"You are really quite dreadful," Emily told her, but she was smiling.
"He's a lovely man, darling. Enjoy yourself. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever known a time when you did enjoy yourself with a man. Any man. Either you are the most discreet woman in the world, or…" And then Savannah gasped.
"I have to go, Sava," Emily said quickly. She did not want to get into a discussion about her virginity with Savannah Banning, whose novels, it was rumored, were printed on fireproof paper. "Say hi to Sir Reginald for me. Toodles!" And she rang off.
Emily turned restlessly in her bed, and asked herself for the third time just how she, inexperienced as she was, was going to seduce a sophisticated and urbane man like Michael Devlin. And he would be coming to Egret Pointe, to her house, for the weekend in just a few days. And suddenly she heard her grandmother O'Malley's voice as plain as day, saying, "The way to a good man's heart is through his stomach, Emily." She almost laughed aloud, remembering how he had gobbled down those two beef-and-cheddar wraps at Felicity's. The man had a good appetite on him.
"I'll bet no woman ever cooked for you, Mick Devlin," Emily said aloud.
Outside her window a cardinal started calling, and the sparrows in the pine tree were chattering noisily. The clock on her fireplace mantel struck five a.m. She was not going to go back to sleep. Emily sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She had menus to plan for the weekend. And shopping to do. And she would ask Rina and Dr. Sam to dinner Friday night to help her get over any shyness with Devlin. She had a man coming for the weekend whom she had only met once. And she was going to seduce him. Well, she was going to try. With his reputation it would probably be easy. A prime rib, a good red wine. Chocolate mousse or trifle. He would be putty in her hands. If there was one thing Emily Shanski could do as well as write, it was cook.
Michael Devlin swung off the parkway onto the Egret Pointe exit. Turn right at the bottom of the ramp, Emily had told him. He did. When he'd heard her voice on the phone, his cock had tingled, and he was again surprised by the effect this woman was having on him. He was forty years of age come August, not some kid in heat for the first time. Two miles down County Road 3 he saw the sign: welcome to egret point, founded 1723. He was enchanted, for it had the air of a New England village, yet it wasn't New England. He was just seventy-five miles from the city.
The main street was lined in ancient maples just now greening up. There was a village green with a gazebo; a duck pond, on the far side of which were pink Kwanzan cherry trees in full bloom. The shops were deliberately small, and charming. Some had offices above them, for he saw a sign that read, johnson and pietro d'angelo, attorneys-at-law. And the streetlights were real antique gas lamps, not those faux modern ones you saw in so many places now. Devlin almost missed his turn onto Colonial Avenue at the far end of the village. He paid closer attention to his driving so that he was prepared for the turn onto Founders Way.
"It has just five houses on it," Emily had told him. "The first two are genuine Colonials. The next two are Empire, but one is modern. I'm the big Empire at the bottom of the street. It's not really a cul-de-sac, but similar to one. You can park your car at the very end of the driveway. I'll be watching for you."
He made the turn and drove to the end of the little street, pulling all the way up into her driveway, and catching his breath as she came out from the house to greet him. Damn, she was lovely! She was wearing khaki slacks that hugged a very round little butt, and a cream-colored silk shirt. She wore no lipstick, and it tickled him. Emily Shanski was obviously not a girl who doted on her appearance. It told him she had enough confidence in herself not to worry about such things. All the women he knew did.
"You drive a Healy!" were the first words out of her mouth, and she hurried by him to admire his car. "It's a 'sixty?" Emily ran her hand over the cream-colored fender.
'"Sixty-one," he said. "I brought it with me from Ireland to New York to England, and back to New York again. They are very rare now, I'm told."
"I have a 'sixty-three in the garage," she told him. "I just found it about five years ago, and had it restored. Mine is Racing Green, but I've got the roll-up windows."
"A distinct advantage when it's about to rain," he admitted.
"Oh, I'm being so rude," she exclaimed, blushing. "Welcome to Egret Pointe, Mr. Devlin. Grab your bag, and I'll show you to your room. I hope you don't mind coming in the kitchen door, but it seems silly to drag you around to the front at this point."
"Mick," he said. "My friends call me Mick. And I prefer the kitchen door. Back in Ireland when I grew up only the priest came in the front door." He pulled the elegant bag from the back of the car and followed her up two small steps into the house. His nose twitched. "Is that roast beef I smell cooking?" he wanted to know.
"I took the chance you didn't keep a meatless Friday," Emily admitted. "But if you do, I have some salmon in the freezer I can cook."
The look on his face was beatific. "No, I do not keep a meatless Friday, Emily, and rare beef is my favorite meal. There would not, by chance, be some potatoes roasting around that meat, would there?" The hopeful look on his face made him appear boyish.
"Now, sir, what kind of an Irish girl would I be if I didn't have the potatoes roasting about the beef?" she teased him.
"It's O'Shanski then, is it?" Devlin teased back.
Emily laughed. "My mother was an O'Malley," she explained, "and this was my Grandma O'Malley's house once upon a time. Both she and Granny Katya taught me to cook. I do a mean kielbasa and pierogies too."
"I think you may be the perfect woman, Emily," he flattered her. "You write wonderful novels, and cook as well." And I'll bet you fuck like a dream, too, he thought to himself, his eyes briefly sliding over the twin mounds beneath the silk blouse. He had never been more tempted in his life, and he was going to have a difficult time keeping his hands off of her, which surprised him. He had always managed a strong reserve where women were concerned. Enjoy what they offer, but don't get emotionally involved was his longtime motto.
"Reserve your judgment until you've tasted my dinner," Emily advised him. "Come on. I promised to show you to your room." She hurried from the kitchen, and he fell into step behind her.
The home had a gracious center hallway with a graceful staircase. As they reached it the doorbell chimed, and then the door opened to admit an older couple.
"Rina, Dr. Sam," Emily greeted them, turning. Then, looking back at Michael Devlin, she said, "Upstairs to the left, second door. And come back down to meet my friends." She gave him a smile before she moved away to welcome her other guests.
He mounted the staircase, and as he went he heard the newly arrived woman say, "My God, Emily, he's even more gorgeous close up! Are you sure you want us to stay for dinner? If I were in your shoes I'd want him all to myself." Devlin grinned to himself.
"Rina, he'll hear you," Emily said, and felt her cheeks growing warm.
Dr. Sam Seligmann chuckled. "I'm not going anywhere, Rina. I smell roast beef."
"Like I never cook?" Rina Seligmann said as they entered the gracious parlor of the house. She plunked herself into a comfortable club chair.
"You cook fine, but not like our Emily," Dr. Sam answered his spouse. "Shall I make everyone a drink?"
"For you and Rina, and Mick when he comes back down," Emily said. "We're having wine with dinner, and you know me-two glasses of anything is my limit."
Dr. Sam stirred up a pitcher of martinis, and had just poured one for his wife and for himself when Michael Devlin entered the room. Catching his eye, Dr. Sam held up the pitcher and tilted his head to one side quizzically.