Читать книгу What the Librarian Did / LA Cinderella: What the Librarian Did / LA Cinderella - Karina Bliss - Страница 12

RACHEL CAME BACK TO WORK two days later, all cried out. The aftereffects—sore eyes and red nose—led credence to her flu story, which only made her feel more guilty. A childhood of enforced deception had given her an antipathy to lying.

She was in an intolerable situation, aching to see her son but with no excuse to do so. Instead she had to depend on the occasions he chanced into the library during her shift, and not surprisingly, after her babble on Tuesday he tended to give her a wide berth.

Friday afternoon she’d just begun an informal workshop on finding and searching business resources when Mark and Devin came in together and joined the seven students already standing in a circle around her. Ignoring Devin, she smiled a welcome at Mark and summarized her intro. “Okay, everyone, let’s move on to search strategies.” Act cool, she told herself, he needs to think of you as normal.

As she distributed the handouts, Devin murmured provocatively, “Your hair’s much nicer down.” Rachel turned her back on him. She hadn’t seen him since the kiss three days earlier, and he wasn’t a bit repentant. But a slap on the wrist would have to wait for privacy.

She got the opportunity twenty minutes later, when she dismissed the group. To her surprise, Devin had asked some intelligent questions, made notes, acted like a regular student right down to calling her Ms. Robinson. “Can you stay behind a moment?” she asked him.

“Sure. Mark … go ahead, buddy, I’ll catch up to you.”

Rachel forgot her prepared lecture on respecting people’s boundaries. “How do you know that boy?”

“Who, Mark? He’s one of my classmates … nice kid. But no need to be jealous. You’re still my number one sparring partner.” He eyed her folded arms. “I expect you want an apology for that kiss.”

“That would be nice.”

“I know I should be sorry. Will that do?”

A smile trembled on her lips. If Mark hadn’t been involved she might have enjoyed this outrageous man. “About that teenager,” she said. “Wouldn’t you rather hang out with people your own age?”

Devin raised a hand to his impressive chest in mock horror. “Why, Mrs. Robinson, are you coming on to a student?”

“Are you ever serious?”

He considered her question. “Oddly enough, all the time I’m not teasing you. You know, maybe we should go on a date, explore this little attraction we’ve got going.”

“So little I’m completely unaware of it,” she retorted.

“Really? I thought you were a clever woman.” He leaned closer. The man had charisma; she gave him that. The innate confidence that came from a lifetime of being desired. Lucky him.

Surprise came into his extraordinary eyes. Rachel thought it was because she’d held her ground. Until he sniffed. “Your perfume,” he said, “it’s sexy as hell.”

He smelled good, too. She banished the thought. “What were you expecting, lavender water?”

Devin blinked.

“But you’re right,” she added coolly. “I am clever. Too clever for you.”

He grinned, sending his charisma wattage through the roof, then to Rachel’s relief straightened up. “Maybe you’d enjoy slumming,” he offered.

“I won’t lower my standards.”

“The professor being such a class act.”

Rachel’s cheeks heated, but she held his gaze. “Speaking of classes, don’t you have one?”

He glanced at his watch. “Damn, it’s still hard working to a timetable. One more thing … don’t mention the donation to the university to anyone.”

It occurred to her that he’d bought himself a place here. Lovely.

He misread her disgust. “Please.”

Before she could answer, Mark came back into the library. With a cursory nod to Rachel, he said, “Hey, Dev, we’re late.”

“You were supposed to go on ahead … never mind.” Devin turned back to Rachel with a rueful smile. “I’d better run. I’m teaching that boy too many bad habits.” With a casual wave he left.

She watched them leave with a disquiet that turned into real alarm when, on her break, she took the opportunity to research Devin on the Internet. Though his musical achievements proved substantial, Devin Freedman was a man who comfortably juggled the seven deadly sins and still found time to break a couple of commandments.

The hair rose on the back of her neck when she read he’d admitted to using recreational drugs. He was also an unrepentant drunk. When, two years earlier, a writer for Rolling Stone magazine had asked if he had a problem with alcohol, Devin had replied, “No, we’re very happy together.”

He’d collapsed on stage eighteen months ago amid frenzied rumors of a drug overdose, then effectively vanished from the media … resurfacing in New Zealand before Christmas, pulling a Marlene Dietrich “I vant to be alone.”

There were a couple of pictures of him, Stetson pulled low, mirrored sunglasses hiding his eyes, palm outstretched to the camera. Otherwise nothing but speculation about the guy nicknamed the Prince of Excess.

Rachel shut down the Internet connection and stared unseeing at her screensaver, a model of the mountain bike she wanted to upgrade to. Her own experience of him did nothing to reassure her.

Beneath the banter he was self-indulgent and arrogant, a man who did what he wanted when he wanted, with no thought for other people.

And her son was under his influence.

“SO, MARK … HI!” Even to Rachel’s ears, her tone was too tinny; too bright. She’d been waiting five days for this opportunity to talk.

The teenager glanced at her, startled. “Hi.” He returned to scanning the library shelves.

“Need some help?”

“No, I’m okay, thanks.” He’d been taught nice manners; she’d already noticed that. It warmed her … and it blistered like acid.

“Are you sure? After all, that’s what I’m here for!”

Rachel laughed and it was a silly, high sound. She felt like a thirteen-year-old trying to impress a crush.

“Here it is.” Mark took a textbook off the shelf. “Well, see you.”

She fell into step beside him. “So, how are your classes going?”

“Um, fine.”

“Do you spend much time with Devin Freedman?” She hadn’t intended asking so baldly, but he’d picked up speed.

He slowed at that, his gray eyes suspicious. “A bit … why?”

“What about out of school?”

He stopped at the bank of high-backed chairs that made up a study corner. “Look, if you want his autograph I think you should ask him for it yourself.”

“His auto—” This time Rachel didn’t have to force the laugh. “Oh, no, I’m not a fan.”

“She’s a friend, aren’t you, Heartbreaker?”

Rachel jumped. One of the chairs swung around to reveal Devin.

“I wish you’d stop calling me that.”

“What … friend or heartbreaker?”

“Both.”

He chuckled and the light flashed off the heavy silver link chain around his neck. Today he’d accessorized his faded jeans, olive T-shirt and scuffed brown cowboy boots with way too much jewelry—silver hoop earrings and three rings including a skull with diamond eyes. Mark looked from one to the other, then plunked himself into a chair. “Oh, you guys know each other. That’s cool, then.”

About to tell Devin to take his boots off the coffee table, Rachel paused. “Sure, we’re friends,” she said. Advising Mark to be careful around the rocker would sound less hysterical if he thought it came from personal experience. “So, Devin—” she paused, trying to think of something “rock n’ roll” to say “—how’s it hanging?”

The twinkle in his eyes became more pronounced. “It’s hanging fine, thanks for asking…. What are you up to?”

The blush she’d managed to hold back through his innuendo heated her cheeks. “The usual. Actually, I’m due in an acquisitions meeting so I’d better go.” She looked at her son. “Bye, Mark.”

His nod was friendly. “See ya.”

She waggled her fingers at Devin, who waggled back. “Definitely up to something,” he said.

Fortunately, he was gone when she came out of her meeting forty minutes later, but Mark was still there, poring over books. Hungrily, Rachel studied him, noting the way he chewed his lower lip when he concentrated.

The hand cupping his chin was big; his body still had some catching up to do. And he was boyishly thin, his bony shoulder blades sticking through the striped T-shirt as he bent over the table and took notes. Surely he was too young to be fending for himself….

With the discipline of years of practice, Rachel stopped torturing herself. She had to trust the people she’d chosen for him. Had to accept he wasn’t her son—but theirs.

As though sensing her scrutiny, Mark glanced up and grinned. Something had made him happy. Encouraged by his first smile, she approached him. “Devin gone?”

“Yeah, but we’re meeting later.” Obviously bursting with news, he added, “I finally talked him into showing me his guitar collection.”

“In town?”

“No, at his place on Waiheke. You been there?”

Rachel sat down. “No.” His adoptive parents weren’t here to protect him and she was. “Listen, Mark, Devin might not be the best person to hang around with. He has a history of drug and alcohol abuse….” Her voice trailed off under his look of contempt.

“Aren’t you supposed to be his friend?” “Devin knows when I disapprove of his behavior.” That at least was true. “I just want to make the point that you’re only seventeen years old and living away from home for the first time. That makes you vulnerable—”

“Stop right there,” Mark interrupted. “Let me get this straight. I hardly know you and you’re giving me a lecture?” Shaking his head, he stood up, sweeping his books into his bag. “Who the hell do you think you are—my mother?”

“SHE’S RIGHT,” said Devin when Mark repeated the conversation. “I’m not the kind of person you should be spending time with.”

They stood on the deck of the Waiheke ferry watching the whitecaps as the boat surged against a brisk northerly toward the island that lay forty minutes off the mainland.

Their fellow passengers were a mix of commuters holding briefcases, tourists and the alternative lifestylers who’d once had the place to themselves. Now the island’s slopes were dotted with homes of the wealthy. Yet there was still a lull, a lazy charm about the place. Nearby a businessman loosened his tie, while two kids raced across the deck to the bow to point out the island to their mother.

Cool for the first time that day, Devin breathed in the salty air and felt the tension he always carried ease a little. “You don’t sound that bothered about it,” Mark replied.

Glancing sideways, Devin saw the kid’s hurt expression. Oh, great. He still didn’t quite know how Mark had talked him into inviting him over; it had something to do with Devin feeling he owed him.

A week and a half into university life his brain felt close to exploding under the weight of new information, and Mark had helped him out more than once, explaining concepts. The kid was bright, no doubt about it.

And so puppy dog enthusiastic about music. Devin remembered that kind of devotion; he still mourned its loss. Maybe that was really what this was about. He was warming himself at the fire of the kid’s idealism. “Listen, Mark. Don’t expect too much of me. You’ll only be disappointed.”

“I don’t … I mean, it’s not like … Look, I don’t have to come if you don’t want me to.”

Devin laughed. “What are you going to do, jump in and swim back?”

MARK WAS DISAPPOINTED at his first sight of Devin’s house. From watching reality TV shows on rock stars he expected some sort of mansion with white pillars, wrought-iron gates with a security keypad, a six-car garage and an entourage … definitely an entourage.

Especially since they rode from the ferry terminal to Devin’s property on a customized Harley-Davidson.

But albeit secluded—and white plaster—the place was pretty simple, a long, low-lying building with no distinctive features that Mark could see. Inside was better. Mostly white with red feature walls and white leather furniture. Art covered every wall, from big canvasses of bold swirls of color to old movie posters and some hot nudes. He recognized an Andy Warhol and wondered if it was an original.

The house perched on a cliff with dramatic glass walls toward the sea. Mark stood at the window and gazed out across the expanse of water and beyond to the far horizon. Below, several seagulls hovered in the updraft. “Wow.”

Musical instruments were scattered around the enormous open plan lounge—an antique snare drum, various types of guitars. A microphone in the corner and he spotted speakers so small they had to be state of the art. Memorabilia, but no Grammys or awards. Mark was disappointed.

Then his eyes fell on a bass guitar. “Is that the Fender Precision?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I touch it?”

Devin smiled. “You can play it.”

“No shit!” Reverently, Mark picked up the instrument, running his hands over the strings. One of rock’s most distinctive riffs had been created on this very bass. He became aware of Devin watching, and froze, embarrassed to show himself up as a meager talent.

“You want a drink?” asked Devin. “Coke, Sprite, juice?”

“A Sprite would be good.”

When Devin had disappeared down the hall, Mark turned on the amplifier and played the Rage anthem right through, thrilled to the bone. When he’d finished, Devin still hadn’t returned, so he picked up an electric guitar and started playing his own riffs. As an only child, growing up on a farm from the age of twelve, he’d often relied on his own company. That’s when he’d begun to play guitar.

He played one of his songs right through, forgetting his shyness, trailing off when he noticed Devin standing at the door holding two glasses.

“You’re good.”

Mark blushed. “Thanks,” he said diffidently.

Devin put the drinks on the table, picked up his bass guitar and said, “Play that last one again.”

Mark did, and Devin accompanied him, adding tonal qualities Mark would never have dreamed of. “I like that song,” said Devin. “Whose is it?”

“Mine.”

Devin looked up. For a long minute he didn’t say anything. “Let’s try that again,” he suggested.

Mark spent the next two hours in musical heaven. He didn’t ever want the day to end. But eventually Devin stopped and glanced at the clock. “I’m hungry. How about you?”

“Starving.”

Mark followed him into the kitchen and sat on a stool while the rocker opened his fridge and inspected the contents. “I’ve got a better idea. How about we go eat with my mom.”