Say You Want Me. Cindi Myers
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twined around wooden beams and candlelit tables for two. One end of the room had been left empty for a dance floor, a crystal chandelier suspended overhead.
At this early hour, the place was only half full, and it was easy to spot the only person by himself. A dark-haired, broad-shouldered man in a western-cut sports coat sat at a table on the left side of the room. He looked up from the wine list and she sucked in a deep breath. The men in Marcelle’s family must be something else if Marcelle thought this one was ordinary.
He had a strong face, with dark eyes and thick brows, a square jaw and Roman nose. His skin was the weathered bronze of a man who spent a lot of time outdoors. Fine lines radiated from the corners of his eyes and a small scar to the right of his mouth kept him from being too pretty. He had nice lips—the kind that looked as if they knew how to kiss a woman.
She blinked. Where had that come from? This was a blind date. Who said anything about kissing? She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. She had one goal tonight: to convince this man to accompany her to a family barbecue and pose as her boyfriend.
If it took kissing to do that…well, a girl had to make some sacrifices, didn’t she?
CARTER SULLIVAN stared into his glass of wine and listened to the Italian folk songs emanating from the speakers overhead. What was the expression? Wine, women and song. He sighed. Maybe two out of three wasn’t bad…. No, it was bad. Because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a date. His job didn’t leave a lot of time to meet eligible women.
Or, if he was honest, he could admit he hadn’t made the effort lately to get off his ass and find Ms. Right. Busting auto thieves and chasing down muggers was less daunting to him than playing the dating game. If the rejection didn’t get you, the emotional roller-coaster ride would. Most of the time it was easier to stay on the sidelines and hope that fate would send someone his way.
Which meant a lot of evenings like this one, where a craving for manicotti like Mama Calabria made had brought him to Trattoria Fabrizio. He poured another glass of Chianti and raised it in a silent toast. To Ms. Right. Wherever you are.
He blinked at the image of a woman that appeared in the glass in his hand. The kind of woman fantasies are made of. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and wondered if it was time to switch to water.
When he looked again, he saw that the image was a reflection of a real woman, who was walking toward him. She looked even better in real life than she had in his glass, with long strawberry-blond hair, legs a Las Vegas showgirl would envy and a figure that made every man in the room put down his fork to watch her walk by.
Carter rose when she stopped at his table. “Hello. I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” she said. She pulled out the chair across from him and sat. “I didn’t think I was running this late.”
“That’s quite all right.” He sat also, unable to stop staring at her. If the fates really had sent this woman to him, they couldn’t have done a better job. Up close, she had skin like porcelain, delicate features, and large blue eyes framed by thick lashes. Bedroom eyes. He let his vision move lower, to the generous breasts swelling at the neckline of her little blue dress, and the belt cinching her trim waist. Yes, this was his fantasy woman all right.
Any minute now, he’d wake up and reality would come crashing down around him, but while the fantasy lasted, he intended to enjoy himself. “Would you like some wine?” he asked.
“Yes, that would be nice.”
He signaled the waiter for a glass and poured for her, then topped up his own glass. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” he said.
She smiled. “Didn’t Marcelle tell you? It’s Joni. Joni Montgomery.”
He nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Joni. I’m Carter. Carter Sullivan.”
She froze with the wineglass halfway to her lips. “I thought your name was Brian.”
Ahh. So she was someone else’s fantasy after all. Well, whoever this Brian character was, he was going to have to wait his turn. “No, it’s Carter.”
“I must have misunderstood.” She sipped the wine. “To tell you the truth, I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.” She glanced at him. “I don’t know how much Marcelle told you about my situation.”
“Marcelle didn’t tell me anything.” Which was, of course, absolutely true.
The waiter arrived with two gold-tasseled menus. Carter pretended to read his while studying her. No rings on her fingers. Tasteful but expensive gold earrings. Neatly trimmed nails and a plain gold watch. Classy, not flashy. Exactly the kind of woman he favored.
The way she was staring, he wasn’t sure he’d made such a great impression on her. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
She flushed, a rosy glow like candlelight against ivory. “It’s just…your hair. It’s not thin at all!”
He put one hand to his head. When he was younger, he’d complained because his hair was thick and hard to style, but now he was at the age where he was grateful it was all there. He grinned at her. “No, it’s not. Guess I’m lucky that way.” He sat up a little straighter. So she liked his hair. That was a start.
The waiter arrived to take their order. She had the chicken piccata while he went with the manicotti. “You said something about your situation?” he prompted when they were alone again.
“Oh yes.” She smoothed her napkin in her lap. “Well, I don’t usually go on blind dates. I mean, not that it isn’t a perfectly nice way to meet people but…well, to tell you the truth, I’m so busy I really haven’t had much time to date.”
“Believe me, I understand.” He sipped his wine. “What do you do?”
“Marcelle didn’t tell you that either?” She laughed. “I’m going to have to talk to that girl. I’m a nurse. She and I work together in the emergency department at Santa Rosa Hospital.” She smiled at him. “And I understand you’re an accountant.”
He was tempted to go along with the story, but he’d always been a lousy liar. “Actually, I’m a cop,” he said.
Her smile melted away and something like anger flashed in her eyes. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”
He shook his head. “’Fraid not.” He took out his wallet and flashed his I.D. and flat badge. “San Antonio’s finest, at your service.”
She sat back, silent for a long moment, staring into the wine. Carter wondered if now was the time to come clean with the whole story—that he didn’t know Marcelle, or the missing Brian, and that he wasn’t her blind date for the evening, though he’d gladly volunteer for the job.
She began to chuckle. “What’s so funny?” he asked.
“I just realized, this must be Marcelle’s idea of a joke. She knows how I feel about cops.”
He stiffened. “And how is that?”
She blushed again, a deeper red. “Oh, I didn’t mean anything by that. I’m sure you’re a very nice person. I just don’t want to date a cop. I mean…not usually.”
He was saved from having to respond by the arrival of their dinner. As he silently ate his manicotti, he was acutely aware of the beautiful woman seated across from him. His fantasy woman who didn’t want to date a cop. It figured.
She pushed her chicken piccata around on her plate, not eating. “Is something wrong with the food?” he asked.
“No. No, it’s delicious.” She pushed her plate away and looked at him. “I’m sorry. I’ve really gotten off on the wrong foot, haven’t I? Can we start again?” She held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Joni Montgomery.”
He smiled and took her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Joni. I’m Carter Sullivan.”
“My pleasure, Carter.” They sat