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Tinka
Yesterday, I would have been hard-pressed to locate a single man in this town above the regular grade of presentable-minus-minus. I was choking for help for the children, and nobody knew or even cared who I was, to the point that I probably couldn’t get arrested.
Today, men seem to be lining up to throw money at my project, and the town is fast turning into a nationwide hottie-fest.
The address I have for my meeting is a mansion on the outside of Greenmeadow. Sunset is early this time of year, and it’s a deep blue velvet dusk with a golden glow fading below the snowy hills when I arrive. Lights deep inside the mansion glow with a rich gold to match the setting sun.
My Honda crunches over about a half mile of pale, white coated gravel drive, and I pull up and park in front of the columned portico. There’s only one other car, a long, dark, wine-red Bentley. My jaw tenses. All my nerves and fears come surging back.
I tilt the mirror down and look myself in the eye.
Relax, Tinka, I tell myself. You’ve got this. Two men have already offered you all the money you need, and a lot more besides. Not to mention their use of their red hot bods. Okay, they both made it sound like they want you exclusively and for keeps. But we know where that kind end up. Take what’s on offer. Be good to yourself. You deserve it. Have some fun.
As always, I get a knot in my stomach at the thought of announcing myself. I’m sure anyone else would have gotten over their silly name before they were out of high school. Not me, though.
I keep thinking I’ll change it, just so I never have to smile and tell another head librarian, conference organizer or Maitre d,’ “Hi, I’m Tinka Belle.” But I never get around to it.
There’s no sign of any movement inside the house. I assume the mansion is operating as a hotel or a conference center. This huge place, out in the middle of nowhere, a couple of miles out of town, it couldn’t have just one man in there. Could it?
After I check on my phone for the name of the man I’m meeting so I can ask for him at reception, I step out and up to the door.
The polished black paneled door is locked. There’s no bell or intercom. I look. Twice. All I can see as a means to get attention is an enormous brass door-knocker, shaped like a lion’s head with a hefty brass striker behind it.
So I hammer it. Twice. It bangs like a piece of artillery. And I wait.
Nothing happens.
I’m about to knock again when the light changes inside the house. A door opens from far off, down a hallway. A shadow moves along the corridor. I can’t see anything but the silhouette.
Sounds of movement are muffled by the heavy black door. The door swings open to reveal a man who could be the hottest ever movie villain.
He looks me up and down, and sweeps his hooded pale blue eyes over me, not missing a stitch.
“Tinka Belle?” My stomach drops. His voice is smooth, animal power. Cultured. With a distinct, ‘don’t fuck with me’ edge behind the easy smile.
I feel awkward, like I’m under close inspection as he pulls the door wider. He’s big, with a thick shock of silvery white hair. Elegant, in a pale gray silk suit and a tailored white shirt, he wears a perfectly knotted blood red silk tie. Big silver cufflinks and highly polished shoes complete his air of old-school charm and money.
Involuntarily, I gulp. “Carmine Monreale?”
He nods, graciously. “Welcome, Tinka. Merry Christmas.”
“I’m–I’m surprised to see you answer the door yourself,” I blurt.
His smile is warm and reassuring as he spreads his arm to invite me in.
He says, “There’s nobody else here.”
“In the whole house?”
“I haven’t checked under every table and bed, or in every cupboard, but I’m pretty sure it’s just me. And now, you, Tinka.”
He leads me into a sumptuous sitting room with couches around the glow of a softly crackling log fire.
“Drink?” His warm smile is infectious. “What can I get you?”
“I’m fine, really.”
He steps close, and I feel weak in his presence.
