Читать книгу Claiming His Love-Child - Сандра Мартон, Sandra Marton - Страница 9

BY THE time the chartered Learjet landed in California, Cullen had come to the conclusion he was crazy.

He’d flown 3,000 miles in six hours, gone from East coast time to Pacific coast time—something that always left him feeling vaguely disoriented—and now, as he stepped onto the tarmac, he was engulfed by air so hot and humid it made the weather he’d left behind seem like an arctic paradise.

And for what?

What in hell was he doing?

He’d never chased after a woman in his life. Well, not since the seventh grade, when he’d made a fool of himself over Trudy Gershwin, but seventh grade was long gone. He wasn’t a kid. Neither was Marissa Perez. She was history and so was the night they’d spent in bed.

History? Cullen slung the strap of his carry-on bag over his shoulder as he walked toward the terminal. That night was barely a blip in the fabric of his life. Who gave a damn why she’d slept with him, then vanished and refused to take his calls?

Trouble was, he’d reached that conclusion somewhere over the pastures and fields of the Midwest, a few hours and fifteen hundred miles too late. He’d come within a breath of telling the pilot to turn the jet around.

He’d thought about phoning his brothers. One or the other would give him good advice.

Hey, bro, Sean or Keir would say, you know what your problem is? You’ve got a bad case of ZTS.

Yes, he’d thought, I do. He’d smiled, even reached for the phone…and then he’d realized that first he’d have to tell the whole story, the weekend in California, making a fool of himself with Marissa, the infuriating months since then.

Besides, this wasn’t ZTS. He wasn’t thinking with his gonads, he simply wanted answers. Closure. The word of the day.

So he’d sat back, finished the flight and now, as he stepped into the welcome chill of the terminal, Cullen told himself he was glad he had.

Closure. Right. That’s what he wanted, what he was entitled to, and, by God, he wasn’t going home without it.

He found the rental car counter easily enough, managed a “hello” he hoped was civil and slapped the confirmation number of his reservation on the counter.

“Good afternoon, Mr. O’Connell,” the clerk said, her smile as bright as if she were about to hand him a winning lottery ticket instead of the keys to…

A four-door sedan? Cullen blinked as he read the paper she slid in front of him.

“There’s some mistake here, miss. I reserved a convertible.”

The blinding smile dimmed just a little. “I know. But this is a holiday weekend.”

“And?”

“And, it’s all we have left.”

He knew she meant he was lucky to get anything with an engine and four wheels. She was right, too, and really, what did the type of car he drove matter? He wasn’t here for a good time; he was on a safari to Egoville because, yeah, the simple truth was this was all about ego. His. The Perez babe had dented it, and he was here to set things right.

Man, acknowledging that nasty truth really put the icing on the cake.

Cullen glared, muttered something about inefficiency as he signed the papers and scooped up the keys. He started to stalk away but after a couple of steps, he rolled his eyes and turned back toward the counter.

“Sorry,” he said in a clipped tone. “I’m in a bad mood, but I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

The clerk’s smile softened. “It’s the weather, sir. Everybody’s edgy. What we need is a good soaking rain.”

Cullen nodded. What he needed was a good soaking for his head. If he’d done that in the first place, he’d still be back home. Since it was too late for that, he settled for buying an extra-large container of coffee, black, at a stand near the exit door. Maybe part of the problem was that he was still operating on East coast time. Pumping some caffeine through his system might help.

It didn’t.

The coffee tasted as if somebody had washed their socks in it. He dumped it in a trash bin after one sip. And the sedan was a color that could only be called bilious-green. Five minutes on the freeway toward Berkeley and Cullen knew it also had all the vitality of a sick sloth.

Not a good beginning for a trip he probably shouldn’t have made.

Cullen fell in behind an ancient truck whose sole reason for existence was to make green sedans feel like Ferraris.

Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

And that was the one thing he wouldn’t do with Perez. Beg. No way. He’d confront her, get in her face if that’s what it took, and he wouldn’t let her off the hook until she explained herself, but he wouldn’t let her think he was pleading for answers…

Even if he was.

Damn it, he was entitled to answers! A woman didn’t give a man the brush-off after a night like the one they’d spent. All that heat. Her little cries. The way she’d responded to him, the way she’d touched him, as if every caress was a first-time exploration. And the look on her face, the way her eyes had blurred when he took her up over the edge…

Had it all been a game? Lies, deceit, whatever a woman might call pretending she was feeling something in a man’s arms when she really wasn’t?

Cullen hit the horn, cursed, swung into the passing lane and chugged along beside the wheezing truck until he finally overtook it.

Whether she liked it or not, Marissa Perez was going to talk to him.

He had her address—she’d never given it to him but he’d found it easily by using her phone number to do a reverse search on the Internet. Another exit…yes, there it was.

Cullen took the ramp and wound through half a dozen streets in a neighborhood he remembered from his own graduate days. It was still the same: a little shabby around the edges but, all in all, safe and pleasant. He’d wondered what kind of area she lived in, whether it was okay or dangerous or what.

He hadn’t liked imagining her in a rundown house on a dark street. Not that it was any of his concern.

“What the hell’s with you, O’Connell?” he muttered, digging her address from his pocket. “You thinking of turning into the Good Fairy?”

Her building was on the corner. Cullen parked, trotted up the steps to a wide stoop and checked the names below the buzzers in the cramped entry. No Perez. He checked again, frowned, then pressed the button marked Building Manager.

“Yes?”

A tinny voice came over the speaker. Cullen leaned in.

“I’m looking for Marissa Perez’s apartment.”

“She don’t live here.”

He glanced at the slip of paper in his hand. “Isn’t this 345 Spring Street?”

“She used to live here, but she moved.”

“Moved where? Do you have her new address?”

“I got no idea.”

“But she must have left a forwarding—”

Click. Cullen was talking to the air. “Damn,” he muttered, heading back to his car while he took his cell phone from his pocket. He hadn’t intended to call. Why give her advance notice of his visit? Now, he had no choice.

And no success, either.

“The number you have reached, 555-1157, is no longer in service.”

He tried again, got the same message. What was going on here? Cullen called the operator and asked for a phone number for Marissa Perez.

There was none. Not a public listing, anyway.

Annoyed, he tossed the cell phone aside. There wasn’t a way in the world he could shake loose a privately listed number from the phone company. Back home, maybe, he could pull some strings, but not here.

Someone had to have her number or her address. The bursar’s office, the dean’s office…

Or her advisor. Ian Hutchins.

Cullen sat back and drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel. The offices would be closed for the weekend. Ian was the logical choice, but he’d want to know why Cullen was trying to get in touch with Marissa.

He was digging himself in deeper and deeper.

A sane man would turn around and head for home but then, a sane man wouldn’t have come out here in the first place.

He started the car. It lurched forward. The engine bitched when he tried to coax more speed from it, but it finally gave a couple of hiccups and complied.

Even the car knew he wasn’t in a mood to be screwed with, he thought grimly.

He only hoped the Perez babe could read him just as quickly.

THE Hutchinses lived in a big Victorian on a tree-lined street in North Oakland.

Music, and the sound of voices and laughter, spilled from the yard behind the house. The air was pungent with the mingled aromas of smoking charcoal, lager beer and grilling beef.

Cullen climbed the porch steps, took a deep breath and rang the bell. After a minute, Hutchins’s wife, Sylvia, opened the door.

“Hello,” she said, her lips curving into a cautious smile that suddenly turned genuine. “Cullen O’Connell! What a nice surprise.”

“Hello, Sylvia. Sorry to barge in without notice, but—”

“Don’t be silly!” Laughing, she took his arm and drew him inside the foyer. “I was afraid you were the fire marshal. Ian’s grilling steaks.”

Cullen chuckled. “The Hutchins method of incineration. Nothing’s changed, huh?”

“Not a thing,” Sylvia said cheerfully. “Come inside, Cullen. I had no idea you were in town. Ian never said a word.”

“He doesn’t know. And I apologize again for not phoning first. You have guests.”

“We have half the Bay area, you mean. You know these barbecues of Ian’s—students, faculty, friends, every person he’s ever met on the street. Besides, why would you call first? You’re always welcome. Let me get you a drink and introduce you around.”

“Actually, I just need a couple of minutes of Ian’s time.”

“Oh, come on. There are a couple of unattached women here—Ian’s third-and fourth-year students—I’m sure would love to meet you.”

“Is Marissa Perez one of them?” Holy hell. How had that slipped out? Cullen felt his face burn. “I met her that last time I was out here. She drove me around all weekend.”

Sylvia arched an eyebrow. “Marissa? No, she’s not here. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her in a while.” She winked. “I’m sure we can find a replacement.”

“Sylvia,” Cullen said quietly, “if you’d just tell Ian I’m here…I need to ask him something and then I’ll be on my way.”

“Ah. You’re really not in a party mood, are you?” Smiling, she patted his hand. “I’ll get Ian. Why don’t you wait in his study?”

Cullen bent and kissed her cheek. “Thanks.”

The professor’s study was a small room off the foyer. Cullen had always liked it. An old sofa covered in flowered chintz faced a small fireplace; an antique cherry desk stood in a corner. The walls were hung with family photos, and an ancient Oriental rug lent a mellow touch to the hard-wood floor.

The place felt familiar and comforting. And when Ian Hutchins crossed the threshold with a beer in either hand, Cullen smiled.

“As always,” he said, taking a glass from Hutchins, “the perfect host.”

“It’s not the fatted calf—I’ve got that laid out on the barbecue—but I figured you might be thirsty.” The men shook hands, then sat down. “If I’d known you were going to be in town—”

“It was a last minute decision.”

“And Sylvia tells me you can’t stay for our party.”

“No. I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m just passing through and I wondered…” Get to it, O’Connell. “Remember when I was here to give that speech?”

“Of course. We had a lot of excellent feedback. Matter of fact, I was going to give you a call, see if you’d be interested in—”

“The woman who was my liaison. Marissa Perez.”

Hutchins cocked his head. “Yes?”

“I’m trying to get in touch with her.” Cullen cleared his throat. “Turns out she’s moved. I thought you might have her new address.”

“May I ask why you’re trying to contact Ms. Perez, Cullen?”

Cullen stared at the older man, then rose to his feet. He put his untouched glass of beer on a table and tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

“It’s a personal matter.”

“Personal.”

“Ms. Perez and I had a misunderstanding, and I’d like to clear the air.”

“How personal? What sort of misunderstanding?”

Cullen’s mouth narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“I said—”

“I heard what you said, Ian. And, frankly, I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”

Hutchins put down his glass, too, and got to his feet. “Easy, Cullen. I’m not trying to pry, but, well, I owe a certain amount of confidentiality to my students. I’m sure you understand that.”

“Hell, I’m not asking you to tell me her social security number!” Easy, Cullen told himself. Just take it nice and slow. “Look, I want to talk to her, that’s all. If you’re not comfortable giving me her address, then give me her phone number. Her new one’s unlisted.”

Hutchins sighed. “Is it? Well, I’m not surprised. All in all, Marissa seems to have done her best to sever all her university relationships.”

“Why? What’s going on? Did she transfer out?”

“Worse. She quit. And I’m worried about her.”

“What do you mean, she quit? You said she was one of your best students. Why would she quit?”

“She wasn’t one of my best, she was the best. I don’t know why she withdrew from school. She began behaving strangely, is all I know, and made what I think are some poor decisions, but…” Hutchins took a deep breath, then slowly expelled it. “That’s why I was questioning you, Cullen. I figured, if you and she had become friends, perhaps it would be all right to share my concerns with you.”

“Ian, you’ve known me for years. You know you can count on me to be discreet.”

Hutchins nodded. “Very well, then. Here’s the situation. Marissa’s walked away from a promising future. I know that sounds melodramatic but it’s true. She was to edit Law Review next year and after graduation, she was slated to clerk for Judge Landers.” He spread his hands. “She’s turned her back on all of it.”

“Why? What happened to her? Drugs? Alcohol?” Cullen could hear the roughness in his own voice. He cleared his throat and flashed a quick smile. “We can’t afford to let the smart ones get away, Ian. There must be a reason.”

“I’m sure there is, but she wouldn’t discuss it. I tried to talk to her the first time I realized something was wrong. She flunked one of my exams.” Hutchins gave a sharp laugh. “Understand, she never so much as gave a wrong answer until then. Anyway, I called her in for a chat. I asked if she had a problem she wanted to discuss with me. She said she didn’t.”

“And?”

“And, because I was her advisor, I began hearing from her other instructors. The same thing was happening in their classes. She was failing tests, not turning in papers, not participating in discussions. They all asked if I knew the reason.”

“So, you spoke with Marissa again…”

“Of course. She told me she’d had to take on a heavier work schedule at some restaurant. The Chiliburger, I think she said, over on Telegraph. I offered to see about some additional scholarship money but she said no, she had expenses that would extend beyond the school year.” Hutchins frowned. “She looked awful, Cullen. Tired. Peaked, if you’ll pardon such an old-fashioned word. I asked her if she was sick. She said she wasn’t.” Hutchins shrugged. “Next thing I knew, she’d dropped out of school. I phoned her, got the same message I assume you got. I even went to her apartment, but she’d cleared out.”

“Did you go to this place where she works? The Chiliburger?”

“No. This is America,” Ian said with a little smile. “People are entitled to lead their lives as they wish. Marissa had made it clear she didn’t want to discuss her problems. I’m her advisor, not her father. There’s a certain line I don’t have the right to cross.”

Cullen could feel a muscle knotting and unknotting in his jaw. Hutchins was right. Marissa Perez was entitled to lead her life as she saw fit. If she wanted to sleep with a stranger and then ignore him, she could. If she wanted to drop out of law school and walk away from a future others would kill for, she could do that, too.

And he could do what he had to do. Find her, and find out what in hell was going on.

“You’re right,” Cullen said as the men walked slowly to the front door. “You did everything you could.”

“You’re going to talk with her? Assuming you can find her, that is?”

Cullen laughed. “I have a feeling finding her won’t be hard. Getting her to talk to me might be a different story.”

CULLEN knew exactly where to find the Chiliburger. It was, as burger joints went, an institution.

He had eaten countless fries and burgers within the confines of its greasy walls; he’d studied in its vinyl booths, at wooden tables scarred with the incised initials of at least four decades’ worth of students.

He drove to the restaurant, lucked out on a parking space and strolled inside. A blast of heavy-metal music made him wince. Even the stuff pouring from the jukebox was the same. So was the aroma of fried onions, chili and beer.

He scanned the room. It was crowded. No surprise there, either. Holiday or not, there were always some students who remained in town. It was coming up on supper time, and they’d gather at places like this for a cheap meal and some laughs.

He spotted a vacant booth way in the back, went to it and slid across the red imitation leather seat. The table was still littered with plates and glasses; he pushed them aside and reached for the stained menu propped between the ketchup bottle and the salt and pepper shakers.

As far as he could tell, only one waitress was working the tables, a heavyset blonde of indeterminate age.

No Marissa.

After a while, the blonde appeared at his elbow and shifted a wad of gum from one side of her mouth to the other.

“You know what you want or you need more time?”

“A Coke, please.”

“That’s it?”

Cullen smiled. What she meant was, You’re going to take up space at one of my tables and that’s all you’re going to spend?

“And a burger. The house special, medium-well.” He shoved the menu back into its hiding place, considered asking Blondie about Marissa and decided this wasn’t the right time. “No rush.”

“No rush is right. I got all these tables to handle by myself.”

“Nobody else on with you tonight?”

“Oh, there’s somebody on with me.” Blondie rolled her eyes. “She just isn’t here yet, is all.”

Cullen tried not to show his sudden interest. “She’s late?”

“She’s always late,” Blondie said. “Last couple months, anyway. You want guacamole or mayo on that burger?”

“You pick it. How come?”

“How come what?”

“How come the other waitress started showing up late?”

Blondie shrugged. “How would I know? Only thing I’m sure of is that it’s a pain in the butt, trying to cover for her so the boss doesn’t realize she’s not here.”

“Then why do it?”

The waitress’s expression softened and she leaned toward him. “’Cause she’s a nice kid. Always did her fair share until now.”

“And that changed?”

“It sure did. She says she’s just been feeling under the weather.” The blonde shifted her gum. “You ask me,” she said slyly, “the trouble with her is that she’s—”

“She’s what?”

Something in his tone must have given him away. Blondie drew back. “What’s with all these questions?”

“I’m just making conversation, that’s all.”

“Well, you got questions about Marissa Perez, ask her direct. She just came in. I’ll put your order in, but it’ll be her takes care of—Mister? Mister, what’s the problem?”

What was the problem? Cullen didn’t know where to begin. Marissa was coming from behind the counter that ran the length of one side of the room, but this wasn’t the Marissa he’d spent countless nights dreaming about.

Her face was devoid of color; there were rings under her eyes. Her hair, which he remembered as being as lustrous as a crow’s wing, was dull and lifeless.

Something was terribly wrong with her.

He shot to his feet.

She saw him as he did.

She paled—though how she could get paler than she already was, he thought grimly, was hard to comprehend. He saw her lips form his name as she took a step back.

“Marissa,” he said, but he knew she couldn’t hear him, not over the din of music and loud voices.

She stared at him. Her lips formed his name. For a second, he thought she was going to pass out. He mouthed an oath, took a step toward her, but she pasted a bloodless smile to her lips and started toward him.

“Cullen,” she said in a thin voice, “what a nice surprise.”

It didn’t take a genius to know that her smile was a lie. She was surprised, all right, but nice? No way. She was about as glad to see him as a lone gazelle would be to see a lion.

“Yeah,” he said coldly, “what a nice surprise.” His hand closed around her wrist. “You look terrible.”

“Are you always so free with compliments?”

“Cut the crap.” Why was he so angry? So what if she looked like death warmed over? It wasn’t his business, he told himself, even as his eyes narrowed and drilled into hers. “Is that why you didn’t call me? Have you been sick?”

“I didn’t call you because I didn’t want to call you. I know that must come as a shock, Cullen, but—”

“Is that the reason you left school?”

Her face colored. “Who told you that?”

“You were the best student Ian Hutchins had, and you quit. You moved out of your apartment, you’re working your tail off in a joint like this and you look like hell. I want to know why.”

“Just who do you think you are, Mr. O’Connell? I don’t owe any explanations to you or anybody. My life is my—”

“I’m making it my business. Last time we saw each other, you had the world by the tail. I want to know what happened.”

“But you’re not going to find out. I told you, I don’t have to—Hey. Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

Cullen was tugging her toward the door. Marissa tried to dig in her heels, but he paid no attention.

“Stop it!” she said in a frantic whisper. “Are you crazy? You’ll cost me my job!”

“Tell her you’re taking a break to talk to an old friend,” he growled when Blondie hurried toward them.

“Marissa? You okay? You want me to call the cops?”

And turn this bad dream into a full-fledged nightmare? “No,” Marissa said quickly, “No, I’m fine. I’m just—I’m taking a break…”

The next thing she knew, she was tucked in the passenger seat of Cullen’s car and they were pulling away from the curb and into traffic.