Читать книгу Mr. Hall Takes A Bride - Marie Ferrarella, Marie Ferrarella - Страница 8

Sarajane was prejudiced against good-looking men.

She had firsthand experience with the nature of the beast. Her opinion was built on a very firm foundation. Fresh out of college, ready to take on the world, she’d lost her heart to a good-looking man with a golden tongue: Rocco Santori, an incredibly good-looking man who was as shallow as a puddle on the pavement.

Lonely, needing love, needing to feel that soothing rush that came from being committed to just one man, she’d actually thought that Rocco was the man she could spend the rest of her life with. In addition to his looks, he was bright, intelligent and intent on making something of himself. She’d poured her heart into the relationship—and he had poured words. Lovely, beautiful words that had turned out to be empty, holding only air and precious little else.

She’d left him when she’d discovered that he was sleeping not only with her, but with two other women as well. Each of them had his promise of exclusivity to wrap their dreams around. It turned out that he was seeking to further his own career by using the women he slept with to his best advantage, to feed his ego, to make him feel invincible.

She couldn’t get away fast enough. After that, she was wary, but her heart being what it was, she fell in love with someone almost a year later. Again, she was hopeful. Again she gave away her heart. Because Andrew Hopkins seemed different.

Seemed, but wasn’t.

Like Rocco, Andrew belonged to the DDG Club, the Drop Dead Gorgeous Club. She came to the conclusion that all men who qualified for that club never bothered developing their personalities, or, more importantly, their scruples, feeling that their looks absolved them of ever having to trouble themselves with a sense of decency or morality.

In her experience, good-looking men didn’t have to try as hard or do as much and they were still forgiven, still worshipped. All because of their looks. If they had the body to go along with that, almost any woman they encountered was lost.

Almost.

She now belonged to that small but exclusive group that could see right through the men of the DDG Club. Men like Jordan Hall, she thought, covertly observing him throughout the morning. Clinically speaking, Jordan was even better looking than either Rocco or Andrew had been. But it didn’t matter. She’d had her shots. She was immune to handsome faces and biceps that rippled and butts that quarters could be bounced off. She’d take a homely, honest man any day.

If she were taking men, which she wasn’t.

Mentally, she’d decided to retreat from the male-female battlefield for the present. Given that she was only twenty-five, she figured she had time to get back in the game—if she ever wanted to. And right now, that was doubtful.

Sarajane frowned thoughtfully to herself as yet another call came in and she picked up the receiver. She had fully expected Jenny Logan’s high-profile brother to fade, to give up. It hadn’t taken a stretch of her imagination to envision him backing away from his desk and heading for the door an hour after his arrival.

Especially after the Trans had arrived. Twelve people, all talking at once, a few lapsing into Vietnamese when they grew excited. One of them—the mother, she had discovered after joining the fray to try to untangle what was going on—had been the victim of identity theft, which, according to what the woman’s oldest daughter had figured out, had begun over nine months ago. Mrs. Tran was being brought to court on all kinds of non-payment charges. There were bounced checks and staggering outstanding credit-card balances for items Mrs. Tran knew nothing about.

Trying to unscramble this information and make sense of what was going on would have tried the patience of a veteran, someone accustomed to dealing with ongoing chaos on a daily basis. Someone like Jenny. To someone like Jordan, who probably had never broken a sweat in his life or been made to struggle with any task, she just assumed, the matter would outdistance his ability to cope by several leagues.

Sarajane was amazed to discover that he did indeed have coping skills. More than that, he had an actual presence and could make himself heard above the noise, above the raised voices all competing for center stage with their version of the situation. As she watched, somewhat in awe, the way one did when confronted with a fish that actually possessed legs and could walk on land, Jordan called for order several times, refusing to continue until he finally succeeded in getting it.

The Tran family abruptly stopped talking and sat in respectful silence, waiting for Jordan to frame his questions. When he did and they began answering in unison, their voices blending in an eager cacophony of half words and sounds, Jordan called for order again.

Careful not to lean back in his chair, Jordan pushed it slightly back from the desk and scrutinized the gathering.

“Look, people, we’re not going to get anywhere if you all keep competing with each other. Now appoint a spokesperson and just have that person talk. And if you hear that he or she is getting it wrong,” he added, “raise your hand.”

“Like in school?” the youngest Tran, a girl with the very Americanized name of Tiffany, asked.

Jordan nodded, a hint of a smile reaching his lips. Tiffany, Sarajane observed, instantly brightened, like a flower absorbing its first rays of the summer sun. “Like in school. Now, talk amongst yourselves and decide who is going to give me the particulars—and don’t forget to consult with your mom.” He nodded at the woman who was at the center of all this. A woman who, it was quickly established, spoke almost no English.

“She’s not my mother, she’s my aunt,” Tiffany corrected him.

Jordan inclined his head, accepting the correction. “Whoever she is, it’s her story to get out.” A better idea came to him. Opening the middle drawer, he silently made a wish for paper. The lined yellow legal pad he discovered in the center of the drawer almost made him feel giddy. He took it out and handed it to the girl, who looked at him quizzically.

He tapped the pad and looked first at Tiffany, then at some of the other members of the family who were standing at his desk. Only the older woman and her husband were sitting. “Be sure not to leave anything out,” he instructed.

He’d intended to get up and get himself a cup of coffee. He’d long since finished the contents of the container he’d brought with him. But instead, just as he was about to stand up, the phone on his desk rang. And rang.

Exasperated, he bit off a few choice words, saying them silently instead, and picked up the receiver. He did his best to ignore the Tran family who were huddled together on the other side of his desk, conferring and dictating to Tiffany.

“Jordan Hall.”

There was silence on the other end. And then a female voice asked almost timidly, “Is this Advocate Aid, Inc.?”

Unfortunately, it is, he thought. “Yes, what can I do for you?”

The woman on the other end quickly launched into a tearful tale about not being able to locate her son whom the police had come and arrested several hours ago. When she’d called first one precinct, then another, no one would tell her where her son was being detained. Jordan made notes as fast as he could.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tiffany had finished writing. She pushed forward the yellow pad and looked at him expectantly. He acknowledged her with a quick nod.

“I’ll have to call you back, Mrs. Rodriguez,” he said into the receiver. The words on the other end flowed more rapidly and freely. “Yes, yes, I promise. Ten minutes. Twenty, tops.”

He became aware of Sarajane’s presence at his elbow even as he was hanging up the receiver. Was she bringing him yet another person to deal with? He wasn’t sure he could handle that right now. His cool was dangerously close to a meltdown. “What?” he bit off, looking at her sharply.

Sarajane didn’t say a word. Instead, she silently placed a mug filled with coffee on the desk beside his elbow and withdrew.

Jordan knew he’d sounded like some curt jerk. He usually hung on to his temper a great deal better than that.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he called after her, momentarily forgetting that they were far from alone. Sarajane didn’t stop walking or even turn around. But she did raise her hand over her head and made a little waving gesture, as if to brush away his words from the air.

For the time being, given the source, he took it as a supreme compliment.

The action continued nonstop. They were joined by Harry, who finally showed up sometime before eleven, and a woman named Rachel Sands, who was on loan from somewhere for the week. Both were lawyers. But Jordan quickly learned that Sarajane ran the show. It was Sarajane who directed the almost constant influx of human traffic, organizing them, getting them to fill out a minimum of forms and seeming to prioritize their cases and degree of need.

But even with Sarajane at the helm, the work was daunting and constant. It didn’t even let up long enough for him to duck out for some lunch. Instead, after his stomach had rumbled a number of times, he was given a sandwich from a local take-out place. The wrapper on the sandwich sported a logo: What’s For Lunch? He vaguely recognized it as belonging to a place he’d passed in his search for Advocate Aid’s office.

As with the coffee, Sarajane dropped the sandwich off at his desk. Jordan looked at her quizzically as the man sitting before him continued with his narrative about losing his job after not giving in to the sexual advances of his female boss. In response to his silent query, Sarajane merely shrugged.

“Don’t want you keeling over from hunger,” she told him as she walked away.

The next moment, he realized that the man had stopped talking and was eyeing his sandwich.

“You going to eat all of that?” the man asked him sheepishly, then added, “I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday morning.”

He supposed skipping lunch wouldn’t kill him. Jordan pushed the sandwich over to the man who accepted it with profuse thanks.

Jordan realized that his eyes had slipped shut. He stretched out his legs beneath his desk, trying to shake sleep from his body. It was, in his estimation, one of the longest days of his life, including the time when he was nine and had broken his leg. His parents had been vacationing in Europe and it had been his nanny, a no-nonsense young woman from Australia named Emily, who’d brought him into the hospital emergency room. Because Emily insisted, he’d been kept overnight for observation. The TV in his room was broken and he’d spent the duration of the evening staring at a spider weaving a web in the corner of the ceiling. Time had dragged by like a sloth climbing up a tree with glue on its feet.

What he’d gone through today made him long for the serenity of the hospital room.

The moment he saw Sarajane flip the lock on the outside door, pulling down the shade that indicated they were closed for the night, he could have cheered. It was past eight. Darkness had long since descended on the city.

All he wanted to do was go home and pour himself a tall drink and forget about this place. “Is that it?” he asked rhetorically. “We’re done?”

“For the day,” Sarajane replied crisply. About to walk right past him, she abruptly changed her mind and paused at his desk.

Jordan was in the process of shutting down his computer. Or trying to. The closing message seemed to have frozen on his screen and showed no signs of making good on its promise. He hit several keys that ordinarily sped up the process, but all he heard was clicking noises. The message continued to sit on the screen.

“What?” he bit off, feeling her eyes on him. All day long, he’d had the sense that he was being dissected and evaluated, part by part. Which was all right, except that he also sensed that in her estimation, he was coming up lacking. Which was not all right.

“Is there a problem?”

The cheerful note in her voice seemed out of place and irritated him more than he was willing to admit. Jordan reined himself in. “Can’t seem to shut down the damn computer.”

“Move aside,” she directed, using her small body to edge him out of the way.

“It’s all yours.” Annoyed, he took a few steps back.

Taking his place, Sarajane proceeded to hit the same keys he had. The machine continued to be just as unresponsive. He felt oddly vindicated and then was surprised as she suddenly dropped down on her knees. As he watched, mystified, Sarajane crawled under his desk. She hit the switch on the power strip that his computer and monitor were plugged into, first once, then again. The first time she drained all the power from his computer and monitor, the second hit brought the electricity flowing back to them. Since she hadn’t turned either the computer or monitor back on, they continued to remain dormant, ready to go through their paces another day.

The view from where he stood was nothing short of intriguing. The trials, literally and otherwise, of the day were mentally shelved as Jordan found himself staring at the woman’s rather tight posterior muscles and the way her skirt strained against them when she reached.

He wondered if she worked out or if nature had been incredibly kind and generous to her. He had a feeling it was probably a little bit of both.

Sarajane wiggled back out again. He stepped to the side and offered her his hand to help her up. She stared at it for a second, then chose to use his desk for leverage and rose to her feet.

He decided her action said more about her than about him. “Independent to a fault?” he guessed.

She supposed that was one way to put it. Sarajane dusted off her knees, plucking out a staple that had gotten caught in her skirt. “That way, I don’t get disappointed.”

He shook his head. “Cynical attitude for someone so young.”

She didn’t particularly like the patronizing way he’d said that. “Practical,” she countered, then blew out an annoyed breath.

He was astute enough to pick up on the warring vibrations she was giving off. “What?”

She was tempted to say, “Nothing,” but that wasn’t exactly truthful and the truth was very important to her. So she told him. “I was going to tell you that you did good.”

Jordan studied her for a moment. Several times during the course of the day, he’d heard her being incredibly sympathetic and considerate with the people who’d crossed their threshold. Yet her tone now indicated that kind words did not come easily to her.

“But?”

“No buts,” she told him. “You did good today. Better than I figured you would.”

“Thanks. I think.”

She began to walk away, then stopped. “By the way, Mary Allen is holding back.”

“Excuse me?” After seeing more than twenty people, plus the crowd scene that comprised the Tran family, he was getting the names and faces confused. He tried to remember which one had been Mary Allen.

“She’s holding back,” Sarajane repeated. “She’s not giving you the full story about the parental abduction charges.”

Now he remembered. Mary Allen was the young single mother trying to regain custody of her two daughters. She looked like a little girl herself, hardly old enough to have children, especially not children aged seven and six. Talking to her, and watching her flirt with him, he’d gotten a sense that something was missing from her story. But he hadn’t pressed her for it. By the time she had come to his desk, it was after four and all he could think about was getting out and going home to his wide-screen plasma TV and his comfortable sofa that didn’t tip dangerously when he leaned back.

Walking away from his desk, he saw that Sarajane was moving about the rear of the office, shutting down lights and checking to see that computers were off. “You know her?” he asked.

One of the phones had the receiver off. Sarajane replaced it. She shook her head in response to his question. “No.”

“Then how do you know that the woman was holding back?” He wasn’t challenging her, he was genuinely curious.

She looked up at him, silent for a moment, as if debating whether or not he merited an answer. “You get a sense of things after a while. I can always tell when people are lying.”

Jordan couldn’t help being amused. His firm paid professional profilers good money to make judgments like that about jurors who were being selected. He doubted if Sarajane Gerrity had had any professional training in that field. “Can you, now?”

Something in his voice caught her attention. She looked up at him sharply.

“Yes,” she replied firmly, silently daring him to argue with her. “I can.”

But if she meant to bait him, he wasn’t taking it. Instead, he nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Jordan watched as she returned to the small desk she presided over. Opening the lowest drawer, Sarajane took out her purse. Still moving, she extracted her wallet and took out a dollar bill and change.

He drew his own conclusions. Lengthening his stride, he caught up to her before she reached the back door. “Can I give you a lift?”

The other two people who had been in the office today had both left within five minutes of each other several minutes ago. He and this firecracker of a woman were alone now. It gave him a moment to study her, and think, again, that when her mouth wasn’t barking out orders, she really was a rather beautiful woman.

“Provided that my car is still in the lot,” he added, remembering his feeling about leaving the vehicle unattended.

She didn’t care for his presumption. “How do you know I didn’t drive here?”

He nodded at her hand. “You’ve got money in your hand and as far as I could see this morning, there was no valet parking.”

There was no way this was going to get personal between them. They were just going to work together for the next three weeks and it was clearly up to her to get the most out of him—professionally. She had no desire to add another layer to that.

“Thanks,” she said coolly, turning off the last light. She stood in the doorway, waiting for him to walk out. When he did, she locked the door and activated the security code. “But the bus drops me off almost at my door.”

“So could I.”

She was well versed in men like Jordan Hall. He wouldn’t drop her off at her door. He’d try to talk his way into her apartment. That was about the last thing in the world she wanted.

“Maybe some other time,” she replied. And with that, she pulled up the collar of her coat and walked deliberately away, heading for the bus stop on the next block—and away from him.

Jordan stood and watched her for a moment, then told himself that she had no need or desire for a guardian angel. And he had both when it came to that drink he’d promised himself.

With a shrug, he turned in the direction of the parking lot, hoping for a miracle. Trying to remember where his insurance papers were, just in case.