Short, Sweet And Sexy. Cara Summers
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And what it boiled down to was the care of Cleo, a prize-winning show dog. Strictly speaking, sublets were illegal in the building, but regular tenants looked the other way and never breathed a word of it to Marlon, the owner, as long as certain “neighborly favors” were exchanged. A.J. could only thank her lucky stars that it was Claire’s turn to walk Cleo in the park on Thursdays.
A.J. turned to give Mrs. Higgenbotham a smile and blinked at the peach cloud filling the hallway. In two months she should have grown used to the older woman’s appearance, but then she was never quite sure what color the hair would be. Today it was definitely peach, a perfect match to the billowing caftan that seemed to be in perpetual motion around her.
“Cleo isn’t eating again. I’ve decided she needs an emergency therapy session. Dr. Fielding is opening up his office early to fit her in. Isn’t that wonderful of him?”
Several more appropriate adjectives ran through A.J.’s mind—greedy and opportunistic heading the list—but she kept them to herself as she began to edge her way backwards toward the elevator. She didn’t need a Ph.D. in pet therapy to recognize that Cleo’s problem was that she was lonely. She wanted a mate. Most of the male dogs that she met on her daily walks in the park could testify to that in court. The problem was that Mrs. H. was determined to mate Cleo with another pedigreed poodle, and Cleo preferred commoners.
Mrs. Higgenbotham and the peach cloud wafted toward her. “I have a favor to ask. Could you possibly drop Cleo off? I’m not dressed to go out, and Dr. Fielding wants her at 7:45. Miss Dellafield isn’t scheduled to take her on her walk until this afternoon. You don’t have to wait for her. I can pick her up myself. Or…” she paused to glance back at the door of 6C, “or I can make other arrangements.”
A.J. took the leash from Mrs. Higgenbotham’s outstretched hand. “No problem.” Experience had taught her the hard way that agreeing to the woman’s requests was the quickest way out of the apartment building.
“Bless you.” Mrs. Higgenbotham pressed a card into her hand. “Dr. Fielding’s office is on Park Avenue. I’ll wave goodbye to Cleo from my living room window.”
In the safety of the elevator, A.J. glanced at her watch. Seven twenty-five. She was ten minutes behind schedule and delivering Cleo to Dr. Fielding would delay her even further. And there was still Franco Rossi to deal with. Hopefully, she could slip past him before he could notice she was wearing the skirt.
All hope of accomplishing that vaporized when the doors slid open and she found herself staring at the doorman.
“Thank heavens,” Franco said, sweeping a hand to his chest and fluttering a small Japanese fan with the other. “I was worried. You’re ten minutes late!”
“Mrs. H. stopped me,” A.J. explained as Cleo yipped at Franco and then, head down, dashed for the door. For some reason, Franco seemed to be the one male that Cleo had no use for. A.J. picked up her pace.
The door to the building was less than ten yards away, but, thanks to Franco, her best personal time for crossing the lobby was five minutes. And that was only if she kept her sentences short, avoided asking questions, and didn’t comment on anything he was wearing—like the kimono in shades of red, pink and vermilion. The colors were bright enough to make her eyes water. And she was sure, though she’d only risked a glance, that the clogs he wore added a good three inches to his height.
“They’re doing a musical version of Teahouse of the August Moon off Broadway,” Franco explained. “What do you think?”
Since she really didn’t want to think anything about it, A.J. said, “Cleo has stopped eating.”
“Poor thing,” Franco said.
Cleo yipped again.
Five yards short of the glass doors, A.J. halted and broke one of her rules. “What do you know about Dr. Fielding?”
Franco’s brows shot up. “He’s a very successful pet therapist—works a side specialty putting his clients through past-life regressions. Charges a bundle for it.”
She took another step toward the door, then stopped. “Cleo doesn’t need a past life regression. She’s young, she’s lonely and she’s healthy. What she needs is a man.”
“Don’t we all?” Franco asked in a heartfelt tone.
A.J. blinked. No, she wasn’t talking about herself. Her problem was she had too many men in her life. She didn’t need any more. She was definitely talking about Cleo. “What good does it do her to win top prizes at the Westminster Kennel Show if she’s lonely and she can’t eat—and worse still, she can’t even play with the other dogs in the park? She’s doomed to be lonely until Mrs. H. locates the perfect pedigreed poodle for her.”
“Honey, she’s doomed to be lonely forever if she keeps attacking them. How’s the lawsuit going?”
“You know I can’t talk about it,” A.J. said. No one at the firm was going to let her forget the fact that the first lawsuit she brought to Hancock, Potter and King was a dog-bite case.
“I heard tell that the other poodle had to have eight stitches and they’re suing for millions in pain and suffering.”
Too late, A.J. realized that Franco’s gaze was moving over her in a slow, careful assessment. Was he going to recognize the skirt? He’d been after her to wear it, and she’d sworn to him that she never would.
“Nice blazer,” he said. “That shade of lemon yellow looks great on you. I was right. Your colors are definitely light spring. Most definitely.”
When his gaze moved lower to her shoes, she let out the breath she’d been holding. Maybe he wouldn’t notice.
Fat chance, she thought. Franco noticed everything. On top of that, he was a man, and, according to Samantha and Claire, men noticed things about the skirt that women were oblivious to. She began to inch her way backward toward the door.
Suddenly, Franco lunged past her, teetering on the three-inch-high clogs, and threw himself against the plate-glass door to block her exit.
“You’re wearing it. I knew you would. You almost had me fooled there for a minute. I actually thought you were talking about Cleo—but you’re talking about yourself. You’re actually going to see if you can reel in a man with that skirt. And you owe me an Alexander Hamilton. I told you that sooner or later, you’d succumb to the power of the skirt. Hand it over!”
Calmly, she reached into her purse, pulled a ten-dollar bill from her wallet, and placed it in Franco’s outstretched palm.
Quick as a blink, he pressed it to his lips and then shoved it in the pocket of his kimono. Finally, he fastened his eyes once more on the skirt as he minced around her in a slow circle. “Very nice.”
Cleo yipped again.
Franco fixed her with a look. “Settle down, girl. I’m not one of your stud poodles. My hands are registered lethal weapons.”
“How can you tell it’s the skirt?” A.J. asked. Then a disturbing thought struck her. “You’re not…starting to…” How was she going to put it? “You’re not starting to have any special feelings for me or anything?”
Startled, Franco stopped in his tracks and stared at her. “Perish the thought. I’ve already found my true love.” He winked at her. “And Marlon wasn’t wearing a skirt.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just a little nervous.”
Franco patted her arm. “That’s perfectly natural. I remember exactly what it was like to be single and alone in New York. Terrible. It’s a dating wasteland out there, and any little thing that will help is a blessing. I remember those singles’ bars were right out of a horror movie. And you know how I feel about them.”
Everyone knew how Franco felt about horror movies and just about everything else. His favorite movie was The Wizard of Oz. He hated Chinese food, loved sushi, preferred his opera sung in the original language