Like No One Else. Maureen Smith
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I saw the way you and Paulo were looking at each other during the ceremony and at the reception, even during the bridal party’s photo session. A lot of people noticed. It was clear that you and Paulo were very attracted to each other.”
“So what?” Tommie retorted, tracing the rim of her glass with a manicured fingertip. “That doesn’t mean we should start dating. He’s not even my type.”
Frankie snorted in disbelief. “Since when?”
“Excuse me?”
“Since when is a guy like Paulo Sanchez not your type?” Frankie challenged. “You’ve always had a thing for bad boys. Paulo’s got that whole renegade thing going, right down to the surly grin and cocky swagger. And he’s sexy as hell. Seems to me he’s exactly your type.”
“Not anymore.”
“Really?” Frankie’s voice was heavy with cynicism.
Tommie bristled. “I know this may be hard for you to believe, but I’m not the same person who left home four years ago. I’ve done a lot of growing up, and my taste in men has evolved. I’m not denying that Paulo’s hot. I know he’d make an incredible one-night stand. But that’s about all he could do for me, and at this point in my life, I think I deserve more.”
“Of course you do,” Frankie said softly. “I certainly didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
“I know. And I understand where you’re coming from. You’ve found your Mr. Right, and you want me to be as happy as you are. Believe me, I want the same thing, too, if it’s in the cards for me. But after all the bad decisions I’ve made concerning men, the last thing I need is to get involved with a guy who’s clearly wrong for me.”
“Wow,” Frankie murmured.
Tommie couldn’t help grinning at her sister’s awed tone. “I told you I’m a changed woman.” But even as the assertion left her mouth, Paulo’s words went through her mind, taunting her. Good thing I’m a changed man.
Like hell, Tommie thought.
Frankie said, “I hear what you’re saying about Paulo, but I wouldn’t be too quick to write him off. I’ll admit that my first impression of him wasn’t all that great. I thought he was cocky, a little too rough around the edges, a shameless womanizer—”
“I’ll stop you when you start lying,” Tommie drawled.
Frankie laughed. “The point is, since Paulo and Sebastien are such good friends, I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. And I’m glad I did. Because the more I got to know Paulo, the better I liked him. He has a wicked sense of humor, and Sebastien says he’s one of the best detectives he’s ever worked with. And you should see how good he is with Kaia, Ramon, and Marcos. They positively adore him. I don’t know about you, but to me there’s nothing sexier than a tough guy with a soft spot for kids.”
“Okay, that’s the second time you’ve called Paulo sexy,” Tommie said, deliberately ignoring the rest of what her sister had said. “I hope for your sake that Sebastien didn’t hear you.”
“Oh, hush. Sebastien has no reason to be jealous. He knows how incredible I think he is. And, no, I’m not saying that because he just walked into the room.” The low, deep timbre of Sebastien’s voice could be heard in the background. Frankie’s amused response was muffled, as if she’d covered the mouthpiece with her hand. A moment later, Tommie heard what sounded suspiciously like soft kissing noises.
She rolled her eyes, then cleared her throat loudly.
Frankie came back on the line, mumbling sheepishly, “Sorry about that.”
Tommie grinned. “I was going to say you two should get a room, but I guess you’re already one step ahead of me.”
Frankie chuckled. “Well, let me run. I still need to go over my presentation before bedtime. I’ll call you tomorrow to let you know how it went.”
“Okay. Knock ’em dead, kiddo. And kiss Marcos for me.”
“Will do.”
Tommie hung up the phone and took a long sip of merlot, savoring the smooth, rich flavor in her mouth before swallowing.
One of the first good friends she’d made in New York had been a sommelier at an upscale restaurant in midtown Manhattan. Myles Sumter had taught Tommie practically everything he knew about wine, insisting that her preference for margaritas—“party-girl drinks,” he’d disdainfully called them—demonstrated an appalling lack of sophistication for one who’d been to Italy and France and should know better. The first time they’d gone out to dinner, Tommie, wanting to impress him, had ordered a glass of pinot grigio. Myles was so mortified she thought he’d swoon to the floor. After lecturing her about the inferiority of pinot grigio while the smirking sommelier looked on, Myles had changed her order to a cabernet sauvignon. After that night, he’d taken it upon himself to give her a crash course in wine appreciation, vowing to convert her into a respectable connoisseur, one who would never, ever embarrass herself again by ordering a cheap wine.
At Tommie’s going-away party, Myles had surprised her with a gift-wrapped case of his favorite wines, saying sulkily, “Since you insist upon returning to that uncivilized, godforsaken state, this will at least ensure that you don’t revert to drinking beer and margaritas.”
When Tommie laughingly pointed out to him that fine wines were also sold in Texas, he’d merely arched a dubious brow at her.
Chuckling at the memory, Tommie raised her glass in a mock toast to Myles before drinking the rest of the merlot. She missed her old friend, as well as the vibrant life she’d carved out for herself in New York City. Her network of friends had included an eclectic cast of dancers and actors, activists and waiters, playwrights and writers—some struggling, others quite successful. When Tommie wasn’t touring the country with her dance company, she’d enjoyed shopping with her friends, going to the theater, jogging in Central Park, and attending fabulous dinner parties on the Upper West Side before catching a cab to her favorite nightclub in Harlem. Because she knew the right people, she’d always had a front-row seat at Fashion Week, and stealing kisses with hunky strangers on rooftop terraces had been the highlight of many raucous New Year’s Eve parties.
It hadn’t taken Tommie long to become acclimated to the frenetic pace of New York City, with its incessant noise and traffic, its crowded streets and pulsing energy. She’d soaked it all up, embracing it so completely that most people she’d met had automatically assumed she was a native. Had her world not been turned upside down seven months ago, she’d still be living there.
But you’re not, her conscience mocked. When the going got tough, you packed up and ran away like a coward. Guess you weren’t much of a New Yorker after all.
Rousing herself from her gloomy thoughts, Tommie rose and carried her empty wineglass over to the kitchen sink. She washed and rinsed the glass, along with the dishes she and Paulo had used. When she’d finished, she switched off the light and headed toward her bedroom. She’d been up since the crack of dawn working on choreography for a local dance troupe scheduled to perform at the city’s Thanksgiving Day Parade later that month. And tomorrow promised to be an even longer day, with her last class ending at 8:00 p.m.
The grueling schedule was nothing new to Tommie. As a professional dancer, she’d begun each day with a rigorous hour of classroom instruction followed by several hours of rehearsal or a performance in the evening. The demands of traveling, practicing, and performing on a nightly basis had been physically exhausting, and there were many nights, as she’d soaked her aching muscles in a hot bath, that Tommie had questioned her sanity for wanting to become a dancer. But the doubts never lasted for very long. Ever since she was a little girl, twirling around the house in her pink tutu and pink tights, she’d dreamed of performing on Broadway. Dancing was in her blood and always would be, though at thirty-three, even she could admit that the wear and tear of dancing was beginning to catch up to her. Gone were the days that she could party all night and still get up early to exercise