Free Where the Heart Chooses by Tinnean

what they wanted and what I wanted was the same
thing.
    “I’m so pleased to hear this. Now that we
have that out of the way, I have a favor to ask of you.”
    “Ask away, little sister.”
    “You have a very extensive record
collection. Does ‘It Had to Be You’ happen to be on any of
them?”
    “Hmm. I believe Billie Holiday did a version
of it.”
    “Will you let me borrow it?”
    “Of course. When did you need it?”
    “You’re a lifesaver! I’m having a dinner
party tomorrow. Do you mind if I stop by your place and pick it
up?”
    “Not at all, but suppose I drop it off at
your place? It will only take me a few minutes to get there.”
    “All right. Thank you. I’ll brew a pot of
tea.”
    “That sounds good. I’ll pick up some
pastries.”
    “Excellent. Bye, Bryan.”
    “Bye, Portia.”
    I went into the kitchen, put the kettle on
to boil, and then set my table with placemats and the set of good
china that Mother insisted I have.
    About twenty minutes later, Bryan knocked on
my door. He handed me the album, which I put on the turntable.
    When I turned around, he was placing éclairs
and napoleons on the plate I’d left out for them.
    I poured the Earl Grey, offered him the
honey he preferred to take with his, and fixed mine the way I liked
it.
    Then we sat down, and while Billie Holiday
sang, we chatted of what was going on in our respective agencies,
what was happening at home, movies, books, and, of course,
music.
    We didn’t talk about our love lives. Bryan
was my one brother who wouldn’t harass me about my plans. It wasn’t
that he didn’t care; it was just that he was very contained.
Sometimes I had the impression that he’d found his “one,” but it
hadn’t turned out well for him.
    I hoped I was wrong.
    * * * *
    The doorbell chimed at the stroke of
seven-thirty on Friday, signaling Nigel’s arrival.
    I gave a glance around my apartment.
Everything was neat and tidy. Billie Holiday’s Music for
Torching was on my console record player—there was just room
for it, a loveseat, and a coffee table in my tiny living room—and I
set the needle in the groove, leaving the stacker feature back so
it would repeat.
    As “It Had to Be You” played softly in the
background, I went to open the door.
    “Good evening, Portia.” Nigel wore a black
overcoat, and in his left hand he held his hat, while his right
held a bouquet of red roses.
    “Good evening, Nigel. Please come in. Let me
take your hat and coat.”
    “Thank you.”
    I hung them up in my tiny closet.
    “I brought you these.” He offered me the
bouquet.
    “Thank you. They’re lovely.” As was he. My
mouth began to water. No other man, not even Jason, had caused such
a reaction in me.
    “No lovelier than you.”
    “Thank you again.” I’d taken the day off,
much to my brother’s displeasure, and had had my hair and nails
done. Nigel had seen me in evening gowns before when we’d attended
various functions around the Capitol, but this evening I wore a
blue silk dress with a sweetheart neckline, sheer three-quarter
sleeves, and a slim skirt that fell to mid-calf. Matching sandals
with two-inch heels revealed my Lust-painted toenails.
    His eyes were hot and hungry, and I
swallowed a smile. Whither now, Mr. Freeze?
    “Let me get a vase for these.” I went into
my equally tiny kitchen, only then remembering I didn’t have a
vase. Annoyed with myself, I began opening cabinets to see what I
did have. Finally I found a pitcher in one of the upper cabinets,
but even with the two-inch heels, it was just out of my reach.
    “May I help you?”
    “Nigel! Yes—” His arm encircled my waist,
while his other hand encircled my throat, and I leaned back against
him. He nuzzled aside the diamond and sapphire drops that hung from
my ear and nipped the tendon in my throat. “Please.” But I didn’t
know if I was pleading with him to help me or make love to me.
    A final nip, and he set me aside and took
down the pitcher, watching,