Nothing In Common Part 2

"Guys like you don't date women like me." She was desperate to explain and failing.

The wind had picked up even more, now, whipping at the corners of his leather coat when he turned back to look at her.

"You're right, Sarah. We don't date girls like you." He slid into the truck and paused before pulling the door shut. "We marry them."

CHAPTER 2.

"The lighting guy was here this morning, the carpet guy's coming this afternoon, and the plumber will be here tomorrow." Rivka's husky voice filled the telephone clamped to Sarah's ear. "It's all coming together, Sarai. I can't tell you how excited I am."

"Your own gallery." Sarah cradled the phone against her shoulder while she signed papers. "Who wouldn't be excited?"

"What do you think we should call it? I was thinking The Gallery on Second."

The gallery was going to be on Second Street. Sarah smiled. "Makes sense."

"Or how about The Second Street Gallery?"

"That sounds good, too."

"You're not helping!" Rivka shrieked.

Grimacing, Sarah held the phone away from her ear. Darren Ramsey, Sarah's personal a.s.sistant, took the papers she had signed and slid another sheaf onto the desk. All four of Sarah's magazines were due to head to the printer in less than a week. She had a million things to do for each one of them, but she had taken Rivka's call anyway. How could she have refused? She was just as excited for her sister as Rivka was herself.

Giving Darren a thumbs-up to take the last set of forms, Sarah mouthed, "My sister." The young man grinned. He'd met Rivka.

"I'll hold your calls," Darren whispered mischievously, ducking out of the office in time to miss being hit full-on by a wad of crumpled paper.

"...a big favor to ask you, Sarai."

While making faces at Darren, Sarah had missed the first part of the conversation. "Sorry, Riv?"

"You know how my mind works, right?" Rivka laughed.

Sarah heard the jingle of bracelets. She imagined her sister nervously running her hands through her short, curly hair--a telephone habit she'd had for years.

"The creative part, I mean."

"n.o.body knows how your mind works," Sarah teased.

"If anybody does, it's you," Rivka shot back, not teasing.

Sarah was surprised.

Rivka sounded serious. "You know how I get when I'm in a creative frenzy, right?"

"Sure." Sarah's reply was hesitant and a little wary. Rivka was clearly trying to get at something. The question was, what? And what part would she want Sarah to play in it?

Though she loved her sister dearly, Sarah had no illusions about what Rivka might have in mind. Since they'd been children, it had always been Rivka who'd come up with the seemingly brilliant ideas, leaving Sarah not only to do the leg work, but also the clean up. They'd collaborated on everything from lemonade stands to puppet shows, and while many of Rivka's projects had been unquestionable successes, just as many had been dismal failures. Sarah had learned to be on her toes whenever Rivka asked a favor of her.

"Remember the treehouse club?" Rivka sounded like a little girl again. "How I thought we could charge admission to the clubhouse to pay for drinks and snacks? And how everybody showed up and paid their quarters, but I didn't have any drinks and snacks to give them?"

Sarah laughed suddenly at the memory. "I remember Benny Mason threatening to beat you up, and me running down to the mini-mart to buy some Twinkies."

"You see? That's exactly what I mean. You were always my right-hand woman, Sarai. You're the one who always took my scatterbrained ideas and made sure they worked."

Sarah leaned back in her chair, the magazine production schedule temporarily forgotten. "What are you trying to say, Riv?"

"I have all these great ideas, but when it comes to the follow through..." Rivka laughed again, with no hint of embarra.s.sment. "Except for my paintings, Sarai, I'm hopeless."

"Yes." This time Sarah wasn't teasing. It was true, and they both knew it.

"I want you to take partnership in my gallery. I need someone who I can trust, Sar. I need someone who can put up with all my bull and follow through. Will you do it?"

If Rivka had asked Sarah to raise her children for her, Sarah could not have been more honored. Running Rivka's gallery was in a far different league than running down to the mini-mart to buy snack cakes. This time, her sister had obviously thought about asking for Sarah's help.

"You want me to run your gallery?"

"Partnership," Rivka corrected, "but yes."

Sarah didn't know what to say. The idea frightened and flattered her. "I don't know anything about running a gallery, Rivka."

"You don't need to, hon. You just need to know everything about running me."

"What about Mick? Can't he handle it?"

Rivka's snort was so loud Sarah had to pull the phone away from her ear. "My Mickey? That blarney-tongued charmer? C'mon Sarah! When's the last time I let Mick handle anything but my left--"

Sarah laughed out loud. "I get the picture." Mick was a wonderful husband and brother-in-law, but Mr. Responsible he was not. Mick's idea of keeping things straight was knowing which of his guitars needed tuning before he went on stage.

"So you'll do it?"

Although she was flattered by her sister's offer, Sarah had been burned too many times by the fire of Rivka's enthusiasm. Honor or no, she wasn't about to agree to the partnership before she'd asked a few more questions. "What do I have to do exactly?"

"Oh, you know. Make sure things happen. Keep my head on straight. Make sure I do what I say I'm going to do. You're good at that."

"Who else is in this partnership?"

"Me and Mick, of course. We're the creative angle, though I can see that causing one of us to sleep on the sofa more than a few times. You know I love my Mickey, Sarai, but the man can be so stubborn!"

Sarah laughed silently. Rivka calling Mick stubborn was the clearest case she had ever seen of the pond calling the ocean wet. The pair of them were both of artistic temperament, p.r.o.ne to the ecstasy and agony of creative successes and failures. Their marriage was one of the most volatile, pa.s.sionate, yet loving marriages Sarah had ever seen.

Still, Sarah couldn't help but envy Rivka a little. Her sister had found her soul mate, what Orthodox Jews called the baschert. The one person in the world so perfect for you, no matter how you met, you knew he was the one. Rivka had met Mick at a concert. They'd been married three months later.

With a sudden shiver, Sarah thought of Alex Caine's last words to her. What had he meant by, "We marry them?" Had he been implying something? Obviously not, since he hadn't called her. The showing had been more than a week ago. She hadn't given him her phone number, but when did that ever stop anybody? She was listed in the book. Then again, she hadn't called him either. Sarah sighed. She just couldn't seem to get him out of her mind.

"Sarai? h.e.l.lo? Earth to Sarah Lazin!"

"What?" She was embarra.s.sed to admit she hadn't been paying attention. "What did you say?"

"I'm just telling you who else is in the partnership. Of course, I've asked Martin. He's the business angle. If he can't market my stuff now that I have my own gallery, I don't know who can. Then you, dear sister. You'll be the fire under all our b.u.t.ts, of course. And there's also an investor, for the financial side of it--"

Sarah didn't wait to hear about that. "Fire under your b.u.t.ts, huh?"

"Don't get your panties in a twist." The grin was clear in her voice. "You know you love that stuff. I'll come up with the ideas, Martin will market them, and the investor will pay for them. You just have to be the one who makes sure we all do our jobs on time."

Sarah sighed. "It sounds like a lot of work, Riv. I do have a job of my own, you know."

"Ah yes, the high and mighty production manager of Deerkiller magazine." Rivka was teasing again. "And what's that other one? Dollhouse?"

"Archery Hunter and Doll Collector," Sarah replied dryly. Her sister knew exactly what she did for a living. "Don't forget Early Colonial Crafts and British Life."

"Will you do it, Sarai?" Rivka sounded serious. "I don't trust anyone else."

She couldn't say no, and she didn't really want to. Working with Rivka would be as close to being an artist as Sarah would ever get. She'd be lying if she said she didn't like being a part of her sister's work. It gave her a taste of what creativity was like.

"I think I'm setting myself up for a whole lot of headaches, but of course I'll do it. When have I ever let you down?"

"Never, Sarai." Rivka clapped her hands gleefully, like a child. Sarah could hear her through the phone. Rivka's bangles clamored and jangled like an out-of-tune calliope. "So you'll be at the meeting tonight, at the gallery? It's Thursday night. You don't have any hot dates tonight, do you?"

Sarah flipped through her appointment book. All clear, as usual. She hadn't had a date since she'd gone for tea with Alex Caine. Darn! Now she was thinking of him again. Resolutely, Sarah pushed the memory of his face from her mind, though the sound of him saying he wanted to kiss her refused to be banished.

"I'll cancel Keanu," Sarah said wryly. Before she could stop herself, she found herself thinking that Alex was handsomer than any movie actor. "Buy me dinner, though."

Rivka chuckled. "No problem. The investor's treating us all to dinner."

"Fair enough. See you tonight."

As soon as she had slung the phone back into its cradle, Sarah heard Darren's trademark double tap on the door. Before she could say anything, he'd entered the office with another set of papers filling his hand. He set them down on her desk, then flopped down into the chair across from hers. "What's up with Rivka? How's the gallery?"

"Almost done. She wants me to take a partnership in it."

One of the things Sarah appreciated most about Darren was his ability to convey entire conversations with little more than a glance. He was doing it now, she saw, raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips to signify being impressed. He smoothed one coffee-colored hand over his head, tousling the tight cap of bright yellow curls.

"Wow," he said. "That's like her kid or something."

"Yeah, I know."

"The last time my brother asked me to help with anything it was to enter a fantasy football league. As if! Like I care about football." He snapped twice in the air over his head. "Now, if he'd asked me what stockings to wear with the sequined, red c.o.c.ktail gown, that I might've been able to help him with."

Sarah laughed, shaking her head. She knew no one else in the company shared such a casual work relationship with their a.s.sistants, but she didn't care. Darren was more than her employee; he was her friend. Some days, he was the only source of humor she had.

"What stockings might that be, Darren?"

"Nude, honey." Darren drew the word out nasally. "Nude."

Rolling her eyes, Sarah signed the first paper on the stack. "Darren, you make my life so interesting. What would I do without you?"

Darren grinned. "Spend a lot more time working, less time disco dancin', honey!"

He got up from the chair and did a back-and-forth b.u.mp and grind that had Sarah giggling like a madwoman.

"Enough!" She glanced furtively out the open doorway of her office. Spying one of the more notoriously nosy coworkers pa.s.sing by, she made her voice stern. "I'm paying you to make copies and bring me coffee, Mr. Ramsey, not to disco dance!"

Darren grinned. "Shoot, Sarah, if you were paying me to dance, you'd never be able to afford my salary."

He's right, too, Sarah thought as she scribbled her name on another endless stack of papers. He was good enough to be on stage instead of working behind a desk as her a.s.sistant. She'd seen him dance once in a local talent show, and he'd brought the house down.

"I really don't know what I'd do without you, Darren." She was serious.

"If I'm the man in your life, honey, something is seriously wrong."

And the sad thing is, Sarah thought as she watched him b.u.mp and grind his way out of the office, closing the door behind him, he's right about that, too.

It wasn't that she didn't want a relationship. She just didn't want to date. Living as a single in a couples' world could be h.e.l.l, but suffering through endless awkward conversations and even worse, uncomfortable silences, had resigned her to ending up old and alone, a crazy lady with fifteen cats.

There hadn't been any uncomfortable silence with Alex. d.a.m.n! Sarah slapped her signature onto a few more papers, then tossed them in the Out bin. She had to stop thinking of him.

The only thing worse than being an old, crazy lady with fifteen cats would be if she ended up an old, crazy and h.o.r.n.y lady. Sarah sighed and leaned back in her chair. h.o.r.n.y didn't even begin to describe it. She was flat out s.e.xually frustrated.

And that meant she was thinking about him again.

d.a.m.n!

Alex dipped his finger into a vat of tomato sauce bubbling on the stove and tasted it. "Too spicy. Not enough sugar."

The chef, Michel duLay, nodded. At the moment, his face was as red as the scarf tied around his neck, but his whites were immaculately spotless. He wiped his hands fastidiously on a fresh cloth.

A tall, spare man in his mid-thirties, Michel's thick head of blue-black hair, snapping black eyes, and carefully groomed mustache made him look more like a professional gambler than a chef. He had, however, trained at the Cordon Bleu and was one of the most highly respected chefs in the country. He had come to The Foxfire Pub, he always said, because he was tired of metropolitan life. Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, was the perfect blend of city and country for the French master of cuisine.

Michel may have come to central Pennsylvania to escape the big city, Alex thought as the chef tossed some sugar into the vat of bubbling sauce, but he had another reason for staying. Alex's niece, Emma, a fiery, s.p.u.n.ky redhead, Michel's junior by at least ten years. Though Michel claimed she drove him insane, Alex thought privately the master of The Foxfire's kitchen was more likely crazy in love. The pair was constantly at odds in the kitchen, but they managed to turn out some of the area's finest food.

"Oui, sugar. I was telling the sous-chef that very thing, but she ... ah! She is not to be listening to me! Forgive me for saying so, Monsieur Alex, but Emma Simmons has no respect for the tomato!"

Alex grinned, but managed to refrain from laughing at the chef's bold statement. He doubted anyone, except perhaps Michel himself, could have any respect for "the tomato." "I'll speak to Emma if you'd like, Michel."

The whip-thin chef's brows knitted into a scowl Alex knew was only partly real. "Oui, Alex. If you would be so kind. I am afraid the sight of her face will have me losing my temper! And anger in the kitchen can come to no good."

The emotional chef was being completely serious. Chuckling, Alex left the kitchen. He'd never seen a person more determined to deny his attraction to someone than Michel duLay about Emma Simmons. He frowned. Suddenly, he was thinking of Sarah Lazin again.

He'd gone home that night with his mind full of her face, her scent still clinging to his skin, the imagined taste of her on his lips. A cold shower had managed to let him sleep, but he'd dreamed about her and awakened, his p.e.n.i.s hard and his head swimming. Self-induced chast.i.ty was the stupidest thing he'd ever done. s.e.x was the one thing in life he'd always been sure of. Women--gorgeous, beautiful, hot-bodied women--seemed to fall into his lap without him ever even trying. It was a gift, his grandmother had always said, that face. The best of all the family features tied up in one neat package.