7:Introduce Me

July 28

Cipriani Wall Street was a beautiful venue for an awards dinner, Jon supposed.  After his first dozen formal dinners, all these places looked pretty much the same to him. 

There was always a red carpet, although this one happened to be orange to match the organization’s colors.  There was always a backdrop to advertise the event and sponsors when the press snapped photos of the attendees.  There was always a bar, thank God.  There were always waiters delivering cocktails and appetizers.  And last, but not least, there were always – always – women decked out in their finest because they lived for this shit, and they were accompanied by men that didn’t necessarily want to be here.

Theoretically, he shouldn’t be here.  This invitation had come as a result of the affiliation between the Soul Kitchen and Food Bank of New York City, and the Soul Kitchen now technically belonged to Dorothea as part of the divorce settlement.  Jon still considered the Food Bank one of his favorite organizations, but that alone wasn’t enough to warrant his presence at the Can Do Awards Dinner. 

What mandated his presence, however, was one of the hosts and honorary chairs for the event.  Mario Batali was a good friend who had helped them outfit the Soul Kitchen with an ensemble of chefs who donated their time and talent on a regular basis, and Jersey code of ethics dictated that when someone offered their support, you returned it.  That meant when Mario called last week to make sure Jon was still planning to attend, the same as he had for the last six years, there had been no other answer to give but “Of course I’ll be there.”

So, appropriately outfitted in a black suit and shirt that were accessorized by a black tie with "just enough blue to emphasize his eyes" – according to his twenty-two year old daughter – this is how he was spending his Tuesday evening.   Rubbing elbows with New York’s elite and quasi-elite as they came together to honor the good deeds people who undoubtedly deserved the honor. 

Smothering a sigh behind a smile, he worked his way to the bar and amused himself by winking at the two genteel women who intently ogled at him while he did.  It always gave him a kick to fluster the unflappable matrons of society.

“Pinot Grigio, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

The bartender had just turned up the bottle to provide Jon’s second cocktail of the evening when a tall, slender man also leaned up against the bar.  “I’m gonna need something stronger than that.  Jack, neat.  Oh, and a dirty martini.”

Speaking of men who don’t necessarily want to be here…

Twisting his head, Jon saw that the guy in the requisite dark suit was roughly his own age and had brownish-black hair peppered with a sprinkling of gray at his temples.  Jon offered him a sympathetic smirk.  “Sounds like you’re as excited about being here as I am.”

The other man turned to acknowledge the comment and, when cocoa eyes connected with Jon’s, he snorted with recognition.  “If you give me an autograph, it’ll be worth the suffering.”

“I’m all about easing the suffering of my fellow man.  Got a pen?”  Jon reached for a cocktail napkin while his new friend hit the bartender up for something to write with.  “What’s your name?”

“Luke.”

“Your wife make you come out tonight?” he inquired conversationally while scribbling his name a little more legibly than usual.  With several days’ scruff and hair that was longer than most of the men in attendance, Luke seemed like an average guy who didn’t make a habit of frequenting these events, so a wife who enjoyed them seemed like a logical explanation for his being here.

“Worse.  My sister.”  The bartender placed the requested drinks in front of him and Luke didn’t waste any time in swallowing half of the whiskey before nodding to a vague point behind Jon. “The very sociable woman in the orange dress.”

Sliding the signed napkin across the bar, Jon took up his wine glass and turned to politely seek out the aforementioned sister.  Bringing her brother as a date and wearing that color dress, he half expected the woman to look like a plump navel orange, but after scanning for a bright spot in the bevy of black dresses, he found that wasn’t the case.

At all.

The amiably chatting woman in soft chiffon was a sexy segment of mandarin, perhaps, but nothing remotely resembling a navel orange.  Deep mahogany waves flowed over toned arms and shoulders left bare by a halter dress fluttering around equally toned calves, while in between were curves that any woman would be happy to have – and every man was happy to see.  An average bust line was made more impressive by a trim, nipped-in waist, and the womanly flare of her hips narrowed to slender ankles bound by the straps of her high-heeled sandals. 

She was all woman and, despite his inability to distinguish her facial features from this distance, Jon was unexpectedly attracted to her. 

He found the awareness puzzling, yet intriguing.

Not that he hadn’t been impulsively drawn to women before, but it had been twenty-six very long years since he’d had the freedom to pursue it without fear of the press or embarrassing his wife.  To be honest, the mere thought of those taut legs wrapping around his waist energized Jon and enticed him into heeding his testosterone’s calling. 

Even if he did nothing more than say hello to the woman, it would feel good to spread his unmarried wings and get back in the game again.

“Your sister a Bon Jovi fan?” he asked evenly, eyes riveted on the dark beauty whose lips broke with abrupt laughter.

Chuckling quietly as he tucked the napkin into his jacket pocket, the man beside him offered, “Her walls were covered with the band’s posters back in the day.  I’ll let you do the math.”

Jon didn’t need a calculator to come up with the answer he’d been hoping for.

“Introduce me.”

Studying him thoughtfully, Luke took a long moment to consider before shrugging his shoulders and saying, “Sure.  But it’ll cost ya.” 

“Cost me what?”

One hand slipped into the pocket of his slacks to produce a cell phone.  “Picture to go with the autograph.”

Dragging his gaze away from the sister, Jon regarded the guy with amusement.  “Opportunistic sonofabitch, I see.”

“And you aren’t?”

“Touche`,” he conceded approvingly as his new buddy slipped up beside him and turned the phone so that their faces were visible on the screen.  One quick snap, then one more for good measure, and the phone disappeared back into the pocket from which it came.

Scooping up the whiskey and martini, Luke guided the way across the wide marble-tiled room, imploring as he went, “Do me a favor and be charming, man.  If she likes you, I can pass the reins of responsibility and get home for the end of the Yankees game.”

He phrased it in such a way that Jon was compelled to observe, “You make it sound like she needs a keeper.”

“She absolutely doesn’t,” came Luke’s emphatic assurance.  “But it makes me feel better to think I’m protecting my little sister.”

Protecting your family was something he could understand and that, combined with the rest of his encounter with Luke, made Jon like him.  This was the kind of guy you called up to have a drink and watch the game.

“You live in the city?” he asked, surprised to realize he might consider prolonging this acquaintance beyond the next ten minutes.

“Brooklyn.  Prospect Heights.”

“Which football team do you root for?  Giants or Jets?”

“Jets?”  His shaggy dark head shook and equally dark eyes narrowed with confusion.  “I’m sorry, I know there’s a ballet league called the Jets, but I didn’t know there was a football team.”

That earned him a definitive seal of approval, and Jon laughingly instructed, “Give me your number before you go.  Maybe we can catch a game sometime.”

“Hell, yeah.” 

Luke’s sister had turned to speak to someone else now, which had them approaching her from behind.  Since she didn’t see them, Luke slipped in the hand holding the dirty martini to put it in her line of sight.

“Oh, thanks,” she accepted, turning to acknowledge her brother with a smile that faded when catching sight of Jon.

Jon had experienced this exact scenario about a million times.  A woman found herself unexpectedly standing before a man whom she recognized and, the instant she realized why they recognized him, her mind and face went blank.  The first couple dozen times, he’d thought it was a short-circuiting of the woman’s brain.  As it had become more commonplace, he discovered she was actually silently weighing her options – gush like the classic eighties’ fan girl or play it with casual nonchalance. 

So far, it looked like Luke’s sister was leaning toward nonchalance.  That was a good sign.

“Somebody wanted to meet you,” Luke explained, gesturing to his side.  “Jon, this is my sister Chiara.”

It was an unfamiliar name to Jon, and he had no idea how to spell it, but the pronunciation of ‘Kee-ahrah’ resonated melodically in his ears.  Her name was as lovely as the face whose features he could now easily discern. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chiara.”

Whether she’d opted for gushing or nonchalance didn’t matter.  This was the point in the introduction when her smile should have returned in some shape or fashion.  He smiled at her; she smiled back.  That was the way it always played out, yet Chiara didn’t follow the schedule.  Her lips remained in a flat, expressionless line as she formally stuck out her hand.

Okay.  This is different, but different isn’t necessarily bad.

Jon willingly reached out to shake, and when the skin of their palms scraped together, it only reaffirmed his opinion that different wasn’t bad.  In this case, different was fucking phenomenal and accompanied by a jolt of awareness that made him very glad he’d erred on the side of testosterone. 

Her nostrils flared with a sharply drawn breath at the same time her pupils blew wide to devour the chocolaty irises that were strikingly similar to Luke’s.  It was reaction enough to tell Jon he wasn’t the only victim of hormones.

Yet she still didn’t smile.

Discreetly snatching her hand away as though he’d scalded her, she primly nodded her head.  “Most people call me Charlie, Mr. Bongiovi.  I hope you’re enjoying the wine I sent.”