Читать книгу Undercover with the Mob - Elizabeth Bevarly - Страница 11

TWO SATURDAYS AFTER Natalie first met Jack in Mrs. Klosterman’s kitchen under less than ideal circumstances, she met him there a second time. Under less than ideal circumstances.

Since his arrival two weeks earlier, she had made it a practice to get dressed and put in her contact lenses before leaving her apartment, but, hey, it was Saturday—and she hadn’t seen him around the place on the weekends—so she hadn’t dressed particularly well today. Her blue jeans were a bit too raggedy for public consumption, and her oatmeal-colored sweater was a bit too stretched out to look like anything other than a cable knit pup tent. Nevertheless, she was comfortable. And, hey, it was Saturday.

On the upside, Jack hadn’t dressed any better than she had. And he hadn’t dressed in black, either—well, not entirely. In fact, his blue jeans were even more tattered than hers were, slashed clear across both knees from seam to seam, faded and frayed and smudged here and there with what she assured herself couldn’t possibly be blood. And the black shirt he’d paired them with was faded, too, untucked and half-unbuttoned. On the downside, he had a better reason for being dressed that way than her lame hey, it is Saturday. Because he was lying prone beneath Mrs. Klosterman’s sink, banging away on the pipes with something metallic-sounding that she really hoped wasn’t a handgun.

Oh, stop it, she told herself. After all, not even mobsters fixed their kitchen sinks with handguns. They could blow their drains out.

Mrs. Klosterman, however, was nowhere in sight, which was strange, because she usually arrived for their Saturday morning breakfasts together before Natalie did. Ah, well. Maybe she was sleeping late for a change. It was a good morning for it, rainy and gray and cold. Natalie would have slept late herself, if her dear—and soon to be dearly departed, if he didn’t stop waking her up so friggin’ early on Saturdays—Mojo would have let her.

“Good morning,” she said to Jack as she placed her teapot carefully on the table. The last thing she needed to do was spill something on him again, after that disastrous episode the first time she met him.

But her greeting must have surprised him, because the metallic banging immediately stopped, only to be replaced by the dull thump of what sounded very much like a forehead coming into contact with a drain pipe. And then that was replaced by a muffled “Ow, dammit!” And then that was replaced by a less-muffled word that Natalie normally only saw Magic Markered on the stall doors in the bathroom at school.

Okay, so maybe he would have preferred she spill something on him again. Because he sure hadn’t used that word two weeks ago.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The legs that had been protruding from beneath the sink bent at the knee, punctuated by the scrape of motorcycle boots on linoleum. Then Jack’s torso appeared more completely—and my, but what a delectable torso it was, too—followed by the appearance of his face. And my, but what a delectable face it was, too. Natalie wasn’t sure she would ever get used to how handsome he was, his face all planes and angles and hard, masculine lines. It was as if whatever Roman god had sculpted him had used Adonis—or maybe a young Marlon Brando—as a model.

Of course, she reminded herself, she wouldn’t have an opportunity to get used to how handsome he was. They ran into each other only occasionally, and he’d made clear his lack of interest in seeing any more of her. Oh, he was friendly enough, but she could tell that was all it was—friendliness. Common courtesy. She hadn’t invited him to join her for dinner again after his initial rebuff, however polite it had been. But he hadn’t brought up the “another time” thing, either. There was no point in trying to pursue something that wasn’t going to happen.

Which was just as well, anyway, because she still wasn’t entirely sure about who or what he was, or why he was even here. She still recalled his half of the phone conversation she had overheard a week ago, and even if it didn’t prove he was up to something illegal, it did suggest he was up to something temporary. He’d told whomever he was talking to that he’d come here to do a job, and that he wasn’t leaving until he’d done it. Which indicated he would be leaving eventually. So it would have been stupid for Natalie to pursue any sort of romantic entanglement with him. Had he even offered some indication that he was open to entangling with her romantically.

“No problem,” he said as he sat up. But he was rubbing the center of his forehead, which sort of suggested maybe there was a bit of a problem. Like a minor concussion, for instance.

She winced inwardly. “I really am sorry,” she apologized again.

“Really, it’s fine,” he told her. “I have a hard head.”

Which had to come in handy when one made one’s living by knocking heads together, she thought before she could stop herself.

“You’re up early for a Saturday,” he continued, dropping his hand to prop his forearm on one knee.

His shirt gaped open when he did, and Natalie saw that the chest beneath was matted with dark hair, and was as ruggedly and sharply sculpted as his facial features were. Nestled at the center, dangling from a gold chain, was a plain gold cross, and she found the accessory curious for him. And not just because he seemed like the sort of man who would normally shun jewelry, either. But also because he seemed too irreverent for such a thing.

“I’m always up by now,” she said. “Mrs. Klosterman and I have our tea together on Saturday mornings. In fact, she usually gets here before I do.”

“Mrs. K was here when I came down,” Jack said. “She was having problems with the sink, and I told her I could fix it for her, if she had the right tools. I found them in the basement, but by the time I got back up here, she had her coat on and said she had to go out for a little while.”

Now that was really strange, Natalie thought. Mrs. Klosterman never went anywhere on Saturday before noon. And sometimes she never left the house at all on the weekends.

“Did she say where she was going?” she asked.

Jack shook his head. “No. Should she have?” Natalie shrugged, but still felt anxious. “Not necessarily. Did you notice if she’d painted on jet-black eyebrows, and mascaraed her lashes into scary jet-black daddy longlegs?”

Now Jack narrowed his eyes at Natalie, as if he were worried about her. “No…” he said, drawing the word out over several time zones. “I don’t think she did. I didn’t really notice anything especially arachnid about her appearance.”

Wow, that wasn’t like Mrs. Klosterman, either, to go out without her eyebrows and daddy longlegs. “Gee, I hope everything’s okay,” Natalie said absently.

“She seemed fine to me,” Jack said. “But that’s interesting, now that I think about it, that stuff about the mascara and eyebrows. My great-aunt Gina does the same thing.”

Aunt Gina, Natalie echoed to herself, nudging her concern for Mrs. Klosterman to the side. Hmm. Wasn’t Gina an Italian name?

And what if it was? she immediately asked herself. Lots of people were Italian. And few of them fixed kitchen sinks with handguns. Inescapably, she glanced at Jack’s hands, only to find the left one empty, and the right one wielding not a weapon, but a wrench.

See? she taunted herself. Don’t you feel silly now?

Well, she did about that. But she couldn’t quite shake her worry about her landlady. Why hadn’t Mrs. Klosterman mentioned her need to go out this morning? Not that Natalie was kept apprised of all of her landlady’s comings and goings, and you could just never really tell with Mrs. Klosterman. But the two of them did sort of have a standing agreement to have breakfast together on Saturdays, and if one of them couldn’t make it, she let the other know in advance.

“What’s the matter?” Jack asked. “You look worried. Like maybe you think Mrs. K is sleeping with the fishes or something.”

Natalie arched her own eyebrows at that. Now, of all the things he could have said, why that? Why the reference to sleeping with the fishes? Why hadn’t he said something like, You look worried. Like maybe you think she’s in trouble. Or Like maybe you think she’s lying dead in a ditch somewhere. Or even Like maybe you think she’s been abducted by aliens who’ve dropped her in the Bermuda Triangle along with Elvis and Amelia Earhart and that World War II squadron they never found. Anything would have made more sense than that sleeping with the fishes reference.

Unless, of course, he was connected.

No, Natalie told herself firmly. That wasn’t it at all. He was just making a joke. A little Mob humor? she wondered. No, just a joke, she immediately assured herself.

“No, it’s not that,” she said. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. She and I usually have breakfast together, that’s all, and it’s odd that she didn’t tell me she needed to go out this morning. But you know, you can just never really tell with Mrs. Klosterman.”

Jack nodded. “Well then, since she’s not here to have breakfast with you, how about I take her place?”

This time it was Natalie’s turn to be surprised. Not just because of his offer, but because of the natural way he made it. Like he thought she wouldn’t be surprised that he would want to have breakfast with her. So what could she do but pretend she wasn’t surprised at all?

“Sure,” she said, hoping that wasn’t a squeak she heard in her voice. “Fine,” she added, thinking that might be a squeak she heard in her voice. “Tea?” she asked, noting a definite squeak in her voice.

Jack grinned. “Actually, I’m more of a coffee drinker. But that’s okay. Mrs. K put a pot on for me before she left.”

Natalie nodded dumbly, just now noticing the aroma of coffee in the air. Probably she hadn’t noticed it before because she’d been too busy noticing, you know, how handsome Jack was, and the way his shirt was only halfway buttoned, and how the chest beneath was matted with dark hair, and—

Well. Suffice it to say she probably hadn’t noticed it before now because she’d had her mind on other things.

She watched as Jack heaved himself up to standing, tossed the wrench into the sink with a clatter, then crossed the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee. And why each of those actions, which should have been totally uninteresting, should fascinate her so much was something Natalie decided not to ponder. But the way the man moved…Mmm, mmm, mmm. There was a smoothness and poetry to his manner that belied the ruggedness of his appearance, as if he were utterly confident in and thoroughly comfortable with himself. Natalie couldn’t imagine what that must be like. She constantly second-guessed herself and she never moved smoothly.

Probably she put too much thought into just about everything, but she didn’t know any other way to be. Jack Miller, on the other hand, didn’t seem the type to waste time wondering if what he was doing was the right thing. Or the smart thing. Or the graceful thing. Or the anything else thing. He just did what came naturally, obviously convinced it was the right, smart, graceful or anything else thing to do. And from where Natalie was sitting, he did his thing very, very well. There was something extremely sexy about a man who was confident in and content with himself and who didn’t feel obligated to make an impression on anyone.