who seemed to be a very kind person—which meant she wouldn’t show her dislike of a stranger if she had any, anyhow.

She shouldn’t have gone to the table. She should have left Oliver in peace to enjoy his meal with his family and his friend and not have been so stupid and self-indulgent as to intrude on his privacy.

Who was she to him after all? A person he’d met on an airplane. She should have been grateful that he’d remembered her name. Well, part of her name, anyway.

“Holly?”

She frowned. For a moment she thought she’d conjured up his voice at the door.

“Holly? Are you in there?”

“Oliver?”

“Yes. Will you come out? Or... or can I come in there?”

She opened the door to face him. She wasn’t going out and she wasn’t letting him in, but she couldn’t have him speaking through the door at her.

“Hi,” he said gently. Because he wasn’t sure of what he was seeing, he tipped her chin upward with two fingers. “Have you been crying?”

“No. I burnt my finger in the kitchen,” she said, hiding her perfectly fine index finger in the palm of her other hand. “It smarts.”

“Let me take a look. How bad is it? I’ll get some ice—”

“No. It’s fine. I’m clumsy. I burn myself all the time. What are you doing back here?”

“Oh,” he said, recalling the reason himself. “Louis told me where to find you. He... he won’t give me our bill. He says it’s on the house, which is very nice of you, but I really can’t let you do that.”

“Why not? I invited you here for a free dinner. I know it isn’t much, but... you saved my life.”

“That was my privilege,” he said, his eyes roving over every inch of her face, enjoying every simple detail for the hundredth time. “I don’t need to be paid for it.”

“But I feel indebted. So do my brothers. And my mother. Besides, who’s going to miss four plates of Italian food in a place like this? Please, it’s a small price to pay for my life.”

“All right,” he said, giving in and not liking it. “But I insist on paying the bar tab. That wasn’t part of the deal.”

Before she could stop him, he was reaching inside his suit jacket for his wallet. He tried the other side and his pants pockets before he looked at her, embarrassed to the bone.

“I don’t have my wallet,” he said.

“You see,” she said brightly, feeling for him. “It’s fate. Destiny knew you weren’t going to need it tonight, so she let you leave it at home.”

“I can’t even pay you with a credit card,” he said, shamefaced.

She laughed.

“Oliver Carey, you’re a very stubborn man,” she said, stepping out of the rest room. She couldn’t stop the hand that reached out to touch him. “If you don’t let me do this for you, all of it, the whole bill, I’m going to tell my brothers that you’re here.” She made it sound worse than facing a firing squad. “I was going to spare you that. They’re full-blooded Italians and very emotional, and they love me very much. Your worst nightmare won’t compare to the stink they’ll make over you for saving their favorite girl’s life.”

He grinned and let her turn him back through the kitchen toward the restaurant.

“You’re your brothers’ favorite girl?” he asked, intrigued by the wording.

“The family’s token girl,” she said, lighthearted, tucking her arm into the bend of his as they walked. “Marie Spoleto is my foster mother, and four of my brothers are actually other children she adopted and raised alongside her own six boys. Let’s see, does that make eleven of us? Yes. I was the last one she took in, and, of course, the joke at home goes two ways—either I was the girl she’d been wanting all along, or once she got me, she couldn’t tolerate any more children.”

He chuckled with her. “Were you a little handful?” he asked, thinking she must have been. Wishing he knew firsthand.

“No. I was shy and quiet most of the time.”

“Who is this you’re talking about?” Tony asked, coming into the kitchen from behind them. “Not yourself, I hope. She lies all the time,” he told Oliver with a twinkle in his eye. “She was the worst. A terror. My mama turned gray overnight.”

“She was gray when I got here, from raising you.”

He nodded the sad truth to Oliver, saying, “My mama is a crazy old woman. She raises her children, gets sad when they leave her, and goes out to find five more to raise. Me?—I want to kill my two children twice a day. Who is this?” he asked, turning abruptly back to Holly.

With an evil smirk on her lips she looked questioningly to Oliver, who gave her a sharp quailing stare.

“This is a friend of mine from San Francisco, Tony. Oliver Carey, my brother Antonio Spoleto. Bobby is around here too someplace, but Tony doesn’t get quite so personal with his interrogations.”

“Interrogations?” Tony looked shocked. “What she means is that I’m never anything but pleasant and charming with my inquiries,” he said calmly. “So, what kind of a friend from San Francisco are you, Oliver Carey?”

“You have the right to remain silent,” Holly said. “You have the right to an attorney...”

“Okay, okay,” Tony said, laughing. “No questions. She confuses our loving concern with being nosy.” He poinked her on the nose. “Growing up in our family hasn’t always been easy for this girl.”

“It was always easy,” she said. “But annoying sometimes.”

“Holly’s very proud of her family,” Oliver said. “You can tell when she talks about you.”

“Awk”—he covered his ears as if they had suddenly caught fire—“I can hear her now,” he said, then added, “You take your friend’s bill, okay? He eats on the house. And now I’m going to find my big brother Roberto, to tell him we have a friend of our girl in the restaurant.”

“You better hurry, Oliver. Bobby’ll want to know everything from your social security number to your intentions toward me.”

“It must be nice to be loved by so many.”

“It is.” She pushed him through the kitchen door into the restaurant. “One thing I know about is love.”

“I like your brother.”

“Me too,” she said, pushing him toward his table.

“Are they all like him?”

“Yes. Some are worse.”

He turned and wouldn’t let her push him any farther.

“Thank you for dinner,” he said formally, then more personally he went on, “Thank you for the plane ride. Thank you...”
just for being here tonight,
he was about to say. “Well, just thanks. I won’t forget you.”

“I know you won’t.” Her smile was sagacious.

“Look,” he said with a hesitation he was unaccustomed to and couldn’t appreciate. “Here’s my card if you ever... if you ever need anything or... if you feel like getting together for a drink or something sometime. I’d... I’d like to see you again.”

“Thanks.” She took the card. It seemed like a very upper-class thing to do, handing out cards. Aside from his wallet, Oliver Carey appeared to have everything. Wealth. Privilege. Sophistication. Yet there was a great need in him that pulled at her. And she sensed that before long his need would become even greater. “When you’re... well, I’m in the book, if you want to talk to me.”

H
OLLY LOFTIN WAS NEVER
home. She didn’t sleep. And she never used her telephone. Oliver knew these things for certain, because he’d called her apartment fifty times over the past two weeks. The line was never busy and she never picked up, even when he called after midnight.

He wasn’t used to people being unavailable to him, and it was damned irritating—in an illogical, irrational sort of way.

She did have an answering machine. Loath to admit it, he’d called several times simply to hear her voice, but he hadn’t left a message. What could he say?

“Holly, my father died and you were the first person I thought of... actually, the only person I thought of?”

“Holly, I need to talk?”

“Holly, we buried my father today, and I know this is going to sound really perverted because we hardly know each other, but I was wondering if you might be willing to hold me for an hour or two?”

“Holly, my father is gone and I think about you constantly?”

“Holly, I’m lonely. Where are you?”

He’d tried every missive out loud, but couldn’t bring himself to leave them on the machine.

With every passing day and with every beep from her machine, his need to see her escalated beyond desire and longing, beyond craving, to a point that found him leaving work on Friday, taking the top deck of the Bay Bridge straight into the heart of Oakland, then driving up and down quiet, Christmas-frilled neighborhood streets with every intention of camping on her doorstep until she finally came home.

“Who is it?” she called through the door when he knocked.

He was so shocked to hear her voice, it took him a second or two to answer. The door was draped with a glittering gold garland and tiny bright lights. An extension cord ran thirty feet down the hall to light them up. It had to be her.

“Oliver Carey,” he said.

“Oh, Oliver!” she said, and he was pleased to hear the excitement in her voice. “Don’t move. I’m not dressed. Don’t go away. I’ll only be a second.” A pause. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”

Still a bit perturbed, he was about to tell her that he’d have come sooner if she’d answer her phone once in a while, but decided to wait until she opened the door. Which would happen at any second if the running footsteps from inside were any indication.

The muffled cries of a baby drew his attention down the corridor, beyond the extension cord. The walls were drab and dirty. Someone was listening to the evening news on television, and the air reeked of long-gone cooking.

It wasn’t the sort of place he frequented. And he hadn’t pictured Holly living in quite so impoverished a state. It wasn’t the first time that he realized how little he knew about her. He recalled that she’d said she didn’t wait tables for a living, so what did she do? Did her brothers know she lived liked this? If Spoleto’s Restaurant was any indication, they had plenty of money. Why didn’t they help her out a little financially? Did it ever frighten her to live in such a place, alone and unprotected?

Of course, when Holly whipped open the door, every thought in his head was blown away, save one.

She was naked. Well, she’d said as much when he knocked, but... and... well, she hadn’t covered much up in the meantime.

She stood barefoot before him, wearing nothing but a slip, panties, and a huge smile.

The slip was black silk, and though it had straps, it seemed to be clinging precariously low along the firm rounded swell of her breasts, as if any draft could send it floating to the floor. Lower there was a faint outline of skimpy underpants and that was all... except for the words.

In white, the words
mother, father, toilet, thumb, dreams,
and a couple more that curved around to the back, were affixed somehow to the slip.

“Oliver, I’m so happy to see you. How are you?” she said immediately. “I saw the notice about your father in the paper, and I’ve been so worried about you. I tried to call a couple of times but... well, it doesn’t matter now.”

She reached out and led him into her apartment as if she were dressed to the nines and showing him in to tea. His stunned expression must have caused her to add, “It doesn’t matter how prepared you think you are for something like this, it’s always a shock when it actually happens, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is,” he said, his mouth dry as a cotton ball. He could see the impression of her nipples in the silk—which was nothing compared to the impression they were making in his mind. “I... seem to have come at a bad time,” he said, motioning to her attire—or lack thereof.

“Bad time?” She looked confused and then down at her costume and laughed. “No. It’s not a bad time. Please. Come in and sit down. I was getting ready to go to a party, but I still have a while and... What?”

“You’re going to a party like that?”

She smiled as she recognized the expression on his face. It was the same rather annoying mask of dubious disapproval her brothers wore when they thought her hems were too high, her neckline too low, her jeans too tight. Except that on Oliver the guise was sort of endearing, even flattering because he looked a little nervous as well.

“Like what?”

“Well... dressed like that?”

“Of course not. I’ll put on shoes.”

“Shoes?” He looked at her feet. They weren’t knobby or pointed or calloused or bony. They were soft and rounded and sexy as hell to Oliver, who until that moment hadn’t considered a foot fetish a creditable fixation.

“I still need to do my hair too.”

Her hair looked fine. Shiny and beautiful.

“I thought I’d wear it up, so it wouldn’t distract attention from my costume,” she said, lifting her arms, her breasts following the motion as she piled her dark hair on the top of her head. “What do you think?”

Oliver wasn’t thinking. His fingers were tingling and his insides felt like so many knots in a shoestring, and the familiar pressure between his legs was growing faster and stronger than he’d ever known it to before. But he wasn’t
thinking
anything.

“That’s a costume?” he asked, brows lifted, his hands trembling enough to warrant holding them behind him.

He wasn’t stupid or being naive. He knew she was teasing him. She was flaunting herself sexually in a counteraction to his reaction to her. She was getting the better of him, too, and she knew it, and was enjoying herself immensely.

“Don’t you like it?”

What wasn’t to like?

“Sure, I like it, but... what’s it for?”

“I told you. I’m going to a party,” she said, laughing. “A costume party. One of those annual Christmas things for charity. You know, where people dress up and give money?”

“Yes. I’m familiar with the concept.” To the tune of thousands of dollars every year, he thought, wondering why he hadn’t ever gotten an invitation to an underwear event for any of the charities he supported. He was sure they’d be vastly more interesting than the black-tie affairs he usually attended.