Behind The Red Doors (Santori Stories #1)(51)
Author: Vicki Lewis Thompson

“Meg, it wasn’t like that. I was really worried about you.”

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I thought you saw and liked the real me, not the siren on the screen.”

“I did see the real you,” he insisted. “I’ve fallen in love with the real you every minute we’ve been together this week.”

She didn’t even comment on his declaration, instead laughing bitterly. “I spent a fortune on new clothes, trying to make you see me as sexy and desirable. I couldn’t understand why you didn’t want me.”

“I did want you.” He thrust a frustrated hand through his hair. “I was out of my mind wanting you, but I didn’t want to take advantage of you. I needed to figure out a way to explain everything. God, it drove me crazy, trying to resist you while watching you come out of your shell. Seeing the way other men looked at you when we went out nearly put me over the edge.”

Judging by the sudden fire in her eyes, that had been the wrong thing to say.

“Oh, so you want a frump who won’t get any attention in public, and a sexpot in private?” She stalked toward him, poking him in the chest with her index finger. “Did you think you could separate me into two neat little parcels? The good girl Meg in the ponytail and bulky sweater for the world to see, and the bad girl in the G-string at night in your bed?”

She swept the sheet off her body, kicking it out of the way, not even allowing him to answer. Stalking down the hall, completely—gloriously—naked, she beelined for her discarded clothes. “Well, too bad, mister,” she said as she yanked her red dress on over her body. “’Cause you just blew your chance with either one of us.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

ORDINARILY, Meg would never have walked outside into a virtual blizzard wearing a dress without a stitch on underneath. Desperate times, however, called for desperate measures. And at least she had the long, wool coat to wear over it. She even managed to avoid tripping in the stupid spike-heeled shoes, which she almost couldn’t get on over her bare, cold feet.

Joe had tried to talk to her, but she’d cut him off. He’d then insisted on taking her home. She’d refused, hurrying out while he grabbed his keys and shoes and came after her. Luckily, she was able to flag down a lone cab maneuvering through the snow as soon as she walked out the door of his building.

Though she’d expected him to try calling her after she left, the phone remained ominously silent throughout the morning. Meg kept picking it up, checking for a dial tone, even as she told herself she didn’t want to hear from him.

“Bull,” she muttered out loud as she sat in her bed, eating her breakfast: a package of Oreos. She couldn’t even be bothered to separate them and lick off the cream. Emergencies like heartbreak required speed rather than precision.

She flipped the TV around the dial with the remote. Not that she was watching. No, her mind never strayed from what had happened last night. And this morning.

Last night had been pure heaven. This morning had…not.

Part of her was glad to know the truth. A bigger part wished she’d never found out Joe wasn’t simply a nice guy who’d helped her in her moment of need. Okay, yes, he’d helped her, but only because he’d been lusting after her for weeks.

Lusting. She had to admit—especially after last night—lusting wasn’t always such a bad thing. She’d never felt about Joe what she’d felt about Ted, or any of the nameless, faceless men who must have seen her at Sheer Delights. She’d never felt that Joe thought of her as an object. He’d wanted her, yes. But she’d wanted him, too, hadn’t she? Nearly from the moment they’d met. So how could she hold it against him just because he’d seen and wanted her weeks before they’d met?

No, it was the dishonesty that really bugged her. That and her complete annoyance about the double standard he seemed to expect from her. “You jerk.”

The dishonesty she could almost forgive. Because, no matter what, she knew the struggle he’d put up against going to bed with her too soon. She’d forced the issue last night. If she hadn’t seduced him, she truly believed he would have told her the truth before taking her to bed.

She checked the phone again. It was still snowing, and a line might have gone down. She heard the dial tone. “Damn.”

It doesn’t matter. This wouldn’t work anyway.

So what if she could forgive the dishonesty? That didn’t change the other problem. Any fool would have recognized the way he’d reacted to seeing her change in wardrobe over the past few days. He’d been delighted…and dejected. It was as if he’d felt happy to have discovered a pretty doll, and wanted to play with it—really play with it—but didn’t want anyone else seeing how pretty it was.

A frump on his arm. A vamp in his bed. “Jerk,” she repeated.

When she heard a knock on her front door, her heart leaped and her pulse raced. She tiptoed through her apartment, peeking through the peephole, expecting to see Joe’s thick, dark hair and handsome face. Instead, she saw iron-gray hair and wrinkles.

Mrs. Mahoney knocked again. “I know you’re in there, missy.”

Opening the door, she forced a smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Mahoney. How nice to see you.”

“Delivery came for you. I signed for it,” the woman said. She bent and picked up something standing beside her. When Meg saw the bouquet of roses, her heart softened a bit. Then she crossed her arms and frowned. “I don’t want them.”

Mrs. Mahoney shrugged. “Great. I’ll keep them for myself.” The older woman turned around, crossed the hall, and walked into her apartment with Meg’s flowers. She never even looked back.

Closing her door, Meg shook her head in disbelief. Mrs. Mahoney had just stolen her Valentine’s flowers! “It’s your own fault,” she muttered, telling herself she didn’t care.

They had to have been from Joe. Who else would have sent her flowers? Beautiful, fragrant, romantic roses that were now going to compete for table space with Mrs. Mahoney’s medicine bottles and collection of ceramic pigs.

A half hour later she heard another knock. Again she peeked, hoping for dark hair. Again she sighed at the sight of her neighbor. “Hello again. Enjoying your flowers?”

The woman shrugged. “Not as much as I’ll enjoy these if you don’t want them.” She held out a big, red-satin-wrapped box, obviously full of expensive chocolates. Then she gave her a look of exaggerated concern. “You probably shouldn’t. A few too many of these and those h*ps of yours could go from curvy to tubby.”

“Keep them,” Meg snarled as she shut the door.

She watched out the peephole as Mrs. Mahoney strolled back to her own apartment, opening the box and popping a chocolate into her mouth even before she went inside.

“Flowers and chocolate,” she muttered. “How original, Joe. Maybe Mrs. Mahoney will go out with you. You’d probably at least approve of her wardrobe.” She stalked into her kitchen to make lunch. The Oreos were gone; it was time to move to ice cream.

My h*ps are not tubby. But she grabbed some yogurt instead.

The next time she heard a knock, Meg was determined not to lose her temper. Didn’t she deserve to keep at least one gift she was given for Valentine’s Day? Even if it was a day late, and from a man who was currently number one on her hit list.

Mrs. Mahoney held two wrapped shirt boxes. “Shook ’em,” she said. “Can’t tell much, though. Want me to open them?”

Meg stepped out. Instead of answering, she countered, “Have you called my mother yet?”

Mrs. Mahoney sniffed. “Before the big finale? Puh-lease!”

Finale? Meg frowned. “Why are these deliveries coming to your place, anyway?”

The woman merely smiled, shoved the boxes at Meg, and walked away. “I wondered when you were gonna think of that,” she said over her shoulder. “Maybe it’s ’cause the delivery man thinks you won’t open the door to him.”

Joe. She stepped out, shutting her door behind her. Glancing down the hall, she failed to see his lean form and dark hair.

He could have already left the building. Or he could be in the stairwell. Either way, curiosity made her open the first box right there outside her door. Tearing off the pretty paper, she saw something wrapped in tissue inside. There was a note taped to the tissue. Opening it, she read, “‘For you to wear whenever you go out, anywhere you damn well please.”’

More curious than ever, she opened the tissue and saw a mound of shiny tan spandex. Leaning down, she placed both boxes on the floor. Then she pulled out the fabric and held it up.

“Good Lord,” she muttered when she saw the slinkiest, tiniest, skimpiest dress she’d ever seen in her life. It was the color of skin, and would fit like it. The plunging V-neckline was lower than any dress she’d ever dreamed of wearing, and the slit would risk showing off anything its wearer had on underneath.

To wear in public? Sure. Right. As if that’d happen.

But, she acknowledged, at least he’d admitted she had the right to do so if she wished. A smile curled her lips and, in spite of herself, she felt her reservations slipping away.