Читать книгу Man In A Million - Muriel Jensen - Страница 7

PARIS O’HARA WAS SERIOUSLY tempted to run in the other direction. This was not about being rude, she told herself. This was about taking charge of her life, clearing the decks, pulling it together. If Randy Sanford’s feelings were hurt in the process, she wasn’t to be blamed. She had to let him know where she stood.

It was all Addy Whitcomb’s fault. If she wasn’t so determined to turn every unattached man working for Whitcomb’s Wonders—her son’s formidable collective—and every single woman in Maple Hill, Massachusetts, into one half of a happy relationship, Paris wouldn’t be hiding behind her cab and mustering her courage.

She’d peeked around the corner just a moment ago and seen Randy Sanford in the driveway of the fire station, washing down the red-and-white ambulance in which he and his partner responded to emergencies.

Paris’s friend, Mariah Trent, had pointed him out at a school fund-raiser. He was short and portly and clearly the life of the party. Everyone around him had been laughing.

Had it been a year ago, and had Randy Sanford been more serious, Paris might have caved in to Addy’s insistence that they meet. But it wasn’t. It was now. And nothing in her life was funny.

Paris peeked around the corner again.

The timing was perfect. One of the fire trucks was being serviced, and the other was being used to conduct a demonstration on fire safety at the elementary school. Except for a skeleton crew of firemen shooting hoops on the other side of the building, her quarry was alone.

Russell Watson’s voice blared from inside the ambulance and Randy lip-synched “Va Pensiero” as Paris squared her shoulders, marched around the corner and stopped beside him. “Randy Sanford?” she asked.

He opened his mouth to reply, then raised his index finger in a “just-a-minute” gesture as he crossed the driveway and turned off the water. She followed him.

The moment he straightened away from the faucet, she offered her hand and what she hoped was a warm smile. “Hi, I’m Paris O’Hara,” she shouted over the music. “That’s my favorite CD, too. We’ve never been formally introduced, but Addy Whitcomb’s been trying to get us together for months. I apologize on her behalf for putting you through that. She means well, of course, but she’s so convinced that man can’t live without woman and vice versa, that she doesn’t understand ‘no’ when she hears it, and I’ve certainly said it to her enough times.”

As he studied her closely, apparently waiting for her to get to the point, she noticed that he had very nice brown eyes and a very sweet face. She wasn’t much for buzz cuts, but it seemed to suit him. She followed him back to the ambulance as he ran around the vehicle, reached through the open window and turned off the music.

He came back to her and opened his mouth again to speak, but she forestalled him, remembering that the last words she’d spoken had not been very complimentary. She was afraid he’d misinterpret the point she was trying to make.

“Not that I have anything against you, personally. I mean, I gather you’ve been resisting her efforts to bring us together, too, because there was that one time when I’d driven the fourth-grade class to Boston because the usual bus driver was sick, and I came home so exhausted, I couldn’t think of a ready excuse to turn her down when she said you were coming to her house for dinner that night. But, then, she called me a half hour later and told me you’d backed out.” She winked at him. “I think you even volunteered to take over someone else’s shift so you could avoid me.” She laughed.

When he continued to look dismayed, she cleared her throat. “Look, the truth is it’s clear you don’t want to date me any more than I want to date you.”

He blinked and folded his arms and she added quickly, “Not that you’re not perfectly…appealing and…and… But I’m just not relationship material, you know what I mean? It’s hard to…to…want to get to know someone else, particularly a man, when you’re not even sure who you are.” Then, wishing she hadn’t even let that fact surface, she tried to cover it up. “Oh, I’m Paris O’Hara, of course. We both know that. But I mean—know myself in a Zen sort of way. Do you understand?”

He looked as though she’d fried his brain. She shifted uncomfortably, hating that the strong, secure woman she’d always been turned into a chatty idiot when trying to explain herself. And she’d done that a lot lately because she really didn’t know who she was—in a Zen sort of way or any other way.

She put a hand on his arm, desperately trying to make a friend of him rather than an enemy.

“Randy, I’m sorry. I seem to be…” She stopped abruptly when she noticed something she hadn’t seen at all until this moment. Until she’d finally focused on him instead of her garbled explanation, which had seemed like such a good idea this morning when she’d been determined to get control of her life, but now seemed ill-advised and pitiful.

He was wearing a wedding ring.

She looked into those nice brown eyes. “You’re married?” she asked in disbelief. What was Addy thinking?

Then she caught a glimpse of amusement that moved from his eyes to tug at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, I am,” he replied. “But I’m not Randy Sanford.”

RANDY HAD BEEN LISTENING since he’d heard his name early in the conversation. Taking inventory in the back of the rig, he’d remained undetected, his attention captured by Paris O’Hara’s long, shapely legs and trim but nicely rounded backside clad in brown cords as she paced by the open back doors. Pale blond hair was tucked into a messy knot on top of her head, long strands like spider webbing brushed the shoulder of a rose-colored shirt.

So, this was Paris O’Hara. He listened in amusement as poor Chilly stared at her, clearly confused. Randy couldn’t imagine how this misunderstanding had occurred, but he had to admit that he was enjoying it—fully appreciating how Neanderthal that was.

Curiously, he could relate to everything she was saying. He hadn’t wanted to meet her, either, had also said a loud, clear “no” to Addy’s eager invitations. Including that one time when Evan’s wife had accepted a dinner date for him and he’d had to call and decline. That must have been the day Paris had driven the schoolkids to Boston.

He’d felt guilty about it. He never deliberately hurt anyone—physically or emotionally. But he knew in his heart there’d never be another Jenny Brewster. Even almost two years after her death and his move to Maple Hill, she was often on his mind. So, while he usually accepted Addy’s invitations, and showed her candidates a good time, he never called them again.

And Paris O’Hara looked too much like Jenny for comfort. At least at a distance. Evan Braga had pointed her out one day when they’d gone to the Breakfast Barn for lunch and she’d stopped in to get a coffee to go. Randy wasn’t dealing well with the loss of his fiancée, and anything that brought back thoughts of her—like long, blond hair—was unwelcome. Though now that he was able to inspect her more closely, he saw that she was several inches taller than Jenny, more slender, except for a nice flare to her hips. Her hair was almost platinum, not the gold Jenny’s had been.

He would have remained hidden, happy to let Chilly handle the misunderstanding, but then she noticed his partner’s wedding ring. Now Chill was stammering, trying to explain.

Randy stepped out, determined to react in a gentlemanly manner to her mistake, agree with her dismissal of the possibility of any relationship between them, then laugh it all off with Chilly when she walked away.

Until he saw her face.

Jenny had had a softly round, cute sort of face in which every sweet and lively quality she possessed shone like a candle. It had made him feel happy and loved.

Paris O’Hara’s face should have been pretty but wasn’t. She had a small, nicely shaped nose and a wide mouth with even teeth. Her perfect oval of a face glowed with a peaches-and-cream complexion. But beauty was in the eyes, and though hers were mossy green and thickly lashed, they were worried, as if she anticipated trouble. She didn’t seem afraid of it precisely, just uncertain about it.

She had doubts about herself, he guessed, and took no pains to hide it behind wiles or makeup. So the face that should have been stunning was simply interesting instead. He was surprised by how much that attracted him.

And—he was sure he wasn’t imagining this—a glimpse of sexual interest disturbed that worried look as she stared at him.

She seemed to consider him a moment before a grim sort of dismissal came into her eyes even as Randy prepared to introduce himself.

“This—” Chilly began.

“You’re Randy Sanford,” she said, sticking out her hand. He liked the way she refused to be embarrassed. He caught a whiff of jasmine.

“Yes,” he said, taking her long, slender fingers in his. They were cool and her grip was firm. He liked that, too.

“I was just explaining to—”

“Chilly,” he supplied for her. “Percival Childress. You can see why we call him Chilly.”

Chilly, who hated his pretentious first name, rolled his eyes.

She cast him a gentle smile. “I knew it had nothing to do with his personality.”

Chilly nodded modest acceptance of the compliment.

“I was starting to explain that he was pointed out to me at the spaghetti feed at the school,” she said.

He remembered the event. He and Chilly had gone together after a day of painting Chilly’s garage.

“We were sitting side by side,” Randy said, realizing what had caused her confusion.

Apparently she did, too. “When my friend pointed, I thought she was pointing to Chilly. My mistake.”

“No harm done. But even though you thought he has a warm personality,” he taunted gently, “you didn’t want to date him.”

He watched her blink, fascinated. “He’s married.”

“But before you knew that, you were giving him this big long story about—”

“I was explaining that I’m busy.” A little flicker of annoyance had appeared in her eyes and her voice. Her interest in him was definitely waning.

“No.” He didn’t know why he was taking issue with her claim. A moment ago, he’d have been grateful for the easy escape from Addy’s manipulations. Something about her was having an unusual effect on him. He didn’t know what, but it was pushing him—and there was nowhere to go but toward her. “That’s not what you said. You said you didn’t know yourself. In a Zen sort of way, whatever that means.”

She was absolutely still. He felt sure that was an indication of true annoyance.

“It’s intuition arrived at through meditation,” she said stiffly.

“Oh, I know what it is,” he replied. “I just wonder about the wisdom of meditating over one’s self. You’d miss everything going on around you.”

She expelled a breath—some safety-valve thing, he was sure. “You don’t know how to react to what’s around you,” she said with forced calm, “without self-knowledge.”

“Aren’t women supposed to have intuition without needing meditation?”

“I believe Zen implies a certain enlightenment.”

“But don’t you look for that to come from outside rather than inside?”

She dropped her arms impatiently. He felt the air stir around him. “You don’t know anything about me!” she snapped at him, as though his argument had been an accusation.

Quite accidentally, though, the argument seemed to have gotten him where he wanted to go.

“And I never will, will I, if you don’t want to go out with me.”

She stared at him. Even Chilly looked at him in surprise.

All the times he’d ever said he wanted nothing to do with women on a permanent basis echoed in his ears. Well, he didn’t want anything to do with her on a permanent basis. But he didn’t appreciate being dismissed so easily, and wondered what was going on inside her that made her look so troubled. And why it interested him.

It was scientific, he decided finally. That was it. Women were all so cool and contained these days, except for this one, who looked as though a tempest spun inside her.

He smiled. “I think you should reconsider.”

PARIS FELT NAKED. He was absolutely right; she’d told herself the same thing over and over. She was thinking this to death. She’d been focused completely on herself since she’d discovered that she wasn’t who she thought she was and retired home to Maple Hill. She knew that wasn’t healthy, but everyone had the right to the details of their parentage. How was one expected to march into the future without understanding where one came from?

And how had Randy Sanford guessed within sixty seconds of looking into her face that she was on a long personal search?

She looked into dark brown eyes in an angular face, nicely shaped eyebrows raised in question, waiting for her answer. He was tall, square-shouldered and flat-stomached in the dark pants and white shirt that were the EMTs’ uniform. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing nicely shaped arms.

For an instant, she was distracted by the impression he made of strength and solidity. He looked as though a truck could hit him and would bounce back with its hood dented, leaving him uninjured. For a woman who felt exhausted by the vagaries of life and the strain of business, the temptation to lean in his direction and test that strength was hard to resist.

But she did. She tossed her hair and smiled flatly. It didn’t matter how solid he was, her foundation was completely gone. And she suspected that all she’d done was hurt his male pride. This wasn’t serious interest, just a knee-jerk reaction to rejection.

“I don’t think I’ll reconsider,” she replied good-naturedly, then stuck out her hand. “No hard feelings?”

He considered her a moment, then took her hand. “Of course not,” he said. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“You, too.” She waved at Chilly, who’d walked away to give them privacy.

Chilly waved back. “Sorry,” he said. “If I wasn’t married, I’d make you change your mind. And if I was Randy Sanford.”

“Can’t be done,” she said.

She started to walk away, but Randy caught her arm. Certain he intended to try to charm her into going out with him, she tried to draw away. Then she noticed that his eyes were focused on hers and frowning. There was a professional air in his touch as he put a hand to her chin and turned it right, then left.

“Are you getting enough rest?” he asked.

She was surprised by the question. She worked long hours and never slept well. But she’d pinched her cheeks and carefully brushed her hair today before coming to see him. Perversely, though she didn’t want to date him or anyone, she wanted to look her best while telling him so.

She found herself fumbling for an answer. “I…I put in a twelve-hour day.”

“No time for fun?”

“No,” she said, hoping to put an end to the conversation.

His thumb rubbed gently under her left eye. “You should make time. You’re too young for dark circles.”

His touch was cool, and she was momentarily paralyzed by it. Solid. And tender. No time for that, either.

She caught his muscular wrist and yanked it away from her. “You have no idea how old I am,” she said, shocked by the annoyance she felt. Probably because she’d looked in the mirror that very morning and thought she looked matronly.

“You’re twenty-six,” he said. “You live at home with your mom and your sister, and you own the Berkshire Cab company.”

She knew she looked astonished.

“Addy told me.” He grinned. “Why? Did you think I’d hired detectives or done an Internet search on you?”

While she continued to stare, wondering why Addy hadn’t told her such details about him, he went on. “You left Maple Hill for law school about four years ago, then changed your mind and came home last year. But she didn’t tell me why.” He seemed to rethink that information, then asked with sharpened interest, “Does that have anything to do with why you’re on this soul search?”

She noticed two things simultaneously. She was still holding his wrist, which he was allowing her to do with no resistance. And she could feel his pulse under her thumb. Curiously, it seemed to be causing hers to race.

She dropped his wrist and said with all the cool hauteur she could muster, “That’s not your concern. I have to go.”

“Don’t fall asleep behind the wheel,” he cautioned, following her to the station wagon with its magnetic sign bearing the name of her company in bright yellow letters.

She gave him a dismissing look as she pulled open the door. “I’m more responsible than that.”

He held the door open for her as she slipped behind the wheel. “Exhaustion can sneak up on you,” he warned. “A dark patch of road, the hum of the motor, the warmth of—”

“Thank you,” she said, and pulled the door closed. Without hesitation, she turned the key in the ignition and drove away.

She groaned aloud, the sound filling the confined space inside her car. “You can’t get some men to give a darn that you’ve got a problem!” she grumbled. “And others come off all pompous and superior because they think they can read your mind and know what’s bothering you on five minutes’ acquaintance.” Equally annoying. She was going to have to talk to Addy about the amount of information she dispensed about her. In fact, she was going to have to get tough with her about this whole blind-date thing.

Now that she’d seen Randy Sanford, she definitely didn’t want to date him. Her life was too much of a mess already to add another untidy element. Because she was sure that despite his well-groomed good looks, there was nothing relaxed and easy about him.

“INTERESTING WOMAN.” Chilly came to stand beside Randy as he watched her car disappear down the highway.

“Yeah,” Randy agreed, trapped in the vivid memory of her standing in front of him, pale and cool and smelling of jasmine.

“You’re interested?”

Randy forced himself back to reality. He’d loved Jenny and lost her to one of life’s dirty tricks. They’d been young and hopeful, with a lifetime of plans in front of them, then she was gone within four months of a brutal diagnosis. He’d been interning at a county hospital, full of new knowledge and proud of all modern medicine had to offer. But it hadn’t been enough to help Jenny.

“No,” he said to Chilly, heading back into the ambulance bay. The shadows, he hoped, would hide the hopelessness that always overwhelmed him when he thought of her.

“You looked interested,” Chilly persisted. “And—you know—it’s time.”

“It’s never going to be time.” He went through the bay to the office, aware that their afternoon break was overdue. He needed caffeine. Badly. “And if I look interested, it’s only…scientific, you know? What gave her that troubled look coupled with that cool exterior?”

Chilly followed him. “You told her she was too young for dark circles,” he reminded him. “That sounds pretty personal. I say you’re too young to give up on marriage and family.”

“I haven’t given up,” he said, grinning at Kitty Morton, who answered the phones and did most of their paperwork. She was in her early thirties, had two little boys and an ex-husband who hadn’t paid child support since he’d walked out on her. She was blond and pretty and he was always surprised by her optimism.

“Then, why’d you let her get away?”

He turned the grin on his friend. “Because she expected me to try to stop her. You never get anywhere with a woman doing what she expects.”

Kitty looked at him with a frown. “Who told you that? That’s totally false. Particularly if she’s expecting chocolates and diamonds and stuff like that. Who are we talking about, anyway?”

“Paris, um…” Chilly began, groping for her last name.

“O’Hara,” Randy provided. “We’re going for coffee, Kitty. Want us to bring you back something?”

Kitty was still focused on the woman under discussion. Her eyes widened and she leaned toward them, her arms folded on her desk. “The cabbie? She’s something, isn’t she? Everybody wonders why she came home from school and started the cab company. She was so set on being a lawyer. Her mom was a model, you know, then an actress. She’s on a shoot in Africa right now for some new line of designer clothes for older women. And her sister was married to some senator, or something, and she found him fooling around and came back about the same time Paris did. Those women remind me of the Gabors. They’re so beautiful, and they live in that wonderful old Craftsman bungalow on this side of the lake. Well, Paris isn’t beautiful, but I think she’s mysterious and fascinating.”

Randy studied her. “How do you know all this stuff?” Kitty knew everything about everyone.

“I’m in Addy Whitcomb’s quilting group. What she doesn’t know, she finds out.”

Randy rolled his eyes. “Of course. I understand even CNN goes to Addy when they want to confirm information. You want coffee? A doughnut, or something?”

Kitty shook her head. “Thanks. I’ve got a date tonight and I have to fit into my leather skirt.”

Randy and Chilly, headed for the door, stopped. “I thought we had clearance rights on all your dates,” Chilly said. “Who is this guy, and how come we don’t know about him?”

“He’s Mike Miller, the new guy on nights,” she supplied, her cheeks becoming a little pink. “And he works his days off for Whitcomb’s Wonders, just like you two. That makes him sort of preapproved.”

Hank Whitcomb, Addy’s son, had begun a sort of temp agency for craftsmen several years ago that now provided a broad variety of services for the homeowner or businessman. Whitcomb’s Wonders provided plumbing, electrical work, carpentry, gardening, furnace maintenance and a variety of other services. Randy worked with the janitorial crew on his days off. Chilly was on the gardening team. The simple work was a welcome relief from the life-and-death pressure of being a paramedic.

It was a boon for all of them to work part-time while going to school, raising children or living other dreams.

“What’s he do?” Randy asked.

“Carpentry,” she replied. “Jackie Whitcomb assures me he’s a gentleman. He redid the cabinets in their kitchen.”

Jackie was Hank’s wife and the mayor of Maple Hill. Her judgment could be trusted.

“Okay, then,” Chilly said. “But we want a full report tomorrow.”

“We’ll see.” The telephone rang and she picked it up. They waited to see if they were needed. She put a hand over the receiver. “It’s Mark and Charlie. They’re finished at the school and on their way back. Go have your coffee.”

Randy and Chilly loped across the lawn, headed for the bakery a block away. Randy glanced back in the direction of the driveway, absently wondering if the newly washed ambulance left sufficient room for the vehicle returning from the school, when he noticed a dark object on the pavement. He veered toward it and saw that it was black leather and shaped like an envelope. A light chain attached to it had a broken link on one end.

“What is that?” Chilly asked as Randy bent to pick it up. “Looks like a trucker’s wallet.”

Randy turned it over in his hand and, seeing no identification, unsnapped it and looked inside.

There were quite a few bills in it, some of small denomination, but a few twenties, and a lot of change. Glued to the inside of the flap was a business card with the Berkshire Cab telephone numbers on it.

“Ah,” Chilly said, looking over his shoulder. “It belongs to the lovely Miss O’Hara. What’s that?” He pointed to something tucked behind the bills.

Randy pulled out a foil wrapper that had been folded over. It was half of a chocolate bar. “Seems the lady has a chocolate habit.”

“Is that the first of your scientific observations?” Chilly asked with a grin.

Randy snapped the leather envelope closed. “I’ll take it back to Kitty. I’m sure the first time the lady tries to make change this afternoon, she’ll notice her missing wallet and call.”

Chilly snickered and followed as Randy hurried back to the office door, ran inside with the wallet and explained briefly to Kitty what had happened. “I don’t know,” he said when Randy reemerged. “It was weird. She stared at you as though she couldn’t believe you were real, yet she couldn’t wait to get away from you.”

“There’s money involved—she’ll call.” Randy started off again for the bakery. “And I do have this sort of mesmerizing effect on women. They can’t help but stare at me.”

Chilly responded to his teasingly conceited claim with the same matter-of-factness. “You have a similar effect on men, actually. We all thought evolution had filtered out the ugly and stupid, and yet, here you are. It makes one stare.”

“That’s it,” Randy replied. “Coffee’s on you.”