Читать книгу Intimate Exposure - Simona Taylor - Страница 8

Low blow, Elliot thought as the look of horror spread across the woman’s dark, pretty face. She began to babble, “Oh, I … I … I had no idea.” The irritation she’d shown since he’d put his foot in his mouth with that remark about flirting dissipated.

She didn’t deserve such discomfort, so he hastened to reassure her. “Don’t worry. I’ve called him worse—and so have a few dozen women, I bet.” To put an end to the issue, he held out his hand. “I’m Elliot Bookman Jr.”

She looked at his hand as if she thought he’d palmed a joy buzzer, but she shook it anyway. Her hand was warm and smooth, the hand of a woman who took care of herself. He liked that. He had to remind himself to release it within the time limit set by good manners, rather than indulge for just a few more seconds in its warm softness.

“Shani Matthieu.” She was frowning, half embarrassed, half anxious to get out of there. “Mr. Bookman—”

“Elliot,” he cut across with the standard joke. “My father’s Mr.—”

“I need to get back to work.” She brushed away a floppy lock of dark brown hair, pushing it up and over her ear in a gesture that made her seem girlish. Those hands again.

She rushed through the doorway—and careened into a shadow that had sidled in without either of them noticing.

The man was about Elliot’s height, but long-limbed and thin. He was so pale as to be almost transparent, save for the ferociously glowing freckles. His eyes were the color of brackish Florida swamp water, the kind that hid lurking gators. A black tuxedo draped over his thin frame made him look like Jack Skellington in Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas. The kente-cloth cummerbund looped around his waist immediately identified him as the aforementioned Yvan.

“Shani!” His voice was a Yoda-like rasp. “What’s this about you biting my client? And hitting him with a tray?”

She hit Stack with a tray? Elliot regretted having missed that part. Then he noticed his father standing behind him, glowering, and decided the situation was too grim—for Shani at least—to merit a chuckle.

Shani drew in her lip, her beautifully shaped teeth working at the full, wine-tinted flesh. For a second he thought she mightn’t answer, but she squared herself and said resolutely. “He was getting fresh with me.”

“How fresh does a guy got to get for you to bite him? “

“Fresh enough. He put his hand on me and I asked him to stop …”

“That’s a lie!” Stack swayed a little, and Elliot knew it wouldn’t be long before he passed out. “The crazy chick bit me for no reason!”

“Why would I bite you for no reason?”

Another waitress arrived on the scene and hesitated before snatching up a tray of tidbits and scurrying off as if afraid Yvan’s anger would spill over in her direction.

Fat chance. Yvan was totally focused on his current victim. “Little lady, jobs are hard to come by, especially with bosses as patient as me.”

Elliot was surprised Shani didn’t snort.

“This is your only warning. I want you to apologize to Mr. Bookman.”

“What?”

Yvan confirmed his demand with an insistent nod. “You apologize, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll still have a job by the end of the night.”

The tortured look on Shani’s face was too much for Elliot. He could practically hear the scales shifting back and forth as she tried to determine which was worth more: her job or her pride? Her lips parted, and the tip of her tongue appeared. The gesture was jarringly erotic, which was an odd response to have, given that the situation was so serious. She inhaled, looked about to speak and stopped again. Facing her, Yvan frowned like an old schoolmaster about to administer a whippin'. Behind him, Stack looked victorious.

She closed her eyes and plunged in. “Mr. Bookman.” she began.

This was wrong. Elliot stepped forward, shielding her from the ire of her employer and his father’s unfounded self-righteousness. “The lady has nothing to apologize for. I saw what happened. My father was getting out of line, and she defended herself.”

Shani gave a small squeak. “I told you I don’t need help!”

“I know, but right is right. You don’t need to apologize.” He speared his father with a look. “Does she, Stack?”

Stack shifted, looking guilty. “Well, maybe I misunderstood …”

“She’ll apologize because I tell her to,” Yvan ground out. “Shani …” He pointed at Stack as if he was showing a naughty dog the way out.

She lifted her head like an innocent woman facing a firing squad. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bookman. Please …” She swallowed hard; Elliot could see movement at the base of her throat, and that movement drew his eyes downward to the cleavage that swelled out the top of her plunging neckline. She didn’t need the push-up bra she was wearing. He dragged his eyes to her face again as she begged, “Please, forgive …” Then she stopped, and another look crossed her face. Not outrage, not embarrassment, not discomfort. Something else, and it scared him.

She slipped her hand into her pocket. Yvan saw the movement, reptilian eyes swiveling down. “Don’t tell me.” he began.

What the hell?

She withdrew a small cell phone and looked at it as if it was the detonator for a nuclear weapon. It must have been on silent, because nobody had heard it ring.

“I’ve explicitly told you, all of you, you are not allowed to carry your phones on the job!” Yvan was in a fine lather. Something told Elliot that this was his usual state of being.

Shani gave him half a second’s glance. “You know my situation, Yvan.”

“I don’t give a pickled monkey’s butt about your situation.”

“Hello?” Shani’s voice was a whisper. Elliot’s eyes were riveted to her face, beyond curiosity. Under the plum-dark skin, the blood drained. “I’ll be right there.” She clicked the phone shut. “It’s Bee,” she said to Yvan.

Bee? What bee? He half expected to see one buzzing around their heads.

If you’d set a spirit level along Yvan’s mouth, the bubble would have been dead center. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I need to go. Now.”

Yvan lifted his hand and checked his watch. “Your tail is mine for another hour and forty minutes.”

“Bee’s sick, and I’m going to her.”

“You do that, and …” He didn’t finish the threat.

Shani ripped off the silly apron she was wearing and threw it down. “You want to fire me? Consider me fired. But please, Yvan, ask Ralph to give me a lift to the other side of Ventura. Maybe I could catch a late bus. There’s nothing running here in Belmont tonight.”

“Ralph drives a catering truck, not a taxi. Besides, we’re busy tonight.” He added meaningfully, “We’re one hand short.” The scarecrow of a man swooped down and scooped up the apron, tucking it under his arm, then stalked off.

That left three of them. The events of the last minute and a half seemed to have gotten through to Stack. Instead of basking in his petty triumph, he looked abashed, but Elliot knew his father wasn’t man enough to say he was sorry unless it suited him. Stack’s eyes took in Shani’s stricken face and then he, too, slunk away.

And then there were two. Elliot put his hands on his hips and took in the pain on Shani’s face. He’d known this woman only ten minutes, but inexplicably he was hurting for her. “You okay?”

She looked at him as though he’d asked the world’s most asinine question. “No.”

“What’s the problem? What bee are you talking about?”

“My daughter,” she answered irritably, as if he should have known. “Béatrice.”

“Ah.” Now he understood. “She’s sick?”

Shani nodded wearily. “She had a fever when I left home this evening.” She found her purse next to the broom cupboard. As she shouldered it, he noticed a thin wedding band on her finger. For some reason, that disappointed him.

“Was that your husband on the phone?”

She turned and wrenched open the kitchen door, which gave side access to his father’s garage and, beyond it, the broad driveway. “That was my sitter. My baby’s worse. Her fever’s a hundred and four.” She slipped through the doorway and into the darkened garage.

He hurried to keep up with her. “Where’re you going?”

Her look made him feel as if his IQ didn’t graze eighty. “I’m taking her to the hospital.” She twisted, looking for the garage light, the better to see her way out. He found it easily and clicked it on.

“Let me rephrase that. How are you getting there? Yvan said—”

“I heard what Yvan said. I’m walking to the bus stop.” “But there aren’t any—”

“Night buses that pass through Belmont. I know.” He could see her legs flash in the floodlights, hear her heels click on the driveway. “I’m walking to Ventura.”

“That’s two miles away!”

She didn’t even glance in his direction. Her determined mouth barely moved as she told him, “Then I better get to walking.” A stiff, late-September wind stirred her hair. She didn’t have a coat on, and that dress of hers, what passed for a dress, barely brushed the tops of her thighs.

Elliot watched as she hurried away, her hips rolling in her haste, legs moving swiftly past each other. Seeing a mother so concerned for her child’s well-being that she was willing to trot across town on heels too high for waitressing stirred something in him. “Shani, wait!”

She half turned, frowning at him for interrupting her pace.

He ran down the path, grasping her by the arms.

“Wait.”

She looked down at the hands he’d placed on her, brows together, and when he read on her face the indignation at being restrained by a second Bookman in one night, he let go. The lady had already proved she didn’t mind biting—and not in a good way.

“I have … to get … to my daughter,” she explained carefully. “Fast.”

The fear in her eyes made his heart constrict. “It’s too late. Too cold.”

“I don’t have a choice.” She resumed walking as though her pace had never been interrupted.

He wasn’t explaining himself right, dammit! “Wait!” As he stopped her again, she sucked in a breath. He was sure she was about to scream, so he talked fast. “Just give me ten seconds, all right?”

“Why?”

“I’ll take you.”

“What?”

He left her standing there and sprinted back to the kitchen. The Triumph wasn’t the best mode of transport for what he had in mind. He snagged his father’s car keys without a second thought and darted back outside.

The burgundy Lexus chirped a friendly welcome as he unlocked it. He rammed the keys into the ignition with less respect than such a machine deserved and, not even bothering to let it warm up, slammed it into gear and nosed it down to where she was waiting. As he drew alongside, her already-arched brows lifted just so much higher. He leaped out, opened the passenger door and bundled her in. She complied, more bewildered than anything else, letting him click her seat belt into place before he leaped back into his seat again and hit the gas.

She was staring at his face, still puzzled. “Why’re you doing this?”

Why, indeed? “Just trying to help,” he explained lamely. “I’d hate to know a child was sick and I didn’t do anything about it.”

“Oh.” She was still examining his face, but whether she was looking for an ulterior motive or asking herself what she’d done to deserve the random kindness of a stranger, he couldn’t tell. “Thank you.”

Again, that strange ache inside him, for her. What kind of sad creature was this, so unaccustomed to receiving kindness that it took her by surprise when she found it? And where was her husband, anyway? Shouldn’t he be doing this? “Besides,” he added, joking to relieve his tension, and hers, “I need brownie points in heaven. God knows I’ve racked up enough for the other team.”

She smiled weakly and relaxed into her seat. “Thank you,” she said again. It came from somewhere deep inside her.

“So, where to?” “Catarina.”

He nodded. They were already approaching Ventura, a pleasant neighborhood that formed a buffer between the genteel suburbs and the busy city. From there it was just a minute or two to the highway on-ramp. On an ordinary day, it would take maybe forty minutes to get to the heart of Santa Amata. But it was well after midnight on a Saturday, and, after all, this was a Lexus, not a station wagon. They made it in twenty.

He looked covertly over at her. Her eyes were taking in every detail of the custom interior of the vehicle, the lovingly polished wood finishing, the muted glow of the array of dials and screens that illuminated her face. He saw her extend one finger and slowly stroke the leather on which she was sitting, and he smiled. It gave him an irrational, childish pleasure to share this little luxury with her. He had a feeling her life wasn’t filled with much of that.

She spoke only to give directions, and he was grateful. Sometimes when you offered a person a ride, they felt obligated to make conversation, to fill the air with irrelevant chatter. She wasn’t the type to indulge in that nonsense, and he liked her for that.

Catarina was on the other side of Santa Amata, a slightly … more lived-in side of town. A few blocks beyond Independence Avenue, the city’s main artery, the streets grew narrower, the buildings just a shade shabbier. It was chilly—which reminded Elliot he didn’t have his coat on, either—but many of the bars had their doors thrown open, and he could hear music spilling out. Trees were beginning to shed their leaves; the wind danced with them in the street as cars swooshed past.

“Left on Bagley,” she told him, and he turned onto the street without a word. It was lined with brownstones and shop fronts. Most of the houses had small family businesses downstairs, with living quarters upstairs. The occasional building that rose past three or four floors looked out of place next to the squat two-story houses beside them.

“Here.” She pointed, and he pulled smoothly to the curb in front of one of the older buildings on the street. The bottom floor was occupied by a restaurant that was still open. A flickering sign above the door said Old Seoul in English, and, presumably, the same thing in Korean. The clinking of glasses and the sound of laughter spilled through the doors and open windows, and the scents of hot oil, fish and spicy meat reminded him that he’d turned up five hours late for dinner, more out of a desire to get on his father’s nerves than anything else. He was beginning to regret that decision.

Shani took out a bunch of large, cumbersome metal keys and unlocked a gate that was barely visible at the side of the restaurant. She let herself through it without a word to him, but he followed closely, up a flight of stairs that would have been better lit, if he’d had anything to say about it. They’d barely reached the first landing when there was a shout from below.

She stopped so fast he almost stumbled into her from behind.

“Shani!” The voice was below them but coming up fast. Elliot stopped shoulder to shoulder with Shani as she leaned over the rusting banister to see a small Asian man taking the stairs two by two. He was dressed in a colorful embroidered tunic with long square sleeves, way too elaborate for someone who was just kicking it on a Saturday night, so he guessed the man worked in, or more likely owned, the restaurant downstairs. “Special Delivery letter for you!”

She looked puzzled, and for a few moments she didn’t hold out her hand to take the proffered letter. She eventually did, turning it over so she could see the return address … and then the night went quiet. He knew that, logically, the music, laughter and chatter were still rising from downstairs. He knew the night owls were still hooting and cars were still rumbling past, but he couldn’t hear them. Because for the second time in less than an hour, he was seeing the blood leech out from under this sad woman’s dusky skin, and he didn’t like it.

The middle-aged man standing two steps below squinted at her through thick glasses. “You well?”

She nodded, but just barely. “I’m fine, Mr. Pak. Thank you.”

The man waited, Elliot waited, for her to tear open the envelope, to do something, but she held it in both hands and stared at it, weighed it, ran her fingers along the address label as if they were sensitive enough to feel the indentations of the printed letters, but she didn’t open it.

Eventually, Mr. Pak nodded and returned downstairs. After he was long gone … it could have been seconds, it could have been minutes … Shani still hadn’t made any move. Elliot watched her, not even pretending not to stare, taking full advantage of the fact that she was barely aware of his presence. Her dark skin had that mellow smoothness that came from good genes, although he could tell, too, that she groomed herself carefully. He was sure she did everything carefully.

She’d nervously licked off most of the frosty lipstick she’d been wearing, leaving her lips bare. The lower one was full, almost pouty, making him think of moist fruit. Her dark, straight hair had been neatly pinned up at the start of the evening, he guessed. Now it fell in wisps about her face. He found himself wanting to reach out, wind it up at the crown of her head and pin it back into place for her. He had to put his hands into his pockets to quell the impulse.

He brought his head close, stifling his curiosity to read the envelope that so mesmerized her, more interested in reading her eyes. But in them, he could see nothing. Gently, he called her name.

She looked up, startled to find him still there. “Huh?”

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Open what?”

He tapped the heavy paper object in her hands. “Your letter.”

She looked down at it again, contemplatively, and then shook her head. “I don’t have to. It’s from my attorney. I know what it says.”

Why was it that letters from attorneys never bore good news? How come nobody ever got a letter from an attorney saying congratulations, you just inherited three million dollars from an uncle you never knew you had?

He asked with a chill of anticipation, “What’s it say, then?”

Her eyes held his, and the agony in them kept him riveted. “It says I.” She tried again. “It says my divorce is final. My marriage is over.”