Читать книгу Real Men: Rugged Rebels: Watch and Learn / Under His Skin / Her Perfect Hero - Jeanie London, Jeanie London - Страница 11

DESPITE AN UNEXPECTEDLY good night’s sleep, Gemma was jumpy as she sipped morning coffee standing at her kitchen window. She couldn’t decipher if she was most nervous about the interview with the employment agency, or the possibility of running into Chev Martinez again after her unwitting peep show the night before.

His silver pickup sat next door in the early morning light, but all was quiet around the property as far as she could tell. She checked her watch—it was still early, but if she left now, she might be able to get away without even having to make eye contact with her neighbor.

She swung her bag to her shoulder and exited to the garage that seemed bare with Jason’s car gone and his sports equipment missing from the walls. A black-and-gold monogrammed golf towel lay on the sealed concrete floor. Her heart squeezed as a fresh wave of loss swept over her. Gemma picked up the towel and ran her finger over the elegantly stitched letters, trying to remember who had gotten it for Jason. It didn’t matter, she decided, laying it on a shelf. It was just a reminder of all the details in his life that were no longer her concern. She inhaled deeply and turned toward her car, thinking that if she couldn’t rewind time to fix her marriage, she wished she could at least fast-forward to the day when things were okay again.

The pencil skirt she wore restricted her movement as she swung into the seat, but she told herself that she’d better get used to dressing up every day if she were going to rejoin the working world. Thank goodness that no one in Florida wore panty hose, but the rest of her outfit made her feel … proper. She was already eager to take it off. When the image of undressing with an audience of one flashed into her mind, she banished the thought. Squeezing the garage door opener on the visor, she started the car engine, poised for a quick escape. If she were lucky, she could postpone her next—undoubtedly awkward—conversation with Chev Martinez indefinitely.

Gemma put the car in Reverse and glanced in the rearview mirror, then slammed on the brakes.

Sitting behind her car, staring back at her was a large blue fowl, about three feet tall, with a sleek, pear-shaped body and elongated neck. He lifted his small, elegant head and emitted a loud, singsong call, then unfurled his tail plumage in an enormous, dazzling fan of iridescent greens, blues, aquas and golds, all sparkling in the morning sunshine.

She gasped in delight, having never seen a peacock at such close range. It was an extraordinary creature and rather intimidating in its full extension as it preened. It also appeared to be rooted to the spot.

Gemma backed the car out a few inches, hoping the movement would startle the bird into action, but he maintained his ground. She bit her lip and looked around. All was quiet. Nothing and no one around to distract the bird away from her driveway. She lightly tapped the car horn, but the cock merely bobbed his head, sending a plume of brilliantly colored feathers dancing. Gemma put the car into Park, and opened the door to step out.

“Shoo!” She waved her arms and walked toward it. “Go away!”

The creature seemed entirely unfazed.

“Move, birdie!” she shouted, flapping her arms. “I have to be somewhere important!”

The bird extended its neck and hissed at her. Gemma shrank back. She’d heard that peacocks could be aggressive and didn’t relish being flogged.

Now what?

A low, rolling laugh reached her ears. She turned her head to see Chev standing at the edge of her yard, hands on lean hips, surveying the situation, a grin on his handsome dark face. Her midsection tightened, both at the sight of him in clean worn jeans and T-shirt, and at the knowledge that he’d seen enough of her last night to play connect the freckles. How would he react to her having ignored him? Would he assume she hadn’t noticed she was being watched, or would he assume that she’d noticed and that she’d enjoyed it?

Gemma’s face warmed. God help her, she had enjoyed it.

He walked closer, assaulting her senses. Her chest rose, pulling at the breast button of her starched white shirt. Her breath quickened and she couldn’t tear her gaze from his dark, probing eyes.

“Trouble?” he asked mildly. The tiny gold earring in his left lobe glinted against his bronze skin.

She gestured toward the bird, feeling foolish. “I opened the garage door and he—it—was there. I don’t suppose it’s yours?”

His smile revealed white teeth and pushed his cheek-bones higher. “No. It might have flown away from a zoo, but most peafowl are wild.” He looked up into the trees. “Normally they don’t travel alone. This fella must be lost from his bevy, or is looking for a new one.”

Gemma relaxed a millimeter. “You seem to know a lot about peacocks.”

He shrugged, displacing muscle under his T-shirt. “My grandparents used to have some on their property in Puerto Rico.”

The exotic lineage suited him. “Does that mean you know how to get them to move?”

He laughed, a pleasing rumble, then strode toward the bird, waving his long brown arms. The bird, apparently more intimidated by someone larger and moving faster, startled, then moved away with a ruffle of bright feathers and a protesting yelp.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Glad to help,” he said with a slow nod.

Was it her imagination, or did his gaze pass over her? Had he remembered her outfit from the previous night’s dress rehearsal? Her thighs tingled and she was glad to have the car between her and this enigmatic man who could set her skin on fire with his searing glance.

His mouth opened slightly and she sensed he wanted to say something, but his words fell silent on the heavy, humid air that hung between them. She knew how he felt—words would change everything. An apology would only multiply the awkwardness … a compliment could seem … unseemly.

“I’d better go,” she said. “I’m late for a job interview.”

His expression cleared and he stepped back with a little wave. “Good luck.”

She swung back into the car and eased out of the drive-way,glancing in the rearview mirror as she drove away. The man was striding back to his property, head up. Gemma shivered in the heat and exhaled a pent-up breath, trying to steer her mind away from her sexy—and temporary—neighbor and back to the task at hand: getting a job.

FROM THE OUTSIDE, the employment agency looked less than promising, wedged into a storefront in a shabby strip mall between a sandwich shop and a check-cashing joint. She hesitated before pushing open the door but forced herself to keep moving. The middle-aged woman behind the piled-high desk was on the phone, but waved for Gemma to come in. Her sharp, appraising glance left Gemma feeling as if she’d missed the mark with her prim outfit.

“You scare off everyone I send over there,” the woman barked into the mouthpiece. “Up the hourly rate and I’ll see what I can do.” She banged down the phone, then turned toward Gemma. “What can I do for you?”

Gemma considered saying she was at the wrong address, but the image of the bills accumulating on her kitchen table was a stark reminder that she’d already put off this day for too long. “I’m Gemma Wh—er, Jacobs. I have an appointment.”

The woman jammed on reading glasses and consulted a large wall calendar. “Yeah, there you are.” She gave Gemma a flat smile. “I’m Jean Pruett. Have a seat, honey.”

Gemma glanced at the mismatched chair opposite the desk that was filled with stacks of papers.

“Just set those on the floor.”

She did, then lowered herself onto the edge of the chair.

“So, what kind of work are you looking for?” Jean asked without preamble.

“Preferably something in the art field. My degree is in art history.”

Jean winced. “What’s your work experience?”

Gemma shifted in the stiff chair. “In college I was in work-study programs with local museums—cataloguing and preservation.”

“I meant lately.”

“Oh. Lately I’ve been involved in charity work mostly, fund-raising, that sort of thing.”

“I see. Do you have computer skills?”

Gemma brightened. “I have a computer at home.” A castoff from Jason, which she’d never turned on.

“Do you know how to work with spreadsheets, databases or Web design programs?”

“Er … no.”

“Do you have a teaching certificate?”

“No.”

“Speak a second language?”

“I took a Spanish class … in high school.” Which only made her think of Chev Martinez. Por dios, the man had a body. But for the life of her, she couldn’t recall any other words in Spanish.

Jean sighed. “I’m sorry, Miss Jacobs, but unless you can give me something more concrete, I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you.”

Gemma felt the flutter of panic in her stomach. She didn’t want to rely on Sue or Jason’s contacts to find employment. “Surely there must be something.”

“Most of the jobs I fill are temporary, either short-term or a few days here and there. They require either specific qualifications, or no qualifications at all, meaning the jobs aren’t very desirable. And I can see from your appearance—”

“Try me,” Gemma said.

Jean looked dubious, but turned to her computer and clicked on the keyboard for several long minutes. “Something in the art field, you say?”

“Do you have an opening?”

Jean named the art museum that Gemma had called the previous day about the executive assistant position. “They’re looking for tour guides—”

“I’ll take it.”

Jean pursed her mouth. “It does pay pretty well for a part-time position. And it says chances are good it will become full-time. Can you start today?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. Um, there’s only one catch….”