Читать книгу You Don't Know Jack - Erin McCarthy - Страница 8

Jack watched the door close in fascinated silence.

What the hell had just happened?

He sucked at this spy thing. The point of following someone was to stay incognito, which he hadn’t exactly done. Garlic was more subtle than he was.

But he hadn’t wanted her to crash into Free Love, the aging hippie.

He had thought to save her discomfort and embarrassment. Now he was standing on the platform with a giant red stain on his shirt, staring at Jamie The Klutz as she smiled shyly at him.

It was a smile that went straight to his groin.

Damn, she was hot.

She glowed.

It was true. There was a rosy, peach color to her everywhere, from the rich auburn of her curly hair to the blush of her cheeks, to the riotous flowers on her dress.

She was just…peachy.

Which made him hungry. And made him want to see what she looked like naked. See where else she might be peaches and cream.

He came close to groaning out loud at the thought.

The door had long since closed, the train pulled away, and he was still standing there, like the horny idiot that he was. He checked his watch. Only twenty-five and a half hours until he saw her again. He could survive.

Maybe.

As long as he didn’t think about her chest, hiding behind that loose floral dress, but glorious nonetheless. It brought to mind all sorts of metaphors about flowers and fruit, with words like ripe, budding, and juicy rising up and tormenting him.

He took the stairs to the street two at a time and ordered his hormones to lie down and play dead. It didn’t work. His sister owed him an explanation. Never once when talking about her roommate had she mentioned Jamie was a sexual goddess with breasts that could stop traffic, war, and obliterate the need for Jack to hang on to the Victoria’s Secret catalog that had been accidentally delivered to his apartment.

Ten lust-filled minutes later he stepped into his grandfather’s room at the nursing home and found him sitting in his recliner, watching a game show. “Hey, Pops, how are you?”

“Stuck in this hell hole, but other than that, no complaints.”

“Come on, Pops.” Though Jack could sympathize with his grandfather. Living in a nursing home must be an anti-climactic ending to life. It was a rehabilitative facility, but Jack got the impression Pops felt this was the beginning of the end. One stay led to another until you never went home. “It’s nice here. It doesn’t smell or anything.”

“Hah. You haven’t been here on taco day.” Pops turned and studied him. “What’s all over your shirt?”

“Your dinner.” He’d bought it for his grandfather in the first place, being more of a pesto sauce, lean chicken kind of guy. But he wasn’t sure how appealing it was going to be now that it had bounced around the inside of the bag. “Spaghetti. It got shoved against me by this woman on the subway.”

Pops narrowed his eyes as his gaze dropped. “You’ve got a hard-on, Jack.”

Though shocked at his grandfather’s words, Jack took a quick glance down. “Jesus, you’re right.” Just the thought of Jamie leaning against him was having an immediate and painful reaction. Or maybe he had been like this from the very first second she had collided with him.

“Spaghetti always does that to me, too.” Pops reached for the bag. “Give me the food, don’t just stand there.”

“It wasn’t the spaghetti.” Not by a long shot. “The woman who fell against me, well, she was…Pops, there was something…she had…” He couldn’t find any words to describe Jamie and her soft skin without sounding like a jackass.

Wait. Too late.

“That good, huh?” Pops took the bag and started ripping it open. No sign of his stroke there. Pops tore with fury, his left hand a little limp, but the right one compensating.

Jack shifted painfully. “Oh, yeah.”

He suddenly realized that Pops was lifting noodles out of the exploded plastic carrying container with his fingers. “What are you doing? That fell all over the inside of the bag.”

“So? Didn’t fall on the ground, did it?” Grabbing another handful, Pops jammed the noodles in his mouth.

“Well, at least let me get you a fork.” Jack looked around the room, forgetting there was no kitchen in Pops’s one-room accommodation.

“They don’t let us have utensils in our rooms. Might stab someone or ourselves with them, you know.” Pops shook his head. “Treat us all like we’re whacko.”

“I’ll go ask someone for a fork.” Jack pictured the look on his mother’s face if she saw Pops eating with his fingers. “Good thing Mom’s not here.”

Pops snorted. “Don’t know how I raised such a snooty daughter. Nose always in the air. Yet she doesn’t have a pot to pee in that I didn’t give her. It’s not like your father’s ever amounted to much.”

Jack’s father was a partner in a prestigious law firm. He was more than successful, but Pops liked to rib him. To a man like Will Hathaway, anyone who wasn’t self-made like he was didn’t deserve the same level of respect. Pops had started out playing stickball in Brooklyn, and he made sure everyone knew it.

It was part of why he was so proud that Jack had made his own fortune, independent of the family trust.

“And you’re the one who’s rich,” Pops added with a grin.

Jack folded his arms and grumbled. “I’m not rich, Pops. I’m comfortable.” Actually, he was rich. But sometimes that embarrassed him. He’d never set out to be successful for the reward of wealth. He had been aggressive because he loved the challenge, the thrill, winning the game—the money just happened to come along with it.

Pops was unrepentant. “You’re sitting on a cool ten mil, ain’t you? That makes you mighty comfortable in my book. Most people would call it rich.”

Taking a seat on the bed, Jack stretched his arms over his head and tried to ignore the wet sauce stain sticking against his skin. “I guess you’re right. It’s just that being considered rich makes me uncomfortable sometimes. Maybe I should just give it all to Mom. That would make her happy.”

“Over my dead body.” Pops slurped a noodle up, sending tomato sauce spraying over his blue striped shirt and his chin. “You made that money legally and it’s yours. Not your mother’s. Besides, you bought her that fancy car. That’s more than enough.”

Jack flopped back on the bed and checked out the ceiling. When he had first made the money a few years back, day trading, taking advantage of the market and its ups and downs, he had been ecstatic. He could retire from Wall Street, dabble a little here and there and increase his net worth without killing himself with fourteen-hour workdays.

That was the plus side.

What he hadn’t counted on was the negative side.

The fake, fawning people who played ass-kissing games, yet would stab him in the back the minute he turned around. It was a cold, hard world for even the single-digit millionaire, and it had been a long time since Jack could trust that any woman was interested in him and not his money.

Until today.

Jamie didn’t know he had anything more than the shirt on his back. And he intended to keep it that way.

Jamie wanted to see him, Jack. Joe Ordinary who rode the subway like everyone else and carried spaghetti in a brown paper bag.

Jamie who looked normal. Like a regular girl from small town, USA, with a slight twang that still lingered in her voice.

Hair that just spilled all over the place, untamed by a hairstylist named Ricardo.

And she didn’t watch what she said. She just said it, without weighing whether she would sound déclassé or grasping or uninformed.

He doubted Jamie had ever suffered through a cocktail party in her life.

He had suffered through enough for the both of them.

“Don’t worry, Pops. I’m just blowing smoke.”

“So, you seeing the girl again? The one who gave you the hard-on just thinking about her?” Pops set the bag down on the end table next to his recliner. “Toss me a hand towel.”

Jack got up and retrieved the towel from the small bathroom. “Yes, I’m seeing her tomorrow night.”

Pops grinned, his bushy white eyebrows moving up and down under the few remaining wisps of hair on his head. “Moving fast. Just like I used to back in my day. No grass ever grew under these feet when it came to the ladies.”

Jack handed him the towel. “I don’t doubt it, Pops. But this is complicated. She’s Caroline’s roommate.”

“So?”

“So she doesn’t know who I am. I acted like it was an accident that we met.”

“You mean it wasn’t an accident? What are ya, stalking her or something? Don’t be a loser, Jack.” Pops wiped his mouth and gave him a look of disdain. “You should’ve just called her up and asked her out for Chrissake. If I were younger, I’da had her six ways to Sunday by now.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Jack glared at his grandfather. “I wasn’t stalking her.” Not really. Much. Shit.

“The thing is, Jamie is a social worker and her agency requested funding from the Hathaway Foundation. Since I investigate financials for all organizations asking the foundation for money, I spotted something not exactly legal in the records for the agency Jamie works for. And by the way, I wouldn’t be in this awkward position if I hadn’t agreed to take over your cake retirement job while you’re rehabbing. I mean, we’re both supposed to be retired, and here we are both working. It makes no sense.”

“Retirement is for schmucks. And if it’s a cake job, what the hell are you complaining for?”

Because it made him feel better. He actually hated retirement. He had been slowly and surely going insane until Pops had the stroke and Jack had taken over his job at the charitable foundation Pops had created a decade earlier. It was easy work, only twenty-five hours a week, and Jack got to feel as though he was contributing to the good of society.

But he was still bored, which was ironic. He’d left the corporate grind behind to take some time to smell the roses, and he’d found out his nose didn’t work.

“I’m complaining because now I know Jamie Peters could be implicated in illegal day trading, and calling the feds on the woman I think I want to have sex with for the rest of my life is not cool.”

Pops cracked a laugh. “Har. Guess not. But listen, Jack-o, this could actually work to your advantage. You go in there and clean it up for her. She’ll be grateful. More willing to go down on you.”

Jack shouldn’t be shocked at anything that came out of his grandfather’s mouth, yet he still found himself gaping. “Pops! Christ. You don’t have to be crude.”

Unrepentant, Pops just shrugged. “What? It’s the truth.”

Pacing the small room, Jack tried to think the whole situation through, and not visualize Jamie Peters going down on him. “The problem is, if I tell Jamie who I am, she’s going to freeze me out. I mean, I rejected her funding request. And she’s not going to believe me that someone within her organization is defrauding them. Or if she is willing to believe it, she’s not going to let me poke in their business. She’ll just take it to her boss or to the perpetrator.”

“I’m with you. But what’s your other option?”

Jack wasn’t sure. But he didn’t want the look in Jamie’s eyes to change when she found out who he was. When she realized he had money, both personally and professionally, and had denied it to her project.

But more importantly he was worried about her safety. “The thing is, whoever is dipping into the till is not going to like being found out. I’m worried if I just tell Jamie, she’ll confront the most likely suspect and wind up hurt. Criminals panic when they’ve been backed into a corner.”

“You think someone’s going to kill her for a little cash?” Pops raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe not kill her. Or rape her or hit her, though those are possibilities. But more likely they could fire her, or pin it on her.” Which was why Jack had been following her in the first place. He had wanted to make sure Jamie wasn’t involved.

Two minutes in her company and he was convinced she wasn’t.

“You’re screwed, kid.” Shaking his head, Pops adjusted in his chair. “You either tell her who you are and risk her running into trouble, or you keep it a secret and have her pissed at you when she finds out. And you know as well as I do there’s really no choice.”

That’s precisely what Jack was concluding.

“You always protect a woman, even if it leaves you out in the cold.”

“I know. I don’t like it, but I’m not going to risk Jamie getting in over her head.” Lying wasn’t something he wanted to do, but he’d deal with it.

“So you’ve got two weeks to find your culprit and wrap this up, because if she’s Caro’s roommate, she’s going to be at your sister’s wedding, and it’s going to be hard to keep your identity a secret when you’re sitting at the goddamn bridal table.”

Jack grimaced. “I’d totally forgotten about the wedding. Maybe I was hoping Caroline and Brad would suddenly decide to elope.”

The thought of enduring that family affair was painful to begin with, despite the fact that he adored his sister. Too much like a dinner party, but with people you didn’t like.

Half of his family thought he needed a stint in the psych ward for walking away from a thriving career. They tended to speak slowly to him and give him gifts like soothing scented candles and spa gift certificates.

Then the other half would spend the evening giving him their latest hard luck stories and why they needed a little bit of cash to tide them over. He usually gave it to them, feeling it would be selfish not to help if they really needed it, but the trouble was most of them didn’t need it.

And it ruined all family gatherings for him. Leaving him depressed and isolated.

But he would endure it, and with a smile for his sister’s sake. In two weeks.

Tomorrow night he was seeing Jamie and had every intention of tasting those plump pink lips of hers. Tomorrow night he wouldn’t be Jonathon Davidson, millionaire. He would be just Jack.

A glance at the clock confirmed that time had ceased to move forward.

Only twenty-five more hours to go.

A call from Allison saved Jamie from having to eat ice cream for dinner.

“Meet me at Dorsal. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Jamie looked down at her wrinkled dress and weighed the embarrassment of looking like a poster child for Calgon in public versus eating mahimahi and sipping a lemon drop.

Food won. Besides, she really needed to talk to someone about Jack on the subway, and she was only a block from Dorsal. To change, she’d have to go right past the restaurant to their apartment. “Alright, I’ll be there. Are Mandy and Caroline coming?”

“No. Since Mandy got knocked up, married, and moved out, she’s always busy. And Caroline’s off doing something bridal. If I ever get married, I’m eloping to the Caribbean like Mandy did.”

“I thought you said no man was worth saddling yourself to for life, or for the time it takes to get a divorce.” Jamie worried about Allison sometimes. She was such a strong, intelligent woman, yet she bristled around men and wouldn’t let any of them get close to her.

“You’re right. Good, I’ll never have to worry about having an obnoxious wedding.”

“Oh, come on. Caroline’s not being obnoxious.” Though Jamie had to admit, she seemed stressed out.

“Are you kidding?” Allison snorted. “She tried on her wedding dress and burst into tears. Not a good thing.” The sarcasm left Allison’s voice. “I’m actually kind of worried about her.”

That was serious. Allison wasn’t known to get concerned without just cause. Pausing outside the restaurant, Jamie pushed her curls out of her face. “Okay, I’m here. I’ll get a table and order drinks. What do you want, Ali?”

“A real job, fame and fortune, and the respect of men everywhere.”

Jamie laughed. “I meant short term.”

“Oh, you mean to drink? I don’t care. Order me something that sounds perverted.”

He shouldn’t be watching her. He should go home, though home was an exaggeration for what he had. He could go to the shelter, if there was room. Go to Wendy’s apartment, though she’d been spitting mad at him the week before when she’d tossed him out.

The shelter was probably a better choice, even if it smelled like overcooked cabbage. Worse than prison.

But first he’d found himself following Jamie again, and he needed to stop that. He wasn’t planning on talking to her or anything, though, so what was the harm in just watching her? She never noticed him, even when she glanced around her like she did now as she talked on her phone in front of a restaurant.

She was too trusting, too nice. Unaware of all the dangers that lurked around her.

Nice girl like that was going to get hurt if she wasn’t careful.

When Allison breezed in the door fifteen minutes later, Jamie was sitting with what the bartender swore were two Screaming Orgasms in front of her. She was almost certain they’d given her the wrong drink just to mess with her, because these were a vibrant pink color, lapping against swizel sticks. Jamie kept thinking if she dropped an egg in each, she’d have a pair of beautifully colored Easter eggs.

“How was your day?” Allison asked as she dropped into the chair across from Jamie.

“Mixed. The Hathaway Foundation rejected my request for funding.” She was extremely disappointed that her pet project, Urban Gardens, an extension of her works programs, had been rejected by their major source of funding. Without the Hathaway Foundation’s funding, she didn’t have a prayer of continuing on with the project that had kids of incarcerated adults caring for their own gardens.

The board, including Caroline’s brother, Jonathon Davidson, had rejected the proposal without even allowing her to plead her case in person. Now she was stuck scrambling for money anew.

“Jerks.”

That’s kind of the way Jamie felt. She didn’t understand the corporate mentality and probably never would. The men who made funding decisions that could make or break serious social programs like the one Jamie worked for sat around in their posh offices and decided who was worthy of their crumbs.

“We used a grant writer and everything. They have our financial records, so they know we’re a responsible organization. I mean, we have an eighty-six percent success rate with our reentry program. We help men fresh out of prison find jobs and become productive adults. How could they find fault with that?” Jamie sipped her drink and sighed. She’d really wanted to expand their program to include the families of those men, but it was going to be tough now. There just wasn’t any money left in the budget.

“A lot of people might think those men should stay in prison. Or that why waste resources on men who will just commit another crime and wind up right back in jail?”

Jamie wasn’t naïve. She knew some men could never be rehabilitated, could usually pick them out at the first introduction. But that didn’t mean every man was a lost cause. “Well, they would be wrong. Including Caroline’s brother, Jonathon, who was the final no for my project.”

Allison kept eyeballing her drink, but she’d yet to take a sip. “Don’t take it personally, sweetie. Jonathon is a businessman, but he’s a nice guy. If he thought it was an unsound financial investment, he would say no. Not because the program’s not worthy.”

Jamie wanted to believe that of her roommate’s brother. Of any person. But she couldn’t help but picture a bunch of stiff, well-dressed Scrooges taking sick delight in saying no.

“And nobody works at a charitable foundation without having some sense of decency.”

Allison was right. Jamie was ashamed at her attitude. She had no more right to judge Jonathon Davidson than he did her clients.

“You’re right. I’m just disappointed.” Jamie shivered a little in the air-conditioning, wishing she’d brought a sweater. “But the weird thing that happened today was that I met a guy on the subway. The guy from Beckwith’s prediction.”

That thought caused more than a shiver. Her whole body underwent an earthquake shake. Jack had been so…delicious.

Allison didn’t look impressed. “Beckwith couldn’t predict his way out of a paper bag. You shouldn’t be talking to strange men with that crap in your head.”

“It was too freaky to be nonsense. The height, the hair color, the moving accident, the food, it was all accurate.” And then there was the look in his eyes. Admiration. As though he thought she was attractive, despite no make-up, frizzy hair, and lack of Manhattan polish.

Jamie would reserve judgment on what kind of man Jack was until after they’d had some time to talk, but right now she was feeling strangely optimistic. So maybe Beck might have exaggerated the longevity of this relationship and was clearly wrong about the whole dishonesty thing—after all, what was dishonest about colliding on the subway? But Jamie still thought she and Jack might have a good old time, even without the whole happily ever after thing.

Beckwith did have the gift, she was sure of it.

“Just look at Beckwith’s prediction for Mandy, Allison. Back five months ago, he said she was going to find a man who made her melt, and that there were buns in her future. Now she’s married to Damien and having a baby. He was completely right.”

“What do melting buns have to do with marrying your boss and getting pregnant?”

It did seem like kind of a stretch when Allison put it like that. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

“Jamie, please tell me you’re not meeting this guy.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

Jamie sipped her drink and tried to look innocent. “I won’t tell you that I’m meeting this guy.”

Allison made a sound of total exasperation. “Would you be going out with this guy if Beckwith hadn’t told you about meeting a man while moving? Don’t let that sway you to do something you wouldn’t normally do. Something stupid.”

But Jamie knew what she was doing.

She had a date with her sexual destiny.

Jack might turn out to be a total jerk-off, but she’d never know unless she met him. And if she had an orgasm or two along the way, she wasn’t going to complain.