Читать книгу Have Me - Jo Leigh - Страница 7

Where R U???

REBECCA THORPE DIDN’T bother returning her friend Bree’s text because there was no need. She was already walking up the pathway to the St. Marks church basement, the ready-to-be-frozen lunches she’d prepared in a large tote in preparation for the bimonthly lunch exchange. That wasn’t what had slowed her pace though. She took her hand out of her coat pocket and stared again at the trading card she’d been toying with for the past fifteen minutes.

Ever since Shannon Fitzgerald had introduced the idea of using trading cards for trading men, the lunch exchange group, now numbering a whopping seventeen women, had been in a dating frenzy. The concept was simplicity itself: everyone involved recommended men they knew who were eligible and in the market. Whether they were relatives, friends or even guys without that perfect chemistry—for them at least—there was suddenly a bounty of prescreened, fully vetted local men. None of whom knew that they were members of this very select group.

On paper Gerard had seemed ideal. He was gorgeous, not only on the front of the card, either. Tall, dark, handsome, he’d gotten his degree from Cambridge, then had come to New York to work for the United Nations. He was urbane, sophisticated, dressed like a dream. And he’d taken her to dinner at Babbo, which was never a bad thing.

Sadly, like the other three men Rebecca had gone out with, courtesy of the trading cards, there had been no sizzle. Maybe she’d see Gerard again because he was fascinating, and they had many common interests, but the man she was looking for wasn’t him. She’d known ten minutes into the date that the magic was missing, and while she’d been disappointed, she hadn’t been surprised.

She was too picky. Or something. She couldn’t spell out her criteria for the one but she certainly knew when she hadn’t found it. She’d never had luck with men, and that had as much to do with her being a Winslow as it did with her taste, but the end result was that she hadn’t truly connected with a man, not for the long haul, and the trading cards hadn’t changed her luck.

So, with all due respect to the trading cards and to the whole idea of dating, she was done. No more cards for her, no more setups, no more blind dates, no more searching and no more hoping.

If she met someone in the course of doing what she loved, then great. If she didn’t, she was fine with that, too. At twenty-eight she wasn’t willing to say she’d never try again. She wanted to have a partner, maybe even have kids. But for now? Work was enough. Work was almost too much. It barely left time for her to visit with friends, go to movies, the theater, read a book. She was taking herself out of the game.

Determined and damn cold, she walked into St. Marks. The sound of women, of her friends, greeted her the moment she stepped over the threshold. There was a lot of joy to be had in her world, and only a part of it depended on a man.

“There you are,” Bree said, grinning as she met Rebecca at one of the long tables. “Charlie bet me you wouldn’t make it today. He said the donor dinner is getting too close.”

Rebecca started stacking the lunches she’d prepared. “What did you win?”

“Something juicy that would make you blush.”

Rebecca was glad not to have to hear the details. Charlie Winslow was her cousin, and while he was her favorite cousin, and she’d played an integral role in getting him and Bree together, there were certain things she’d rather not have in her memory. “As long as you’re happy, I’m happy. And he’s right. The dinner is driving me insane. I hate this part. I despise having to ask for money.”

“Hard to run a charitable foundation without funds,” Bree said.

“I know. But it defeats the purpose if I have to wine and dine the donors to the tune of several hundred thousand dollars. That money should be used elsewhere.”

Bree, who looked adorable in skinny jeans with a gorgeous camel cowl-neck sweater, patted Rebecca’s arm. “You could always serve them dinner á la soup kitchen. As a statement.”

“I’ve considered it. But I really do need their money. Besides, the Four Seasons isn’t known for its soup-kitchen ambience.”

“Keep thinking about how much good the Winslow Foundation does. Then suck it up.”

Rebecca laughed, as Shannon, the most important member of the lunch exchange, came plowing through the door. The redhead didn’t know how to make anything but a dramatic entrance.

“I have new cards!” she said, lifting up a box from her family’s printing shop. “Brand-new delicious men. You guys have outdone yourselves this time. Truly.”

Rebecca pulled out Gerard’s card, which had been in the second batch of trading cards. The first exchange had happened in February, a couple of weeks before Valentine’s Day. As this was only the group’s third exchange, it was too early to say how successful the new venture would be overall, but none of the dates had been disasters, and that was something.

She headed toward the front table where the cards were spread out for the taking, indecisive about putting Gerard back into the mix. For a moment, she was tempted. Tempted to forget she’d decided only minutes ago that she was done with all this. Maybe one more try? But that thought was dismissed the moment she remembered what she had waiting for her back at the office. Even if she wanted to try again, now wasn’t the time. The dinner, which was more of a banquet complete with orchestra and dancing, was in just over a week, and if she found time to sleep between now and then, it would be a miracle.

Someone—Bree?—pushed into her from behind into the long table. “Hey, jeez.” What was this, sale day at Barneys? Rebecca dropped Gerard’s card on top of the pile and was in the process of getting out of the way when a tiny little tap stopped her.

She picked up the trading card resting against her hip. Then she stared. The name on the top was Jake Donnelly. The picture made all her female parts stand up and take notice. So to speak. Because he was the single most attractive man she’d ever seen. Ever. He wasn’t the handsomest, but handsome was easy, handsome was proportions and ratios and cultural biases. No, Jake Donnelly was the man who fit her. She hadn’t realized until right now that she’d carried a blueprint in her brain, made of exacting specifications down to the texture of his eyebrows.

They were on the thick side, dark. As dark as his hair, which was parted, long on the collar, unstudied, and, oh, who was she kidding, it was his eyes. They were an astonishing blue. Not pale, but a vibrant, piercing cerulean. The rest of his face was great, fabulous, a perfect frame; rugged enough that the parts of her that weren’t transfixed by his eyes were doing a happy dance about the rest.

A happy dance? Okay, so it wasn’t a sale at Barneys, it was high school and she was swooning over the quarterback. Even when she’d been in high school she hadn’t swooned. This was unprecedented in every way.

She blinked. Took in a much-needed breath. Looked around. Just like in the movies, sounds returned, the picture in her hand wasn’t the only thing in focus and she was Rebecca once more.

Almost.

She turned the card over, found out Donnelly had been recommended by Katy Groft. Rebecca made her way through the tightly packed crowd and sidled up to Katy, an NYU postgrad studying physics.

“Oh, you found Jake.”

“Please tell me he looks like this picture.”

Katy grinned. “Oh, he’s even better.”

“Oh, God.” Rebecca didn’t dare look to see which category he fell in … marrying kind, dating or one-night stand. Not until she asked “Is he already taken?”

“Nope. You’re in luck.”

“Thank God. Because wow. He is …”

Katy sighed. “It pains me, it truly does. Because he’s a sweetheart and he’s funny, decent and very discreet. But he doesn’t want a relationship at all. He’s extremely private, too, so if that’s going to bother you—”

“Private’s good. Private and discreet is even better. Can you call him? Oh, he’s probably at work now.”

“Did you not read the back of the card?”

Rebecca felt a little blush steal across her cheeks. “Um …” She turned it over.

* His favorite restaurant: Luigi’s Pizza in Windsor Terrace.

* Marry, date or one-night stand: One night.

* His secret passion: No idea. But he’s renovating his father’s house in Brooklyn between jobs.

* Watch out for: Nothing, actually. He was great. I found him through my uncle whom I trust beyond measure.

* Why it didn’t work out: Nothing scary here. Hot and fun. He’s not sure what he’s going to do with his life.

Katy laughed, which made Rebecca tear her eyes away from Jake’s picture.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Katy said. “I’ll call him right now.”

“That would be very, very good.”

THE SINK WASN’T COOPERATING. It was a heavy sonofabitch, and he couldn’t just drop it into the new vanity, but the guy on the DIY DVD was talking too fast and Jake needed to rewind to get that last bit. He shifted the sink in his arms until it was balanced between him and the wall, unfortunately on his bad leg, then reached for his laptop. A second before his finger reached the touch pad, his walkie-talkie squawked. “Jake?”

Jake swore, which he’d been doing a lot this morning. This week. This month. It was his father. Again. About to tell him another idiotic cop joke.

Jake would have preferred not to hear another joke. Not while he was installing his old man’s sink in the new master bath. In fact, not while he was still able to hear. But that’s not how this gig worked.

He paused the DVD, lowered the sink to the floor and pressed the transmit button. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

There was a muffled giggle, a hell of a sound coming from a man who was sixty-three years old. “How many Jersey cops does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

Jake sighed. This particular joke seemed to be stuck on repeat, as this was the third time he’d heard it in so many days. “How many?”

Now the laughter wasn’t subdued and it wasn’t only his old man laughing. The other two voices belonged to Pete Baskin and Liam O’Hara, all old farts, retired NYPD, bored out of their stinking minds and drunk on nothing but coffee and dominoes. “Just one—” his dad said.

“But he’s never around when you need him,” finished Liam.

The three of them laughed like asthmatic hyenas. The worst part about it? Someone had to be pushing the transmit button the whole damn time in order for Jake to hear it.

“Yo, Old Men?” he said, when he could finally get through.

“Who you calling old?” Pete yelled.

“You three. I’m trying to put in a sink. You know how much this sink weighs? I don’t want to hear one more goddamn cop joke, you got it? No more. I swear to God.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Liam said. “Mikey always said you had no sense of humor.”

“Well, I think he’s damn funny looking, so I guess he’s wrong about that, too.”

“I can still whip your ass, Jacob Donnelly,” his father said, “and don’t you forget it.”

Jake went back to the computer, replayed the section about the plumbing, then squared off against the sink. It hung off the wall, so the wheelchair wouldn’t be an issue. In fact, the spigot was motion-controlled so his dad wouldn’t have to touch anything if his hands were acting up.

Jake had already widened the door leading into the new master bath. It used to be a guest bathroom before his dad’s rheumatoid arthritis started getting so bad. The wheelchair wasn’t a hundred percent necessary yet, but soon his father wouldn’t be able to make it up to his bedroom on the second floor, even with Jake’s help.

He picked up the damn heavy sink and moved it over to the semipedestal, the plumbing all neatly tucked behind the white porcelain. It actually set easily, and since he’d been getting better with this plumbing business, he didn’t find it necessary to curse the entire time he secured the top to the pedestal.

The problem wasn’t the tools, but the pain. As soon as he could, he stood, stretching out the damaged thigh. The bullet had been a through and through, but what they don’t say on TV is that it goes through muscle and tendon and veins and arteries on its quick voyage into, in his case, a factory wall. At least the thigh was less complicated than the shoulder wound.

Sometimes he felt as if it would have been better for everyone if the bastard had been a better shot. He rolled his left shoulder as his physiotherapist, Taye, taught him to do, then did a few stretches. This DIY crap had never been his bailiwick, but his dad needed the house to work for him, and the doctors had all thought it would be good for Jake to use his body to build something tangible.

Jake had realized when he was widening the wall that he actually liked remodeling. That was quite satisfying. The actual work itself though sucked like a Dyson.

But this was his life now. Crazy old men on the porch, fixing every problem the world had ever known. It didn’t matter that it was March and as cold as hell outside; they kept on playing their bones, the space heater barely keeping them from hypothermia. Of course they had their cold-weather gear on. These men had been beat cops in so many New York winters the cold didn’t stand a chance.

Thank Christ for electric blankets. ‘Cause Mike Donnelly, for all his bluster, was getting on. It would be good when Jake had the new shower finished. Nothing to step over, nothing his crooked hands couldn’t handle. Then he’d be able to jack up the heating bill to his heart’s content, shower three times a day if he wanted.

In the meantime, there was plumbing to do. Jake limped over to the laptop and continued the how-to. Two minutes in, his cell rang. It was Katy Groft, which was weird. They’d gone out, it had been fine, but Jake had been pretty damn clear about his intentions. He wasn’t one of those guys who said they’d call, then blew it off. None of that bullshit. “Hello?”

“Hey, Jake. Got a minute?”

“Sure.”

“I’m sending you a picture.”

“Okay.” His phone beeped a second later. “Hold on.” He clicked over to the photo, and what he saw surprised him even more than the phone call itself. It was … what’s her name, the Winslow who wasn’t called Winslow. Thorpe. That’s right. Rebecca Thorpe. Ran some kind of big foundation or something, was always in the papers, especially the Post. What he didn’t know was why Katy Groft would want him to see Thorpe’s picture. “Okay,” he said again.

“This is my friend Rebecca,” Katy said. “Interested?”

“In what?”

“Her. Going out with her. You know, a date?”

He stared again at the phone, at the picture. Rebecca Thorpe was a beautiful woman. Interesting beautiful. Her face was too long, her nose too prominent, but there was something better than pretty about her. Every picture he’d seen of her, didn’t matter who she was with, she seemed to be daring everyone to make something of it. Of her. Right now, looking at the overexposed camera phone photo, he had to smile. No choice. It didn’t hurt that she had a body that struck all the right chords. Long, lean, like a Thoroughbred. “You do realize you called Jake Donnelly, right?”

Katy laughed. “Yes. I’m very aware of who you are. And who she is. And I happen to believe you two would hit it off well. I’m pretty clever about these things. And don’t worry, she already understands you’re not in the market for anything serious.”

So this Thoroughbred wanted to go out with a quarter horse for a change of pace? “She knows I’m busted up, right?”

“Not a problem.”

He gave it another minute’s thought, then figured, “Sure. Why the hell not?”

“Great. How about the Upstairs bar at the Kimberly Hotel, tomorrow night at eight?”

It was his turn to laugh. “What is this, some kind of gag?”

“No. I swear. She’s great. You’ll like her. A lot.”

He’d have to wear something nice to the Kimberly. But he hadn’t worn anything nice in a long time. Before he got shot, that’s for sure. “I’ll get there a little early. Introduce myself.”

“Excellent. You’ll thank me.”

“I’m already thanking you. For thinking of me. Although I’m still unclear why.”

“You’ll see,” she said.

“Fair enough.” He disconnected from Katy, but stared at the picture on his phone for a while. God damn, she was something else.

Katy had been only the second woman he’d been with since he’d been put out to pasture. She’d been great, and if his life had made any kind of sense, he might have pursued more than a onetime thing. But the only thing he knew for sure at the moment was that he was a broken ex-cop without a plan in the world except for rebuilding the house he was born in so his father could live out the rest of his days at home. After that was anybody’s guess.

“Hey, Jake?”

He winced at the sound of his father’s voice, tinny over the walkie. “Yeah, Dad,” he said, his thumb finding the transmit button without his even having to look.

“How many cop jokes are there?”

He shoved his cell into his pocket. “Two,” Jake said. “All the rest of them are true.”

Laughter filled the mess of a bathroom, and Jake supposed that as far as problems went, having three lunatics telling him cop jokes all day was pretty far down the list.