Hooked

Walsh sitting on her sofa or having coffee at her table was both off-putting and tempting. Was it that she didn’t trust him or herself? She had no intention of finding out. “Better not. There’s a Starbuck’s in Astor Place .”
    “I’d rather not have this discussion in public.”
    A long moment passed before she responded. She could do this. “Ring the bell. I’ll buzz you in.”
    “Be there in half an hour.”
    “And you’ll be out of here in less time than that,” she responded, but he’d already broken the connection. Damn! What was she thinking? No coffee. She wouldn’t do anything to extend his stay beyond business. In fact, she needed to change her clothes. She’d been out all day and was too dressed up. She took off her pantsuit and hung it in the closet.
    Rummaging through her drawers, she pulled out a Columbia T-shirt, then took it off―too elitist. Jeans. No, too form-fitting. A pair of loose drawstring pants and an oversized white T would do the trick. Comfortably perfect. Next, she washed off her makeup and put her hair in a ponytail. Plopping on the edge of her bed, she released a long sigh. He was just another man. Nothing special.
    Then why all the fuss? He’d come in, tell her what to look for, and how to go about it. Then he’d be gone. Piece of cake.
    Forty minutes. He said half an hour. Maybe she misunderstood and he decided to meet her at Starbucks. No, she told him to ring the bell.
    And there it was, sounding like Big Ben in an echo chamber.
    She pressed the buzzer to let him in. The old freight elevator creaked its way upward. She opened the door to wait. What was that smell? Whatever it was set her salivary glands working overtime. She realized that between the matinee of the off-Broadway play she’d wanted to see for weeks and a stop at the Mulberry Street Library to pick up a book they’d requisitioned from another branch, she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The elevator reached her floor, and Walsh stood there, pizza box in one hand, bottle of wine in the other, and a can of Coke in his jacket pocket.
    “Peace offering,” he said, holding up the box. “Vegetarian. The wine’s for me.”
    Shit!
    He deftly juggled his offerings and pulled the cord that lifted half the elevator door and lowered the other half. “Hope you haven’t eaten.”
    She wanted to say she had, but the aroma radiating off the pizza box was too enticing to turn down. It’d be the classic cutting-off-the-nose-to-spite-the-face scenario. Why not fill her belly while getting instructions on how to save her ass so someone else’s could land in jail. The thought of being a traitor almost sent her hunger into time out.
    Walsh had ditched his suit in lieu of worn jeans and a burgundy polo shirt under a lightweight khaki jacket. The earthy colors played nicely off his olive skin and dark eyes. He wore different shoes. Though casual, they still looked both Italian and expensive.
    He scanned the large room, found the table, and headed for it. Tawny went to the cupboard and withdrew two glasses and two dishes.
    “Nice place,” he said, pulling the Coke from his pocket. He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on one of the other chairs.
    Make yourself at home, why don’t you? The shirt was short sleeved, and his arms were taut and muscular. But she knew that, wished she could forget it.
    “Thanks.” She put a stack of napkins on the table along with a knife. “Thanks for the pizza. I am hungry.”
    He opened the box, separated the slices, and put a couple on each plate. “Business after food.”
    She nodded. “Oops, almost forgot.” Going back to another cupboard, she pulled out a small bottle of crushed red pepper. “I like spicy. How about you?”
    “I almost forgot.” He tugged his jacket off the chair and extracted a small packet of red pepper from the pocket, holding it up. “I like hot too.”
    “So far, that’s the only thing we have in common,” she said.
    He matched her gaze and smiled. “Don’t be too sure.”
    His eyes were like nuggets of coal set under a canopy of black fringe, and his smile set them sparkling. Damn the Svengali effect he had on her.
    “Sure you won’t join me in a glass of wine?”
    She shook her head, and he popped open the can of Coke and poured it, then pulled the cork from the wine bottle. “I didn’t know whether you had a corkscrew, so I had the shop open the bottle.”
    “Since I don’t entertain here and don’t drink, I don’t have