Читать книгу Lightning Strikes - Colleen Collins - Страница 9

BLAINE SAUNDERS GLIDED her fingers along the cylindrical metal and closed her hand tightly around it, loving its hard, smooth texture. Then she sucked in a gasp of air and sneezed.

Damn allergies. Still gripping the section of metal on the brass headboard, Blaine stuffed her other hand into her pants pocket and withdrew one of the always-present tissues she kept handy this time of year. Just a few minutes ago, she’d sneezed her head off outside the Spice of Life coffee shop, one of her fav haunts in Manitou Springs. But then, almost everywhere in Manitou was a fav haunt—what wasn’t to like about a picturesque mountain community filled with quaint shops and winding streets nestled at the base of Colorado’s Pikes Peak?

But when summer hit, the temperatures spiked and the afternoon thunderstorms rolled in, changing the cozy little town into a bowl of pollen.

She blew her nose. June should be declared Pollen Month.

Tucking away the tissue, Blaine brushed her fingers along the glistening headboard and imagined how pleasurable it would be to sleep in this beauty every single night. She leaned closer, catching her reflection in its polished surface. The shimmering metallic image gave her big green eyes and shoulder-length auburn hair a magical allure she never felt in everyday life. If she held her head a little higher, her gold-tinged reflection looked almost like Liv Tyler in Lord of the Rings.

Blaine sighed deeply. Then coughed. Damn allergies.

Dabbing the tissue at her nose, she stroked her finger in a lazy path along a metallic curve, enjoying the streak of moisture left from her hot skin making contact with the cool metal. So cool. So hot outside. Would anyone notice if I pressed my hot face against this cool metal?

She looked around. Jerome, the store owner, stood by a window, his hair glinting silver in a stream of sunlight, where he fastidiously dusted off an antique cabinet. But no one else was around. Great. She leaned over and pressed her forehead, then her cheek, against the sleek metal.

Ahhhhhh.

This had to be better than sticking her face in front of a fan, which she’d been doing back at her office all morning long. Especially after David called to announce he was engaged to another girl, although the fan didn’t, unfortunately, blow away her disappointment. So she’d reminded herself that four months of Thursday-night dates didn’t necessarily equate to ever-after.

For David, it didn’t equate to exclusivity either, it appeared.

But for Blaine, it had been a close-enough, sorta-boyfriend situation that she’d suggested they take a romantic Alaskan cruise, a dream she’d nursed since grammar school when she’d written a report on the northern lights. When David agreed, Blaine had exuberantly spent her income tax return on a cruise ticket. Which she’d been on her way to get a cash refund for when this beguiling bed had snagged her attention.

She pressed her cheek harder against the metal, loving its sleek, cool texture. If only men were like this. Stable, reassuring, cool when it was hot outside…hot when it was cool inside…

“Blaine, dear, are you all right?”

Blaine, her cheek still pressed to the section of brass bed, shifted her gaze. Jerome stood stiffly next to her, his gray, cookie-duster mustache twitching. His gaze darted to the metal pressed to her cheek, then back to her eyes.

“I’m fine,” she murmured, easing ever so casually to a standing position, hoping she didn’t have a cylindrical indent on her cheek. Jerome’s cologne, which always smelled like spicy orchids to her, traced the air.

“Still haven’t fixed your air-conditioning?”

“When my accounts pay up, I might.”

In the moment of silence that followed, Blaine knew that Jerome knew exactly what she was talking about. Several months ago, Jerome had hired Blaine to organize an estate sale, for which he had yet to pay. As owner of the Blaine Saunders Temporary Agency, she normally brokered temporary personnel for others—anything from accounting to technical writing—but because Jerome had been an old friend of her mother’s, Blaine had taken on management of the estate sale herself.

Then, the economy took a surprising nosedive. Businesses started cutting back on everything from office supplies to employee head count. The latter hit Blaine’s business hard because before a company reduced its own employee base, it eliminated all workers contracted through outside agencies. Which was, unfortunately exactly what the Blaine Saunders Temporary Agency specialized in—contracting workers, from secretaries to database specialists, to businesses.

Almost overnight, she lost three-fourths of her contracts with local corporations. To make ends meet, Blaine had moved out of her condo and rented a small room in someone’s house. And she applied for a small-business loan, which she’d hear soon if the bank approved or not. She’d also requested her outstanding accounts to please pay up, but when Jerome had pleaded tight finances, she’d told him to pay when convenient.

Which made her feel a tad guilty for her quick retort, but if Jerome wanted to mention her not being able to fix things, well…

He glanced around his shop, then leaned forward slightly. “You’re second on my list,” he said under his breath. “Right after I pay Ralph.”

“Ralph?” She thought she knew everyone in Manitou Springs.

“He delivers the antiques to my customers.” Straightening, Jerome raised his voice. “Heard your father’s working with you.”

When the economy faltered, her dad had volunteered to help Blaine out at the agency. Having let go of her part-time assistant, Blaine had appreciated her dad’s offer. Plus, she knew he welcomed a respite from spending the bulk of his retirement years parked in front of a TV.

“Yes, he’s having a wonderful time playing receptionist,” Blaine said. And a wonderful time playing matchmaker, or trying to. She had yet to tell him about David getting engaged to another woman…Blaine felt bad, yes, but she knew her father would be downright devastated.

A slightly crooked lamp shade caught Jerome’s eye. “Also heard your sister’s getting married.” He reached for the shade and leveled it with a flick of his fingertips.

Sonja, Blaine’s kid sister, had always been one for surprises. Her most recent being her news that she planned to elope in a week with a cadet who’d just graduated from the prestigious Air Force Academy in nearby Colorado Springs. Their dad, after darn near kissing the ground, had convinced Sonja to at least have a small ceremony in town, claiming it’s what her dearly departed mother would have wanted.

“Yes, she’s getting married,” Blaine affirmed, realizing Jerome had successfully steered the conversation away from his debt. “Mom would have been so proud.”

Ever since they had lost her to cancer fifteen years ago, Blaine had been a surrogate mom to Sonja. Which hadn’t been bad because practical, tomboyish Blaine got to live out all the fun girly stuff through her popular sister Sonja.

Jerome’s voice interrupted Blaine’s thoughts. “It’s a beautiful bed, isn’t it?”

Blaine eyed the glistening brass beauty that had lured her into Jerome’s shop. “It’s gorgeous,” she whispered, her fingers playing along one of the shiny cylinders that curled seductively in the headboard. She tried to imagine the bed in the cramped room she was renting, but realized there was no way this exquisite object could even begin to fit in the door, much less the room.

Jerome touched a veined hand to the brass knob that topped one of the four posters of the bed. “Just received it yesterday,” he said, the pride evident in his voice. “We’ve already had an offer.”

“An offer?” Blaine’s fingers tightened possessively on a bend of metal.

“Yes.” Jerome lifted the price tag, a square red label that dangled from a section of brass. “They said they’d return today, by noon. I’m hoping they want to at least make a down payment…”

By noon? She jerked her head to her wrist and checked the time. Eleven fifty-five. “They can’t!” she blurted.

Jerome cocked one white eyebrow. “Blaine, I do believe the heat’s gotten to you. You never raise your voice.”

“When it’s important, I do.” And suddenly, this bed was very, very important.

“And what’s so important about this bed?”

Because it symbolizes everything I’m not, and everything I’ve secretly desired—passion, fantasy, forbidden indulgences. “Because…it’d be a perfect wedding gift for Sonja.” That sounded better than to admit she coveted it. But on second thought, she realized it would be perfect for Sonja and her husband-to-be.

“Is Sonja’s betrothed going to buy it?”

Blaine pursed her lips. Hardly. Sonja’s fiancé, Rudy, was on a squeaky-tight budget.

“No,” she answered, tilting her head to see the price on that red tag. She blinked at the string of numbers, and comma. Two-thousand-plus dollars. Hoo-boy. Even though, after cashing in her cruise ticket, she’d have double that much, she didn’t need to splurge half of it on a bed.

The slam of a car door distracted Blaine.

A pleased expression crossed Jerome’s face as he peered out the plate glass window. “Ah, there they are now.”

Blaine glanced out the window. A couple who looked to be in their forties were getting out of one of those ritzy sports cars. They looked supercoiffed, as though they never wrinkled or sweated. As they headed across the street toward the antique shop, Blaine wondered if they always sauntered as though they didn’t have a care in the world. And more, what it felt like to not have any worries or cares.

The couple entered the shop, eyed Jerome, and waved a greeting. “We wanted to look at it one more time,” the woman called out in a singsong voice.

Blaine tightened her grip.

The couple approached the bed, then walked slowly around it, inspecting it.

“It’s a bit high,” the woman murmured.

Thanks to the rose scent from the woman’s perfume, Jerome’s exotic-orchid scent and the world of pollen, it took all of Blaine’s willpower to not explode a sneeze that could move this bed to the next county. She had to be alert, pay attention. The bed was at stake.

“The height has an advantage,” commented Jerome, folding his hands neatly on top of each other. “You can store things underneath, saving room in the bedroom.”

The woman arched one unnaturally blond eyebrow. “And the brass…the color isn’t uniform.”

“It’s an antique,” Jerome explained. “It’s aged with time, like a fine wine.”

The woman sighed and placed her hand on her husband’s arm, her thin, tan wrist adorned with a sparkling tennis bracelet. “I’m not sure, darling. I want an antique, yes, but this looks so…so old…”

Jerome glanced at his wristwatch. “Well, I promised I’d hold it for you until noon, which is in two minutes…”

In the following silence, Blaine looked at the piece of magic before her. It was to die for. Ornate curves of brass that begged to be stroked and explored. A plump mattress that cried out for more than sleeping. Yes, this would be the ultimate wedding gift for Sonja, who had zilch furniture for her new life. And this way, Blaine could visit the bed, enjoy it vicariously as she’d always vicariously enjoyed other things in her sister’s life.

But it was more than just a bed. Or living vicariously through her sister. Suddenly, with a surge of desperation and defiance, Blaine realized how tired she was of losing things. Losing a sorta-boyfriend, losing her condo, on the verge of losing her business. It was time for Blaine Saunders to win something, damn it! Something glorious, exotic, indulgent.

She had to win this bed!

Blaine cocked her head and scrutinized it. She cleared her throat. “This bed is much too high,” she said in a low, blasé voice as though she often analyzed things like expensive brass luxuries. She slid a conspiratorial look at the couple. “Did you read about that incident at The Broadmoor recently?” She paused, letting the name of the nearby superexclusive hotel sink in. “Seems some old, high brass bed collapsed in the middle of the night. The wife survived…but…” Blaine made a tsking sound under her breath.

The woman glanced nervously at her husband. “Darling, can we talk for a moment?”

As the couple sauntered off, whispering, Jerome jerked his head toward Blaine. “What in God’s name are you doing?”

“Trying to not implode in front of those nice people.” When Jerome stared at her, she explained. “Allergies.”

“I didn’t know allergies turned people into storytellers.” He gave his head a shake. “Collapsing beds. The Broadmoor.”

She smiled sweetly. “Jerome, when are you paying Ralph?”

He shifted her a look. “I said you were second on my list—”

“I never put myself first, Jerome, but right now I have the urge. Make me first.” She batted her eyes with great exaggeration, which coaxed a smile from the older gentleman.

He lowered his voice. “Blaine, honey, you got your mama’s eyes. And when you put your mind to it, her wicked charm, too.”

Blaine grinned, remembering her mom’s sassy, stubborn ways. Maybe Blaine didn’t get Sonja’s curly blond hair and ultrafeminine style, but she’d happily call it even if she got her mom’s personality.

Jerome’s smile faded. “But, unfortunately, I don’t have the cash.”

Blaine glanced up at the ceiling, contemplating the situation. “Did you know that many small communities in Alaska still use the bartering system?”

There was a long pause. Finally, Jerome said, “The one thousand dollars I owe you doesn’t pay in full for this bed.”

“No, but it’ll pay for half. I’ll make up the rest.” She gave herself a mental shake. Make up the rest? Have I lost my mind?

On second thought, maybe this wasn’t such a crazy idea. It was only a quarter of her cruise refund. Besides, a thousand dollars wouldn’t save her agency—she needed a substantial loan to do that.

Jerome glanced over his shoulder. The man and woman were smiling, sort of, but inching toward the door. Turning back to Blaine, Jerome sighed. “Appears there’s no sale.”

Blaine glanced at her wristwatch. “Well, it’s noon so you’re not obligated to hold it any longer.” She grinned broadly. “Jerome, wrap it up with a big bow because this baby’s sold.”

BLAINE BLEW A LOCK OF hair out of her eyes as she stared at the apartment door, upon which was crookedly nailed a number 4. “Jerome,” Blaine muttered under her breath, “maybe you should’ve paid Ralph first.”

Ralph swore he misheard the address where he was to deliver the brass bed, but Blaine couldn’t help but wonder if Ralph was nursing a grudge that his account with Jerome was still unpaid. A really big grudge considering that when she discovered Ralph had misdelivered the bed, and asked him to redeliver it, he claimed it would cost her and Jerome double.

No way Blaine was paying double.

So, she’d decided to pick it up and deliver it herself.

She knocked. No answer. Great. Nobody’s home. Or are they?

Frowning, she pressed her ear to the door, trying to detect any telltale squeaking brass bed sounds. Her beautiful brass bed better not be being broken in by some apartment dwellers turned vigorous, sex-starved sex fiends! Because that was what that bed did to people—it ignited their deepest, lustiest desires. Their magical dreams. Their secret indulgences.

That’s what it’d done for Blaine, anyway.

She started to knock, but opted to pound on the door this time. “Get off that bed,” she whispered in a throaty growl.

“May I help you?” asked a scratchy, feminine voice.

Blaine spun around to see a diminutive little old lady wearing a strawberry pink running outfit and white high-heeled sandals. Her brown eyes sparkled with curiosity while she puffed on a cigarette.

“Uh, my bed—I mean, my sister’s bed—was delivered here by mistake and I need to pick it up.”

The lady blew out a stream of blue smoke. “You mean those big, burly fellows went to all that trouble, only to deliver it to the wrong place?”

Blaine nodded, fighting the urge to sneeze. Right now, she’d opt for Jerome’s cologne over cigarette smoke. Good thing she had her allergy pills with her. She’d pop another one as soon as she got near water.

“Are you going to pick up that big bed all by your little self?”

Blaine fought the urge to roll her eyes. She’d heard this all her life. At five-four, she’d been told she was too small to be on the girls’ basketball team, but that was before she’d shown off her killer dunk. And in high school, neighbors were impressed when Blaine took on the household repairs to help out her newly widowed dad. And not just the wimpy repairs, like a leaking faucet or a squeaky door. One summer Blaine put a new roof on the house!

“I’m stronger than I look,” she answered, for what seemed the zillionth time in her life. “Plus, I’m going to take the bed apart—” she lifted her toolbox “—and then I’ll cart it down piece by piece to my truck.” She motioned to the street, where her dad’s bowling buddy’s truck was parked at the curb. “Do you, uh, know where the person who lives here is?” If Blaine could get inside fast, she had a chance to get the bed to her sister’s before it got too dark.

“Donovan’s in…” The lady sucked on the cigarette as she thought. “…San Antonio, I think. Or was it San José?”

Blaine paused. “He’s in Texas or California?”

The lady nodded.

“How’d he accept a delivered bed, then end up in another state so fast?”

The lady waved her cigarette in the air. “Oh, no, no, no. He’s been out of town for almost a week now. I’m the one who let the men in to deliver the bed.”

“You live here, too?” Then why were they standing outside, having this discussion?

“Oh, no, no, no. I’m Donovan’s neighbor, Milly. He travels so much, he left me a key in case there’s an emergency at his place, or like today, he gets a surprise delivery.”

Surprise to him and me, both. “Then you can let me in so I can redeliver the bed?” Blaine fished in her pocket, pulling out both a tissue as well as the receipt. She tried to show the correct paper product to the woman. “Because, as you can see, I legally own this bed.”

The lady eyed the paper and nodded. “Just one moment. I’ll get the key.”

Five minutes later, Blaine stood inside this Donovan person’s apartment. Before heading back to her place, Milly had said to be careful of his plant.

Shifting her toolbox from one hand to another, Blaine looked around the living room. It was almost 7:00 p.m., so there was plenty of light out. But this place was dark.

“What kind of plant?” she muttered to herself, squinting to decipher objects in the shadows. “Potato?” She set the toolbox on the floor, crossed to the windows, and opened the drapes. Sunlight flooded in, lifting the gloom.

With a pleased sigh, Blaine turned around and paused.

“What is he? A monk?”

She’d never seen such a sparsely decorated place. It was almost as though no one lived here. In the far corner of the living room was a seen-better-days, plaid recliner with a standing pole lamp next to it. Against the right wall was a bookshelf, filled with hardback and paperback novels, and one shelf of CDs. On top of the bookshelf was a CD player, bracketed with two square speakers.

And no plant.

She glanced to her right. Set back, more a nook than a separate room, was the kitchen. Except for a few objects on the counter, it was white and bare.

“That’s it?” she said to herself, her gaze traveling back over the apartment. “No TV?” She couldn’t imagine a guy not watching sports or cop shows. Maybe he kept it in his bedroom…the room that housed her gorgeous bed.

Time to get to work. Blaine picked up her toolbox and headed for the hallway, which had two doors. One to the bathroom, one to the bedroom.

And in the latter, she saw her bed. Her beautiful, fantasy-drenched bed.

It sat in the center of the room, sparkling from the sunlight that fell in yellow slants through blinds on the window on the back wall. The streams of light fired spots of gold and copper on the brass. Blaine just had to stop and take in an appreciative breath at the sheer majesty of it.

She sneezed. Pulling another tissue from her pocket, she swiped at her nose and glanced again at the window. Sure enough, it was cracked open.

Enough to let in a flood of pollen.

Time to pop another allergy pill.

She typically took only one a day, but today she’d taunted the pollen gods by spending the better part of this afternoon outside—walking to Jerome’s, walking to the travel agency to cash in her ticket, hanging outside Henry’s, her dad’s buddy’s, to borrow the pickup. Which had no air-conditioning, so she’d driven over here with the window rolled down.

But before taking more medicine, she wanted to quickly scope out the bed, see how it was assembled.

She headed toward the magical, sexy object.

Crackle.

She looked down. She’d stepped on some big leaf.

In her mind, she heard Milly’s raspy voice. “Be careful of his plant.”

Blaine gingerly lifted her foot and eyed the humongous leaf. Had to be the size of a dinner plate. Her gaze traveled to where it was attached to a vine that curled along the floorboard to the far corner of the room. There, it led up to a clay pot, that housed some Jack-and-the-Beanstalk number with more leafy vines that coiled up the wall and along the top of the window.

That’s no plant. That’s a roommate.

Blaine leaned over, and ever so gently, pushed the vine closer to the floorboard so there’d be no more accidental steppages. She momentarily pondered how the delivery guys hadn’t destroyed part of the plant, which only made Blaine feel all the guiltier for stepping on it.

Well, just because I could play sports didn’t mean I was coordinated in everyday life. How many times had she knocked over a vase or tracked mud and dirt into the house?

Setting down her toolbox, she swiped at her suddenly watering eyes.

Damn allergies. She needed to see before she could even scope. She’d take a pill and hope it kicked in fast. With the way she was feeling, she’d wanted to post-pone this bed delivery adventure, but she had to take care of it today because Sonja had hinted about all kinds of maid-of-honor and sisterly tasks up until Saturday, the day of the wedding.

Blaine retraced her steps to the kitchen. There, she opened several cupboards, which were more sparse than the rest of this guy’s apartment. A few plates, bowls, cups and water glasses. She filled a glass with tap water, then retrieved her plastic vial from her shirt pocket. Tapping out a pill, she popped it into her mouth and washed it down.

On the way back to the bedroom, an object on the bookshelf caught her eye. She paused and picked it up. An old, chipped pocket knife. Why keep an old tool around? She loved her tools the way other girls loved clothes and makeup. And one of her pet rules was to keep her tools in mint condition, clean and ready to use. She’d never keep an old, battered pocketknife.

Blaine turned the knife over in her hands. Besides the plant, this object seemed to be the only decoration in this place.

Placing it back on the shelf where she found it, Blaine headed back to the bedroom, yawning.

For the next fifteen minutes, she checked out how the bed was bolted together. Then she opened her toolbox and extracted a wrench.

Sleepy. I’m so sleepy.

Blinking, she positioned the wrench around the bolt. She yawned again, a long tired yawn. This wrench felt so heavy. Her eyelids felt heavier. The medication was unusually strong.

Foggily, she thought back. She took one pill after buying the bed. Another before driving Henry’s truck over here. And one a few minutes ago.

Ohhhhh. Instead of her usual one, she had inadvertently taken three.

Distant thunder broke the silence.

An oncoming summer storm. The rain would be great, but the preceding winds would only kick up more pollen. She could already smell the ragweed, the flowers, the…

Ah-chooo!

She extracted her tissue and blew her nose.

When will that last pill kick in? Better take a breather, rest, wait for the storm to pass.

Besides, if she tried to keep working on this bed in her druggy state, she’d undoubtedly keel over on that plant and do far more than simply crunch a leaf.

Blaine hoisted herself on top of the bed. Ahhhhhh. This mattress was so big and soft, it was like sitting on a cloud. A sensuous, seductive cloud that promised a world of fantasy and dreams come true…

Too hot to sleep in my clothes. She began tugging off her T-shirt.

A few minutes later, Blaine fell back, barely aware of her head hitting the pillow.