Читать книгу Life With Riley - Laurey Bright - Страница 10

The following evening Logie poked his long-faced, shaggy blond head around the door of the big lounge where Riley was watching television with Lin and Harry. “For you, Ri.” He held out the portable receiver.

Riley jumped up from the floor where she’d been sitting with her back against the well-worn sofa and took the phone. “Hello?” She followed Logie’s lanky form into the wide passageway, away from the sound of the TV, and he ambled back to the room he shared with his girlfriend, Samuela.

“Riley Morrisset?”

She’d have recognized the deep male voice anywhere. “Yes, Mr. Falkner.”

Maybe she’d surprised him. It was a moment before he said, “My car’s going to the panel beaters tomorrow. If you meant what you said, you could take me home from the office after work.”

“Tell me where.”

He gave her a midtown address and said, “Can you make it by five-thirty? There’s a private car park under the building. My space is on the left, marked with my name.”

Next day when she headed the car down the short, steep ramp, he was already waiting, holding a black briefcase.

Riley was fifteen minutes late.

She stopped the car and he opened the passenger door, climbed in and put the briefcase in front of him on the floor.

“Sorry,” she said, “I got held up.” One of the children at the day care center had mysteriously disappeared, and the entire staff and the little girl’s parents had spent twenty anxious minutes searching before she was discovered, sulking under a pile of dress-up clothes in a large carton.

He didn’t answer, pulling the seat belt across his chest and clipping it into the housing. Today the shirt with his dark suit was pale lavender and his tie a deep plum color.

She tried to tell herself it was dandified, but truthfully he looked terrific. And Riley hadn’t changed out of her paint-stained yellow T-shirt and comfortable brown stretch leggings with a half-dried muddy patch on one knee.

“Do you know how to get to Kohi?” he asked, obviously uninterested in explanations.

“It’s not my part of town, but I know where Kohimarama Road is.”

“Head for that and I’ll direct you from there.”

He watched critically while she drove up the exit ramp and eased the car into the flow of home-going commuters.

After three sets of traffic lights, he apparently decided that he wasn’t going to have to grab the wheel from her or haul on the brake and leap for his life. Opening the briefcase, he said, “Do you mind if I work?”

“Feel free.” She was only his driver, after all—temporarily.

He pulled out a laptop computer and opened it, then began tapping the keys. Next time they stopped for a red light she glanced at the screen, filled with some kind of graph. “Are you a workaholic?” she asked.

His fingers stilled momentarily. “I don’t like to waste my time.”

Riley’s lips closed firmly, ostentatiously.

He looked at her and laughed. “And I had a feeling I was making you nervous.”

“You were.” The light changed, and she eased off the brake and moved the car forward.

“You drive quite well.”

“I told you I do.”

He didn’t remind her that she’d driven less than well when she scratched his car. Riley supposed she ought to be grateful. “Don’t let me disturb your work,” she said crisply.

A car swerved into the lane ahead of them, and Riley braked. Her passenger said, “I guess you need to concentrate in this traffic, anyway.”

They didn’t speak again until he said, “Left at the next intersection.” Within a few minutes he had directed her into a cul-de-sac of what looked like million-dollar, architect-designed homes. “Number thirty-five, down at the end.”

“Wow!” The place was a symphony of curved cement-work painted a mellow, warm gold, with inset glass panels. Balconies, railed with elegant black wrought iron, had been cleverly tucked into the design, one with a spiral stairway to the ground. Some, Riley guessed, would have a distant sea view.

“You like it?”

Riley drew up outside. “It’s fantastic!” Despite being architect-designed contemporary, the house woke vague memories of fairy-tale castles, perhaps because of its height and curved outlines. She turned to face him. “When shall I pick you up in the morning? I won’t be late again.”

“Eight-thirty?” As she nodded, his mouth curved in amusement and he lifted a hand to her cheek, rubbing at it gently with his thumb.

Before she could react, he’d drawn his hand away, looking at the smudge of green paint on his thumb. She saw he still had fading red marks at the base. Her cheeks stinging, she said, “How’s your hand?”

“I’ll live.” He looked up at her. “Didn’t it occur to you that it can be dangerous going around biting strangers? If you’d broken the skin you might have picked up something nasty.”

The heat faded from her skin as her eyes widened. “Do you have anything nasty?”

“No!” His brows drew together. “No chance. I’m a regular blood donor.”

“Well, you brought it up.”

The frown cleared, but he looked a bit exasperated. “By the way,” he said rather curtly, “I got an estimate on the damage to my car, and it probably wouldn’t be worth your while claiming insurance. If it comes out to more I’ll wear the difference.”

That was a load off her mind. “Thank you, Mr. Falkner.”

“Women who are on biting terms with me usually call me Benedict.”

The tiniest glimmer in his eyes confirmed that he was teasing. Riley breathed in quickly. “Not Ben?”

“Only those who know me…intimately.” His voice had deepened.

She didn’t suppose he was short of women who’d at least like to know him intimately. “Are you married?” she asked him.

“No.”

He’d think she was fishing. Was that wariness that she saw in his face now? Hastily she said, “Well, I’ll see you in the morning. I really have to get home now.”

Taking the hint, he opened the door, closing it behind him before he bent to say, “Thanks.”

Riley turned the key and did a fast turn out of the cul-de-sac. At the first traffic light she tilted the rearview mirror and peered into it. A faint smudge of green still marked her cheekbone. Scrubbing at it with the heel of her hand, she blew a fine strand of hair away from her mouth.

No wonder Benedict Falkner had found her amusing. Maybe she should have her hair cut short. But it would need to be properly styled and then regularly maintained to look halfway decent, and hairdressers were expensive. She wore it just past shoulder length so she could keep it trimmed herself and tie it back out of the way.

Back at the house Samuela, swathed in a brightly colored sarong that left her smooth brown shoulders and plump arms bare, had her hands buried in a large bowl, and had hardly raised her tightly ringleted black head to say hello to Riley before ordering Logie to bring those carrots over if he’d finished murdering them. There was a strong smell of curry in the air. Tonight’s dinner would be a triumph or a disaster. Sam’s cooking knew no half measures.

Retreating to her room, Riley retrieved from the floor the satin pajamas her parents had sent her at Christmas, pulled the imitation-patchwork duvet over the bed and closed the book she’d dropped on the rag mat last night, placing it on the painted box that served as a night table.

She’d rushed out early to get the morning paper and study the Situations Vacant before going to her polytech course.

Closing the gaping door of her second-hand rimu wardrobe, she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror and grimaced.

Impatiently she stripped off the grubby T-shirt and leggings and bundled them into an Ali Baba basket in the corner. At least in briefs and a bra she didn’t look half grown. Her figure might be small but it was quite curvy.

Still, she couldn’t go round wearing undies. She dragged a clean pair of shorts and another T-shirt from a drawer, put them on and went to the bathroom next to her room to wash her face.

The curry was one of Samuela’s disasters. She kept apologizing as the others, red-eyed and spluttering, bravely mixed it with rice and washed it down with cold water. All night there was a constant parade to the bathroom, and the old pipes gurgled and thundered after each visit, keeping Riley half-awake until dawn.

When her alarm went off she huddled under the duvet in denial for ten minutes, but finally crawled out of bed, had a cool shower in an effort to wake herself properly, then made herself toast and coffee.

Back in her bedroom, she pulled out the dark-green skirt she wore for job interviews, and a short-sleeved, pin-tucked cream blouse she’d bought for a song in Singapore, buttoning it as she slid bare feet into heeled shoes that gave her a little extra height but were still comfortable to wear.

After dragging a brush over her hair, she picked up a hair tie and raced out to her car, slipping the elastic temporarily over her wrist.

The traffic was heavy at this time of the morning, and while waiting in a line of cars to move through a set of lights, Riley pulled back her hair and twisted the elastic band about it.

She drew up outside Benedict Falkner’s house with ten minutes to spare and anxiously checked her appearance in the rearview mirror.

Her skin was even paler than normal, the freckles on her nose standing out against her skin. With her hair smoothed back her face seemed thin, the faint blue hollows under her eyes a legacy of her sleepless night.

On impulse she pulled the elastic tie off and tucked her hair back behind her ears.

She was surveying herself critically again when the passenger door opened and Benedict said, “Have I kept you waiting?”

Riley returned the mirror to its proper position. “I was early.”

He climbed in, put a newspaper on the dashboard and parked a briefcase in front of his feet, giving Riley an appraising glance as he fastened his seat belt. “Going somewhere special?” he asked, eyeing the neat skirt and blouse.

Riley put the car into gear. “Maybe a job interview.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Anything, really.” If she didn’t find a second job soon she’d have to give up her car. But without a car she couldn’t make it to the day care center in time after leaving her class, meaning she’d have no job at all and no money. “Something with flexible hours that pays well, if I had a choice.”

“You’re some kind of artist, aren’t you? I suppose it doesn’t pay much.”

Riley turned to look at him for a moment. “Artist?”

“Yesterday you were covered in paint. I thought…”

She laughed. “The artist is three years old. He wasn’t too sure exactly what it was he was supposed to be painting—me, himself, or the paper I’d given him to do his picture on.”

She slowed at the intersection to look for oncoming traffic, swung out of the cul-de-sac and changed gear again. Benedict was gazing through the windscreen at the oncoming traffic but probably thinking of something else.

“Are you married?” he asked her as she accelerated.

Riley threw him a startled look before returning her eyes to the road. “No.” She’d asked him the same thing yesterday, she recalled.

A car shot out of a driveway ahead of them, and she flattened the brake. Benedict was jerked against his seat belt, the newspaper falling from the dashboard.

“Sorry,” Riley gasped as the engine stalled.

“Not your fault. Bloody idiot,” he added as the other car roared off ahead of them.

“Yes,” Riley agreed. “There are lots of them around.” Restarting the engine, she added, “And please don’t say anything about pots calling kettles black.”

“Wasn’t even thinking of it,” Benedict assured her blandly. He bent to pick up the newspaper, looking at the headlines. “So…what’s the three-year-old artist’s name?”

She thought he’d forgotten all about that remark. “Tamati. He’s quite a sweetie.” Her lips curved affectionately. “Bit of a mischief if you don’t keep him occupied, though.”

From the corner of her eye she saw his swift glance at her. “Tamati…Maori?”

“Mmm, his father’s Maori.” She slowed at a corner, peering carefully for other traffic before accelerating again.

“Uh-huh.” Benedict unfolded the paper so he could read the front page. Later he turned to other pages, careful to fold them out of her way. By the time they reached his office building he’d read the main news and was perusing the business section.

When he made to fold it and gather up the rest, she said, “Do you want the Situations Vacant pages?”

“No. Do you?”

“If you can spare them, thanks.”

“Have the lot, I’ve finished with it.” He placed it on the dashboard again.

“Thanks. I’ll be here at five-thirty,” she promised. “Okay?”

“Look, you don’t really need—”

“I feel bad about your car, and it’s the least I can do, especially since you’re willing to take your money in installments.”

“All right,” Benedict said at last, but his voice sounded clipped and distant. “If you insist.”

When she fetched him, he nodded to her as he got in, not commenting on the fact that she was back in jeans and a T-shirt. She had made sure her face was clean and retied her hair but, anxious not to be late again, hadn’t taken the time to change out of her work clothes. Benedict Falkner had already seen how she looked at the end of an afternoon helping to keep twenty children stimulated and happy. And anyway, she wasn’t trying to impress him, was she?

As she merged the Corona into a stream of traffic, he reached for his briefcase, then apparently changed his mind, sitting back and folding his arms.

“If you want to work,” she said, “it’s okay.”

For a moment she thought he hadn’t heard her. “Right. I should.”

He opened the briefcase and hauled out a folder filled with papers, flipping through it and making notes on the pages with a pencil.

“What do you actually do?” she asked after a while, unable to stem her curiosity completely. “I mean, what does your firm do?”

“Telecommunications and electronics, mainly,” he answered, not looking up from the papers on his knee.

“We import parts, and design and build custom-made systems.”

“Computers?”

“Industrial computers and communication systems. Not personal computers.” He made another note on the page before him.

“And you’re the executive director. Impressive.”

He gave a crack of laughter. “When you own the company you can give yourself any impressive title you like.”

Riley slowed for an intersection, then accelerated smoothly. “Is it a family business?”

He looked a little grim for a second. “You could say that—except I’m the only family I have.”

“Did you inherit it?”

“No. I started from scratch.”

He must have had a family once. Maybe he’d inherited capital. But maybe not. Despite the civilized suits and the expensive car and house, there was an edge to him, a toughness that showed through now and then and that she suspected he hadn’t got from a cushioned life and a cultured education. “So how did you get to where you are today?”

He laughed again. “Hard work, low cunning and a certain amount of luck. But mainly it’s a matter of setting goals and remaining focused. I knew what I wanted and how to get it, and didn’t allow myself to be distracted by side issues.”

Or let anything stand in his way, she guessed, a little chilled. “What did you want?”

“To be a millionaire before I was thirty,” he said calmly.

He couldn’t be much more than that now. He must have been driven, and she wondered where such single-minded, naked ambition came from. “When did you decide that?”

“I was eighteen.”

Riley shook her head in wonder. “When I was eighteen I had no idea what I wanted.” Except her independence from a loving but sometimes annoyingly protective family who had spent years trying to instill caution into her impulsive spirit. Eager to try her wings, see the world and pay her own way, she’d been restless, never settling, not knowing what she was searching for until she landed in New Zealand and knew she’d found her natural home. Or rather, rediscovered it.

“What about now?” Benedict asked.

“I’m studying to teach English as a second language.” She had finally settled on a career path that excited her and promised a sense of purpose and usefulness, and the stimulation of interacting with people from many cultures.

“You didn’t say you were a student when I asked if you had a job.”

“You didn’t ask.” He’d seemed more interested in whether she was earning enough to repay him for the damage to his car.

“You must have a busy life. Study and part-time work, as well as—”

He was interrupted by a low burring sound close by that made Riley jump.

Benedict pulled a cell phone from his briefcase. “Falkner here,” he said into the receiver.

Riley tried not to listen, but she could hear an excited voice on the other end and Benedict’s replies. “Good God! When?…Where is she?…Tell her she’s not to think of that, and if you need anything…Give me your number, I’ll be in touch.” He scribbled on the margin of the paper he’d been reading. “And your address? Thank you for contacting me.”

Frowning, he pressed a button on the phone before putting it away.

“Trouble?” Riley asked.

“My housekeeper’s had an accident. That was her daughter.”

“Is she badly hurt?” Riley asked in concern.

“Cut her head on a piece of furniture. She’s been stitched up, but they suspect she may have had a small stroke and that’s why she fell.”

“Oh, poor thing. If you want to go to the hospital I’ll drive you.”

“No. She’s sleeping, apparently. I’ll phone the daughter tomorrow.” He rubbed at his chin, grimacing, and muttered something she didn’t catch. “Excuse me.” He consulted his watch, then looked up a number in the notebook and dialed it. From the brief conversation that followed she gathered he was ordering flowers for the housekeeper.

“Are you fond of her?” Riley asked when he’d finished. “Has she been with you a long time?”

“Nearly four years, and we get along. She’s excellent at her job and a great cook—dammit.”

“Dammit?”

“I’m expecting guests for a dinner Mrs. Hardy was apparently preparing when she fell. I’ll have to find a caterer at short notice or book a table in a restaurant.”

“What will happen to the food your housekeeper was going to serve?”

“If it can’t be frozen or something, I’ll throw it out, I suppose.” He sounded as if that was the least of his worries.

“That’s a terrible waste! How many people are you expecting?”

“Seven.” He held the pencil in two fingers, absently drumming it on the papers.

“I suppose you don’t cook.” She tried not to sound critical.

“Not well enough for this.” He closed the folder and stretched his legs out over the briefcase, then lapsed into silence.

When she pulled up at his house he turned to her. “If any of that food’s any use to you, you’re welcome to it.”

“That’s generous of you.”

“I don’t like waste, either.”

She followed him along a broad path between immaculately mown lawns and onto the tiled front porch that was almost a carriageway. He pressed a button on his key tag, inserted a key into a polished brass lock and pushed open the huge paneled door.

Benedict parked his briefcase under a telephone table standing on a pale marble floor. “The kitchen’s through here,” he said, leading her along a red-and-black carpet runner that looked sumptuous against the gold-flecked marble.

Louvered saloon doors opened at his touch, displaying gleaming ceramic tiles and stainless steel.

An enormous refrigerator stood next to a matching upright freezer, and a bumpy cotton cloth covered a table in the center of the room. Riley deduced someone had hastily thrown it over the food preparations.

Benedict said, “Have a look and see what’s there.” He turned to another telephone on the wall, pulled out a volume of yellow pages from the phone books sitting beneath it and began leafing through.

Riley lifted the cloth, peeking at mounds of vegetables and a bowl of flour, a block of cheese, some serving plates—and an open recipe book.

Benedict dialed a number, then put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Look in the fridge and the pantry too. It’s over there. Anything that’ll spoil, you’re welcome to—yes, hello?” He turned to speak into the receiver. “Could you do a dinner party at short notice?”

Riley went into the pantry, which was about the size of a normal kitchen and was stacked with packets and cans and bottles, and wire baskets of vegetables. She took a couple of neatly folded plastic bags from a shelf, returned to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, finding chicken pieces in a marinade, a couple of dozen oysters in their shells, and a covered dish of raw cubed fish in lemon juice.

Benedict was dialing another number. “Hello, I need a rush job…tonight…. I understand, thanks anyway.”

Holding the phone, Benedict was running a finger down the page in front of him. Riley lifted the cover from the table, folding it back.

Benedict slammed the receiver back on its hook, letting fly an expletive that made her turn her head.

“An answering machine.” He returned to his perusal of the phone book, and reached again for the handset. “Hello? Yes…can you do a dinner party tonight? Yes, I did say tonight. I know, but—A nice evening to you too.”

When he cut the connection, Riley stifled a giggle. “You mean,” she suggested, “May your soup be watery, your main dish burnt to a crisp and your dessert melt on its way to the table.”

Benedict gave a reluctant laugh. “Something like that. I might have better luck with restaurants.”

As he closed the book and reached for its companion volume, she said, “Why don’t I do it?”

“I’m capable of finding a decent restaurant, thanks.”

She cast him an impatient look. “I mean I could cook dinner for you—call it a part payment for the repair to your car.”

“You?”

“I can cook. Ask my roommates. I mean housemates.” She still had trouble with some Kiwi idioms.

“This is a bit different from cooking for your housemates, Riley.”

“I know.” She decided to ignore his patronizing tone. “But with these ingredients—” she indicated the laden table “—I promise you I can do it. I even know what Mrs. Whatsit was going to cook.”

“Mrs. Hardy,” he said automatically. “This dinner party is rather important to me. I really don’t think—”

“I’ve worked in restaurants.” She wasn’t a great academic, but she was good at picking things up by watching, and some of the chefs had encouraged her desire to learn. “If you’re not satisfied you don’t need to pay me—or rather, I’ll still pay you. Do you want me to serve, as well?”

“Mrs. Hardy would have, but—”

“Okay.” She put down the plastic bags. “I won’t turn up in your dining room like this,” she assured him, catching his dubious survey of her. “I’ve got decent clothes in the car. Oh, you’d better show me where the dining room is. You’ll want the table set if Mrs. Hardy hasn’t already done it.”

“Don’t you have responsibilities of your own?” he said slowly. “I mean, what about your—”

“Nothing to worry about,” she said breezily. “If I can use that phone, I’ll just let my housemates know I’ll be late home.” It was Harry’s turn to provide dinner and he usually bought a take-out meal, anyway. Purposefully she moved toward the phone.

Benedict shifted aside. “Won’t you need to arrange—”

She put a hand on his chest and gave him a small, reassuring pat before she picked up the phone and began dialing. “Look, it’s not your problem, okay? But it will help to solve mine if you let me take it off what I owe you. Tell you what,” she added, fishing Snoopy and her keys from her pocket, “you could go and get the bag that’s on the back seat, for me. It’s got my good clothes in it.”

Looking rather stunned, he took the keys from her, opened his mouth to say something, closed it again and walked out.

By the time he returned with the cheap shopping bag, Riley had realized how she’d spoken to him, and as she hung up the phone she said guiltily, “I’m sorry—I treated you like one of my housemates, didn’t I, instead of my employer for the night? Thanks, anyway.”

“Is it okay with them, then?”

“No worries.” She took the bag and peeked into it.

“I suppose it’s handy to be living with other people.”

“Yes,” she said, rummaging in the bag for the blouse and skirt. She could never afford a place on her own, and she’d been lucky that they got on so well. “I’ll need to borrow an iron later. I hope these’ll be all right?” She held the clothes roughly against her and looked at him anxiously.

Benedict cleared his throat. “They’ll be fine. You looked very nice this morning. The iron’s in the laundry, through there.” He indicated the direction. “Look, it’s a bit much, throwing you into this. I can help if you tell me what to do.”

She wondered if he had an ulterior motive, like keeping an eye on her to ensure she really could do what she claimed and still leaving himself the last-minute option of a restaurant. But she smiled unoffendedly at him and said, “I’ll let you know. Now, where’s the dining room?”

“Uh…” For a minute she was afraid he’d decided to turn down her offer after all. His eyes had gone glassy. Then he seemed to give himself a little shake, a fine tremor running over his hard-muscled body inside the sharp business suit. “This way,” he said.