A Kiss in the Dark Page 7

  “You want to tell me about this, baby sister?” Francesca said. “And I do hope Ethan Moss figures somewhere in the explanation.”

  Brittany yawned, pushing herself up against the mound of pillows at her headboard. She rubbed her hands over her eyes sleepily. “When did you get in?”

  “I think the more interesting question here is, when did you?”

  “Will you please put that down!” Brittany lunged for the scrap of black lace Francesca seemed intent on waving like a flag.

  Laughing, Francesca stepped just out of reach. “Uh-uh. Not until you tell me how my baby sister, who wears socks to bed, happens to have this bit of racy lingerie.”

  “Would you believe I bought it?” Brittany asked on a hopeful note.

  “Nope. Come on, give.”

  Brittany shoved her covers back. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Francesca, I haven’t even had my coffee yet.”

  “Okay, we’ll talk over coffee,” Francesca acquiesced, tossing the chemise over a chair. “But I want details.”

  Brittany groaned, then schlepped to the kitchen in her socks and oversize T-shirt. Francesca chattered as Brittany ground fresh coffee beans, the full-flavored aroma giving the room a mouth-watering smell.

  Brittany rinsed the gold coffee filter, added the ground coffee and water to the German coffeemaker, then dug up a tin of shortbread fingers while listening to Francesca’s animated retelling of her visit with their folks.

  “I came back a day early because Mom and Dad were making me crazy. Dad with his portfolio advice, as if I were any better at holding on to money than he is. And Mom—all she wanted to know was when I was going to quit all this running around the world to settle down and give them grandbabies.”

  Brittany laughed, setting out cream and sugar.

  “Grandbabies, I tell you,” Francesca said with a roll of her blue eyes. “This from a woman who never saw me in a school play.”

  “Well, it is your duty. You are the oldest daughter, you know. And you’re not getting any younger,” Brittany added with a grin. She poured the steaming coffee, relieved the conversation had drifted from the black lace chemise and its origin.

  “Don’t remind me. I can’t believe I’m already twenty-eight years old. Twenty-eight is practically ancient for a model. Model years are like dog years. And all these new waif models coming up behind me look like absolute babies.”

  “Twenty-eight isn’t old for a model anymore, Francesca.” She offered her sister a shortbread. “Look at Lauren Hutton.”

  Francesca shrugged at the mention of the fifty-year-old model and passed on the cookie. “No sweets, I have a shoot in the morning.”

  “Oh, come on, have a cookie. You’re so beautiful, a zit would give you character.” Brittany waved the sweet under Francesca’s perfect nose.

  “You’ve got to be kidding. I have to be as flawless as I can to even have a hope of snaring a cover on this shoot.”

  “So it’s for a magazine. What is it, the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated?”

  “Don’t I wish. No, it’s for Rolling Stone. They’re doing a feature on rock stars and models; you know, Mick and Jerry, Rod and Rachel…”

  Brittany looked puzzled. “But they’re all married.”

  “I know. My agent informed me they decided to throw in a single guy for good measure. I get to pose with him.”

  “Who is he, do you know?” Brittany took a bite of her shortbread.

  “Tucker Gable.”

  “Tucker Gable!” Brittany choked.

  “Yeah. Everyone figured he and Chelsea Stone would tie the knot eventually before Dakota Law stole her from under his nose. Now he’s rock’s most eligible bachelor.”

  Brittany grinned.

  “What?” Francesca sipped her coffee.

  “I was just thinking maybe Mom won’t have to wait for grandbabies much longer.”

  “Oh, please. Another model and a rock star. I don’t think so. It’s just too trite.”

  “Uh-huh.” Brittany topped off their coffee cups and began humming, “Dum… dum… da… dum…”

  “Will you quit with the ‘Wedding March’! Let’s get back to discussing you. So tell me, where did that naughty nightie come from?”

  “Saks.”

  Francesca shook her head. “That’s not what I asked.”

  Brittany knew her sister wouldn’t quit until she had the details. Francesca had their mother’s tenacity. There was nothing for Brittany to do but give in and tell Francesca what she wanted to know. One way or another, she would worm it out of her eventually.

  Brittany set down her coffee cup with a sigh of resignation. “Ethan gave it to me, okay?”

  “More than okay.” Francesca let her wrist go limp and shook her hand in a gesture of sisterly approval. “Way to go, baby sister.”

  “No. You don’t understand. It was his idea.”

  “Even better. So-o-o…”

  “So what?”

  “So give. Have you worn it for him yet?”

  “Well, yes. But—”

  “All right!” Francesca squealed.

  “Calm down. It’s not what you think. Ethan can’t see, remember.”

  “So, that doesn’t mean he can’t—”

  “Francesca!”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. No wonder you love all those Victorian novels. You act like a Victorian heroine. Don’t tell me the two of you are playing The Age of Innocence game. All looking and no touching.”

  “I told you he can’t see.”

  “So you are touching, good.”

  “We’re not touching.”

  “No looking? No touching? So what exactly are the two of you doing?”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  Francesca took Brittany’s coffee cup and set it with hers on the counter, then tugged her sister into the living room and sat her down on the chintz sofa beside her.

  “Tell me what you do know.”

  “Ethan doesn’t think of me as a pal anymore,” Brittany ventured.

  “And why is that?”

  Brittany swallowed dryly. She and her sister had always shared confidences, but she didn’t know about this….

  “I’m waiting,” Francesca said, reaching for the Sunday edition of the New York Times on the coffee table. She tossed the Book Review to Brittany automatically, then pulled out the travel section for herself.

  Brittany glanced absently through the hardback bestseller list while Francesca scanned the travel ads. Lawyers were starting to appear on the book lists more often than in court.

  Tossing the newspaper aside, Brittany tried to explain to her sister what was happening. “You know I answered the ad in the Times Ethan placed for someone to read to him. Of course, I didn’t know it was Ethan’s ad. I just wanted to earn some extra money to buy a cat. Don’t you think it would be great having a cat in the apartment?”

  Francesca looked up from the ad she was studying. “Why, do we have mice?”

  “No. I meant for companionship.”

  “Companionship? I’d even take Tucker Gable over a cat for companionship. I thought you had Ethan for that now. Let’s get back to the part about why Ethan doesn’t think of you as a pal any longer.”

  Brittany undid her ponytail and rubbed her hands through her hair to relax her scalp. “Well, at first I read him a Jilly Cooper book. Then he wanted me to read him a play he was considering backing.”

  “This is when he thought of you as a pal.”

  “Right.”

  “What happened to change that?” Francesca asked, tossing down the newspaper.

  “Last week Triple Knight had to decide if they wanted to bid on a manuscript a top agent was conducting an auction on. My boss gave the manuscript to me to read to see if we were interested.”

  “Hey, how’s that—” Francesca snapped her fingers trying to recall a name “—that Sandy person doing? Your assistant who keeps trying to steal yo
ur job. Is she still trying to undermine you?”

  “She’s ambitious. You can’t blame her for trying.”

  “I can if she’s trying to steal my baby sister’s job,” Francesca said.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “That’s not what the doorman tells me. He says you’re an easy touch for a handout. Sometimes I don’t know how you survive in New York.”

  “And I think I’ve got a mother everywhere I turn,” Brittany countered. “Maybe that’s why I did what I did.”

  Francesca’s eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”

  “I read the manuscript—or some of it, at least—to Ethan.”

  “What’s wrong with that? Is it illegal or something?”

  Brittany shook her head no. “We own the manuscript. But the book is… It’s a book of erotica.”

  Francesca’s mouth dropped open. “What did Ethan say? What did he do?”

  “The first time I read—”

  “Whoa! The first time?” Francesca threw up her arms and grinned. “He liked it, huh? It’s ongoing, then? That’s what the two of you have been up to?”

  Brittany nodded. She wasn’t ready—might never be ready—to tell Francesca she’d made up the second fantasy she’d “read” to Ethan. One had to keep some secrets. Although, after having shared a fantasy with Ethan, she hardly had any secrets from him.

  No, that wasn’t entirely true. She did have a secret from Ethan. A very big secret.

  A secret he knew nothing about.

  Couldn’t know about.

  Not ever.

  He’d never forgive what she’d done.

  “IT’S YOUR MOTHER,” Dawson said. “Shall I tell her you’re sleeping?”

  “No, I’ll take it.” Ethan was in such a good mood that even his mother’s hovering couldn’t bring him down. His shopping had gone well. He was looking forward to Brittany’s visit tomorrow night.

  She had managed to lighten his heavy heart—something he hadn’t thought possible without his sight returning.

  Now he was beginning to believe he could survive the loss of his sight—if he had Brittany by his side.

  Taking a deep breath, Ethan picked up the phone.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  “Ethan. Are you all right? I’ve been calling you all afternoon. Where have you been? Your father and I have been so worried about you.”

  “I’m fine, Mother. Dawson and I went shopping.”

  “Shopping. Are you sure that’s wise? If you’d only asked, I would have sent you anything you needed.”

  “I know, Mother.”

  “What were you shopping for, dear?”

  “Ah, just some personal stuff.”

  As his mother relayed family news, Ethan’s attention wandered to Brittany and his successful shopping trip. He wondered if he was being foolhardy.

  Maybe he was just mistaking pity for something more.

  He shook off the unwelcome thought, and let his mother’s voice drone on as more pleasant thoughts of Brittany filled his mind.

  “YOU HAVEN’T SAID whether Ethan is a good kisser,” Francesca prompted.

  “That’s because I don’t know,” Brittany replied, taking off her brimmed hat and hanging it on the entry hat rack.

  “You don’t?”

  “What did you think about the new Barnes & Noble superstore?” she asked, changing the subject to the bookstore they’d just cruised. “Is it great or what?”

  “It’s great,” Francesca agreed. “What’s not to like about a three-story meat market?”

  “That’s only the cappuccino sippers on the mezzanine. Most of the people in the store were looking for a good book to read. What did you buy?” she asked, taking the Barnes & Noble bag from her sister and peering inside.

  “A Nathaniel Hawthorne mug.” Francesca untied her long-sleeved striped T-shirt from around her waist.

  “Only you would browse a 30,000-square-foot bookstore and come out with a mug.”

  “I like Nathaniel Hawthorne.”

  “You like Nathaniel Hawthorne?”

  “Yeah. What was it he said? ‘Easy reading is damned hard writing,’ or something like that.”

  “And here I thought you slept through lit class.”

  “Nope. There was this dreamy guy named Steve in my lit class. He liked Nathaniel Hawthorne,” Francesca explained, her blue eyes twinkling.

  “You’re a hopeless case.”

  “Brittany…” Francesca said, suddenly sounding serious.

  “What is it?”

  “How is Ethan, really? It must be pretty traumatic losing your sight like that. Is there a chance he will see again?”

  “The doctor said it was possible. He has a fifty-fifty chance. But Dawson said the odds go down as time goes by.”

  “You sure you know what you’re doing, baby sister?”

  “I know,” she lied. She didn’t know anything other than that she had to take the chance she’d been given; had to risk having her heart broken.

  “Brittany…”

  “No more questions. I’ve got to read this manuscript by morning,” Brittany said, picking it up from the corner of her crowded desk.

  “Just one,” Francesca persisted.

  “Okay, what?”

  “Where’s that book you read to Ethan?”

  7

  ETHAN AWOKE WITH A start. He’d dozed off while waiting for Brittany to arrive.

  He sat for a few moments on the sofa, listening to the ping of rain against the window. It was a relief to wake up now and not feel depression descend like an anvil on his chest. After the accident, all he’d been able to think about was, “Why me?” And then he’d come to realize, “Why not me?”

  The first thirty-four years of his life had been charmed. He’d grown up with every advantage. Would it have been more fair for someone much less advantaged to suffer his fate?

  He hadn’t, however, progressed from depression to acceptance. He refused to learn to use a cane or read braille as long as there was any chance at all that his sight would return.

  He supposed what he was at the moment was distracted. Miss Brittany Astor was proving a fine distraction indeed. From force of habit he glanced at his wrist to check the time. Damn.

  “Dawson!” he yelled.

  He heard Dawson enter the library, the carpet muting the footsteps that had sounded loudly on the unforgiving marble of the foyer.

  “What time is it?” Ethan demanded.

  “She should be here at any time,” Dawson answered, knowing what Ethan was really asking. “Miss Astor rang up earlier to say she’d be bringing your dinner. Is there anything else before I leave for the evening?”

  “Did you set out the things we shopped for like I asked you to?”

  “Yes, it’s all arranged.”

  “Good. That’ll be all, then.”

  As he heard Dawson let himself out, Ethan decided the apartment was too quiet. Getting up, he made his way slowly to the stereo system where he tried CDs until he found one to his liking. He moved to stand at the window. The rain had stopped.

  He smiled. He’d have to remember to beware of an umbrella lurking in the foyer.

  One song finished and another began on the rhythm-and-blues CD he’d chosen. He stood at the window waiting while the bawdy sax heightened his anticipation. Tonight music wasn’t soothing to the savage beast, it was stirring him.

  For the first time he felt blind and alive.

  BRITTANY HUNG UP the phone and sat staring at the year’s publishing schedule on the wall. One of her authors had just called with the equivalent of the “dog ate my homework” excuse about why her manuscript was going to be late. It was a manuscript she’d been counting on, too. She continued to stare at the board as if an answer to the scheduling dilemma would suddenly appear.

  To make matters worse, the author had contacted Sandy over a month ago about the possibility of not meeting her d
eadline and Sandy had assured the writer there would be no problem. And then Sandy had conveniently forgotten to pass the information on to Brittany.

  If she weren’t in such a good mood, she’d be furious. As it was, she was only annoyed.

  Ethan Moss crowded everything from her mind. She was as hooked as any addict, needing the fix of seeing him daily.

  And when she wasn’t with him she thought about him—the resonance of his voice, the curl of his fair hair on the nape of his neck, the curve of his full bottom lip…. She shook her head to clear her thoughts, then spent the last half hour of the day reworking the publishing schedule.

  Before arriving at Ethan’s apartment she picked up dinner. At first she’d planned to bring Chinese, but she didn’t want to risk unintentionally reminding him of what had happened the last time.

  She was nervous, uncertain of what his reception would be. Ethan didn’t reveal his feelings easily. She supposed being left standing at the altar would do that to a man.

  The press had had a field day ten years ago when Ethan’s fiancée had stood him up the day of their fancy society wedding. The experience hadn’t left him with an aversion to the press; he had shown up in the newspapers frequently. It had apparently left him with an aversion to any kind of serious relationship. He was never pictured with the same woman twice after that.

  “I hope that isn’t pizza,” Ethan called out as she entered the brownstone, the pungent aroma of pizza preceding her.

  “Why?” Brittany demanded, taking it to the kitchen.

  “I don’t like pizza.”

  “You’ll like this.”

  “What makes you so sure?” he asked, joining her.

  “Here, taste,” she said, turning to him with a slice of hot pizza in her hand.

  Barefoot, he leaned against the butcher-block counter wearing pressed jeans and a navy cashmere V-neck sweater. Unshaven, his hair still damp, he smelled shower fresh and just about took her breath away.

  Her hand trembled when she brought the piece of pizza to his lips, coaxing him to taste.

  He took a bite and chewed. “Not bad,” he said, swallowing. “What kind is it?”