Free Falling for Sir by Cat Kelly Page A

a sap, she added hastily, "And, of course, he looks good in a
tux."
    "See," Mike had laughed at her.
"You're waiting for James Bond."
    Eventually Marianne laughed too.
    Suddenly he pointed the neck of his beer bottle
at her and slurred, "I've got just the man for you."
    Consequently, just a few weeks after that
conversation in Mike's kitchen, here she was on a blind date with a man
selected by her brother as "perfect".
      Perfectly
awful, she thought.
    He ordered for her from the menu, sent the first
bottle of wine back because he insisted it was "corked", and droned
on for an hour about himself. She tried not to let it bother her. Maybe, like
her, he was a nervous talker.
    But her mind kept wandering. Directly into Jack
Marchetti's arms.
    Her boss had followed her into a coffee shop and
tried to ask her out on a date. She was still reeling from that. Of course she
had to turn him down, because the situation was impossible. She wasn't the type
of woman to have her head turned by an expensive suit and she would prefer to
be noticed at work for reasons other than sleeping with the boss, thank you
very much.
    So what if he was hot, funny, and had looked at
her in that coffee shop as if he didn't know anyone else was alive? Falling for
Mr. Marchetti would be deadly for her career. Besides she'd heard he never
stayed in one place for long and he would probably be off again in the New
Year. She wanted a man willing to set down roots and...ugh, what was she
saying? To even consider Jack Marchetti and her future in the same thought span
was ridiculous. What was he...forty? He traveled the globe in first class
comfort; she rode the subway every day and tried to avoid the seat with the
suspicious damp patch. He wore custom-made suits and shoes hand made in Italy.
She shopped for her clothes in places with Barn and Warehouse in the title.
    Their only connection was work. And sex at The
Club.
    Marianne dug her fork into her sea bass and
tried to concentrate on her date, but half way through the entree her companion
answered his cell phone and, despite the dirty looks of other diners and a few
passing waiters, he proceeded to shout loudly into it until the last bite of
pasta was shoveled between his lips. Since she'd been so distracted thinking
about her boss, she supposed it would be hypocritical to blame him for putting
present company on the back burner too, but by the time he blew his nose on the
edge of the white tablecloth Marianne was ready to leap, fully clothed, into
the East River. While he was quizzing the luckless waiter over every item on
the bill, she excused herself to the ladies' room and walked out of the
restaurant unnoticed.   The hostess didn't
even try to stop her, just shot her a sympathetic look.
    Her brother, she concluded, had a sick sense of
humor. Or else he was still paying her back for the time she flushed his
baseball card collection down the toilet when they were kids.
    She took a cab home to her apartment. After
paying the fare, she turned to hurry up the front stoop and suddenly felt a
chill rippling over her skin, reaching under her clothes. She shivered,
imagining her mother's voice telling her she should have buttoned up her coat
in this weather. But it was a different sort of cold that touched her. As the
cab pulled away, she looked over her shoulder and saw a sleek, black sedan
moving off slowly from the other curb. The windows were dark and it made no
more than a low, contented purr as it disappeared slowly down the street.
    Frowning, she dashed up the steps into the
building. Weird. Rare to see a car like that one in this area.
    Safely in her apartment, Marianne kicked off her
shoes, hung up her coat and made some hot chocolate. For a long time she sat on
her couch, watching the weather channel, patently aware of the fact that
weather forecasts didn't matter to most people her age because they were out on
the town Friday nights, enjoying themselves whether it rained, or snowed or was
90 degrees