Читать книгу Kiss Me, Kill Me - Maggie Shayne - Страница 10

Ambrose didn’t wait for her in the parking lot. She found that a little odd but shrugged it off as she got out of her car and looked around. The building was made of darkly stained, rough-hewn barn beams and glass, and not much else. It made for the best view in town. Not seeing Ambrose anywhere, she went on inside.

She spotted him at a table near the back, perusing the menu. She noticed his hands and the ring he wore, a figure eight lying on its side—the sign for infinity, she thought. Interesting choice. Nodding her intention to the hostess, Carrie wound her way between tables to join him.

He must have heard her footsteps, because he lowered the menu and rose to his feet. “Ah, there you are.”

“I was only a minute or two behind you,” she said.

“Oh, I know. I just thought I’d go ahead and get us a table. You did say you were short on time tonight.”

Carrie pasted a smile over her momentary irritation and nodded. “That was…thoughtful. Thanks.” She pulled out her chair and sat down. Ambrose sat, as well, and picked up his menu again.

“Do you have any idea what’s good here?” he asked.

“Oh, everything’s pretty good. I like the broiled haddock a lot. Their tartar sauce is—”

“That would be an option if I were in the mood for mercury poisoning.”

“—homemade.” She blinked twice. Had he just criticized her for saying she liked haddock?

“As a doctor, I would think you would be aware of the damage heavy metal contamination can do.”

“Oh, I am. I think fish is fine in moderation.”

“I prefer not to take that chance.” He never took his eyes off the menu. “How is the pasta?”

“Good. Better if you let them grate some fresh lead over it.”

“Excuse me?” He lowered the menu, looking over the top of it at her.

“Lead. Heavy metal.” She shrugged. “It was a joke.”

“Oh?” His brows rose. Then he smiled. “Oh! I see now. I’m afraid I don’t have a very highly developed sense of humor,” he confessed, shaking his head.

“No!” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I never would have guessed.”

He blinked at her. “Now you’re being sarcastic.”

“See? You do so have a sense of humor,” she said with a smile.

He shrugged. “Pasta, then,” he announced, and, setting the menu on the edge of the table, he looked around in search of the waitress. When he spotted one, wobbling toward another table bearing a huge tray full of food, he held his hand up in the air as if hailing a taxi.

“She’s busy, Ambrose. Besides, I haven’t decided what I’m having yet.”

“I took it you were having the haddock,” he said.

“I said I liked it, not that I was having it tonight.”

He frowned at her. “You sound upset. Have I done something to irritate you, Carrie?”

She met his eyes, saw that they were concerned and softened her tone. “Impatience irritates me. I see a lot of it at the hospital.”

“I see. I was only trying to speed things along. You said you were short on time, so—”

“Why don’t you let me worry about managing my time, Ambrose? You can relax and enjoy the meal. Okay?”

He tipped his head to one side, seemingly puzzled, but said, “Okay.”

“Good.”

By then a different waitress had come over to their table, and Carrie could tell by the look on her face that she’d seen Ambrose’s insistent signal.

“Are you ready to order?”

“No, as it turns out,” Ambrose said.

The waitress lifted her brows, and Carrie said, “Yes, we are. I’ll have the haddock.” She closed her menu and handed it to the girl, certain she knew her from somewhere. She’d probably treated her at the hospital or seen her at a soccer game or some other school function.

“How is the pasta sauce made?” Ambrose asked, reopening his menu.

“From scratch,” the girl—Wendi, according to her name tag—said. “Tomatoes, peppers, onions, garlic, rosemary, basil—the usual stuff.”

“MSG?” he asked.

The girl sent Carrie a look. Carrie shrugged helplessly, and then Ambrose looked her way, and she went still and tried to look innocent.

“I’ll have to go ask the chef,” Wendi said finally, and then she hurried away. Moments later she was back. “No MSG,” she reported.

“Hmm. That’s good to know.” Ambrose held the menu open a bit longer, then closed it and said, “And what about the pork loin? How is that prepared?”

The girl pointed at the paragraph beside the entrée on the menu and read aloud. “Made with an apple-mint sauce, and served piping hot and brimming with flavor.”

“That much I already knew. But how is it cooked? Baked, broiled, sautéed?”

“Nuclear fusion, I believe.”

Carrie choked on a laugh, then quickly pressed the cloth napkin to her mouth as if she really had been choking.

Ambrose blinked up at the waitress, not so much as cracking a smile. “Pardon?”

“I’ll go ask.” She hurried away again.

Ambrose shook his head and muttered about the quality of service these days. Carrie was beginning to wish she’d done what she wanted to do and stayed home tonight.

Wendi returned. “The pork is broiled, sir. No MSG, either. I asked. There’s no MSG in anything we serve.”

“Fine.” Ambrose perused the menu some more. For a guy who’d been set on the pasta and waving impatiently a few minutes earlier, he certainly was taking his time now.

Finally, as the girl stood there noticing that her other tables were in need of attention, Ambrose snapped the menu closed and said, “I’ll have the veal.”

The girl scribbled. “Is that it?”

“I think you’d better bring me a diet cola,” Carrie said. “And put a shot of rum in it, will you?”

Wendi smiled for the first time and nodded. “Got it.”

And then she was gone.

“My goodness, you would never know the girl is paid by the hour, the way she rushed us,” Ambrose said. Then he placed both palms on the table and looked at her. “But that’s neither here nor there, is it? Now that the unpleasant part of the evening is out of the way, Carrie, tell me about yourself.”

She lifted her brows, because he was smiling and, she thought, trying to be friendly now. “Oh, there’s not much to tell.”

“Of course there is. You’re a doctor. That’s fascinating in and of itself. And a single mother, too. Tell me, how did that come about?”

Mentally, she raised a steel wall between them. “By choice,” she said, her tone chilly.

“I’m sorry. Did I ask too personal a question?”

“Yes, you did.”

“I’ll try not to do that again.”

“No worries. I won’t answer anything that’s out of bounds.”

He met her eyes, and she looked away. “What about you,” she asked after a moment of strained silence. “What are you doing in Shadow Falls, Ambrose?”

“Just a much-needed vacation. We’ve been working particularly hard at the firm for the past year, trying to keep a handle on our clients’ finances in this volatile economy. It’s not for the meek, that much is for sure.”

“I see.”

“I doubt it.”

She wondered why she’d thought this guy might be interesting. Smart, she decided, did not equal interesting. “So you decided to get away to relieve some stress, then?” she asked.

“Just a brief respite to refresh my mind,” he said. “And I’ve heard the foliage here is something to be seen, so…”

“It really is,” she said. “But it won’t peak for another three or four weeks yet.”

“I might very well still be here.”

“Oh, your stay is open-ended, then?”

He nodded.

“Must be a very liberal investment firm you work for.”

“Financial planning firm,” he corrected. “I’m a partner. I pretty much do what I want.”

“I see.”

Wendi returned with Carrie’s drink, set it down in front of her and placed a basket of warm rolls in the center of the table.

“Excuse me, but I have to make a quick call.” Ambrose got up and moved away from the table into a quiet corner, bringing his cell phone to his ear.

Carrie took the opportunity to say, “I’m really sorry he’s so rude.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. It’s not your fault.”

“Believe me, I had no idea.”

“Blind date?” Wendi asked.

“All but. Listen, I want two more drinks—rum and Coke—but he doesn’t need to know what they are. I’m only telling you so you can tally up the check in advance. We won’t be ordering dessert. Bring the check the minute we finish eating.”

Wendi smiled hugely. “I’m more than happy to help you out, Dr. Overton.”

“I knew I knew you,” Carrie said.

The girl smiled. “You put three stitches in my head last year.” The girl lifted her hair off her forehead. “Softball bat.”

“Yeeouch. Listen, if I promise to slip you a really good tip, will you do me one more favor?”

“No tip necessary,” the girl said. “Name it.”

“I’d better not be driving, so would you call my house and tell my son I’m going to need a ride home, and to be here in one hour and just wait for me in the parking lot?”

“Sure, I’ll tell Sam. I don’t have your number, though.”

“Twenty-four, sixty-one,” Carrie said. She didn’t need to give the girl the exchange or the area code. They were the same for everyone in town.

“You’ve got it.” Then Wendi looked over at Ambrose again. “It really wasn’t a blind date?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” Wendi shrugged and turned to go back to her other duties.

Twenty minutes later the food was served and Carrie was draining her second rum and Coke, feigning interest in Ambrose’s diatribe on 401ks versus IRAs, and recent income tax code changes.

Fascinating stuff.

Not.

She dug into her haddock with relish, mentally willing molecules of mercury to ride the airsteam across the table and rain down onto his veal. It was difficult not to shovel the food into her mouth as fast as humanly possible, but she didn’t want to be obvious.

“Refill on that Coke for you,” Wendi said, placing the third and final drink in front of Carrie. “How’s the fish?”

“Perfect,” Carrie said.

“And your veal, sir?”

“It’s a bit dry, but I didn’t expect five-star cuisine, after all.”

Carrie gulped the last bit of liquid from drink number two and handed the empty to the long-suffering Wendi, who took it with her back to the kitchen. She must have been sharing the date from hell tale with the rest of the staff, though, because even though the alcohol was washing over her brain at this point, Carrie was aware of the sympathetic looks she was getting from the other employees.

Ambrose, thankfully, was oblivious.

Nearly an hour later, finally, the meal was over, and Wendi was right on the spot, asking if they would like to order dessert. Carrie spoke before Ambrose, saying, “No, thank you.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ambrose said. “Maybe we should see what they have to offer before making a hasty decision. Can you bring the cart around for us, miss?”

Wendy looked at Carrie helplessly.

“There’s no cart, sir. Just a dessert menu.”

Carrie sighed and turned her attention back to Wendi. “Bring us the menu.” While she held the girl’s eye, she tapped her glass. “And another Coke.”

“Sure. I’ll be back in two shakes.”

She was true to her word.

Carrie sipped her drink while Ambrose worked his way through a slice of apple pie, after complaining about the selection and quality of desserts the establishment offered. And finally, finally, finally, the check was delivered to the table. It included four “Diet Cokes” at five bucks a pop.

“That’s outrageous! Twenty dollars for a few sodas?”

Before he could say more, Carrie yanked the bill from his hand, slapped her credit card on top of it and handed both to Wendi.

He looked at her as if she’d grown a set of antlers.

“I insist,” she said. “Consider it a welcome to Shadow Falls and a thank-you for helping out with the search today.”

“It’s completely unnecessary,” he said.

“I won’t take no for an answer.”

Wendi took the card away, returning in short order with the final receipt. Carrie added a twenty-dollar tip, signed the bottom and handed it back to her. Then she pocketed her card and got to her feet. She swayed just a little and had to grab hold of the edge of the table. She shot Ambrose a quick look and hoped he hadn’t noticed.

He hadn’t. He came around the table and, taking her elbow, walked with her to the front door, opened it for her and looked genuinely sorry the evening was over. “I hope you had a pleasant time,” he said.

“It was very nice,” she lied.

“Next time perhaps you’ll allow me to treat you.”

“If you’re still here the next time I have a hole in my schedule, it’s a deal,” she said. Had schedule sounded like shedule just then? Good God, the rum was hitting harder than she’d thought. She was glad she’d taken the precaution of having Wendi phone Sam to take her home.

“I see.” He said it as if perhaps he did.

“Good night, Ambrose.” She tried to make it sound friendly and kind, but she thought she had probably already hurt the man’s feelings. And while he’d been irritating all evening, she thought her dislike of him and eagerness to get the meal over with might have some other cause.

Another cause with long hair, an unshaven face and a guitar over his shoulder.

“Good night,” Ambrose said, and then walked toward his car.

Just for show, Carrie walked toward her own, but as she did, she scanned the parking lot in search of her son’s Funkmaster, which ought to stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. And she didn’t see it.

Upon reaching her own understated, ordinary mini van, she noticed someone leaning on it. The very guy she’d just been thinking about. Just? No, she’d been thinking about him all evening.

Glancing behind her, she saw Ambrose’s car pulling away in the distance. Good, he probably hadn’t seen. No point in hurting his feelings even more. And then she looked at Gabe again. He was coming around the car now, moving toward her.

“Surprised to see me?” he asked.

She nodded, mute, trying to think of something to say. “I thought Sam was coming.”

“Sam dropped me off. I asked him to.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “It sounded to me like you were having a miserable time with our pal Ambrose. I figured the timing was perfect. I’ll look great by comparison, and you’ll be impressed in spite of your dislike of, uh, hippie drifters.”

She smiled a little crookedly. “Drifter hippies,” she corrected, then looked away. “Sam told you I said that, huh?”

He nodded, held out a hand. “Keys?”

She fished them from her purse and placed them into his open hand. As she did, her own hand skimmed his palm, and she felt it right to her toes.

Their eyes met, then slid away. He walked around to the passenger side, opened her door for her and stood back to wave a gallant arm toward the car.

She got in, and he closed the door. A moment later he was behind the wheel, adjusting the seat to accommodate his long legs. He started the engine, turned on the headlights, fastened his seat belt.

She turned his way, her head resting on the seat, and found herself just staring at his profile for a long moment.

He glanced at her. “Feeling good, are you?”

“Mmm-hmm. Totally relaxed. And relieved. Thanks for rescuing me.”

“Anytime,” he said.

“And for being so good to Sam.”

He smiled. “You don’t need to thank me for that, Carrie. He’s a great kid.”

“He really is,” she agreed.

Gabe nodded. “Yeah. And that Sadie…she’s quite the firecracker.”

“You’ve got that right.” She inhaled slowly, then let out her breath. “So I guess I just have one question.”

“Shoot,” he said.

“Why is it you care whether or not I’m impressed with you?”

He met her eyes, but only briefly. “Well, because you’re smart and gorgeous and fascinating, and because I’m male.”

She smiled slowly. “Are you always this direct and honest?”

“I really do strive to be.”

“That’s…refreshing.”

“Glad you think so.”

“I do. And I think I owe you an apology for misjudging you. My son says you’re rich and famous.” She made a face. “Not that that makes any difference. There are plenty of rich and famous people who are total jerks, I’m sure.”

“Rich is a relative term. And open to a wide variety of interpretations.”

“Yes, it is,” she said. “So do you consider yourself rich?”

“Beyond my wildest dreams,” he admitted. “But not because I have a mansion or a fancy car or gold-plated faucets in my bathrooms.”

“Do you?” she asked, a bit wide-eyed.

“I don’t even own a house. And you’ve seen what I drive. No. I’m rich because I get to do what I love most for a living. I’m rich because I get to live anywhere I want in this beautiful country of ours. I’m rich because I’m free. I go where I want, stay as long as I want, do what I want, work when I feel like it, and I’m happy most of the time. That’s my definition of being rich.”

She nodded slowly. “I think that’s a damn good definition.”

Gabe could tell she was tipsy. Not drunk. He doubted the respectable doctor would ever allow herself to get beyond control. But he was glad to see that she was relaxed enough for an honest conversation. As he drove her back to her house, he said, “Sam tells me you took in a boarder.”

She nodded, her head resting on the seat back. “I end up with a couple every fall. Didn’t want any this year, but—”

“Why not?”

She slid him a sideways look. “Between Kyle being missing and all the reporters who’ve been in town until recently, digging for any secrets they could find, I thought it best not to talk to strangers.”

He nodded as if he understood. “You have secrets you’re worried about them digging up?”

She swung her head toward him so fast he thought she must have wrenched her neck. “No! Why would you think that?”

He looked at her. “I didn’t think that.” Until now, he thought in silence. “I was just responding to what you said—the press in town digging for secrets, yada, yada.”

She blinked as if her mind were having trouble processing his words. He decided to cut her a little slack, though he wouldn’t forget the clue she’d dropped here tonight. She had a secret. She didn’t like the press digging around town. And he knew what the press had been digging for. Information about Livvy, dead all these years. Information about her baby, the one that might be his. Now why would the local medico be nervous about questions like those?

“So what made you rent out the room when you’d already decided not to?” he asked.

She shrugged. “This lady was a lot easier to turn down on the phone than she was in person.”

“She came to your house?”

Carrie nodded. A red curl dropped onto her nose, and she brushed it away with the back of one hand. “Yeah, just as we were getting ready to meet you at the firehouse. That’s why I didn’t make it.” She shook her head. “She’s really sweet, and all alone, and it just would have been mean to say no.”

“Besides, she doesn’t look like a reporter, right?”

“Right.”

“Then again, who does, huh?”

She shrugged.

“I mean, you accused me of being a reporter when we first met. Do I look like one?”

“No. I mean, not an airbrushed, suit-wearing, hair-styled, talking head sort of reporter, anyway. You look more like an embedded, in the line of fire, risk-taking, rogue type.”

“I do?”

She nodded. “It’s the hair.”

“The hair?” He ran a hand over his head, from the front to the ponytail in the back.

“This hair, too,” she said, and then he felt her palm on his whiskered cheek and experienced an electrical storm in his pants. Holy shit.

He cleared his throat, sought ways to change the subject, to distract himself, if not her. “Your son is great. You’ve done an incredible job raising him.”

She lifted her brows. “Thank you. I agree completely. Sam’s amazing.”

“Have you done it all on your own?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“So then, you were never married…? To his father, I mean.”

She slanted him a look. “I’ve never been married to anyone.”

He studied her face briefly. “So Sam’s father isn’t in your life. Is he in Sam’s?”

“No.”

“Do you even know who he is?”

She widened her eyes. “Are you suggesting I sleep with so many men I can’t keep track?”

“I didn’t mean it like that at all. I just—I mean, do you think you have the right to keep Sam from getting to know his father?”

“You don’t know that I’m keeping Sam from doing anything.”

“That’s true, I don’t know. Are you?”

She looked at him. “I would never do anything to hurt my son. If he wants to know about his father, all he has to do is ask. And he will, when he’s ready. And then I’ll tell him everything I know. But I don’t have to tell you any of it.”

“Everything you know?” he repeated. “That’s an odd way to put it.”

“Why are you asking so many questions about my son?”

He felt a rush of guilt for taking advantage of her slightly inebriated state. Sam looked a little like him, maybe a lot like him, and he had the right birthday, and damn, he sure did have a gorgeous mother, to boot. But that didn’t prove anything. And he thought again that maybe this thing he’d been calling a gut feeling was nothing more than a serious case of wishful thinking gone awry.

Still, her evasiveness made him more suspicious than before. He would definitely be looking into Sam Overton’s records—the public ones, anyway. Sadie’s and Kyle’s, too. The problem was, adoption records weren’t public, so he wasn’t sure his search would tell him much.

He wasn’t worried, though. Nor was he in any big hurry. He was here to find the truth, and he had no doubt he would. He’d waited sixteen years—admittedly without knowing he was waiting—so a few more days or even weeks wouldn’t hurt anything. Impatience wasn’t a trait he much liked. He was relaxed, laid-back, easy. He trusted that things would work out the way they were supposed to. That he’d been led here, that he’d learned about Livvy’s baby at all, seemed to him to be proof of that. He had time. Time to find his child. And time to do so without alienating the most fascinating woman he’d met in years.