Mikalo's Grace Page 2

  "No, his English is fine. He's dusting it off."

  He shrugged.

  I paused.

  "Will this affect your decision?"

  "Oh, I don't know," he said, his chair turning this way and that.

  He turned to me, the late-afternoon sun glinting off his thick silver hair.

  "Regardless, it's not like he needs the money, what with his father's shipping and oil and his mother's family having their own fingers in every business pie imaginable."

  "Really."

  Whoa. Gorgeous, intelligent, charming, and now rich.

  "Absolutely. Olive oil, grocery stores, telecommunications, concrete, construction. Name it, that family's into it."

  Make that very rich.

  His eyes now watched me as he leaned back in his chair.

  "And you know Mr. Delis how again?" he asked.

  I smiled, the cordial yet brief answer I'd practiced again and again rolling off my tongue.

  "We met earlier. Spoke briefly. Intriguing man."

  Don't lie. Don't elaborate. And then change the subject.

  "Yes, he is," he responded, suppressing a grin. "Charming. Handsome even, wouldn't you say?"

  Oh yeah, he knew.

  Damn.

  I stood to go.

  "Thank you, Bill. I should get back."

  "Leaving so soon?" he asked with a teasing smile.

  Hell yes!

  "No comment."

  "Was it something I said?" he called after me as I left his office.

  "Yes!" I called back, laughing.

  His booming laughter followed me down the hall, his status as one of the few who felt comfortable enough with me to get away with something like this as secure as ever.

  I walked, my mind churning.

  Father's in shipping. Mother's family is in concrete, construction, olive oil.

  Yeah, Mikalo was most definitely loaded. Hundreds of millions if not billions of dollars.

  And I'd had no clue.

  I mean, he had a gorgeous suit, of course. Hermès tie. And he was very polite. Well-spoken. He just seemed so sweet, so normal. The exact opposite of a bratty, party hungry rich kid racing through dad's money.

  But why should I think that?, I realized as I stepped into the elevator. Just because he had money, and who knew how much, exactly, he had -- he could be the black sheep who pissed off grandpa and got booted out of the Will for all I know --, it didn't mean he couldn't be the nice, sincere man she met earlier.

  Not that she had much experience with nice, sincere men. Hers had been the exact opposite. For almost seven years.

  Stop, Ronan. Let it go. Just let it go and leave it alone. No sense in ripping off that scab, so stop picking at it.

  The elevator doors opened and I stepped into the hall.

  Janey, my petite, twenty-something secretary, waited.

  "There you are," she said, brandishing a message in her hand.

  "Mikalo's confirming dinner tonight," she quickly said as we walked.

  I took the message, his name, his long-distance cell number, a restaurant on the Upper West Side I was familiar with, and a suggested time to meet all jotted down in Janey's clear, capable hand.

  "Not to pry, Boss," she said, teasing me, "but is this Mikalo as hot as he sounds? Because, oh my goodness, that deep voice, that accent? Wow."

  "You have no idea," I said, trying not to smile.

  Chapter Four

  He had grown quiet, his eyes clouding with a quiet, polite anger as he searched for the right words to respond.

  We sat, Mikalo and I, at a small table, a generous basket of delicious rolls and softened butter between us.

  The restaurant around us was plush. Wood paneled walls, a thick carpet, lighting that was low and flattering. Gleaming wood tables dotting the space interrupted occasionally by a large vase of flowers or a waiter in a suit and tie standing silent, ready to move your chair back or refill your drink.

  He cleared his throat.

  "The necklace, it is very nice," he said.

  My fingers touched the yellow diamonds at my throat. Harry Winston. Not large, certainly. But the stones, set in platinum, still caught the light beautifully.

  A gift from my best friend Deni when I made Partner.

  "For those times when you need a bit of armor," she had said as she placed it around my neck.

  And tonight, I needed it, the diamonds a coat of armor at my throat and the yellow Graff diamond on my finger my sword.

  That, I bought myself. Just because.

  I figured, hell, I was going to feed my sadness with either a very large ring or more Ben & Jerry's.

  So I chose the ring.

  "Thank you," I finally said. "It was a gift from a friend."

  "This friend, he loves you very much."

  "Yes," I said, smiling. "She does."

  He nodded.

  "Ah, like a sister."

  He took a sip from his wine.

  "To have a sister with that love is lucky, no?"

  I smiled. I was lucky. Despite it all, that I most certainly was.

  He grew quiet, his long fingers resting against the stem of the glass.

  "You have a thing to say, I think," he finally said.

  I took a breath.

  "Yes. I spoke with Bill, Bill Blazen, who you --"

  "I know," he said, a touch of impatience in his voice.

  "I just wanted to see how thing were going, that's all. See how the interview was and what they thought. Get a sense of, I don't know, how things might --"

  His hand raised, silencing me as he took a bite of a roll.

  "I shouldn't have done that, I know," I quickly said. "I'm sorry."

  "No, it is I who is sorry. Sometimes, I forget. Do not make myself clear. So, you listen to me now, yes?"

  "Okay."

  "You can ask me anything your heart wants to know" he said, his eyes watching me. "Can come and say 'Mikalo, why this' or 'Mikalo, why that' or 'Mikalo, what do you think' or, I do not know, 'why did you do that thing'. Or, yes, even 'Mikalo, that meeting, was it good'."

  "Alright. Thank you."

  "So?" he said.

  I waited, confused.

  "Ask."

  "Oh, now?"

  He shrugged.

  "Why not?"

  I glanced around the room. Briefly watched an older couple, their heads low as, their hands clasped on the table, his thumb gently stroking her skin, they spoke quietly.

  Taking a breath,

  "Why did you leave MacFarlane, Schaal?"

  "Ah, so that you know," he said, surprised by the question.

  I nodded.

  "Why did I leave? My mother. She was sick. And a son, a son who loves his mother, he needs to be by her side, I think. That is why."

  "I'm sorry."

  He sat quietly for a moment.

  "I told them this, the men at MacFarlane. They were angry.

  "But my mother was, and she still is, more important than their anger. My family, they are stronger than their anger.

  "Besides, it is life," he said gently. "Next question."

  "And the meeting? How do you feel it went?"

  He shrugged.

  "I sit, they ask questions, many questions, and I answer those I think are the ones to answer. Sometimes they want to know more, but it is not important they know more. I tell them the truth, but not the whole thing."

  Sitting back, he watched me, waiting for the next question.

  I was tempted to explain how this decision was complicating this opportunity. How his refusal to share the reason why he left MacFarlane was causing doubt and hurting his chances.

  But it seemed too pushy, perhaps. Or too meddlesome. And it was definitely too complicated.

  "How come you don't have a girlfriend?" I quickly asked instead, surprising myself and then immediately regretting the question.

  My hand went to my necklace, the stones cool under my fingers, comforting me, my heart suddenly aware the answer could
easily be one I didn't want to hear.

  "There have been girls, of course," he began. "And there was one I loved. That I love still. Claudia. An actress in Italy. Successful. Beautiful. Very beautiful."

  Oh shit.

  "Strong woman. Very strong. Determined. Too determined, I think.

  "She refused to eat, my Claudia. Always had to be skinny, skinny, skinny. Her agent, her managers, the directors and studios, always wanting her skinny. So she refused to eat, would not take even one bite, only drink water with lemon, and, one day, her body said 'enough' and she died. Bones and ribs. Nothing but bones and ribs and she died."

  Oh shit.

  "I'm so sorry, Mikalo," I said, my eyes growing wet with tears.

  "My mother, she joins my father one month. And then three months after, my Claudia joins my mother and father."

  "Your father passed as well?"

  "Many years ago. Before I came to America. Before Princeton and before Harvard."

  He paused.

  "You know my father was good at business, yes?" he then said.

  I nodded.

  "It came up," I said.

  "And my mother's father? Her family?"

  "That came up, too."

  "Came up," he repeated. "Funny phrase. It is surprising what can come up."

  He took another bite of his roll, his eyes quickly glancing around the room as he chewed and then swallowed.

  "Is this a problem?" he asked, his voice a whisper.

  "Now that I know I can ask you anything, I don't think --"

  "No," he interrupted.

  "Money. My money. Is it a problem?" he asked again, his eyes still on the room.

  "What's yours is yours, Mikalo. I've done very well and I'm very proud of that. I've worked hard and am strong, financially. I'm strong.

  "So, honestly, I have no interest in what you may or may not have from your family. I really don't.

  "What I'm saying is it's not a problem with me if it isn't a problem with you.

  "Is it?"

  He looked back at me.

  "No," he said, his hands reaching across the table to take mine. "And now we forget and eat, yes?"

  "Yes," I said as the waiter approached with the menus. "And I'm paying for dinner."

  He laughed, long and loud.

  "And dessert will be me, no?"

  I couldn't help but laugh.

  "I think you mean 'on me,' don't you?" I asked.

  Taking the menu, he opened it and, his eyes on me, smiled.

  "Perhaps."

  Chapter Five

  He held my hand as we walked the broad stretch of Central Park West.

  We had dinner. We laughed, we joked, we drank wine, too much wine, and we talked.

  And he flirted. With me, with the sommelier, with the pretty girl who took our coats, and even with the waiter.

  "Maybe he is sad," he had said when I had teased him, "And maybe a smile from me will make him happy, no? It is fleeting and maybe he will take my smile and give it to someone else who is sad someday."

  Goddamn, I adored him.

  And now we were walking hand in hand, the night crisp with Fall in the air, my heart light and my steps quick and my tongue thick with Bordeaux.

  "It's promising your interview went well" I said.

  His broad shoulders shrugged, the dark cashmere of his coat lifting and then falling with the subtle gesture.

  "It was good," he finally said.

  "But good is good, isn't it?"

  "So many interviews."

  "Oh, there's only been one so far. Don't be so dramatic."

  He smiled.

  "I meet with other Firms, too."

  "Really."

  "Really," he said. "Levin, Gross. Nettles, Hayley, Viner. Some others."

  "Really?"

  He laughed.

  "Really!" he said again, mimicking me.

  "How long have you been interviewing? I mean, are there offers? Other offers?"

  "Of course. But I do not take them. Levin, Gross, they offer me a lot of money, but it's not a very happy place to work, I think. So I said No, thank you, and moved on. They were not pleased."

  "I can imagine."

  "They come back. Offer more. I say No, again. Again, they are not happy.

  "So, you see," he said, turning to me. "It is not a happy place to be."

  And then, taking his other hand from mine, he placed his arm around my shoulders, gathering me close.

  "It is life," he said gently, "And life is to be enjoyed, no? It is to be drank and eaten and savored and loved and filled with laughter and love and laughter."

  I hesitated, my mind suddenly cloudy with wine.

  "I'm sorry, what?" I finally asked.

  "I do not know," he said. "I am perhaps drunk."

  And then we laughed.

  And walked.

  "You're very handsome," I said.

  "Yes?"

  "Yes! You could be a model."

  "No," he said, "I do not think so."

  "I think you could," I answered.

  "Me? You would like to see me model?"

  "Why not?"

  He stopped, striking a silly pose, his hand cupping his chin, his face suddenly serious and pensive.

  "Like this?" he asked.

  And then he moved, quickly choosing another position, his face held open in a goofy grin, his eyes wide, as he pointed at something in the air, like those old Sears catalogue poses.

  "Or this?"

  I laughed.

  "Yes, yes, yes," I finally said. "I love it.

  "You could model underwear," I then said, the words rushing out before I could stop them. I held my breath, hoping he didn't hear me.

  "Ah, no, that would not work."

  "Oh, I was just --"

  "It does not work, underwear."

  "It doesn't work. What doesn't work?"

  He shook his head.

  "The underwear. For me, it's no good."

  He continued,

  "It does not cover what it should cover."

  "I see," I said, clearing my throat.

  "Perhaps you need to wear boxers and not briefs," I then suggested.

  "The tight ones? No, no, no, no, no," he said, shaking his head, "that would kill me."

  "Oh, so you're talking about boxers -- " I began.

  "The loose ones -- " he interrupted.

  "Yes --"

  "Like old man swim trunks," he said.

  "Yes, boxers."

  "Yes," he replied, nodding.

  "You wear boxers."

  "No. I tried. But it was a joke. I, how you say, I was lower than the boxers, than the bottom of the boxers, the material, and it was not a comfort."

  Jesus Christ.

  "The boxers did not do their job," he was saying, "so I had them fired."

  "So, no underwear," I finally said, my voice quavering.

  He nodded.

  "No. I am happy. And below, I am happy. And it is easier, yes? To get undressed. You just open the zip and they fall and there. It is done Easy."

  We walked a few moments in silence.

  "Still, you could model," I managed to say, my mouth watering as my mind wandered, the warmth, the wetness, below growing, the thump-thump-thump quiet, insistent, hungry ...

  I needed to focus.

  He spoke.

  "You have no husband."

  Ah, back to reality.

  I shook my head.

  "And no boyfriend."

  Another shake of the head.

  "Then you have lonely nights."

  I walked, his arm around me, the dark expanse of Central Park across the street. And then I nodded. Shrugged.

  He was right.

  "Why no husband?" he suddenly asked.

  It was my turn to raise my hand, stopping the conversation midstream. The quiet gesture a definite end to a road I had no wish to walk right now.

  He grew silent.

  And then,

  "I have lonely nights,
too," he whispered.

  Another shrug.

  "But not now," I said, my hand reaching up to squeeze his. "Right now we have this. Right now, this moment, we have this walk, this night, you and your arm around me."

  He glanced at me, a small smile on his lips.

  "And it is good?" he asked.

  "It's good. Very good."

  He stopped, turning to me, watching me, the light from the nearby streetlight shimmering in his dark eyes, the thick, black brows low.

  And then he touched me, his large finger surprisingly gentle and soft as he stroked my cheek, his fingertip rising to my temple and then down past my ear, pausing as it rose, his hand cupping my chin, lifting my face to his.

  He held me like this, his eyes on mine, his hand holding my chin, my heart in my throat.

  And then he spoke, his voice soft and low.

  "You are too beautiful for lonely nights, my Grace."

  Chapter Six

  I could taste him on my tongue.

  The supple flesh smooth and salty. Tasting of wine. Tasting of lust. Of small smiles and fleeting looks. Of beauty. Of perfection.

  I could feel him on me, his hands stroking me, the palms large and soft and warm, the fingers long.

  Oh, those long fingers.

  I shifted position, kicking the sheets from my legs, and, arching my back, spread my legs further.

  His lips were now on mine as I rubbed quicker, my fingers shining and wet.

  I slapped, hard, and then gripped. Hard. Held tight, my hips rising to meet my hand as my other hand mauled my tits, the finger oh so cruelly pinching the nipples.

  I arched my back again, the thought of his body, that gorgeous body, those amazing abs, those strong thighs, those incredible eyes, that square chin ...

  I could gnaw on that square chin. Rake my teeth across the dark stubble, my fingers buried in his thick, curly locks, gripping him close.

  I could eat him up.

  Damn.

  My hand got back to work, furiously rubbing, down then up, down then up, fingers pushing deep. Rough. Impatient. Relentless. Cruel.

  His ass.

  I wanted to bite his ass.

  Those firm, round cheeks begged for my attention.

  Bury my nose in the crack, my tongue discovering his tight hole, my fingers rubbing the base of his hardening cock as he gasped, pushing back toward me. Desperate for it. Needing it. This young man discovering a hidden pleasure, the muscles in his back shining with sweat as he gyrated, his eyes closed as he lost himself in this unexpected bliss.