Читать книгу Plain Jane and the Playboy / Valentine's Fortune: Plain Jane and the Playboy - Allison Leigh - Страница 13

Unlike her former beauty queen mother—or maybe because of her—Jane had never liked being the center of attention. It made her uncomfortable.

“There’s nothing to ‘give,’” Jane told Harriet.

The women exchanged exasperated looks with one another, as if they thought she was holding out on them.

“Oh, come on, Jane,” Cecilia Evans, the oldest of the group, pressed. “A man doesn’t send flowers and sign his name ‘with affection’ if something isn’t going on. Especially not a hunk like Jorge Mendoza.”

Cecilia drove the point home. “How does he know you work here?”

Jane looked back at the flowers. They would have had her floating on air—if she didn’t know what she knew. She almost wished she hadn’t overheard those boys gossiping.

Most likely, Jorge had sent the flowers because he’d had qualms of conscience.

But then, she backtracked, why should he if he didn’t know that she knew?

This was all getting very complicated. All she wanted to do was get to work, do what she did best, and forget about everything else.

Some people were meant to have romance in their lives and some weren’t. She belonged to the “weren’t” group and she was just going to have to learn how to deal with that and accept it.

More than anything, Jane didn’t want to talk about Jorge or the flowers or anything that had to do with why they might have been sent. But she had never learned how to be rude or cut people off. She’d certainly never learned how to tell them to butt out.

So she lifted her shoulders in a vague shrug and admitted, “I told him where I work.”

“When?” Joyce demanded excitedly. “When did you tell him?” The slender blonde shook her head when information didn’t immediately come spilling out of Jane’s mouth. “If I’d met Jorge Mendoza, every single last detail would have been up on my blog three minutes after I got home. Maybe two.”

“I don’t blog,” Jane said, seizing on the stray item.

“You don’t talk much, either,” Cecilia grumbled. Two of the other women chimed in their agreement.

Jane pressed her lips together, suppressing a sigh. It wasn’t her intention to seem secretive about the matter. It was just that she knew that these flowers, didn’t really mean anything and honest though she was, she certainly wasn’t about to tell her friends that Jorge had kissed her on a bet.

Some things you just didn’t talk about. To anyone.

Looking at the circle of eager faces surrounding her, she decided to give them just the bare bones and hope they’d be satisfied with that.

“I met him at the New Year’s Eve party I went to at Red, the one Emmett Jamison and his wife threw for the Fortune Foundation. I went representing ReadingWorks,” she added quickly, in case any of them thought she had a special in with the elite circle of people the Fortunes usually associated with. As the one who had worked at ReadingWorks the longest, she’d been the logical one to invite. “I was afraid if I didn’t go, it might insult Mr. Jamison.”

They all knew that the Foundation had given ReadingWorks sizable grants in the last couple of years, and it was largely because of the Foundation that ReadingWorks’ doors were opened to the children whose parents could not afford to pay for private tutoring.

“Right,” Harriet said, waving her hand at Jane’s explanation. “Get to the good part,” she urged. “How did you meet Jorge?”

“Is he as good looking as his pictures?” Sally asked.

Jane had to be honest. She always was. There were times when she considered it almost a congenital defect. “Better.”

“So? Get on with it,” Sally begged. “There had to be a lot of people there.”

“There were.” It had been so crowded and so noisy that she had trouble concentrating on her book when she’d taken it out.

“So how did you two meet?” Cecilia wanted to know. “Don’t skip anything,” she ordered before Jane could say answer.

“He asked me if I wanted to freshen up my drink—he was tending bar for his parents,” Jane explained.

She knew she was being disjointed, that the facts were tumbling out like grains of rice from a hole in the bottom of the box, but it was hard for her to collect her thoughts under all this scrutiny. Especially since she was still having trouble reconciling herself to the fact that the single greatest experience of her young life was tied to a bet, making her—in her mind, at least—the butt of a cruel joke.

The fact that Jorge had sent a note like that with flowers just served to confuse and complicate everything that much more.

“And then?” Sally urged when Jane didn’t elaborate. “This is like pulling teeth,” she complained. “What did you do to get him to send you flowers?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Jane protested. Except run away.

Maybe that was it, she thought. Maybe he was feeling guilty because she’d bolted and he suspected that she knew about the bet.

Joyce frowned. This obviously wasn’t making any sense to her, or the others. “So that was it? He asked you if you wanted your drink freshened and then he just disappeared?”

“Well, no.” Jane thought about the way he’d looked at her and a smile curved her mouth involuntarily. “We talked a little. And then it was midnight and—”

The mere memory made her body tingle.

Joyce’s eyes widened. “He kissed you?”

Jane nodded her head. For a split second, a wave of heat washed over her as, despite her best efforts to block it, the memory replayed itself in her head.

“Yes.”

“And? What was it like?” Sally demanded.

Jane had never mastered the art of nonchalance. Besides, there had been nothing nonchalant about the way Jorge kissed. He had literally made the earth move beneath her feet. No matter what his motives were, she had to give him his due in that department.

“Pretty terrific.”

“And you’re seeing him again,” Sally assumed eagerly, skimming her fingertip down along a plump, pink rose petal.

Despite everything, a sliver of sadness skewered through Jane as she answered. “No.”

The other women looked at each other.

“But he sent flowers,” Harriet insisted. “How can you not see someone who sent you flowers?”

Because he doesn’t want to see me. He just doesn’t want to feel bad.

Jane kept the words to herself, searching for some kind of plausible answer that would make the others back off and leave her alone. This was hard enough to deal with without pretending that she was starryeyed and walking on air.

Just then, April, the administrative assistant, came into the lounge. Excitement pulsated from every pore as she announced, “Jane, there’s someone here to see you.”

Thank God, Jane thought. She didn’t care who it was as long as it gave her an excuse to get away from this impromptu Spanish Inquisition before the thumbscrews came out.

Jane glanced at her watch, trying to remember her schedule for the day. It was a little early for her first student, Melinda Perez, to be coming in. She wasn’t due for at least another hour. But that was all right.

“Bring Mrs. Perez and her daughter to the classroom,” she told April.

April shook her head, her straight dark hair bobbing from side to side like black windshield wipers. “It’s not Mrs. Perez.”

That caught her off guard. Mothers usually brought their children, not fathers. Maybe Mrs. Perez wasn’t feeling well.

“Okay, show Mr. Perez and his daughter to the classroom. Better yet,” she decided, moving toward the doorway, “I’ll do it.”

April stayed where she was, a ninety-eight-pound roadblock. She looked unsettled, Jane thought, and rather dazed, wearing what could only be termed a silly grin on her face.

“April, is something the matter?” Jane asked.

“It’s not Mr. Perez either,” the young girl said breathlessly.

Confused, Jane walked out into the hallway and saw why April was acting so flustered.

Jorge Mendoza stood just inside the doorway, with her winter coat draped over one arm and what looked like a picnic basket suspended from the other.

The grin on his lips was guaranteed to raise body temperatures by at least five degrees as far away as the next county.

“Hi, Jane. You forgot something at the restaurant the other night,” he told her, his voice low and melodic as he held her coat slightly aloft.

By now, all of Jane’s coworkers had poured out into the hallway. She could feel them standing behind her, a hyperventilating Greek chorus.

Just what she needed, an audience.

How much worse was this going to get? And why, knowing what she did, did her kneecaps feel as if they were dissolving right out from under her?

“Thank you,” she murmured, accepting the coat he held out to her.

God, but he was even better looking in the light of day than he had been at the restaurant. But what was he doing here?

Maybe he’d made another bet, she said to herself.

Jorge drew a little closer to her, aware that they were both under intense scrutiny. “Could I see you in private?”

Her uneasiness heightened. What was he up to? “I’ve got students coming in.”

“Not for another hour,” Jorge countered. He saw the surprise in her eyes and smiled. Nodding toward April, he said, “I checked.”

“I can cover for you,” Harriet volunteered. “I don’t have anyone coming in until this afternoon.”

“I can cover for you, too,” Sally chimed in eagerly, her eyes never leaving Jorge.

His smile widening, Jorge gave a slight bow of his head. “Thank you, ladies. I promise I won’t keep her too long.”

Jane wanted to say something about the bet. Right here, right now, she wanted to give this too-handsome-for-his-own-good-or-anyone-else’s a dressing down. Wanted to tell him that if he’d discovered a conscience and was here to make amends, she didn’t want any part of that. She just wanted to be left alone.

She wanted to say all that. But the desire to get all of that off her chest was outweighed by the fact that she’d always hated making a scene. Jane absolutely despised displays of temper, maybe because she’d been the target of her mother’s so often when she was growing up.

Whatever the reason, she swallowed her retort and kept it to herself, refusing to vent in front of her coworkers.

“All right, we can go to my classroom,” she told him, resigned.

He laughed softly under his breath as he threaded his arm through hers. “First time I’ve ever looked forward to going to a classroom.”

Several members of her Greek chorus giggled. Doing her best to ignore them—and the heat traveling up her body where Jorge was holding her—Jane led the way to the room where she did her tutoring. Jorge dropped his hand, allowing her to cross the threshold first.

Shutting the door behind her, Jane turned to look at him.

Charade over, she thought. Time to dig up that backbone of yours, Janie.

“Why did you come here?” she asked him.

He nodded toward the coat she was still holding. “I thought you might need your coat.” He also wanted to know what had caused her to run off the other night, but for the moment, that could wait.

Jane had to admit that she was grateful to be reunited with her coat, but that still didn’t explain the other thing he’d brought with him. “And you decided to pack it in a picnic basket?”

He set the basket down on the desk. “No, I packed some of my father’s famous enchiladas and nachos in the basket, along with—” He rattled off several Mexican delicacies that he’d brought, ending with chocolate chip sweet bread.

The latter had always been her weakness and guilty pleasure. Had he known that?

No, of course not. How could he? Not even the people she worked with knew that about her. For the most part, she was a very private person. It had been a lucky guess on his part, nothing more.

“Why would you do that?” she wanted to know. She wasn’t ordinarily suspicious, but after the other night, she’d decided that being cautious was a much wiser path for her to take.

Jorge opened the basket and took out a checkered tablecloth, which he proceeded to spread on the floor right behind her desk and chair. She watched him in surprised silence. Was he actually planning on pretending they were having a picnic?

“Because it might help make you forgive me,” Jorge told her and then added an extremely soulful, “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry.

Her heart twisted in her chest. What was it about those words that could always make her forgive a myriad of transgressions and make her want everything to be right again? Was she just terminally kind-hearted—or a pushover?

Jane was tempted to say something about overhearing the two teens talking about the bet he’d made, but she hesitated too long and Jorge was talking again. Talking and burrowing his way into a heart that should have, by all rights, been hardened against him.

But wasn’t.

“I don’t know what would have made you run off like that, especially without your coat, but if it had to do with me,” Jorge continued as he placed two plates and two sets of cutlery down on the tablecloth, “I really am sorry.”

His wording made her realize that he had no idea that she’d overheard the two teens talking. And he probably had no remorse for making that kind of bet. This was a matter of ego. He was voicing a blanket apology because he just didn’t like having a woman walk out on him.

She had to keep reminding herself of that, but being so close to him was having a definite effect on her thought process. As well as on her whole body.

What was the point of telling him that she’d overheard? That she knew she was nothing more than a bet to him? Saying it wouldn’t change anything. So she looked away and said, “I had an emergency.”

Two glasses joined the plates, cutlery and napkins. “What kind of an emergency?” he asked mildly.

She hadn’t expected him to probe. Resorting to fabrications wasn’t something that came easily to her, not even to save face. “The kind that made me hurry away,” Jane responded vaguely.

Jorge looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Okay, you don’t want to talk about it. I can respect that.”

Too bad you can’t respect me, Jane thought. But out loud, she said, “So, you see, you didn’t have to go to all this trouble—”

“Well, since I did ‘go to all this trouble,’” he said, echoing her words with a smile, “we might as well sit down and eat.” Taking off his jacket, he folded it up into a square and then placed it on the floor in front of the place setting. He gestured for her to sit down on it. “Might be more comfortable that way,” he explained.

She looked down at the food Jorge had placed on the tablecloth. It did look awfully good, she thought, especially since all she’d had today was half a Pop-Tart and yesterday, her appetite had deserted her completely and she’d hardly eaten at all.

“Okay,” she agreed, sitting down on the jacket. She felt the material give beneath her. “I guess it wouldn’t do any harm to eat.”

“Nope, no harm at all.” He got down on the floor, crossing his legs lotus-fashion. “You know, I like to think that I’m pretty good at reading people—”

About to start eating, she raised her eyes to his face. “Then maybe you’re in the wrong place. We just read books here.”

For as long as he could remember, women had come on to him. He’d never had a woman back away. But Jane Gilliam was definitely backing away, blocking all his best moves and his efforts at breaching her walls. Why? It wasn’t ego, but curiosity and a certain fascination that spurred him on.

“Did I do something to upset you, Jane?” When she didn’t answer, he took a guess. “Was it the flowers? Was sending them here embarrassing?”

She supposed that was as good an excuse to use as any. “It did put me on the hot seat.”

Jorge laughed. Whenever he sent flowers to a woman, he always made sure there was maximum exposure involved, not because he was sending them but because he knew that women liked other women to see that they were the center of someone’s attention. Jane was definitely different. And that really piqued his interest.

“You don’t like all that attention, do you?” he guessed.

“No,” she answered truthfully. “I don’t.”

“I have to admit, you are nothing like a lot of other women I’ve known.” And right now, he thought, he had to admit that he was drawn to her because of that.

Jane had no doubt that he had known enough women to populate a small city. “I’ve always been a private person,” she told him.

“A little mystery makes things interesting.”

She hadn’t meant it like that. Femme fatales were mysterious, not her. What you saw was what you got, she thought. But before she could say anything, Jorge was leaning forward.

Invading her space.

Making her pulse jump.

“Do you mind?” he asked.

The words left her lips in slow motion. “Mind what?” she asked in a hushed voice as he took her chin in his hand.

“You’ve got a little sauce right there.” Moving his thumb slowly across the corner of her mouth, Jorge wiped the sauce away. “Got it.”

He smiled at her just before he licked the side of his thumb.

Jane couldn’t draw her eyes away. The sauce disappeared between his lips.

He’d done it again.

He’d made the air stand still in her lungs. If this kept up, her brain was going to malfunction because of a lack of oxygen.

If it hadn’t already.