Faeries Gone Wild Read online

“It’s smaller than my old place.”

  “Everyone new to Manhattan says that. You are new?”

  She nodded. “I do like it. How much is the charter?”

  “Rent?” He told her.

  “Do you accept cash?”

  He looked surprised. “Sure. I’ll give you a receipt, of course.”

  Dipping into her tote bag, she produced a roll of bills. Noting his surprise, she assured him it was genuine United States currency.

  “Yeah, I can see that. Just so you know, flashing anything valuable around the city can be dangerous. Might want to keep a grip on that handbag.”

  “And you a grip on your towel.”

  He sort of coughed and chuckled all at once.

  She counted money into his palm and he promised a receipt. “I’m Alec Simon, by the way.”

  “Tia Mayberry.”

  “Where you come from, Tia?”

  “I come from . . . Scandinavia.”

  “Really. I’ve always considered that an interesting place.”

  “Me, too. Until lately,” she muttered. But it was impossible to sulk while gazing into those intriguing eyes of Alec’s. Troll brown in color. Always dull and lifeless in the Enchanted Realm. Yet here on him . . .

  Alec broke the spell by waving fingers in her face. “You still with me?”

  “Sorry to go adrift. It’s just . . . your eyes don’t look like mud at all.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “They’re rich and warm and golden, like my mother’s butter brittle.”

  “So, do you need help recovering your luggage?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Are you sure? Is it stashed far?”

  As far as the nearest fire escape. “I have a plan,” she assured him.

  “Great.” He extended her the key ring, then held on to her hand. “You’ve got two apartment door keys on there—these two. This larger one is for the main door. And this smaller one is for the mailbox in the lobby.”

  “You lock up letters?”

  “Certainly. There’s a lot of crime in Manhattan.”

  “Being nosy is a crime here?”

  “Damned if it shouldn’t be. No, thieves are interested in valuable stuff like checks and credit card applications. Isn’t that a problem back home?”

  “Not much paper product crime. Life in general is fairly quiet.”

  “Hey, are you sure you want to relocate here in pandemonium central?”

  “No choice but to start over once you’ve hit rock bottom,” she murmured. “No sense in doing things the same old way, either. One day soon, Alec, I hope to be accepted for exactly who I am.”

  “There’s no better city for letting it all hang out,” Alec declared.

  “So how does a girl get started?”

  He hesitated briefly. “A girl could have dinner with me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Don’t you want to?”

  “You just seemed so out of sorts—on the phone, I mean,” she thought to add. Seemed unlikely he’d appreciate last night’s second-story eavesdropping.

  “Well, that’s because I’ve hit rock bottom, too, I suppose.” He shyly raked his thick black hair. “So what do you say? Care to rub some of that enthusiasm off on me?”

  “Rubbing’s good.”

  “Seven o’clock it is.”

  As he turned to leave, she laid a hand on his bare, damp arm and squeezed it with a gentle purpose. The tingle of strength and energy made her belly tighten.

  “Yeah?” he prompted softly.

  She blinked back to reality. “About that towel.”

  He set his hand atop hers and squeezed her back. “Coming up.”

  Alec returned to his apartment after delivering an armload of towels and some basic snacks, happier than he’d been in a long while. Tia was sweet, not bothering to hide her interest in him, not quick to set any terms on their date. Apparently, they raised ’em right in Scandinavia.

  How strange, when he was finally driven to the edge of sanity with a faery sighting, he meet a very real and appealing substitute.

  He’d been too plastered to retain many details of his hallucination, but he wanted to think she was no more stunning than the girl next door.

  All he knew for sure was that he had turned a corner when he turned down Mindy’s surface advances. He could and would get a grip back on reality. Once again take control of his doubts and fears.

  Moving to the galley kitchen, he rifled through his fridge for half a submarine sandwich and some potato salad. Ferrying the food to his coffee table along with a Coke, he parked in the middle of the sofa and used the remote to switch on the tele vi sion. He flipped through the channels to land on ESPN and leaned forward to reach for his sandwich.

  It was then that a blur on the fire escape caught his eye.

  A tip of gossamer wing?

  He launched off the cushions and charged the window. Raising the sash, he peered out. Nothing. Aside from a fat pigeon perched on the black iron railing.

  Closing the window, he took a long steadying breath. He’d seen the wing of the pigeon. It was lots smaller and duller in color. Just the same. He was buying that. He could live with that.

  Alec chose a friendly neighborhood restaurant for dinner. He explained this to Tia as they exited the building that evening.

  She paused before him on the sidewalk. “Am I dressed right?”

  “You’re asking the guy?”

  “I don’t have other friends yet. So you’ll have to fill in every which way.”

  “Well, okay!” He snapped his fingers. “First off, lose the sweater.” Tia obediently peeled off her cardigan, tossed it to him. “Now, give us a twirl.”

  Arms posed, she rotated in the tight blue sleeveless minidress that accentuated her tight, lush curves. “It’s from the new spring line,” she confided.

  “How I love the springtime,” he raved. “And the dress.”

  “How are the shoes?” She tipped up a tan skimmer with bow.

  “They look comfy, which is good, because we have a three-block walk.”

  Alec readjusted the pastel sweater on her shoulders and they began to move down 60th Street with a stream of pedestrians.

  “I’m used to walking almost everywhere,” she confided. “Are you fond of nature, Alec?”

  “Guess so. I do like Central Park.”

  “I can’t wait to see that.”

  “We’ll go soon.”

  The moment Alec ushered Tia through the front door of Forliti’s Eatery, the plump and motherly owner was at his side and on his case.

  “Who is this beautiful woman, Alec?” she demanded, taking Tia’s sweater to a small cloak area behind the register.

  “Tia Mayberry, this is Marie Forliti. Friend, snoop, and the best Italian cook this side of the Atlantic.”

  “Wonderful to meet you, Marie.”

  “You’ve done wonders to Alec’s disposition, Tia. He’s actually smiling again and navigating without that stick!” Her beaming face shadowed a little as Alec took off his leather jacket and revealed the folded cane tucked inside it. She frowned but took both to the cloak area.

  “Tia just moved to the brownstone. Thought as building manager, I’d help her get her bearings.”

  Marie patted Tia’s shoulder. “Well done, young lady. Alec hasn’t had dinner conversation with anyone but Charlie Gibson in quite some time.”

  “Who is that, Marie?”

  “The newscaster,” she replied with some surprise.

  “Tia is also new to the country,” Alec explained.

  “Should’ve known by the accent. When I first came here forty years ago, people thought I sounded different.”

  Alec smirked. Judging by her speech, Marie hit town four minutes ago.

  Marie led them to a booth in the rear, underneath some fisherman net made of string, dotted with plastic fish. Tia took a keen interest in it as she slipped along the red-and-white-striped bench. What tore her away was the sight of Ale
c sliding into a seat across from her.

  “Aren’t you going to sit with me?” she asked.

  Alec was nonplused. “Was planning—”

  “An easy getaway?” Tia winced. “Do you already have a headache?”

  “Not at all.”

  “A sick relative?”

  Alec balked. “Not within miles.”

  She patted the seat beside her with a smile. “Then sit over here.”

  Heart zinging with plea sure, he unfolded his large frame from the booth and took his place beside her. Just like high school. Marie was gonna love this.

  Sure enough, she had a twinkle in her eye when she bustled over. “How thoughtful of you two, not tying up two menus at once.”

  “Anything to conserve menus during the rush,” Alec grumbled with humor.

  “Shall we save on dishes and utensils as well?”

  “No, Marie, bring two of everything.”

  “What is your specialty?” Tia asked, scanning the menu uncertainly.

  “Toasted cheese ravioli,” Marie promptly replied.

  “Sounds delicious.”

  “Make it two,” Alec said, handing back the menu. “With a bottle of the house red.”

  “One glass or—”

  “Just do it, Marie.”

  Chuckling, the owner sidled off.

  “She likes you, Alec,” Tia observed warmly.

  “I’m handy with carpentry and plumbing; my mother is long gone. I’m just the sort of project Marie likes.”

  “What happened to your mother?”

  Alec shifted on the bench to find her stunning blue eyes full of sincere curiosity. “Both my parents died in a fire when I was nine years old. For whatever reason, I alone managed to escape—with some help.”

  “Is that why you became a fireman?” she asked tentatively.

  “Actually, yes,” he admitted quietly.

  “Fairly traumatic, huh?”

  “Tia, how do you know about my job?”

  Startled, she fiddled with her cloth napkin. “Someone told me.”

  “Thought I was your only friend.”

  “Some tenant. In the hallway. Didn’t catch his name. A tall one.”

  “Probably old man Hansen in 1C. He likes to talk. As much as you do.”

  “Ask me something personal in return if you want.”

  “Okay. What led you to John Winter’s brownstone?”

  “So he does still own it?”

  “Yes. And your answer to my question is . . .”

  “A short woman in Macy’s told me about it.” She fumbled with her napkin. “Lucky break, I suppose, her knowing John Winter.”

  “Everyone in the city knows him. He’s a rich, powerful businessman who owns a half-dozen companies and a full dozen skyscrapers.”

  “Really,” she marveled.

  “What is strange is anyone believing he would be living in the brownstone. He’s often mentioned in the newspapers, the subject of magazine articles. It’s common knowledge that he has a thirty-acre estate in Bernardsville, New Jersey, a pent house on Central Park West, and a winter place in Montecito, California—just to name the high spots.”

  “I probably just assumed he lived there. So how do you know him, Alec?” she asked eagerly.

  “I went to college with his son, Ken—in fact, we were roommates all four years. John thought I was a good aggressive influence on Ken, who’s the shy and earnest type.”

  “So John has a son,” she said softly. “How old is he?”

  “Twenty-eight—like me.”

  “Really.” Forehead puckered slightly.

  “Does that matter?”

  “I’m twenty-eight, too.” For the first time all day, her smile seemed forced. “Any other children?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “What is Ken like today?”

  “He’s living in Cincinnati with his wife. They teach at a junior college.”

  “You must miss him.”

  “I wish Ken lived closer, of course. But we’re still great friends. As are John and I. Living in the same city as John, managing his building, I see more of him than ever—and his wife, Helen.”

  “The family must mean a lot to you.”

  “Very much.”

  “I’d like to meet them sometime.”

  “Noticed.”

  The wine arrived, brought by the young man destined to be their server. Alec poured them each a glassful.

  Tia tasted it approvingly. “Every bit as good as my mother’s elderberry.”

  “She makes her own wine?”

  “She’s well known for it. Mamma supported the two of us for many years with her recipe. That and her embroidery.”

  “What about your father, Tia?”

  She gulped more wine. “He vanished. Before I was born.”

  “That’s lousy.”

  Her brilliant blue eyes flared. “I’m not sure he could help it.”

  “But he must’ve made the choice not to support you.”

  “He and Mamma shared only one night. He likely never knew . . .”

  “About you,” Alec finished self-consciously. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “I suppose you’re used to the situation by now.”

  “Does anyone ever fully recover?”

  “I’d like to think starting a family of my own will help,” Alec confided.

  “A nice complement one day to your career, I imagine.”

  He hesitated. “Yeah. Sure.”

  “I want it all myself, too,” she confided, “family and career.”

  Eager to shift off the subject of his work, he asked about hers.

  “I craft jewelry.” She touched the choker at her neck. “This is mine.”

  “Beautiful.” He couldn’t resist fingering the necklace, mostly to caress her creamy throat. Still, the silver squares imbedded with deep purple amethysts were worth close inspection. “You make a good living back home?”

  “Good enough. I was in demand, you see, due to a common metal allergy.”

  “Really. I had no idea such a thing was ever commonplace.”

  “I choose to think of my immunity as a small slice of serendipity.”

  He lifted his stemmed glass and clinked it to hers. “Good for you.”

  “Good for us, smiling up from rock bottom.” She sipped with a coyness that made him rock solid inside his briefs.

  The ravioli was, as always, heavenly. Pillows of firm pasta filled with a secret creamy cheese blend topped with a crispy Parmesan layer.

  “Naturally, I’m hoping to find the same kind of work here,” she confided, mowing her last ravioli pillow through the last dribble of red sauce before popping it into her mouth. “Though I imagine the competition will be keen, without the same immunity boost.”

  “Maybe I can help. Steer you in the right direction.”

  “That would be great,” she enthused.

  Her unguarded warmth was melting him to a defenseless puddle. But he was comfortable with it. There was an exciting sincerity humming between them. Nothing like his artificial Libation Station conquests of late. “Just off the top of my head, I’m thinking maybe some place in Soho or Greenwich Village might be interested. Trendy galleries and shops there sometimes take stuff on consignment. Or a bigger jeweler might be interested in putting you on staff. Are you good at fixing things?”

  “Oh, I can work magic with any metal.”

  She stared dreamily into his eyes then, making him so glad they didn’t remind her of mud.

  When Marie reappeared tableside, Tia thrust her empty plate at her. “May I have a refill please?”

  “Why, certainly.” Marie took the plate and the empty bread basket. “You must be very hungry!”

  “I’m hungry for several days after I fly—on a plane, of course.”

  “We all get hungry when we travel,” Marie agreed with a wink. “Seconds on the way. My treat.”

  It was shortly after ten when Alec and Tia fin
ally landed back on the street.

  “Want to go home?” Alec asked.

  “No.” She drew her shimmery brows together in challenge. “Do you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Still no headache or anything?”

  This had to be a running joke with her, the idea that he was apt to cut and run. As she looked totally serious, he pulled his arm around her shoulders. “There’s a funky little jazz club I’ve been dying to try.”

  “Somewhere new and exciting?”

  With her along? “It’s bound to be.”

  “Lead on!”

  It wasn’t until they were in the cab and rolling that Alec realized he didn’t have his cane. Or more to the point, Marie hadn’t returned it with his jacket.

  Settled back on the seat beside him, Tia read him indulgently. “You don’t really need it, do you?”

  “Maybe not.”

  “You can tell me all about it, Alec. You can trust me to understand.”

  Alec gazed away, out the window at the dark city streaking by. She would try to understand, he was certain. But there was no guarantee. In any case, this was a night for magic and smiles. “Another time, okay?”

  “You can always find me right down the hall.”

  The nightclub, in a basement in the garment district, was called The Panic. Due to the name, Tia expected glaring pandemonium inside, but instead she was treated to a dim, low-key atmosphere.

  “Like it?” Alec murmured in her ear as a young woman in black led them to one of the small round tables.

  Tia half-turned as she moved. “It reminds me of a sea cave. Seductively hollow with an earthy thrum.”

  He held out a wooden chair for her. “No doubt about it, Tia, you have life stories of your own to share.”

  A male server, also in black, appeared for their drink order. Alec requested a ginger ale. “The wine was enough for me,” he told Tia over a flickering candle. “I don’t want any blurred spots later. But have what you like.”

  “We have many house cocktails,” the server chimed in.

  Tia’s toes tingled under Alec’s dark arresting eyes. She’d been up to trying some exotic mortal cocktail, then recalled the nectar fizz highs on her pathetic quest for romance. The buzz, while pleasant, had gotten her nowhere. “Make that two gingers,” she finally said, hoping it was something half-tasty.

  A stage stood twenty feet in front of them, boasting a trio of musicians playing jazz. Tia loved the mortal rhythms and began to sway in time to them. The tune was easy enough to pick up on, but she kept mum, bearing in mind that her hum had been compared to a cobra venom seizure.