Behind The Red Doors (Santori Stories #1)(41)
Author: Vicki Lewis Thompson

Her neighbor, Mrs. Monahan, stepped out of her apartment door just as they passed it. She stared at Ted, then gave Meg a knowing smile. “Have a nice evening.”

“Tell my mother I said hello,” Meg muttered under her breath. Meg knew the woman would be back inside on the phone to her mother ten seconds after they exited the building. Meg has a date. Pass it on.

Her mother would probably have been happier living in the days of multi party lines. Ten families on one phone line would allow for quicker dissemination of information about her poor unmarried daughter’s love life.

When they got into Ted’s low-slung, two-seater sports car, Meg found herself tugging at the turtleneck of her sweater. They were close together, very close. The front seats nearly touched, as did their legs—which made it rather difficult to shift hers out of the way when Ted casually dropped his hand onto her thigh. “This’ll be fun,” he said, giving her a squeeze through the heavy cotton of her skirt.

She shifted like a contortionist. Leaning the top of her body closer to him, by necessity, she tried to swivel her h*ps and shift her knees closer to the passenger side door, out of groping range. Bad move. He seemed to take it as a sign that she wanted to get closer. She’d jumped right into the hot seat and had no one but herself to blame when he dropped his arm across her shoulders. “Cozy.”

Icky.

She knew that thought wasn’t nice. And it probably wasn’t fair. But she couldn’t help comparing the man she was with tonight with the one she’d been with this afternoon.

“We’ll go to a great place on Taylor, okay?”

“Perfect.” Taylor Avenue was loaded with good restaurants. More important, it was close. She’d be out of this car and able to maintain some needed distance within minutes.

It was just her lousy luck that he parked outside Santori’s. “Uh, here?”

“Sure. You said the other day you loved pizza, and this place has the greatest pizza in Chicago.”

Giving him a weak smile, she let him help her out of the car and lead her inside. As it had been the last time she was here, the restaurant was brightly lit and loud. Not dark, romantic and cozy as were many of the Italian places on this block, Santori’s had found its niche by making its patrons feel as if they’d walked right into the kitchen of a big Italian family. Everybody knew everybody. People socialized across the aisles and in the waiting area. A glass window separated the dining room from a dark-haired man flipping pizza crusts into the air, to the delight of clapping children.

The owner, Rosa Santori, greeted many people by name. “Ah, you come back finally, eh?” she said when she saw Meg. Then she glanced at the man at her side and wrinkled her nose. Given everything Meg had learned from Joe about his mother earlier, she held her breath waiting for the woman’s comment. “You I have seen here before, too.” Her eyes narrowed. “You must really like’a the pizza.”

Ted gave her a forced-looking smile as they walked to their table. “I guess they pay close attention to their customers.”

As they dodged tray-laden waiters and hearty diners, Meg couldn’t help glancing all around the room. She studied the faces of the people seated in the booths and aisle tables, looking for one in particular. No Joe. Thank goodness.

The first sign that there was going to be trouble occurred right after Meg sat in the cozy booth. Instead of sitting across from her, Ted slid in next to her, until his leg scrunched up against hers. She moved away. Considering the wood-paneled wall to her right, however, she couldn’t go far. In the end, it didn’t matter, anyway, since he followed her.

Please tell me I’m not on a date with a weasel.

“Don’t you think it would be easier to talk if we sit across from each other?” She stuck out her elbow to discourage him from coming any closer.

“I was thinking of you. I didn’t want you to be cold,” he replied. “The door keeps opening and it’s so windy out.”

Sure. He was thinking of her, trying to be polite. She believed that about as much as she believed she’d ever be able to wear a strapless dress without a bra.

Then he proceeded to order—for them both. Telling herself he was merely being a gentleman, Meg decided not to mention that she’d really wanted to try out Santori’s lasagna. Or that she hated mushrooms. She could always pick them off.

“Thank you,” she said to their waitress when the woman placed a glass of warm, rich Chianti in front of her.

“To really getting to know one another,” Ted said, lifting his glass. Then he leaned closer. “Sexy little secrets and all.”

Secrets? Sexy ones? A feeling of dread rose in her chest, then fell to her stomach. She somehow had the feeling Ted had recently done some shopping on Michigan Avenue. “Secrets?”

He nodded, then put his hand back on her leg. “Uh-uh. Some of us have some very naughty secrets, don’t we? Like the kind of things we enjoy wearing under our clothes?”

For the first time in her life, Meg O’Rourke prayed her date was a transvestite who liked to wear women’s underwear.

But somehow she doubted it.

MEG’S FACE was the first thing Joe saw when he entered his family’s restaurant Monday night. He’d come over after returning to The Red Doors to pick up the negligee, not wanting to leave the store hanging. He froze in the doorway, letting in a gust of wind, earning a glare from his mother. The bouncer pulled the door shut and returned to his post as Joe stood there staring.

She had a date. Meg was here with another guy, looking cozy and friendly with a blond dork in one of the booths. She sipped her wine. She smiled. Her golden-brown hair shimmered in the soft light of the candle on the table in front of her. She looked so damn beautiful his heart rolled a little in his chest.

He almost turned and walked out the door, not wanting her to see him for some reason. Then he paused, looking at her again. After only one afternoon in her company, Joe felt able to gauge her mood. Her smile was forced, her body tense, and her face was pale. Her elbow was extended out to her side as if she planned to get up and do a Russian wedding dance. Or else slam it into her date’s gut if he leaned too close one more time.

She’s in trouble.

Instinct moved his feet. His mother’s hand on his arm stopped them. “Joey, you wait right here,” she scolded, lowering her voice to a husky whisper. “This man, he was in here three times last week with different women. He deserves what’s coming. The girl, she can take care of herself.”

Staring at his mother, he didn’t ask how she knew who he’d focused all his attention on. His mother knew everything. She often said Santori women were born with the second sight. The one time he’d dared to remind her she’d been born an Antonelli, she’d thunked him in the head with a plastic soup ladle.

“Just you watch,” she said.

So he did. He watched as Meg bent her head low over the table, reaching her arm beneath it. Then she said something to her date and began to slide down in her seat. He realized she was going under only when her butt hit the black-and-white-tiled floor. “What is she…?”

His mother merely smiled and nodded her approval. “She tells him she dropped something under the table.”

“Why?” He realized why when he saw her boot-clad feet stick out, one after the other, from under the opposite side of the booth. Her feet were followed by ankles. Then curvy calves covered in sheer, silky hose. As she shimmied out, her skirt was shimmying up. Her curvy legs were revealed inch by heart-stopping inch.

She gradually gained the attention of other people in the room. Many stopped chattering and eating to watch the sexiest pair of women’s legs this side of a Playboy centerfold emerge like a breech birth from beneath booth number seven. Then her hips, upper body and head popped out. She breathed a visible sigh of relief as she stood.

Damn, he wished he was close enough to hear what she said as she turned back to speak to her date. Or what the guy, who looked very surprised, said in return. He was close enough, however, to see where the guy’s hand went.

Right under her skirt.

This time, his mother’s restraining hand on his arm wasn’t enough. He strode toward their table in time to hear Meg snarl, “Yeah? Well, I think you’d look awful hot and sexy in this!” Then she swung around, grabbed a plate of half-eaten spaghetti off a nearby table, which was thankfully empty and waiting for the busboy, and dumped it all over her date’s head.

The entire place grew so silent you could hear a heart beating. Joe froze where he stood, watching as the man rose from his seat. Long sauce-laden pieces of pasta dangled from his hair into his eyes and plopped on the shoulders of his pansy-ass crew-neck sweater. Joe almost felt sorry for the pathetic S.O.B., who looked around and realized he was the focus of every person in the place. Remembering the guy’s Russian hands and Roman fingers, however, he saved his pity for someone who maybe deserved it—like the cleaning person who was gonna have to try to get the red stains out of the sweater and tan pants.

Meg didn’t stick around to hear her date’s response. Instead she whirled on her heel and stalked toward the exit, never shifting her gaze away from the front door. She passed within five feet of him and still didn’t see Joe. Judging by the fire in her eyes, she wasn’t seeing anything but red.