Читать книгу The Closer - Rhonda Nelson - Страница 12

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JESSALYN ROSSI WIPED her hands, stuffed a grease rag into the pocket of her coveralls, then dropped the hood into place with a soft click. She turned to the car’s anxious owner. “It’s the water pump, Walter,” she told the older man. “You know I’d fix it for you if I had time, but I’ve got to go to New York for a few days for Dad.” A shudder of dread rippled through her middle.

Hell would undoubtedly be a more pleasant destination.

She didn’t mind the city, per se, but spending any length of time around stick-thin, surgically enhanced lingerie models wasn’t her idea of fun. She had enough body-image issues, thank you very much. She didn’t need to compound them by being made to feel like a gluttonous hog with a sugar dependency. If it had been up to her, she and her “child-bearing hips,” as one kind but misguided soul had once told her, would stay here.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t up to her.

Walter’s frown deepened, but he nodded nonetheless. A senior citizen on a fixed income, she was sure the older gentleman would have preferred that she fix his car because he knew she’d be willing to take a basket of garden vegetables in exchange for parts and labor.

“Take it to Shorty Greene and tell him I sent you.” She grinned at him. “I know for a fact that the deer got into his tomatoes and he’s running short.” And she would call Shorty and promise to make up the difference. So what if he chided her for being such a soft touch, telling her that the rest of the full-time mechanics in Shadow’s Gap would thank her not to accept produce in lieu of cash. It was a refrain she’d heard often enough before from her old mentor.

Shorty Greene, one of her father’s oldest friends, had taught her everything she knew about cars. While nothing gave her as much pleasure as her jewelry, casting the perfect set and embellishing it with beautiful things, being able to rebuild a motor came pretty damn close. Having spent every summer from the time she was six to sixteen with Shorty and his late wife, Sybil, while her parents were at various trade and gem shows, Jess had found she liked being in the garage with Shorty more than being in the kitchen with Sybil. She preferred the smell of motor oil to cooking oil and liked the weight of a tool in her hand.

It had all started innocently enough, by her merely handing Shorty the appropriate tools, but it hadn’t taken long until she’d wanted to know how the tools worked. Figuring out why a car wouldn’t run properly quickly became a mystery she had to solve and once she’d solved it, she reveled in fixing it, setting things right. Listening to a motor catch with the first turn of the ignition, then hearing the engine purr. She smiled, remembering.

Music to her ears.

Naturally, her mother, who’d sadly lost her battle with cancer when Jess was seventeen, hadn’t approved of a teenage daughter with grease under her nails. But she’d later revealed that she admired the fact that Jess hadn’t let her gender get in the way of doing something she loved. After all, it was one thing to tell a kid they could do whatever they wanted and then discourage them when they chose something not deemed “proper.”

This was the argument Jess had used when she’d wanted to start racing, as well. Not surprisingly, it had come in very handy.

Walter was too proud to look relieved for more than half a second, but his shoulders relaxed and a smile broke across his weathered, lined face. “Well, you know I’ve got plenty of tomatoes,” he told her.

She inwardly snorted. He had plenty of everything. His green thumb was positively legendary in Shadow’s Gap. “I’ll give Shorty a ring and let him know you’re coming. You don’t want to drive any farther than his place, though, Walter,” she warned. “If the car overheats too much, you’ll crack a head and then you’ll really be in trouble.”

“I’ll go on over there now,” he said. “Thanks, Jess.” His brow wrinkled once more and he shot her a look. “You’re going to New York?” he said. “Today?”

Jessalyn’s cheeks puffed as she exhaled noisily. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Will you be back in time for the race on Saturday?”

No, dammit. She’d still be babysitting the bra. “I’m afraid not.”

He grunted, his face falling into a moue of regret. “That’s a shame. I think you could have given Lane Johnson another run for his money.”

She did, too. Lane Johnson was a cocky, loudmouthed blowhard with more luck than skill and a sickening following of track whores—not to be confused with crack whores, though they could be easily mistaken for those as well—who stroked his giant ego, among other things, Jess thought with a shiver of disgust. They contributed to his misguided perception that he was, first, God’s gift to women, and second, almost on par with Dale Earnhardt Jr. behind the wheel.

He was neither.

Gallingly, while she’d taken plenty of heat for being a “woman driver” when she’d first started racing, she’d quickly won the respect of the majority of her fellow drivers. There were always going to be a few with the old-school boys’ club mentality—she’d be foolish to think otherwise—but of them, Lane was definitely the loudest. She’d thought beating him would shut him up, but instead he’d upped the trash talking and told everyone that he was going to “put her in her place” the next time they shared asphalt.

That should have been this weekend, but she hadn’t been able to get either of her siblings to accompany the damn bra, so now it was going to look as though he’d scared her away.

As if.

It made her blood boil.

Jess had always been proud of her Rossi heritage and took a keen sense of pleasure from being a part of the family business. She was a fourth-generation jeweler and thanks to inherent talent and creativity, the Rossi name was synonymous with excellence. Unfortunately, with the exception of her father, she was the last of the family with any interest in continuing the traditional trade. Her younger brother, Sean, played guitar for a popular country-music band and traveled all the time, and her even younger sister, Bethany, was a professional student, happy with higher education and her job at the Gap. Neither of them were likely to change their minds.

Which just left her.

To complicate matters, her father had developed agoraphobia after the death of her mother. It had begun gradually. At first, he simply refused to travel. He’d said that his wife had always been his companion and he couldn’t face going without her. Because her parents had genuinely been soul mates, Jess had understood and hadn’t pushed him, assuming that it would only be temporary, that, in time, he’d be able to move forward.

She couldn’t have anticipated how wrong she’d be.

Citing the need to “be closer to work,” the second her new home, a tree house, was finished, her father had sold the family house in the country and finished an apartment above the store. Initially, Jess had thought this would be a good idea. The house was still a painful reminder of her mother, being in town would keep him from being lonely, etcetera. But it was when the apartment was complete that she really began to notice a difference.

Frank Rossi loved Shadow’s Gap and the town square, where their business had stood for the past hundred years. He routinely ate at the diner next door and visited the other business owners around their little block. He’d played chess at the five-and-dime and shopped for all his clothes at Billy Walter’s, an upscale men’s store. He not only knew every proprietor, he knew their families, as well. He’d been social.

But shortly after moving into the apartment above the store, he’d started manufacturing reasons not to go out. He’d have the diner deliver his meals and he stopped visiting the other stores. He’d stand at the front door and look out, but when Jess had casually suggested that he go see if Billy had any new ties in stock, he’d shake his head and retreat to the backroom.

She’d begun to seriously worry at that point, but she hadn’t realized how dire the situation had become until she’d discovered that Paula, one of their part-time workers, had been doing his grocery shopping for him. She’d also gone to the post office for him, picked up his prescriptions and generally did anything that would require a trip outside the shop.

At that point, Jess had confronted her father and had tried to get him to talk to a therapist, but her concern had been met with an uncharacteristic angry outburst and an order to mind her own business. He was fine, he insisted, though it was obvious that he wasn’t, that he’d become a prisoner in his own space. He’d started spending an inordinate amount of time on the internet, his only window to the outside world.

It was then that Jess had started traveling for him—it would be good for her, he’d said—and, while most of the people her father had done business with over the years didn’t think too much about the fact that he’d stopped doing the legwork, there were a few who did find it odd. One of those, a representative of the Montwheeler Diamond Company, made an unannounced visit to the store to share the news that Rossi’s had made the final cut for the Clandestine design. When the man had asked her father to go out to celebrate and her father had declined, it was then that the older Rossi had become labeled a “recluse.”

Interestingly enough, it was the “recluse” part that would seal his ultimate nomination for the Clandestine bra. Everyone assumed that her dad had retreated so far into his work that the outside world had become a distraction he couldn’t afford and wouldn’t indulge. It had given him a certain mystique that the press had instantly loved and capitalized on.

Their web hits had tripled and orders were pouring in faster than they could fill them. Even her own signature line, If It Crawls, featuring bejeweled insects and bugs, had seen a significant bump in sales.

There was no doubt that the bra, much as it pained her to admit it, was already netting the results her father had expected. And it hadn’t even had The Big Reveal yet. Once it was covering the breasts of one of the world’s sexiest supermodels, the buzz would really get going. And that was good for business.

In today’s lagging economy, there wasn’t a single company that wasn’t affected in some way, theirs included. High-end jewelry was a luxury item and when money got as tight as it was now, fewer and fewer people had the ready cash to splurge on something like fine jewelry. They’d made good investments and her father had always been a big believer in gold, but they’d certainly had to tap into their reserves over the past couple years.

The Clandestine bra would change that.

And really, when one considered what was to gain, she really didn’t have any business being put out over missing a race, one that she only wanted to run in order to prove a point.

With a quick glance at the clock, Jess sighed and closed up her garage, then made the quick walk through the woods to her place. She’d already packed, but still needed to shower and change. The security agent hired by Montwheeler was set to arrive at the shop at three to collect both her and the bra, and she’d promised her father she wouldn’t be late.

If she intended to keep that promise, she’d better get a move on. She mounted the steps to her tree house—an eleven-hundred-square-foot architectural wonder of reclaimed wood and leaded glass—and leaped lightly over her cat, Pita (short for pain in the ass), who liked to lie on the next-to-last step, solely in order to better trip someone, Jess believed. Shorty had promised to come out and feed her while she was gone.

Thirty minutes later, she secured the house and lugged her bag to the car. Because she imagined the security agent was going to be either short on conversation or too long-winded to endure, she’d included her iPod and an eReader. For whatever reason, when she tried to picture the man, her warped imagination kept conjuring images of Kevin James from Paul Blart: Mall Cop. Why? Who knew, but it made her snicker every time all the same.

With a shake of her head and another glance at the clock—damn!—she slipped the key in the ignition and slung gravel as she peeled out of the driveway. From her house to the shop was ordinarily a fifteen-minute drive.

She’d need to do it in ten.

It was obscene how much that pleased her.

* * *

“WHAT THE HELL,” Griff muttered, his gaze trained on the rearview mirror. He’d first noted the red Camaro—the retro-kind Chevy had debuted a few years ago—more than half a mile back when it had first appeared in the distance.

It was damn hard to miss.

Candy-apple red, white racing stripes from hood to trunk, and the way it had moved seamlessly in and out of traffic, smoothly passing everything that interrupted its path had certainly drawn his attention. A little admiration, even.

Now, as the car drew nearer to his bumper—so close that he could read the tag on the front, which appropriately read Faster—irritation was quickly dimming the original sentiment. He was moving five miles past the speed limit on a two-lane highway with a double yellow line. The driver couldn’t pass without breaking the law, and he refused to go any faster.

Though he couldn’t make out much beyond a lot of dark curly hair and sunglasses, he knew it was a woman behind the wheel and he’d admit, she seemed more than capable of handling the powerful, if impractical, car she drove. But if she didn’t get off his damn bumper, they were going to have a serious problem.

He slowed a little, just to infuriate her. “I’m in front of you, lady. Get over it,” he muttered.

She dropped back as they mounted a small hill, and Griff had just congratulated himself for making her retreat, when the yellow lines changed in her favor and she roared past him. He barely caught a glimpse of her pleased smile, but it was enough to make him want to hit the accelerator a little harder and take off after her.

Which was irrational, of course, so he put the thought firmly out of his mind. He was a grown man on his way to an important job, his first as a civilian. Playing cat and mouse with a girl—one who had a much faster car, no less—was a distraction he couldn’t afford, and it rather startled him that he’d been inclined to do it in the first place. Chasing after her would have been pointless and, as a rule, he didn’t pursue things he knew would be a waste of his time.

Feeling strangely unsettled, Griff watched the red car disappear over the next hill and released a pent-up breath. He drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel, suddenly restless, and shifted in his seat. He’d been on the road for almost eight hours already and knew that at least another four would be in his future today, if he planned to stick to his schedule. Which he did, of course, otherwise what was the point in having one?

He’d allotted eight minutes to pick up the bra and his Rossi escort, another seven for a bathroom break, and planned to arrive in Hagerstown no later than eight o’clock tonight. Dinner would be a little late, but not terribly, and that would put them within four hours of their ultimate destination. They’d hit New York City by noon tomorrow, which gave him a two-hour window to check out the venue before the press junket started. The bra would officially be on display—on the runway for the reveal—at noon on Saturday.

Payne had provided the building specs, which were certainly helpful, but Griff preferred to do an in-person review. He wanted to know every stairwell, elevator, exit and access point. He didn’t expect any problems, but would be remiss if he didn’t prepare for them anyway. Besides, he liked to be prepared. There was a certain comfort in knowing that things were in order.

Big, round hay bales lay in the fields on either side of the road and Queen Anne’s lace and wild black-eyed Susans bobbed in the lazy breeze along in the ditches as he drove on. Nestled in one of the many valleys of the Appalachian Mountains, Shadow’s Gap suddenly came into view, a quaint village of white clapboard houses, red bricked shops and well-manicured grounds. Though the leaves had begun to turn, fall hadn’t quite gotten a foothold yet. Varying shades of green blanketed the hills rising up over the valley, creating a verdant landscape that would look perfectly at home on a postcard.

Following the signs for the Historic Town Square, Griff made the necessary turns and began scanning the various storefronts for Rossi’s Fine Jewelry. It was then that he saw it, the red Camaro, and his pulse gave an inexplicable little jump.

Wonder of wonders, it was parked directly in front of the jewelry store.

Clearly “Faster” had a taste for the finer things. Irritatingly intrigued beyond reason, Griff took the empty parking space next to her car, then exited his Suburban and entered the shop. Though he automatically noted everything about the store—two workers, one old, one teenager, royal-blue carpet, rich wood-paneled walls, gleaming glass cases filled with equally gleaming jewels—she was what drew his gaze and held it.

At least the back of her, which was all he could see at the moment.

But it was enough.

She was tall with a slim waist and especially generous hips—which she needed to complement her extraordinarily lush ass—and long legs. She wore a thin-knit pink sweater, perfectly fitted jeans and a pair of worn cowboy boots, which had been embellished with vines and pink roses. Her hair wasn’t merely dark or brown, but a deep decadent sable that didn’t so much absorb the light as catch it, and it sprung from her head in a riot of big, wavy curls, then cascaded over her shoulders. It had energy, that hair. In fact, everything about her was vibrant, wholly alive, for lack of a better description.

His stomach gave an odd little jolt and a swift blaze kindled in his groin.

“I’m not late,” she insisted to the older man, presumably Frank Rossi. “I arrived with a minute to spare.” She huffed a breath. “Why on earth are you complaining? He’s not even here yet.”

“You’ve got to stop treating the town square like it’s the track, Jessalyn,” the older man said, as though he hadn’t heard her argument. “Screaming in here on two wheels? It’s unseemly. What would your mother think?”

She muttered something that Griff didn’t quite catch, but whatever she said made her father frown.

Her father...

But if— Did that— But surely— No worries, Major Wicklow. You’ll recognize her soon enough.

Oh, hell.

“And of course, he’s here,” Mr. Rossi told her, looking past his daughter to meet Griff’s undoubtedly confused gaze. “He’s a professional. Being late wouldn’t do.”

He heard her gasp, then she straightened and turned around.

The picture hadn’t done her justice, Griff thought as a prickly heat spread from one end of his body to the other, then turned abruptly cold and made the return trek. He felt as if he’d been dipped in scalding water, then dunked in the Arctic Ocean, much like forged metal.

Naturally, only one part of his anatomy hardened.

The photograph could only depict so much—the shape of her face, the color of her eyes and hair—but it was the animation of the features, the sheer vitality of her being that couldn’t be captured with something as mundane as a camera.

She glowed.

Her eyes rounded briefly when she saw him, then undoubtedly recognition dawned, and the corner of her lush mouth twitched. “Suburban, right?” she said, looking out into the street for confirmation. She didn’t need it, though. She knew it was him.

“That’s right,” he said. “Though I’m surprised you remembered. You passed so many people this morning.”

Her eyes twinkled in admiration at his vague little dig, and she gestured toward her father. “Dad appreciates punctuality.”

Rossi snorted. “I appreciate a lot of things, for all the good it does me.” The older man found Griff’s gaze once more, then he hurried forward and extended his hand. “Frank Rossi,” he said. “You must be Griffin Wicklow, of Ranger Security.”

Griff nodded. “I am. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Rossi glanced at his daughter. “This is Jessalyn, my oldest daughter and, as I’m sure you’ve deduced, she’ll be accompanying you to the show.”

Yes, Griff thought as he turned and offered her his hand, as well. He’d worked that one out within seconds of walking into the store. What he hadn’t worked out was how he felt about it, though if he was hard pressed to pick a predominant sentiment, excited probably worked better than anything else.

Alarmed was a very close second.

With a quirk of her sleek brow, her palm connected with his. Though the ground didn’t shake beneath his feet, he felt some sort of internal quake all the same, and a bizarre tingling rushed through his fingers. Her hand was soft, her grip strong and puzzlingly, a line of small calluses curled around the top of her palm, nearest her fingers. Gratifyingly, her smile faltered a bit and a hint of uncertainty lit her misty-gray gaze.

“Mr. Wicklow,” she said with a nod, making the opal dragonfly earrings dangling from her ears sway. A matching larger pendant hung from a thin gold chain around her neck, suspended between her breasts. He envied the jewelry.

“Griff, please.”

“Well, I imagine you’re eager to get on the road,” Rossi announced with a bracing breath, thankfully ending the awkward moment. He gestured toward the rear of the store. “If you’ll just follow me, I’ve got everything all packed up and ready in the back.”

Equally chagrined and concerned that he’d needed to be reminded of their schedule, Griff nodded and followed both Rossis behind the counter. While the sales floor was immaculate and poshly decorated, the back was less tidy and decidedly more shabby. The heart-pine floors were scuffed from generations of wear, faded wallpaper peeled in places from the walls and, though he was sure there was some order to the chaos—there had to be, didn’t there?—there didn’t seem to be one designated work area. Tools and invoices and bits of metal, clasps and links of chain...they were everywhere.

Just looking at it made him twitchy.

Rossi ran his hands reverently over a black plastic case, then glanced up at Griff. “Would you like to see it?” he asked eagerly.

It would have been rude to refuse. “I’d love to.”

The older man almost ceremoniously flipped the latches and then carefully lifted the lid, revealing what was inside. Though he hadn’t expected to feel anything beyond dim curiosity, Griff found himself awed nonetheless. He felt his eyes widen and he instinctively moved forward, drawn in by the sheer beauty, to get a better look.

It didn’t so much look like a bra as a work of art. Shaped like a butterfly, the body of the insect was a glittering stunner made out of various black stones, emeralds and rubies, as well as many other stones he didn’t recognize. The wings were unbelievably detailed, with authentic-looking variations of colors and lines and flared out over the cups in a dazzling display of black, purple, pink, green stones, with row after row of diamonds inset to give it additional depth.

“Wow,” he said, for lack of anything better.

Seemingly pleased, Rossi chuckled. “Two hundred hours in the design, more than a thousand in the execution. You’re looking at six months of my life there,” he said, “and the key to the continued success of the Rossi family tradition. Guard it well.”

“Of course, sir,” Griff responded.

“It’s incredible, Dad,” Jessalyn Rossi said, her voice soft with admiration. “Definitely some of your finest work.”

The older man actually blushed. “You’re the one who gave me the concept. And given the success of your own insects, as well as the fact that you’re the heir apparent, I thought it was a good choice.”

Something in his tone must have caught her attention because she stilled and looked up at him. “You make it sound like you’re getting ready to retire.”

He shrugged innocently. “Who knows? I might.”

She rolled her eyes and gave an indelicate huff. “Yeah, right. I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Rather than respond, her father tucked the creation more firmly into the black foam that held it secure, then carefully closed the lid, snapped the latches and locked them with a key he produced from his pocket. He handed it to Griff, along with the case. “Jess has a spare key, in the event you need it.”

Griff couldn’t imagine why he would, but nodded all the same.

Jessalyn Rossi leaned over and gave her dad a hug. “I’ll keep you posted,” she told him.

“I have no doubt,” he replied, a smile in his voice.

She withdrew and looked up at Griff. “I just need to get my things out of the car.”

Griff nodded and, case in hand, followed her back out of the store. She quickly unlocked the car, then leaned in—giving him another unobstructed view of her lovely rear end—and grabbed a single suitcase and a purse. She straightened, then glanced over her shoulder and shot him a hopeful look. “I don’t suppose you’d want me to drive?”

Griff smiled. “No, thanks. It’s against protocol.” He didn’t know whether that was true or not, but it sounded better than when “hell freezes over.” He was already feeling too left of center. Off balance. Allowing her to drive would no doubt compound the issue. As a matter of fact, he could safely say that he imagined everything about Jessalyn Rossi was going to compound the issue.

Because, God help him, she was the issue.