Dead Certain - Mariah Stewart [65]
“You’re a lady.” He shrugged, as if it went without saying. “You deserve to be treated with respect.”
She took his hand and led him up the narrow walk to her front door. At the top of the steps she paused and asked, “Would you like to come in for a nightcap?”
“Oh, I . . . oh, yes, thank you.” He grinned his boyish best. “If you’re sure . . .”
“I’m sure. I think I have a little brandy. My ex . . . that is, an old friend used to drink brandy on holidays.” She unlocked the door and pushed it open.
“Well, this is a holiday of sorts,” he said as he stepped inside. “Since we are celebrating your birthday.”
She went directly into the kitchen. “Cujo?” she called.
Fucking cat. It had better not screw this up. He needed to get this show on the road. He was tired of sleeping in a cold lumpy bed—alone—and eating out every fucking night. He figured he had a good shot tonight if he played this right, and no damned cat was going to mess it up for him.
“There you are. Did you eat your din-din? No?”
Oh, brother.
“Vinnie, the brandy is in the sideboard. Middle door.”
“Okay.” He opened the door, thinking he could just about down the whole bottle himself. Or use it to drown the fucking cat. He found the bottle and shook it. Not enough for the cat. They might as well drink it.
“Here we go.” Dolores came into the room holding a chunky water glass in each hand. “Not exactly brandy glasses . . . what do you call them?”
“I call them brandy glasses.” He smiled and took both from her and placed them on the table. With a flourish, he poured the brandy and handed a glass to her.
“To us,” he said. “To many, many, many more nights just like this one.”
A blushing Dolores tipped her glass to his, touching rims.
“You did have a good time, didn’t you?” Sincere Vinnie. Concerned Vinnie. Gentleman Vinnie.
“Oh, I had a wonderful time, Vinnie. It was a perfect night.”
“I thought so, too. And that’s why . . . well, come into the living room. I have something to say to you.” He grabbed the bottle of brandy in one hand and his glass in the other, and shepherded a curious Dolores to the sofa.
“What, Vinnie?” She took a slug of brandy, as if she felt she needed to fortify herself.
“Well, Dolores . . . Oh, give me a minute. I’m not good at stuff like this.” He rolled his eyes upward, as if seeking guidance, closed his eyes, then turned to her and took both of her hands in his. “Dolores, I know we haven’t known each other for very long. Just a few weeks, I know—you don’t have to say it. But from the first minute I saw you—the first time I looked at your face—I just felt something. Something . . . special. Something that I never felt before with no one else.”
“Oh, Vinnie,” she cooed, much as she had earlier cooed to the cat. “That’s so sweet.”
“Now, I think you felt it, too, didn’t you, Dolores?” He drew his brows together thoughtfully. “But you can tell me if you didn’t. It would be better if you did. Tell me, I mean. Now. Before I make a fool out of myself.”
“Oh, Vinnie, you could never do that.” She squeezed his hands. “And you’re right. I did feel something that night. And every night. Every night when I go down there to the Dew, I’m hoping that you’ll be there at the bar. Just like that first night.”
“And I have been, haven’t I? Waiting for you, every night.” He swallowed hard, as if making this little speech was impromptu, even though he’d spent most of the afternoon practicing it. He could barely keep from laughing in her face.
“Yes, you’ve been there.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small blue box that he’d taken from Marian O’Connor’s shop just the night before.
“Go ahead. Open it,” he told her as he pressed the box into her hands.
“What in the world . . . ?”
“Open it.”
Her hands were shaking just the tiniest bit with excitement as she pulled the lid off.
“Oh, Vinnie. It’s beautiful.” She looked up at him, wide-eyed. “But this can’t be for me. Those look like real emeralds.”
“They not only look like real emeralds,” he told her as he lifted the pendant and chain from the box,