FIRST KISS Page 3

  But no blanket ever expected anything from you the morning after.

  Downstairs for breakfast, he tried to pay attention to the newspaper, but the front page headlines hardly registered. Ross and Maggie had invited him to join them at church this morning, but he had refused. Sixteen years of regular services at Holy Cross had been enough church for him.

  Of all the changes Ross had made in recent years, the churchgoing would most astound everyone who had known him in Buffalo. There, his office had been his church, power and success his gods. McKinney Industries had been his top priority. But since Maggie's near-fatal car accident more than two years ago, Ross had turned his whole life upside down for her. Every decision he'd made had been based on her best interests, and it had apparently paid off. They were happier now than they'd ever been. They were going to have a baby. They were in love.

  The idea of falling in love was foreign to Tom. It wasn't that he'd made a conscious decision not to fall in love. It had simply been incompatible with his decision to become rich and powerful. Achieving that had required single-mindedness, commitment, ruthlessness.

  Maybe he could use the same principles to find a wife. If he applied himself as intently to it as he had to earning his first 50 million, wasn't he virtually guaranteed success? And if he concentrated on doing whatever it was women liked, on being the sort of man that appealed to them…

  He smiled thinly. Only one kind of man appealed to the women he knew—a rich one. To make this venture successful, he would have to identify an entirely different segment and target his search accordingly.

  As if by magic, a china pot appeared in front of pouring steaming coffee into his cup and distracting him from his thoughts. He waited until his cup was full before he raised his gaze in a slow journey from a black wool skirt to a blue silk blouse, open at the neck to reveal a sizable sapphire resting against pale skin. Up a long throat to a stubborn jaw, a sensual mouth, to the nose, high cheekbones, and deep-set eyes inherited from a mother she had little affection for.

  She noticed his perusal and smiled smugly. "And good morning to you, too. Interesting news in the paper today. The stock market crashed. The IRS has raised taxes another ninety percent. Aliens landed in New York City and no one noticed."

  Tom didn't have a clue as to what she was talking about.

  Then she gestured to the newspaper he was holding. "Mind wandering a bit, huh? What were you thinking about?"

  "Business." It was the one answer everyone would accept as gospel.

  "It's too beautiful a day for that—and a Sunday, besides. It's still the weekend. You do understand the concept? Two days that come at the end of the week, when people normally relax and rest up for the next week? There are fifty-two of 'em every year. You should check 'em out sometime."

  Folding the paper, he gestured toward the empty chair. "Want to join me for breakfast?"

  "I'm afraid I can't. I'm working today, and the boss is a real slave driver."

  "I don't doubt it," he agreed, earning him a warning glance from her hazel eyes. "Give yourself the morning off and order the others to double up."

  "I can't do that. Sorry."

  Her rejecting him. That was a change—and he wasn't sure he liked it. "What time do you get off?"

  "Oh, you'll be long gone by then. Look me up before you go." With a bright smile, she left, making the rounds of all the tables, topping off coffee cups, chatting with diners, playing the gracious hostess. He wondered when she would find her way back to his table for a minute.

  She didn't. If it were anyone else, he'd think she was upset about last night. But it wasn't anyone else. It was love-'em-and-leave-'em Holly, his female counterpart. No strings, no commitments, no expectations beyond great sex. It was the act that counted, not the partner. The physical satisfaction, not the emotional.

  Not only did she not come back to chat, but he didn't see her again before he left. He did ask about her as he paid his bill and was told that she'd left on an errand and wouldn't be back for a while. Unfortunately, he didn't have a while to spare.

  He was halfway back to Buffalo before he wondered about that "unfortunately." He'd never bothered to track her down to say goodbye before. After all, all there really was between them was business. She owned an inn; he was a frequent guest. He paid for certain services; she saw that they were provided. The fact that one—or both—of them might want something more was inconsequential.

  In spite of those arguments, he still found it unfortunate that he'd had to leave without seeing her again.

  Darkness had settled by the time he reached the building that housed his office and those of the few McKinney employees left in Buffalo. It was one of the tallest in the downtown area and offered dramatic views on all sides. Tom could look out his window and see his apartment, the neighborhood where Ross and Maggie had last lived—even, if he chose to find it, the neighborhood where he'd grown up.

  He never made that choice.

  He picked up paperwork, then headed for the apartment he called home. On the thirty-second floor of an exclusive building, the place had more space than he needed, was furnished to reflect the tastes of some anonymous decorator, and had cost a few million—double that for the antiques, the rugs, and the paintings. It was about as homey as any expensive hotel. If forced to leave that night and take only what was important to him, he could be out in thirty minutes or less. A few mementos, a few cartons of books, and he would have all that mattered.

  Once he closed the door behind him, the silence was deafening. The building was so well designed for privacy that he lived in a vacuum. To assure himself that he wasn't alone in the world meant going out onto the balcony, where the street sounds filtered up. To know that it was storming meant pulling back a heavy drape and looking outside. To hear proof that he had neighbors in the building, he'd have to… Well, he didn't know what he would have to do. He'd never heard and had rarely seen his neighbors.

  The damn place made him feel isolated.

  He went to the office. The message light was flashing on the answering machine, and there was a stack of faxes. He hit the Play button on the answering machine, opened his briefcase, then flipped through contracts, bids, reports—nothing that required his immediate attention.

  There were three messages from Deborah. The last one was decidedly blunt. "What's up, Tom? I've called and called. I even came by your apartment and rang the doorbell for ten minutes. Are you ignoring me? Did you have to go out of town unexpectedly? Are you seeing someone else?"

  "Yes, I'm ignoring you," he muttered, stopping the tape in mid-rant. It was time to end things with Deborah. Time, maybe, to do something about this place where he lived. Time to formulate a plan for finding the woman he would marry.

  But would it be wrong to have one last fling while he was looking? If he spent a few days and most especially a few nights, with Holly? Why not indulge himself? Holly wouldn't expect anything more than he offered. There was no potential for wounded feelings or disappointments or betrayals.

  But it felt wrong.

  He gave a harsh laugh. He was too tired, too edgy; too something. What was wrong with him that he turned down an affair with a woman he'd wanted ever since he'd met her?

  The phone rang and grated on his nerves. So did looking at the gifts piled high on a table in the living room. At least those he could do something about. He found several empty file boxes in the storeroom and filled them with every last gift. He didn't want the stuff, but Holy Cross was always in need of operating funds, and Father Shanahan would gladly accept them in the form of crystal, sterling, or gold.

  He didn't load the boxes until he'd downed two scotches to ease the knotting of the muscles in his stomach. Going back to the old neighborhood was something he'd sworn he would never do, but he'd broken that vow little more than a year ago. Asked by Ross to dispose of a diamond and sapphire bracelet, he'd delivered it to Father Shanahan late one evening and renewed his promise to stay away. But here he was, heading back again
.

  It was late, and the streets were mostly deserted. These few blocks of Flaherty Street

  had always been poor, but they hadn't always been dangerous. These days they were both. Only the most desperate of Buffalo's residents called the area home. Abandoned buildings, condemned by the city, had been taken over by runaways, gangs, prostitutes, and drug dealers. Shops were closed down, their windows broken, their security grills little protection against the thugs who lived in the neighborhood. Weeds grew in cracks both in the sidewalks and the streets, and everything was marked with signs of graffiti, vandalism, or violence.

  He drove slowly, his fingers clenching the wheel tightly. The little voice inside him, the one he surely should have silenced after all these years, was screaming, Get me out of here! God, he hated this place.

  He was only a few hundred feet from the church when movement on the sidewalk caught his attention. It was a woman walking briskly; shoulders hunched, head ducked. She didn't glance up as she stepped from the curb into the street, not until the squeal of his brakes startled her. She stopped short, wide-eyed and frightened, as his car skidded at an angle toward her.

  In spite of his best efforts, the right front fender clipped her, knocking her to the ground and out of sight. Muttering curses, Tom brought the car to a stop, then jumped out. She was already sitting up, dusting herself off, when he reached her. "My God, are you all right?"

  She straightened the knitted cap on her head, then extended a gloved hand to him. "I think so. Help me up, will you?"

  "Maybe you should wait—I'll call an ambulance—"

  "You think an ambulance would come down here at this time of night? What world do you live in?" Without waiting for his assistance, she scrambled to her feet and dusted her backside.

  Her clothing was shabby enough to suggest that she lived around there, too clean for her to be living on the streets. A fringe of curly blond hair showed underneath the black cap, and her fair skin looked even fairer against her red scarf. Her brown overcoat almost touched her tennis shoes and as she moved gave a glimpse of faded jeans underneath. It was impossible to guess how old she was, somewhere between twenty and forty. Probably closer to twenty he thought, unless life had been kind. But life on Flaherty Street

  was never kind.

  "Now where did my bag go?" Spying it against the curb, she walked over without so much as a limp and picked it up. After making sure nothing was missing, she slung the handle over one shoulder, then took another look at him. "You take a wrong turn somewhere?"

  "I was on my way to see Father Shanahan."

  "At this time of night?" She stepped closer and sniffed, then wrinkled her nose as if he offended her. "When you've been drinking?"

  Abruptly he realized the potential danger in the situation. Anyone with a day's experience in poverty could take one look at him and see that he had money. He had been drinking, and he had run her down, even though it was her fault. When faced with a defendant with deep pockets, juries didn't care too much about fault. He could have hurt her badly. She deserved something for her trouble, and he deserved to stay out of court.

  "I haven't been drinking," he said stiffly. "I had a few drinks. But if you hadn't walked right out in front of me…" Returning to his car, he got his checkbook and a pen, and braced the checkbook on the roof of the car as he began to write. "What's your name?"

  "Sophy. Sophy Jones."

  "How much do you want?"

  "How much do I want for what?"

  "To forget this. To let it end here."

  "I don't—" Suddenly, understanding dawned, and her eyes widened. "I don't want your money I'm not hurt, and it was my fault, and even if I were hurt, I would never try to profit from an accident I caused!"

  "You wouldn't, huh?" He'd learned over the years not to believe any woman who protested too loudly that she wasn't interested in his money. That was usually just before he found her up to her elbows in his bank account. "What is it? You want to talk to your lawyer first? Find out who I am and how much I can pay? Are you afraid of settling for a hundred grand tonight if there's a chance of getting a million or so in court?"

  She gave him a look that was equal parts disbelief and amusement. "Oh, yes, of course my lawyer is just sitting around waiting for my important calls. In the meantime, he keeps my accountant and my stockbroker in line, and worries along with my personal physician about my late-night walks through this neighborhood." She came closer, raising her hand as if she were going to check for a fever, and he automatically stepped back to avoid her touch. "Maybe you should call that ambulance, mister. Maybe you bumped your head when you stopped."

  He watched her suspiciously. "You expect me to believe that you don't want anything."

  "I don't care what you believe. I'm just grateful your reflexes are as fast as they are, and I'm sorry I walked out in front of you without looking."

  She eyed him up and down again. "You're a very wealthy man, Mr. Flynn. It's easy for a wealthy man to give away large sums, isn't it? A hundred thousand dollars? Small change to a man like you. A million? Petty cash."

  A chill shivered down his spine. He prided himself on being able to anticipate his opponents' moves, on identifying and undermining their strategies. But he didn't have a clue as to what Sophy Jones was up to.

  "All that money, all that success, and what do you have to show for it? Probably a beautiful office. A showplace home. A Porsche." She gingerly rubbed her hip. "Expensive clothes, incredible luxury, never a moment's worry about money. But that's all."

  "All?" Tom echoed. "What more could I want?"

  "Oh, I don't know. A family. Friends. Someone whose life is better because you're in it."

  His mouth thinned to a flat line. He had no desire for a family, merely a wife. Friends were overrated. And as for making that kind of difference in someone's life… That sounded like a sappy definition of love. His ridiculous, impossible goal. "And where do you propose that I acquire these things? At the family-and-friends store at the mall?"

  "Your money won't help you with that. Money can't buy a wife or friends—at least not the good ones. To get that, you have to rely on the warmth of your personality, your trustworthiness, your character, your generosity, and your sense of humor." She appeared to consider what she'd just said, then gave a shake of her head. "Or maybe not."

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence," he said dryly. Time to steer the conversation back on course. "Now are you sure you're all right? If you become persuaded differently and choose to see a doctor, let me know. I can get the top specialists in their fields—"

  "I won't be persuaded differently," she said firmly.

  He wished he could believe her, wished he didn't think that Sophy Jones of Flaherty Street

  saw him as her ticket to a brighter future.

  She sighed, then said, "Boy are you a case," as if she'd read his mind. She started walking back the way she'd come.

  "Hey! You were going the other way."

  She turned and walked backward while smiling sweetly. "I know a shortcut—one that gets me away from you. Enjoy your visit with Father Pat. And don't be surprised if you see me around sometime." With a wave, she spun around and disappeared into an alley.

  Slowly Tom closed his checkbook and slid it into the breast pocket of his overcoat. He wasn't the least bit relieved by her insistence that she didn't want his money. She'd known who he was; her last comment no doubt meant he would soon be hearing from some two-bit lawyer claiming that nothing less than millions would ease her pain and suffering.

  Damn, he'd tried to do a priest a favor, and look what it got him.

  Swearing as he climbed back into the car, he finished the drive to Holy Cross. The iron fence surrounding the church was rusted, the gate propped open on broken hinges. It was a wonder the diocese hadn't shut the place down years ago and left the souls of the residents of Flaherty Street

  up for grabs.

  Though the doors should have been locked and barred, they weren't. Tom
carried the boxes inside, set them in a corner, and left as quietly as he'd come. He didn't want to see Father Shanahan, didn't want to hear the voice that had dogged him enough in the first sixteen years, he would never forget it. You're a good boy, Tom. Why do you give your mother such grief? In trouble again, Tom? Why don't you direct all this energy into something worthwhile instead of causing such misery for yourself? Let her go, Tom. It's time. Tell her you love her and let her die in peace.

  She had wanted a better life for her son—had worked herself to death trying to give it to him—but what he'd achieved wasn't what she'd had in mind. Their definitions of "a better life" had varied greatly. To Lara Flynn, it had meant a safer neighborhood, enough food, a decent job, a family, a home, and services at Holy Cross at least once a week. To him it had meant succeeding beyond his wildest dreams. She might have been impressed by all that he'd done, but she would have deeply regretted all that he'd sacrificed to do it.

  She wouldn't be proud of the man he'd become.

  It took a long time for the knots in his stomach to unravel, and the tension that constricted the muscles in his neck to ease. The more distance he put between himself and Flaherty Street

  , the better he felt. By the time he got home, he was ready to return to his agenda.

  How best to end things with Deborah?

  How to find the perfect wife?

  And the most important question of all: What to do about Holly?

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  Mondays were generally slow at the inn, but this Monday also happened to be the end of the month. Holly had about a million entries on her things-to-do list, and not a single one of them said, Take a walk in the woods. So, of course, what was she doing? Taking a walk in the woods.

  If it weren't the end of the month, she would have gone shopping, had dinner in a restaurant not her own, stayed in someone else's hotel, where all the worries and crises fell on someone else's shoulders. She might even have asked some handsome man to stay there with her.