Part 4 (1/2)

”Right,” Sal murmured, returning a smoldering glare.

”How nice,” Angie added, trying to get them to remember she was there.

”Excuse me, Angie.” Paavo faced her. ”I've got to get back to work, I'll call you later.” He made a ninety-degree turn toward Sal with as much finesse as a tin soldier. ”Good lunch, Sal. Thanks.”

The two stiffly shook hands. Both looked positively miserable.

”Me, too.” Sal also backed up. ”Got to get home. Arrivederci, Smith. Angelina, ciao!”

The men darted off in opposite directions as she stood rooted to the spot.

Angie watched them go. The Tyson-Holyfield bite-off-an-earlobe boxing match had nothing on those two.

Chapter 5.

Friday night with nothing to do.

The only good thing about it, Stan thought, was that it wasn't Sat.u.r.day night. Although, to be honest, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been excited about a date for a Sat.u.r.day night. Were the women getting worse or was he growing choosier? Or just not interested in disrupting the placid but dull life he was living?

Sat.u.r.day nights, more and more, meant renting movies from Blockbuster. Sometimes he'd call up a buddy from work and they'd go barhopping to meet women. The right women, though, were always already taken.

Like Angie.

He needed to get out of this funk. If he was being completely honest with himself, he'd admit that Angie never was and never would be the woman for him. For one thing, she was too bossy with him. He noticed she never bossed Paavo. That told him a lot.

The last thing he wanted was a girlfriend who acted like a drill sergeant. He wanted someone sweet and pleasant. Malleable wasn't bad, either, come to think of it. Someone who idolized him, found no faults, praised his virtues. The perfect woman.

Angie had mentioned a few times that the women who worked at Haute Cuisine magazine would go to a bar after work on Fridays. Whenever she had an a.s.signment with them she'd go along to schmooze with the editors so they'd remember her if a staff position ever opened up.

Unfortunately, Nona Farraday already occupied the only staff position she really wanted-restaurant reviewer. Angie was sure if the woman died she'd take the job with her just so Angie wouldn't get it.

Stan's remembering Angie's story was either because it had so impressed him or was a measure of how desperately lonely he'd become.

At four o'clock he left his apartment and took a cable car, then two Munis across town to the Blue Unicorn. He didn't own a car. Didn't see the need for one in the city crisscrossed with bus and cable car lines. It was nearly six o'clock before he reached the bar, which wasn't as bad as it seemed when you considered that a person driving could easily waste an hour trying to find street parking.

On the way home he'd splurge and take a taxi. Maybe.

Standing near the bar, laughing and chatting with a couple of women, was the aforementioned Nona Farraday, beautiful as ever. Stan worked his way nearby and ordered Cutty on the rocks. Drink in hand, he turned, caught her eye, and feigned surprise. ”Nona,” he said.

She didn't respond as she eyed him from his Helmut Lang sports jacket to his handmade Santoni loafers. He owned a few expensive clothes, bought mostly for going to dinners and events with his parents in Beverly Hills. Since his parents didn't have much to do with him, the clothes were hardly worn.

Apparently finding him acceptable, Nona gazed archly. ”Have we met?”

”I live across the hall from Angie Amalfi.” He held out his hand. ”Stan Bonnette.”

”Mr. Bonnet.” She shook his hand. ”How could I have forgotten?”

”That's Bon-nette, accent on the last syllable. It's French. But you can call me”-he lifted an eyebrow-”Stan the Man.” It was an old line, but one that worked.

Actually, come to think of it, maybe it didn't.

She chose to ignore it. ”So what are you doing in this area? Far from home, isn't it?”

”I'm meeting a friend nearby for dinner and I'm early. It's good to see you again, Nona,” he said. ”Angie often mentions you.”

Interested now, she turned her back on her girlfriends. ”Does she? Were you very good friends with Angie? Before her engagement, of course.”

”No. Never. She isn't my type. A little too busy and neurotic for me.”

Nona raised her eyebrows at his description. Angie was hardly neurotic, but since Nona was, or so he'd heard, he expected she'd eat up hearing Angie described that way.

”Not that she didn't spend months inviting me to dinner, bringing over desserts, and what have you.” He gave a woeful shake of his head. ”It was something.”

”You didn't like the attention?” Nona asked, head c.o.c.ked.

”I liked the food...” He smirked.

She gloated. ”You make her sound pathetic.”

”No, Angie's just fine.” He took out a slim solid-gold cigarette case and lighter. The set had been his father's until Howard Bonnette gave up smoking. ”I know there's no smoking indoors, but if you'd like one we can step outside.”

”That's a beautiful case.” She took it from him. He could see her scrutinizing it as if to make sure it wasn't merely gold-plated.

”What do you say?”

She handed it back. ”I don't smoke.”

He tucked everything back into his jacket pocket. ”Me neither.” He glanced at her drink. ”Refill?”

Her enticing blue-gray eyes were large and widely s.p.a.ced. ”Whiskey sour.” Her voice took on a smooth, velvety quality that reverberated in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't answer, so afraid was he that his own voice would come out with a squeak. He placed the order.

”Why don't we find a table?” he suggested.

She headed for one in a corner. A dark, intimate corner.

He gawked at her, his mouth hanging open. She actually seemed interested!

As suavely as he could, he followed, although pa.s.sing the happy hour hot hors d'oeuvres spread was almost his undoing. Angie had frowned at him many times after he'd piled a plate high with free food, and called such behavior ”gauche.” That was the last thing he wanted to be around Nona. He ran his fingers through the lock of hair over his brow.

Her perfume reached him-subtle, with a light floral scent. It made him want to move closer, but he suspected sticking his nose against her neck wouldn't sit well.

When they reached the table, he raced to the side she chose and pulled out a chair. She looked surprised but sat. He tried to slide it back in but was too late and she was too heavy. After a shove or two that did no good, he sat in the chair opposite. She looked only slightly annoyed as she slid her own chair closer to the table.