A Different Kind of Honesty - excerpts

All the proceeds from A Different Kind of Honesty go to the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation.

Prologue

“Just don’t do the orgasm thing!”

“The what thing? Jenny! What do you mean?”

Maggie Lawless heard her sister’s laughter on the other end of the line. “You know, like in the movie When Harry Met Sally, when she fakes an orgasm at the table? They hate it when customers do that.”

Maggie giggled. She looked around at the few customers she could see from her corner booth: a couple of elderly ladies swathed in heavy, fur-collared coats despite the warmth indoors, and one diminutive, middle-aged businessman in a tired suit, coping with a pastrami on rye twice his size. Another guy sat at the counter, his face hidden by the New York Daily News.

She had to admit, none of them looked poised on the edge of a climax.

“Jenny, all I’ve got for company is an empty sandwich plate and a coffee cup. The coffee’s good, but not that good! Besides, I don’t think this is even the right diner.”

“Doesn’t matter. Tourists do it in any diner they happen to visit in New York.” Jenny's voice slipped between the gaps of the low battery warning beeps. “Look, sis, I’m sorry I can’t get there after all.”

“Don’t worry.” Beep, beep. “I’ll try and pick up a flight and come to you tomorrow. How’s that?” Beep, beep. Plink. “Jenny? Jen? Damn!”

Maggie dropped her phone on the table with a clatter. She snapped the battery out and banged it on the table in frustration, as if that would somehow shock the thing back to life. Cell phone CPR.

“Dead battery?”

A soft, warm voice pulled her attention back to the guy at the counter as he watched her from around the side of his newspaper; clear, intense brown eyes above a fine jaw and sharp cheekbones, thick black hair swept back from his forehead. She swallowed hard. Already beginning to imagine running her finger along the gold chain that skimmed his tanned throat, she had to remind herself those dark, Mediterranean looks weren’t her type at all.

Really they weren’t.

She tore her eyes away and stared at her phone, shaking her head in annoyance.

“I should have recharged it this morning. Now I have to go back to my hotel.” She glanced at him, exasperated to the point of defeat. “My day’s not going quite as I expected.”

“Wait a second.”

He slipped off his stool and reached into his pocket, bringing out his own cell phone. He held it up triumphantly.

“Same model. Wanna borrow my battery? I’m, er...fully charged,” he added with a corner-of-the mouth grin that sent a totally unexpected rush all the way down Maggie’s spine and up again.

Yeah, I bet you are, she thought. But she accepted the battery with a smile of gratitude.

“Thanks. You’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”

He acknowledged it with a slight nod of his head. “Joey Pescolloni.” He held out his hand. Maggie hesitated a heartbeat before she took it.

“Maggie Lawless,” she said, too aware of the delicious discomfort dancing around inside. He held her eyes as well as her hand for a second longer than strictly necessary and sparks shot through her like an electric current. Every nerve in her body vibrated like harp strings.

“I’ll let you make your call, then.” He slowly released her tingling fingers, smiling a crooked smile she suspected could get her into an awful lot of trouble. Just before he resumed his seat, he turned back to her.

“Then how about I take you to dinner?”

How about it? After all, if she managed to book a flight, she wouldn’t be leaving New York till tomorrow.

“Well...why not?” she smiled, reaching for her phone.

Dinner was in a very Italian restaurant with a very Italian clientele. Maggie had a shrewd idea just what sort of characters they might be, based on their sharp clothes and even sharper looks. They called him ‘Joey Boy’ and sent champagne to their table, paying scant attention to her.

Which suited her just fine.

Halfway through her second glass of wine, she told him she was on vacation to visit her sister. Well...that part was true. She also told him she worked in a theatre box office in London, which was sort of true, she had worked there, when she was eighteen and waiting for her real career to begin.

But she was with an Italian American guy named Joey Pescolloni...and although he was easily the most handsome man she’d ever shared tagliatelle con tonno e limone with, he was a little vague about what he did (‘a little this, a little that’). Somehow, it didn't seem a great idea to tell him her real profession - a British police officer. Detective Sergeant, to be exact.

Dinner developed into a neon-lit stroll to her hotel and a quiet drink at the bar; which in turn became a walk upstairs to her room, where the softness and generosity of his lovemaking shocked and surprised her. She reached her peak twice before he even entered her, and on her third time, when she heard herself cry out with sounds she’d never known herself capable of, he lost himself inside her.

Dangerous? Maybe.

Risky? Probably.

Unforgettable?

Yes. Completely, totally unforgettable.

“Just don’t do the orgasm thing,” her sister had said. Too late. Way, way too late.

© Jane Richardson 2007

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