it would show up on his monitor along with her screen name, ITchick, for "Italian chick." It was hi again, though technically they hadn't even said - let alone kissed - a good night. The arrival of the security cruiser and the Carusos and company had put a kibosh on that.
Her cursor blinked without pause for long seconds. Maybe he'd left his keyboard for a soda or a bowl of cereal or -
HT
His "hi there" seemed less than enthusiastic. miss u, she typed quickly, needing reassurance. The pause was longer this time, and Rachele couldn't hold out against it.
r u there? She typed.
here, YAUN4U wrote back.
For some reason the four-letter word looked pissed off.
Rachele's fingers flew, what? she wrote.
WE CAN'T KEEP THIS UP.
Her stomach clenched, this? she wrote back, what
"THIS?"
SNEAKING. HIDING.
private! She protested, glancing over at her father, alone time!
YAUN4U just repeated himself: sneaking, hiding.
Rachele replayed the evening in her mind. They'd met outside the office, and Cal had lifted her up and swung her around in his arms. She'd laughed and run her fingers through his Beatles-mop, then kissed the top of his head. As he'd brought her feet back to the ground, her chin had bumped his glasses askew.
He'd looked so darn cute with them half-hanging off his face that she'd gone on tiptoe and planted a big wet kiss on his smiling mouth.
And like every other time they'd kissed before, she'd felt that Cupid-wound over her heart reopen and spill that perfect mix of exhilaration and certainty through her bloodstream.
But now Cal didn't seem as certain as she.
Was this the infamous electronic dump? A blow-off by e-mail was supposed to be bad, but via IM was ranked the lowest of the low.
r u... Her fingers stumbled over the letters. R u saying ljbf?
Let's just be friends.
no. The answer came back with gratifying speed. I'm saying TELL YOUR FATHER ABOUT US.
Tell her father? Rachele glanced over at him, lost in Leno, so lost to her. Could she break his concentration and break the news that his daughter had another man in her life?
soon, she typed. Soon she would tell him. But how would her father take the news? Would he see her finally growing up as a defection or a natural progression?
She would hate to hurt him. Hate it.
But Cal would hurt her if she didn't come clean, because losing him would break her heart. And then she'd be glued to the daughter seat on the den's plaid couch for the rest of her life.
Chapter Seventeen
"Let's Sit This One Out" Vic Damone My Baby Loves to Swing (1963)
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Standing on the sidewalk outside Johnny's front door, Tea jumped at the sound of his voice. Her fingers slipped off the tape measure's lock. Its long metal tongue, extending more than twenty feet, recoiled, the end whipping back and forth as it was pulled back into its bright yellow housing. "I'm doing my job," she said, trying to sound pleasant while not looking at him. "The one you hired me for."
There was no reason not to sound pleasant, she reminded herself, as she picked up the memo pad lying next to her briefcase to make a notation. Though their "date" on Friday night had ended abruptly - at least it felt that way to her - it didn't have a bearing on this Monday afternoon and their remaining relationship. The professional one.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him across the pool and moving closer. Taking a quick sidestep, she pressed her ankle against her briefcase, keeping herself between him and the secret she'd hidden inside.
The book. The Loanshark book.
All weekend, as she alternated between brooding over Johnny's abrupt abandonment of her outside her office - not to mention nary a phone call to apologize or to explain - and working at her sketchpad on designs for the house, the book had intruded on her concentration. Even now it seemed to call to her in a low, whispery voice.
"And what the hell are you wearing?"
This voice was crabby, abrupt, and much too close by. Tea jolted again, her startled movement knocking over her briefcase and spilling its contents. Pencils, an art eraser, a Modernism magazine, and a bulky black nylon makeup bag slid onto the pavement.
Tea crouched to reclaim the items, reaching for the makeup bag first.
Johnny was faster. His long fingers closed over the black nylon as he bent too. "Why are you dressed like that?"
She didn't need to look at what she