Kitabı oku: «Intimate Exposure»
Her mind lurched back to that kiss on the hospital floor, and the tender, comforting feel of it.
It had been the kind of kiss that soothed away her fears, acknowledged her anxieties and offered her a place to rest and refuel her tired soul.
This was not that kind of kiss. It was raw and lusty. It sent shock waves of pleasure down her spine and into her shoes, waves so intense she didn’t dare open her eyes. It sent a web of tingles across the surface of her skin, a hundred fiery darts of excitement and sensation. It was the kind of kiss where the sun could have dropped out of the sky and she wouldn’t have noticed.
With one arm around her waist, he slipped the other under her legs and carried her over to the couch. He fell onto it with her on top of him. She swung her legs across his and straddled him, while he cradled her head with one hand.
She looked down at him before he pulled her forward and kissed her again, even harder. Even longer.
Dear Reader,
Thanks for picking up Intimate Exposure. I hope you enjoy it—I especially hope you got a kick out of Shani and Elliot’s getaway to romantic Martinique. You might know I’m West Indian—I live in sunny Trinidad, in the southern Caribbean. Like most West Indians, I like to show off my islands every chance I get, so you’ll often see me squeezing in a reference whenever I get the opportunity. I’m especially happy when the plot allows my characters to travel, because then I can play hostess and show you around some of my favorite places.
Even if you can’t hop on a plane and come visit for yourself, you can pass by my website, www.scribble-scribble. com. There’s always a breath of fresh Caribbean air waiting there for you.
I’d love it if you dropped me a line and let me know what you think about my books. You can reach me at roslyn@scribble-scribble.com. While you’re at it, feel free to friend me on Facebook, MySpace or Shelfari. I also have an author page on www.Harlequin.com and www.Amazon.com.
If you prefer good old snail mail, you can reach me at: Roslyn Carrington (or Simona Taylor, either one will reach me), P.O. Bag #528, Maloney Post Office, Maloney, Trinidad and Tobago.
Till then, as we say in Trinidad, hold it down.
Simona
Intimate
EXPOSURE
SIMONA TAYLOR
MILLS & BOON
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Dedicated to my father, Trevor Carrington, who died by accident while I was working on this novel. I think it’s significant that a primary theme of Intimate Exposure is fatherhood, and the many ways in which the relationship between fathers and their children shape their lives. My father was prouder than anyone when I became a writer, and that meant a lot to me.
Daddy, I miss you terribly every day.
Chapter 1
It was all Yvan’s fault. Yvan the Terrible, Shani called him. The world’s only half Irish, half Russian, all chauvinist soul food caterer. Yvan thought his waitresses looked better in low-cut French maid uniforms, except that instead of severe black fabric under their white lace aprons, they wore dresses made of kente cloth. He insisted it made them look “more ethnic.” Which was bad enough, except that even if you let the hems down (which Shani had) the skirts were all of ten inches long.
Yvan said it would bring them more tips. He was probably right, and Lord knew Shani needed them. But the scant piece of fabric that barely covered her well-shaped butt also brought more male attention—and that was the very last thing she needed right now.
So if there was anyone to blame for her current situation, it was Yvan. Backed up against a kitchen counter, clutching a silver tray loaded with Louisiana crab cakes, trying to squeeze past the inebriated owner of the sumptuous house in which she was working tonight, all she could think was: there’s really got to be a better way to make ends meet.
She’d been working for Yvan for almost a year, so she was used to handling octopus-armed partygoers, but putting an overfamiliar man back in his place with a swiftly delivered slap would be an express ticket to the breadline. Yvan was ruthless if he felt his staff weren’t playing by his many rules. Matter of fact, if you survived more than eighteen months on his payroll, you deserved a medal.
So her best course of action was diplomacy. “I really ought to …” she began.
“Don’t worry, honey. There’re four more lovely ladies working the party. My guests are being well fed and watered. Don’t they sound happy?”
They did, indeed. It was a quarter of twelve, and the party had been going on since seven. It had started out as a sedate business affair, with some of the city’s better-known corporate raiders, city officials and politicians politely nibbling at their butterflied shrimp in Creole sauce and cocktail-size yam balls on toothpicks. But after a few hours, with expensive liquor flowing, most of these upright citizens were well on their way to being plastered. Past the man’s shoulder, the crowd swayed, hands in the air, booties swinging to the hip-hop beat.
But that was no excuse. She was paid to do a job. She filled her lungs with sweet, smoky air, calmed herself and insisted, “Mr. Bookman, I have to get back to work.”
“Stack.”
“Excuse me?”
“Stack. My first name’s Elliot, but you can call me Stack.” His teeth were white against skin that was the color of warm sand, and his black eyes mirrored his seductive smile.
“I’d prefer not to—”
“Relax,” he cajoled. “Yvan works you girls too hard.” He held up the wineglass that had been his opening gambit in the current conversational impasse. “Come on, try it. Italian wines are very good—some of the best.”
“You don’t say.” She tried to hide her irritation. Just who did he think she was? Some little dimwit who couldn’t recognize a good wine? She’d have him know she was a grown woman, a married woman—technically—who’d had her share of good red wines. But in the interest of keeping her job, she bit back the retort and instead trotted out the standard response. “Sorry, but we aren’t allowed to drink on the job.”
His response was loaded with suggestion: “I’m sure there’re lots of things you aren’t allowed to do on the job.” He waved the glass of red liquid under her nose. The bouquet of the wine rivaled the scent of stronger alcohol on his breath. “But I’m not gonna tell anyone if you don’t.”
His mouth was intimately close to her ear. She could see his lips move as though he was speaking in slow motion. “I like ‘em dark, you know,” Stack confided. “Beautiful girls, dark as berries.” He moistened his lips. “Black men in my position, they go for white women, you know? Or light-skinned girls. Because they can afford it, understand?”
Shani’s jaw became unhinged, but Stack went on.
“But not me, I still love you dark-skinned sisters. Sweet and round in all the right places. Know what I’m saying?”
Did this man actually think that was a compliment? Enough was enough, Shani decided. She got a tighter grip on her plate of crab cakes and pushed aside the glass of wine, which he was still holding up before her like bait. “Mr. Bookman, if you’ll excuse me …”
Before she could make it past the kitchen door, he grasped her wrist and spun her around. “Wait just one damn second here!”
Pop, pop, pop. Something blew in her head. A fuse, a gasket, whatever was holding her back. Crack went the tray of crab cakes as they impacted with Bookman’s face. Squish went the tamarind sauce as she dumped the silver bowl down the front of his shirt. And thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk went the cakes as they rained down on the slate tiles.
At least, she thought she heard those sounds, although it was possible they were only in her irate imagination, given the volume of the music and Bookman’s bellow of fury. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
The white apron constricting her breasts heaved, half a beat ahead of the thudding bass of the music. “Don’t you ever—”
“You’re finished, lady.” Bookman reached past her and grabbed a dish towel off the marble-topped kitchen island and tried to sop up the sticky brown sauce trickling down his chest. “I’m going to tell Yvan just what I think of the way he manages his staff.”
Shani was beyond caring. She could feel her hand coming up, rising on its own, drawing back and preparing to deliver the much-deserved slap that had been tingling in her palm since Bookman’s first off-color remark.
His response was snake-swift. He caught her by the wrist, holding her fast in spite of the sticky sauce. Shani yelped as his short nails raked furrows into her skin. “Let me go!”
“What’s that?”
“You heard me. I said let me—” “Couldn’t hear you, girl. Too busy listening for an apology.”
She was supposed to apologize to him? She twisted, spinning around so his arm was bent at an awkward angle, and leaned her weight into it. “Let go of my hand—” Stack winced, but his nails cut deeper. “Don’t think so.”
They were entangled like a snake and a mongoose. Shani could feel the effort in her arms and back, but she wasn’t letting up. If he wouldn’t release her, she’d make sure he’d have a sprained wrist to remind him of his mistake. She put more pressure on, the effort showing in her gritted teeth.
Stack hissed a curse. The balance of power shifted. He was male and had all the advantages that came with it: greater height and strength, backed up by pure ill will. Instead of breaking their hold, he pushed back, and it was her turn to curse. Then she found something better to do with her mouth.
Her teeth closed over the base of his thumb, sank in and held fast. She tasted tamarind sauce and pure, blind rage. Stack bellowed, and the nails digging into her skin let up. He called her a name he shouldn’t have.
She would have opened her mouth to answer if she wasn’t enjoying her revenge, hanging on like a pit bull with PMS. Then something weird happened. There was another hand in her line of vision, and it wasn’t her tormentor’s. It closed around the expensive watch on Stack’s wrist and wrenched the two of them apart.
Shani staggered back, confused. There’d been two of them in the kitchen, and now.
“What’s the matter, Stack? Things so bad with you these days you have to wrassle your heifers to the ground before you can climb on?”
“What?” The crudeness of the comment was like a smack across the face. Shani reeled in disbelief toward the man who’d spat it out. He was an inch or two taller than Stack, but anger made it seem like more. His body was taut, as if poised for a brawl, unkempt hair bristling with electricity and outrage. He ignored her shocked explosion, fixing his black eyes on Stack, who was angrily rubbing the half-moon wounds on his hand and glaring from her to the interloper and back.
“Don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“I walk in the kitchen and see you near-raping the hired help, that becomes my business.”
Hired help? Where’d he get off.? “Look,” she began.
Both men ignored her. “Fine time for you to turn up, too. The invitation said seven.”
The man shrugged. “I had a few things to do.”
“I also recall the invitation said formal.”
The man looked down at himself as if only now noticing what he was wearing: a casual, open-necked shirt and dark, relaxed-fit jeans. His smile was dry and mocking. “Hard to straddle a Triumph in a tux.”
Stack snorted. “If you had a lick of respect, you’d have come in your car, rather than on that thing.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Realizing he was losing the battle, Stack turned sourly to Shani. He held up his bitten hand meaningfully. “I wonder what Yvan will say when I let him know his waitress has been chewing on something, and it ain’t the hors d’oeuvres.” His handsome face glittered with malice.
That was enough to sober Shani up immediately, her pleasure at her small victory evaporating like spilled booze. Getting back at this pig was one thing, but her job was another. It wasn’t as though she had only herself to maintain. There was Bee to think of. She grimaced and swallowed her pride. “Mr. Bookman, please …” But Stack was already turning away.
She was left with the handsome intruder, as alone as it was possible to be, given the proximity of the liquor-fueled crowd in the next room. His sharp black eyes were slowly going her over as if looking for injury. “You okay?”
“Great.” As okay as it was possible to be with her job hanging in the balance. If Bookman ratted her out, there wasn’t much she could do. It would be better if, at the very least, Yvan found her working. She smoothed her hair, dropped to her knees and began picking the ruined crab cakes up off the floor.
To her surprise, the tall, lithe man squatted next to her and began to help. “Pity,” he murmured as he let a few tumble onto the tray. “These look delicious. You cook them?”
Too weary for conversation, she answered shortly, “I’m a waitress, not a cook.” She couldn’t help adding, “For now.”
“Sorry about the job,” he sympathized. “But I saw what went down. If Stack’s vindictive enough to squeal on you, and I can assure you he is, I can vouch for you.”
Tempting, but pride made her a fool. This member of the “hired help” didn’t need a stranger’s intervention. “I didn’t need you rescuing me then, and I don’t need it now.”
His face was level with hers, and for the first time it truly registered how handsome he was, in a careless, I-get-up-looking-like-this-in-the-morning kind of way. Skin like sand, eyes dark as eternity. Long nose, full lips and pointed chin.
He was saying something. “Rescue you? What, when you had your teeth sunk into his hand like a squirrel with the mother of all walnuts?” He smiled, and in the darkness of his eyes the moon came out from behind the clouds. “I wasn’t rescuing you, I was rescuing Stack!”
It figured. Men knew how to stick together. “He deserved it,” she pointed out.
“I bet he did,” he said, and then, as if explaining the hazards of crossing the road to a toddler, he added, “Maybe next time you’ll be more careful about who you flirt with.”
You could have tossed a beanbag into her gaping mouth from across the room, and won a teddy bear. “Who I flirt with?”
The man went purposefully on. “He’s an eyeful, I’ll give you that, and a charmer. But I think you just learned how fast he can turn on you.”
She shot to her feet and dumped the crab cakes into the garbage, trying to bring her indignation under control. It didn’t work. When she rounded on him, he was standing right behind her. “You think I was flirting with him?“
The heat of her outrage could have singed the unruly lock of hair that tumbled over his forehead. “I assumed …”
“I don’t want to know what you assumed …” She stopped. She really needed to get back to work. She bit off her tirade and cut around him, heading for the doorway.
He kept pace, apologetic. “I’m sorry. It’s just that Stack has a way with the ladies …”
“What, manhandling them into submission?”
“He’s very charming when he’s sober. Give him five minutes, and he can turn any woman into Jell-O.”
“Any woman but me,” she snapped.
He gave her another long, slow look and said softly, “Looks like you’re different.”
“Different from what? The kind of woman who’d fall for a glass of wine and an invitation to slow dance in the kitchen? I should hope so.” She squinted at him suspiciously. “You seem to know that pig well enough, by the way.”
She couldn’t tell whether the smile he gave her was rueful or mocking. “I should. That pig’s my father.”
Chapter 2
Low blow, Elliot thought as the look of horror spread across the woman’s dark, pretty face. She began to babble, “Oh, I … I … I had no idea.” The irritation she’d shown since he’d put his foot in his mouth with that remark about flirting dissipated.
She didn’t deserve such discomfort, so he hastened to reassure her. “Don’t worry. I’ve called him worse—and so have a few dozen women, I bet.” To put an end to the issue, he held out his hand. “I’m Elliot Bookman Jr.”
She looked at his hand as if she thought he’d palmed a joy buzzer, but she shook it anyway. Her hand was warm and smooth, the hand of a woman who took care of herself. He liked that. He had to remind himself to release it within the time limit set by good manners, rather than indulge for just a few more seconds in its warm softness.
“Shani Matthieu.” She was frowning, half embarrassed, half anxious to get out of there. “Mr. Bookman—”
“Elliot,” he cut across with the standard joke. “My father’s Mr.—”
“I need to get back to work.” She brushed away a floppy lock of dark brown hair, pushing it up and over her ear in a gesture that made her seem girlish. Those hands again.
She rushed through the doorway—and careened into a shadow that had sidled in without either of them noticing.
The man was about Elliot’s height, but long-limbed and thin. He was so pale as to be almost transparent, save for the ferociously glowing freckles. His eyes were the color of brackish Florida swamp water, the kind that hid lurking gators. A black tuxedo draped over his thin frame made him look like Jack Skellington in Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas. The kente-cloth cummerbund looped around his waist immediately identified him as the aforementioned Yvan.
“Shani!” His voice was a Yoda-like rasp. “What’s this about you biting my client? And hitting him with a tray?”
She hit Stack with a tray? Elliot regretted having missed that part. Then he noticed his father standing behind him, glowering, and decided the situation was too grim—for Shani at least—to merit a chuckle.
Shani drew in her lip, her beautifully shaped teeth working at the full, wine-tinted flesh. For a second he thought she mightn’t answer, but she squared herself and said resolutely. “He was getting fresh with me.”
“How fresh does a guy got to get for you to bite him? “
“Fresh enough. He put his hand on me and I asked him to stop …”
“That’s a lie!” Stack swayed a little, and Elliot knew it wouldn’t be long before he passed out. “The crazy chick bit me for no reason!”
“Why would I bite you for no reason?”
Another waitress arrived on the scene and hesitated before snatching up a tray of tidbits and scurrying off as if afraid Yvan’s anger would spill over in her direction.
Fat chance. Yvan was totally focused on his current victim. “Little lady, jobs are hard to come by, especially with bosses as patient as me.”
Elliot was surprised Shani didn’t snort.
“This is your only warning. I want you to apologize to Mr. Bookman.”
“What?”
Yvan confirmed his demand with an insistent nod. “You apologize, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll still have a job by the end of the night.”
The tortured look on Shani’s face was too much for Elliot. He could practically hear the scales shifting back and forth as she tried to determine which was worth more: her job or her pride? Her lips parted, and the tip of her tongue appeared. The gesture was jarringly erotic, which was an odd response to have, given that the situation was so serious. She inhaled, looked about to speak and stopped again. Facing her, Yvan frowned like an old schoolmaster about to administer a whippin'. Behind him, Stack looked victorious.
She closed her eyes and plunged in. “Mr. Bookman.” she began.
This was wrong. Elliot stepped forward, shielding her from the ire of her employer and his father’s unfounded self-righteousness. “The lady has nothing to apologize for. I saw what happened. My father was getting out of line, and she defended herself.”
Shani gave a small squeak. “I told you I don’t need help!”
“I know, but right is right. You don’t need to apologize.” He speared his father with a look. “Does she, Stack?”
Stack shifted, looking guilty. “Well, maybe I misunderstood …”
“She’ll apologize because I tell her to,” Yvan ground out. “Shani …” He pointed at Stack as if he was showing a naughty dog the way out.
She lifted her head like an innocent woman facing a firing squad. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bookman. Please …” She swallowed hard; Elliot could see movement at the base of her throat, and that movement drew his eyes downward to the cleavage that swelled out the top of her plunging neckline. She didn’t need the push-up bra she was wearing. He dragged his eyes to her face again as she begged, “Please, forgive …” Then she stopped, and another look crossed her face. Not outrage, not embarrassment, not discomfort. Something else, and it scared him.
She slipped her hand into her pocket. Yvan saw the movement, reptilian eyes swiveling down. “Don’t tell me.” he began.
What the hell?
She withdrew a small cell phone and looked at it as if it was the detonator for a nuclear weapon. It must have been on silent, because nobody had heard it ring.
“I’ve explicitly told you, all of you, you are not allowed to carry your phones on the job!” Yvan was in a fine lather. Something told Elliot that this was his usual state of being.
Shani gave him half a second’s glance. “You know my situation, Yvan.”
“I don’t give a pickled monkey’s butt about your situation.”
“Hello?” Shani’s voice was a whisper. Elliot’s eyes were riveted to her face, beyond curiosity. Under the plum-dark skin, the blood drained. “I’ll be right there.” She clicked the phone shut. “It’s Bee,” she said to Yvan.
Bee? What bee? He half expected to see one buzzing around their heads.
If you’d set a spirit level along Yvan’s mouth, the bubble would have been dead center. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“I need to go. Now.”
Yvan lifted his hand and checked his watch. “Your tail is mine for another hour and forty minutes.”
“Bee’s sick, and I’m going to her.”
“You do that, and …” He didn’t finish the threat.
Shani ripped off the silly apron she was wearing and threw it down. “You want to fire me? Consider me fired. But please, Yvan, ask Ralph to give me a lift to the other side of Ventura. Maybe I could catch a late bus. There’s nothing running here in Belmont tonight.”
“Ralph drives a catering truck, not a taxi. Besides, we’re busy tonight.” He added meaningfully, “We’re one hand short.” The scarecrow of a man swooped down and scooped up the apron, tucking it under his arm, then stalked off.
That left three of them. The events of the last minute and a half seemed to have gotten through to Stack. Instead of basking in his petty triumph, he looked abashed, but Elliot knew his father wasn’t man enough to say he was sorry unless it suited him. Stack’s eyes took in Shani’s stricken face and then he, too, slunk away.
And then there were two. Elliot put his hands on his hips and took in the pain on Shani’s face. He’d known this woman only ten minutes, but inexplicably he was hurting for her. “You okay?”
She looked at him as though he’d asked the world’s most asinine question. “No.”
“What’s the problem? What bee are you talking about?”
“My daughter,” she answered irritably, as if he should have known. “Béatrice.”
“Ah.” Now he understood. “She’s sick?”
Shani nodded wearily. “She had a fever when I left home this evening.” She found her purse next to the broom cupboard. As she shouldered it, he noticed a thin wedding band on her finger. For some reason, that disappointed him.
“Was that your husband on the phone?”
She turned and wrenched open the kitchen door, which gave side access to his father’s garage and, beyond it, the broad driveway. “That was my sitter. My baby’s worse. Her fever’s a hundred and four.” She slipped through the doorway and into the darkened garage.
He hurried to keep up with her. “Where’re you going?”
Her look made him feel as if his IQ didn’t graze eighty. “I’m taking her to the hospital.” She twisted, looking for the garage light, the better to see her way out. He found it easily and clicked it on.
“Let me rephrase that. How are you getting there? Yvan said—”
“I heard what Yvan said. I’m walking to the bus stop.” “But there aren’t any—”
“Night buses that pass through Belmont. I know.” He could see her legs flash in the floodlights, hear her heels click on the driveway. “I’m walking to Ventura.”
“That’s two miles away!”
She didn’t even glance in his direction. Her determined mouth barely moved as she told him, “Then I better get to walking.” A stiff, late-September wind stirred her hair. She didn’t have a coat on, and that dress of hers, what passed for a dress, barely brushed the tops of her thighs.
Elliot watched as she hurried away, her hips rolling in her haste, legs moving swiftly past each other. Seeing a mother so concerned for her child’s well-being that she was willing to trot across town on heels too high for waitressing stirred something in him. “Shani, wait!”
She half turned, frowning at him for interrupting her pace.
He ran down the path, grasping her by the arms.
“Wait.”
She looked down at the hands he’d placed on her, brows together, and when he read on her face the indignation at being restrained by a second Bookman in one night, he let go. The lady had already proved she didn’t mind biting—and not in a good way.
“I have … to get … to my daughter,” she explained carefully. “Fast.”
The fear in her eyes made his heart constrict. “It’s too late. Too cold.”
“I don’t have a choice.” She resumed walking as though her pace had never been interrupted.
He wasn’t explaining himself right, dammit! “Wait!” As he stopped her again, she sucked in a breath. He was sure she was about to scream, so he talked fast. “Just give me ten seconds, all right?”
“Why?”
“I’ll take you.”
“What?”
He left her standing there and sprinted back to the kitchen. The Triumph wasn’t the best mode of transport for what he had in mind. He snagged his father’s car keys without a second thought and darted back outside.
The burgundy Lexus chirped a friendly welcome as he unlocked it. He rammed the keys into the ignition with less respect than such a machine deserved and, not even bothering to let it warm up, slammed it into gear and nosed it down to where she was waiting. As he drew alongside, her already-arched brows lifted just so much higher. He leaped out, opened the passenger door and bundled her in. She complied, more bewildered than anything else, letting him click her seat belt into place before he leaped back into his seat again and hit the gas.
She was staring at his face, still puzzled. “Why’re you doing this?”
Why, indeed? “Just trying to help,” he explained lamely. “I’d hate to know a child was sick and I didn’t do anything about it.”
“Oh.” She was still examining his face, but whether she was looking for an ulterior motive or asking herself what she’d done to deserve the random kindness of a stranger, he couldn’t tell. “Thank you.”
Again, that strange ache inside him, for her. What kind of sad creature was this, so unaccustomed to receiving kindness that it took her by surprise when she found it? And where was her husband, anyway? Shouldn’t he be doing this? “Besides,” he added, joking to relieve his tension, and hers, “I need brownie points in heaven. God knows I’ve racked up enough for the other team.”
She smiled weakly and relaxed into her seat. “Thank you,” she said again. It came from somewhere deep inside her.
“So, where to?” “Catarina.”
He nodded. They were already approaching Ventura, a pleasant neighborhood that formed a buffer between the genteel suburbs and the busy city. From there it was just a minute or two to the highway on-ramp. On an ordinary day, it would take maybe forty minutes to get to the heart of Santa Amata. But it was well after midnight on a Saturday, and, after all, this was a Lexus, not a station wagon. They made it in twenty.
He looked covertly over at her. Her eyes were taking in every detail of the custom interior of the vehicle, the lovingly polished wood finishing, the muted glow of the array of dials and screens that illuminated her face. He saw her extend one finger and slowly stroke the leather on which she was sitting, and he smiled. It gave him an irrational, childish pleasure to share this little luxury with her. He had a feeling her life wasn’t filled with much of that.
She spoke only to give directions, and he was grateful. Sometimes when you offered a person a ride, they felt obligated to make conversation, to fill the air with irrelevant chatter. She wasn’t the type to indulge in that nonsense, and he liked her for that.
Catarina was on the other side of Santa Amata, a slightly … more lived-in side of town. A few blocks beyond Independence Avenue, the city’s main artery, the streets grew narrower, the buildings just a shade shabbier. It was chilly—which reminded Elliot he didn’t have his coat on, either—but many of the bars had their doors thrown open, and he could hear music spilling out. Trees were beginning to shed their leaves; the wind danced with them in the street as cars swooshed past.
“Left on Bagley,” she told him, and he turned onto the street without a word. It was lined with brownstones and shop fronts. Most of the houses had small family businesses downstairs, with living quarters upstairs. The occasional building that rose past three or four floors looked out of place next to the squat two-story houses beside them.
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