Kitabı oku: «Midnight Resolutions», sayfa 3
Chapter Four
ROSE’S APARTMENT WAS a far cry from the Simonov decadence, but it was neat, tidy and for now it was home. Her frown was automatic when she walked in the door, her eyes critical.
It never felt right. It didn’t matter if the slipcover for the sofa was hand-sewn, or that the coffee table was a steamer trunk covered in a designer print. She could hear that growling voice in her head telling her that it wasn’t straight, or that it looked cheap. Automatically she pulled at the fabric until the pleats hung at a precise ninety degrees. When she noticed the stain on the sofa, she attacked it with spot remover until the light beige fabric was restored to perfection. Yes, there was a certain cathartic satisfaction in having a clean home, but she hated that it was that voice that was responsible. Frustrated, she threw the rag in the trash and decided to concentrate on the things that made her happy.
Her pride and joy was a darling little writing secretary that she had discovered at a thrift store on Staten Island, buried between a nonworking television set and an overgrown stuffed rabbit named Helen. The desk was a solid wood Queen Anne with lots of hidden components, delicate carved legs and a drop-front lid. After changing into her pajamas, she grabbed the thank-you cards from her bag and settled down to work.
By the time it was midnight, she wasn’t tired—she was buzzing. Not caffeine. Careful excitement, the kind that almost made her squirm in her chair. Sylvia had given her the green light to proceed. Not that she was going to proceed, but…what if? Dangerous words. Rose rolled her eyes, told herself to get a life and picked up the pen.
One after another she went through the list of gifts, writing like a fiend, channeling her inner Sylvia, knocking out thank-yous. There were notes for bottles of wine, for autographed baseball gloves—Anton was a fan—and for an antique jade vase from the Kremlin. Jeez, did the Simonov household really need another vase, another set of crystal glasses, another set of monogrammed cuff links? Cufflinks?
She backtracked over the list, just in case she’d read wrong. Why was Anton getting cuff links?
Rose studied the maid’s tidy handwriting and flipped the paper over to find the name of the gift-giver on the following page.
Rose swore, loud and completely improperly.
Blair Rapaport? Hussy, with a capital HO.
By the age of twenty-one, Blair had written a tell-all book on her breast augmentation surgery and had financially exploited seven sex-tape scandals—and the clock of misdeeds was still ticking. On the last television interview, her parents defended her, saying that drunken voice-mail messages over the Internet was “all part of growing up.”
So why was Blair giving a Christmas present to Anton? Rose checked the list again. Cuff links? Seriously? Did Blair even know what cuff links were?
This couldn’t end well. Rose looked at Helen, who remained stubbornly silent.
No, Rose. Keep out. This was none of her business. There was probably an easy explanation…actually there was no easy explanation that wouldn’t end with Sylvia pitching a fit, and Rose didn’t like it when Sylvia pitched a fit.
She didn’t like it when anyone pitched a fit.
Opting to do nothing except her job, Rose inked a bland note. Although, maybe, if Blair was smart enough to read between the lines, she’d notice the overuse of the word we. And the “such a grown-up gift from such a young girl.” That was a definite dig.
Rose reread the card and in the end, tore it up into tiny pieces and dumped it in the trash. Blair was getting no thank-you card from the Simonovs, and if Rose had her way, she’d get a bitch-slap instead. Well, probably not an actual bitch-slap, but if Rose were inclined, if she were truly channeling Sylvia, she could do it. She curled her fingers in a fist, wound it up and slammed it down on the desk—killing her hand.
Okay, no bitch-slaps for now, but tomorrow was another day.
By the time she’d finished the list, it was 2:00 a.m. and she was no closer to wanting to sleep. She could hear her computer calling her, a languid come-hither hand inviting her to only peek and see if maybe…
What would it hurt? Honestly. And how would she know otherwise? A gazillion to one. Not a chance in the world.
Tiny goose bumps appeared on her arms. Not fear.
Even though she was alone, she looked both ways before hitting the keys. Navigating Craigslist, she arrowed in on Missed Connections, scanning, scanning, scanning…
Who knew that so many strangers hooked up on New Year’s Eve? There were four pages of—
Oh.
My life started on the first second of the New Year…
Magic.
Rose jumped out of her chair, knocking over the pile of thank-you cards, and then immediately picked them up.
He was looking for her. His name was Ian. Her feet slowly touched the ground. Ian was not Dr. Remy Sinclair. He was a stranger in Times Square who had really good shoes and an expensive coat. That coat was a triple-word score, spelled A-R-M-A-N-I.
Rose knew that justification of a wrong was a dangerous game, but she wanted to play. Her loins ached to play, and her loins had never ached before.
Under her parents’ eagle eyes, she hadn’t dared stray, and after Child Services had removed her to a group home at age fourteen, the environment hadn’t been conducive to activities of a sexual nature.
However, at fifteen, on a cold December night, she’d learned to explore. Quietly, hidden under the blankets of her bunk so her roommates couldn’t hear…
Those dark silent moments were instructive to Rose. She wanted to learn about pleasure, to create it, to control it, to deny it. Pleasure led to impulsiveness, which led to mistakes. Mistakes were not tolerated.
On those dark nights, with the scratchy wool on her thighs and her hand between her legs, there were never any fantasies for Rose. Men didn’t arouse her with their arrogance and their games. Rose knew the prison-warden side of the alpha male—the rules, the constraints, the dominance.
Rose hated it.
But last night when her hand had crept beneath the covers, she had seen him, felt him, remembered his mouth on hers, trailing down her neck, teasing one breast then the other, sliding farther…
Rose stopped that line of thought and fanned herself, surprised by the heat on a cold January night.
Ian—she rolled his name off her tongue—turned her on with something else. Her fingers slipped between her legs, beneath her panties, and she found herself wet, aroused.
Odd, yet fun. Curious, she pleasured herself, conjuring his face, remembering his mouth. Her finger stroked faster, her body flushed, and for tonight, she could imagine a man’s hands on her, feel his gentle caress, sure, easy, hungry yet restrained. Her breathing staggered, and this time she didn’t see the dark of the ceiling. Instead, she saw deep brown eyes burning with a light she couldn’t understand. She tasted the heat of his mouth on hers. A tiny moan escaped from her throat. Pleasure. Stealthy and sly. The pleasure teased her, beckoned to her, testing her control. Warily her lashes drifted shut, and she surrendered to the fantasy, finding her rhythm, sensing the orgasm chasing after her.
The first flutters of pressure increased, building more, and her heart began to race at the challenge to cut it off before it took control of her.
In the end, it was no challenge at all. Here, no man would follow her, and Rose closed off her mind, banishing the twinkling eyes, blocking the feel of that devouring mouth. Here, no one followed but Rose. The warmth pooled over her, and there was only a second—never more than one gossamer second—that her muscles contracted and her body flooded with pleasure. Deliberately, Rose shut the pleasure down.
Here was her secret place, the quiet blanket in the dark where the blustering voices had never entered, where only Rose could hide. She’d been quick and careful and silent because little ladies didn’t touch themselves and little ladies were not to be touched, and Rose needed to be the world’s most perfect little lady.
In the blink of an eye, her cheeks had cooled, her heart had calmed and Rose had smoothed the silk pajamas. Gracefully she took her seat and typed out an appropriate response on the keyboard. When she was finished, she allowed herself one tiny punch into the air, all while keeping her feet firmly on the ground.
His name was Ian.
THIS WAS WRONG. BECKETT never trusted sex, it was too full of complications and emotions, but he trudged after Phoebe, ignoring the eight thousand logical and rational reasons that this would be a mistake. He’d been in her long and empty apartment many times before, but not like this. Not with his cock painfully full, and images of her plastered in his head.
Foolishly he followed her over scuffed, golden oak floors, followed her into the dark recesses of her bedroom. She had five seasons of Family Guy on her dresser for late-night watching. He kept rolling over that mundane fact in his mind, but when she began to strip off her clothes, suddenly he was obsessed.
He wanted to touch her. Badly. His blood burned with it, but his brain—the part that was still functioning—held him back.
The sweater came off, exposing a sheer bra and the dark nipples underneath. The air smelled of pine cleaner, burned soup and Beckett’s lust. His breathing grew ragged as he watched her shed her shoes, her jeans. The glasses were removed, dropped on the nightstand near the bed.
Through the window, the Upper East Side slept quietly in their beds, a ship’s horn bleating, a truck honking and somewhere a siren screamed.
Beckett didn’t care. Tonight, the entire East River could burn and he wouldn’t budge from this place.
In his mind, he’d never considered a naked Phoebe. Yet there she was. The half-opened slats of the blinds pushed light into the darkness of her bedroom, her skin flashing gold, then shadows as she moved.
She walked forward, bare feet padding on the thick rug, and from the living room he could hear the crazed cackle of her parrot, scolding him. Still, his eyes didn’t stray. She was…not exactly beautiful, but something that fascinated him even more. The long, lean curve of her that ran from the high breast to the arch of her hips. His gaze drifted lower to the sleek muscles of her thighs. The dark shadow between.
When they were a whisper apart, Phoebe raised her head and stared, and those normally shielded, practical gray eyes were blurred with confusion. Beckett hated confusion, but his mind wasn’t thinking, or more likely, he didn’t want his mind to think. Furious, with her, with himself.
Complications and emotions. He could feel them swirling in the air, smelled it, stronger and more potent than the musky scent of desire. If they did this, they could never go back.
Complications and emotions.
There was a clanging in his brain. A bell. A foghorn.
A phone.
“Do you want me to answer that?”
NO! “You should,” he stammered. “Get that. Now.”
“Whatever you want, whatever you say,” she muttered. “Get the phone, Phoebe. I’ll get the phone, Phoebe.” As she walked, he watched the miraculous perfection that was her bare ass, until she selfishly wrapped herself in the duvet covers and picked up her phone. “WHAT?”
He nearly laughed, but then she would glare, so he kept quiet. Beckett needed the break. He was nervous and desperate—never a good combination. Fate had thrown a kink in their plans. Why the kink? Was fate trying to tell him that this was a bad idea? It hadn’t seemed like a bad idea earlier.
“Who wrote you?” Phoebe was talking into the phone. Without her glasses, she looked so different, so unsure. Okay, this was a bad idea. The duvet cover slipped, his eyes tracked the movement…
“Why didn’t she tell you her name?” Phoebe glanced at him, mouthed the word, Ian.
She was talking to Ian. Naked. She was naked, talking to Ian. Beckett tried to follow the conversation but naked kept getting in the way. He turned, futzed with the Family Guy DVDs on the dresser, doggedly studying the nefarious face of Stewie, knowing that behind every innocent expression lurked the mind of evil. Beckett looked at her reflection in the mirror, now doggedly studying the V between her breasts, and felt his tongue start to swell.
Her eyes met his, but she wasn’t wearing her glasses. She wouldn’t notice. Her brows furrowed. She noticed. Quickly he refocused on Stewie, because somewhere in the world, the Fates were laughing.
And if he didn’t get it, her parrot started cackling, as well.
She put her glasses on, her eyes magnified, the confusion magnified, his guilt magnified. Damn it.
No, he was above all this. Carefully he moved toward the bed, step by step, inch by inch, and then balanced precariously on the very edge. “What he’s saying?” he whispered.
Phoebe hit the mute button. “She e-mailed.”
“She didn’t give her name?” he asked, his mind resuming function.
“No name, no number, but he still set up the date. Jane Doe agreed.” Her voice was brisk, businesslike, as if nothing had ever happened. As if she wasn’t sitting there bare…
“No good,” he cut in. “What if some other strange woman saw the listing and decided that Ian sounds like an easy mark? Or worse yet, what if he shows up and she’s a serial killer, or like, a cow?”
Phoebe glared, and he sighed with relief. Okay, this felt normal. This felt right. She unmuted the phone. “Ian, listen. What if some other strange woman saw the listing and decided you sounded like an easy mark? Or worse yet, what if you show up, and she’s a serial killer, or umm…mean?” There was a pause. “No. I’m not channeling Beckett, thank you very much. I’m just concerned.”
Beckett beamed at her. Silently she shot him the finger.
“No, I don’t think she’s trying to protect herself. You’re not a serial killer.”
She sighed, bosom heaving. Beckett sighed, too, then looked away. “No, you couldn’t be a serial killer, Ian.”
Beckett snickered.
“I’m not trying to mother you. I give you my word.” She stared at Beckett pointedly. “Yes, if you wanted a brutal evisceration of reality, you would have called Beckett.”
Insulted, he stood up and went back to studying the DVD. Mostly.
“I’ll try to be positive. How about this? It’s a huge sign and you’re right to be over the moon.” Ew. Beckett frowned. Really, she needed to come up with better lines than that.
“Yes, I firmly believe it’s the same hottie who kissed you and the two of you are going to live happily ever after.
“No. I’m not just saying that to make you feel better.
“Ian,” she warned.
“You’re not needy. Okay, you’re needy. Good night, Ian.”
With a click she hung up, and they were back to being alone. Beckett held the DVD to his chest like a shield. “I have to go. Can I borrow this?”
“Do you want to find out about Ian, about his date, about how excited he is?” She sounded ticked; he knew she’d be ticked, and it was better this way. Safer. No complications. No emotions. If only she’d get…dressed. Until then, he was screwed. Metaphorically, not literally. If he meant literally, he wouldn’t be having this stupid conversation with his brain.
Manning up, he met Phoebe’s eyes squarely, prepared to set things straight between them. “He’s screwed. It won’t be the same chick, or if it is, he’ll get punked on some reality prank show. Life doesn’t work out that good. Nothing works out the way you want it to.” He held up the DVD. “Mind if I borrow this?”
Okay, he’d settled nothing, but she wasn’t looking at him all soft and confused anymore. Now she looked pissed. “Just go, Beckett.”
She was proving his point. Beckett ran for the door, clutching the DVD, her parrot’s crazed cackle echoing behind him.
Chapter Five
THE MANHATTAN OFFICE for Employment Displacement. It was the tenth floor of a worn midtown building with an elevator that sometimes went wonky. All around the three-room office were signs of encouragement, pictures of eagles soaring in the sky, posters that proclaimed: “Yes, you can.” Yet inside the reception area were also the faces of the employmentally displaced, and it was hard to reconcile them with the pictures of soaring eagles when all they wanted was to find work and pay the rent.
For all the wisecracks Ian made at the eagles’ expense, he did his part. Jeans and goofy T-shirts were the uniform here. His boss, Sal D’Amato, said it made people feel less out of touch. Privately, Ian thought that a T-shirt that said, “Practice Safe Lunch—Use a Condiment,” didn’t do squat, but he kept an encouraging smile on his face and his prelayoff wardrobe stored in his closet. “Interview clothes,” that’s what Ian called them now.
Although, tonight “interview clothes” would morph into “date clothes,” because tonight he had a date, and not just any date. This was the date of a lifetime. With a woman whose face had been embossed on his brain, in his dreams. He could remember her smell, the silken touch of her skin, even the feel of her fingers pressing against his neck. He looked at the eagles, wings outspread, images frozen in time, and he gave them an encouraging smile. Tough luck, dude. Tonight, it’s my turn to fly.
Alas, today he had to actually work like a turkey before he could fly.
The hiring project of the day was Mitchell Unger, an unemployed ad man, forty-nine, with a family of three to worry about. Adding to his misery, the oldest boy would be starting college soon, and Mitch was starting to sweat not only food and rent, but tuition, as well.
At precisely 9:13 a.m., Ian started on the phones—because true New Yorkers took precisely thirteen minutes to get down to business. The first three calls went straight to voice mail, the next number had been disconnected, company number five believed that marketing was overrated, company six had just hired someone new, but on lucky call seven, Ian finally hit pay dirt and the negotiations began.
Without any remorse in her cold, cold heart, Mary offered the lowest of the low. Mail room. Ian jumped all over it, because any opening was progress of the very best kind.
“What about this? You pay him the mail room salary, but throw him some creative work. Think of the cost savings alone. Imagine the visual. Your managers sitting around a table, and you’re pitching Mitchell’s ideas, and they’re all looking at you as if you’re a goddess. This is your moment, Mary. Humbly you explain about Mitchell, explain how little he’s costing the company and how much he’s bringing to the table. And then the suits crack a smile—nay a broad-bowed grin that is going to crack the Botox right off their faces. Imagine it, Mary—suddenly you’re the hero.”
His hero wasn’t completely buying it. “No, I don’t write fiction. Come on, Mary. Give him a shot. I’ll do anything.”
And those were the magic words she’d been waiting to hear. Ian wondered if he ought to feel cheap, pimping out his investment skills in exchange for work, a habit that was marginally illegal since he wasn’t employed by a licensed broker, at least not presently. On the other hand, it was for the greater good, the ultimate sacrifice, and best of all, his skills stayed razor-sharp.
“Altriva? The dog food company. You heard something?” Ian hunched over the keyboard, fingers flying as if they were born to soar. “Maybe. Give me a second.” He scanned the numbers, catching the six-month-long uptick. “You know this is going to cost you, right?”
Mary knew.
“I don’t come cheap. But the Portland Scientific recommendation panned out, right? The numbers are solid. Liabilities are low. Recently a lot of insider trading, all buys, but I don’t see any clues in the news. It’s definitely trending up. The P/E looks sweeter than my mom’s apple pie, and they have new management. Go ahead, buy. You have my blessing.” Sensing victory within his grasp, Ian strolled back over to his desk and kicked up his feet. “I’ll send Mitchell over for an interview today. Clear the schedule, Mary. You’re going to love him.”
After he rang off with Mary, Ian punched in Mitchell’s number.
“Mitch, my man, it’s Ian. You need to turn off the daytime talk shows and break out the suit. Interview at Scholstein, Harden, today at four. It’s a junior position. Sorry about that, dude, but I have great faith in your abilities to turn a silk purse into something even silkier. After all, you are in advertising.”
For the next five minutes, Mitch cooed and oohed, expressing his undying gratitude until, embarrassed by the compliments and accolades, Ian made up an excuse and hung up.
The gratitude always hit him between the eyes. When Ian was in banking, his clients were smug, taking their ten percent returns with a clipped nod and a bottle of aged scotch at Christmas. At the employment office, this gratitude felt off. Ian didn’t deserve it. Honestly, there were no miracles working here, none at all. Not like in finance, where miracles occurred by the trillion on a daily basis.
Thinking of his prelayoff life was not a good way to start today. Automatically his hands reached for the polished rock that sat on his desk, tossing it up and down like a baseball. When Ian was seven, he had wanted to be an astronaut. His father had sat by his bedside and solemnly told him the stone was a moon rock. After that, every single night he had slept with the tiny fragment of the galaxy under his pillow. By the age of nine, he wanted to be a basketball player, and his father had said that it was a piece of foundation from Madison Square Garden. However, by the age of nine, Ian was smarter and wiser, and called his dad a big, fricking liar. His father had gazed at him, man to man, and told him the rock’s initial place of residence didn’t matter. The most important thing, according to his father, was to think about the rock’s final destination. A rock could be moved from place to place, but where it ended up was a lot more important than where it started.
Being a cocky nine-year-old, Ian had rolled his eyes and drawn out Da-ad to a long two syllables. But when his father wasn’t watching, Ian took the stone and casually tossed it in the air before tucking it in his pocket.
Ian felt his dad’s smile, rather than saw it, and to this day, Ian found myriad uses for his stone. Maybe this wasn’t his final destination, but for now, for today, the victories were starting to smell sweet.
One file on his desk was not smelling so sweet. There were no victories for Hilda Prigsley. For four months, he’d beaten every bush in town—and a few out of town—but sadly, in New York, very few individuals saw the wisdom of taking on an over-fifty teapot-shaped immigrant from the UK. She typed well over one hundred words per minute, one-twenty-two to be exact, but unfortunately believed that computers were the handiwork of the devil. Ian had tried his damnedest to find her something, but positions for a portly Mary Poppins weren’t as plentiful as some might think.
Once a week Miss Prigsley stopped in the office, bringing him a tinful of handmade English biscuits. Ian always called them cookies, because then she would correct him in her proper English way, and he would pretend that he’d forgotten, and she would giggle and smile and he felt as if he’d just charmed his grandmother. If he could only figure out a way to market a sentimental lexicologist, she would be so employed, but reluctantly he pushed her file aside and focused on the nonlexicologist extraordinaires.
By the end of the afternoon, Ian had found two more positions. One for a budding young medical assistant, Deirdre Synder, and one for Mortimer Haswell, a fifty-eight year old mortgage broker who wasn’t happy about a secretarial job and came down to the office to whine in person.
After a few seconds of polite listening, Ian paused for dramatic effect and then held up his stone. He looked Mort in his basset-esque eyes and asked, “Do you know where this came from?”
Mort shook his shaggy gray head.
“This stone is from my first job. Recycling. Now, if you’ve ever worked recycling in this state, you know it’s not a pretty job. It’s not elegant. It’s not one of those run-out-and-brag-to-all-your-friends job. But I did it. Dirty, crappy and I smelled like bad fish until I went to sleep with that smell on my pillow. I stuck my hands in things better left unidentified, and my friend, in garbage, ignorance is the only thing keeping you sane. After my first month, when I was one refuse load away from quitting, I found this stone, winking up at me like a talisman. For seven years I shoveled trash, saving up for college. And let me tell you, on the bright, shiny day I graduated from Harvard, this little stone was tucked under my mortarboard. It was my lucky charm. You gotta see the big picture, Mort. It’s not where you start, it’s where you end up.”
Mort’s unibrow furrowed deeper into his forehead. “I don’t know, Ian. I can’t type.”
Ian was used to the objections and nodded sympathetically. “Yes, you can, Mort. You can do anything you want. Go in there. Make yourself indispensable. You’ll be fine, wait and see. Within a year—tops—you’ll be back in finance where you belong.”
It took a little more convincing, but eventually Mort left—almost satisfied. Ian picked up his polished rock and put it in the drawer. Wasn’t going to need any props tonight. Tonight was all about the shimmer and shine.
When five o’clock rolled around, he watched as the civil servants left before pulling out his suit and studying it with a critical eye. The lapels didn’t have quite the spiffy stiffness that Wall Street required. Some wayward lint had wormed its way under the cuffs, and even an untutored nose could detect the faint aroma of mothballs. Okay, lots of work to be done here.
For the next thirty minutes, Ian toiled away at mothball-scent-removal. Using a combination of high-dollar cologne, an emergency container of Febreze and a twist of lemon, he finally transformed mothballs into something resembling the elusive, yet highly potent, scent of success.
When the cuffs were straight, the collar was angled exactly right and the shoes were shined, Ian admired the finished product in the men’s room mirror. This was the Ian Cumberland of yesteryear, maybe a little skinnier. His chin rose, his smile got slightly harder and his eyes sparkled with that familiar devil-may-care glint. Yeah, that was it. Absolutely perfect.
Watch out, world.
Ian Cumberland was back.
THE RESTAURANT WAS IN the financial district, on the thirty-second floor of the Liberty Towers. The view was spectacular—the lights from the tankers on the Hudson, the skyscrapers across the way, the Statue of Liberty in the New York Harbor—but it was nothing compared to her.
She was standing by the window, waiting, and his breath caught, held.
He’d never seen a woman whose face was so exquisitely formed. Would it always be like that? Did the curators at the Louvre ever stop gawking at the Mona Lisa?
Up to now, Ian had always made fun of the pretentious types who had season tickets to the symphony, idling their time in pursuit of cultural beauty. He never quite “got” that. Growing up in Scranton warped a man’s artistic perspective. But this woman’s perfection stopped his heart.
She turned, smiled, and he wiped the goofy gobsmackery off his face before she saw. Tonight he was the investment banker, a confident man who was never caught being gobsmacked at all.
“Ian Cumberland, at your service for the rest of your life.” He meant it as a joke, but his voice sounded serious. Serious and gobsmacked. He tried to get the devil-may-care look back. Failed.
“Rose,” she answered. “Rose Hildebrande.” Her smile was shy, blushing, and he thought Rose was the exact perfect name.
He took her elbow, twirled her, admiring the flair of her little black dress, the way it crossed over the straining perfection of her breasts, the way it set off the long line of her legs. Sexy, simple. Hot as hell.
“You know, all the guys in there are going to want to kill me.”
Her cheeks flushed, her lashes lowered. “Sorry,” she told him, a bit of hesitation in her voice.
And now he’d scared her. Dude, get on your game.
“No, I’m the one with the apologies. You look lovely,” he told her, leading her inside, seeing the eyes follow them, follow her. Yeah, eat it up, New York. Tonight, forever, she’s mine.
The evening had been meticulously planned, perfectly arranged, each step designed to turn her glorious head. Ian figured that tonight he had one shot to seal the deal. One shot for him to recover his prelayoff charm; it could be done.
The maître d’ greeted him by name, leading him to the designated table, the prime spot at the apex of the windows, where all of New York awaited her pleasure. She looked at the table, stared up at the vent and then—so delicately that only a man attuned to her every smallest movement would notice—shivered.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, praying to God there was no problem; he’d given the maître d’ an extra C-note for that table, and he knew the man wouldn’t give it back.
“No,” she answered, but there was a tiny quiver in her voice.
“If you want to sit somewhere else, honestly, it’s no big. You get cold?”
Her soft blue eyes filled with anxiety. “I’m sorry to be such a pain. My internal thermostat is crazy. I’m hot, then cold. Do you mind?”
“Of course not,” he said, and then gave the ever-efficient maître d’ a commanding nod. “What else do you have?”
“A small table in the back, sir,” he responded, a stodgy whiff of England in his accent. “By the kitchen. Unless you’d like to wait at the bar.”
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