Читать книгу Baby Fever - Susan Crosby, Susan Crosby - Страница 10

Okay, not voluptuous, Patrick decided. Too much of a political hot potato. Statuesque? He tossed that word aside, too, as Jasmine approached. The description didn’t fit, either, because it implied height, and she wasn’t tall, maybe just five foot five or so and, based on his experience with the opposite sex, he suspected she probably always complained about how she needed to lose ten or fifteen pounds. Not in his opinion, however.

He smiled at her as she set his salad and a basket of bread on the table.

“So, how did you end up here?” she asked, resituating the bread basket and moving the dish of butter closer to him, then shifting it again,

“Here in San Francisco or at the Carola?”

She fascinated him. She was obviously uncomfortable making small talk, seeming on the verge of running away, yet she continued to pry into his private life. He’d bet his newest fleet of cargo ships she didn’t usually have personal conversations with her customers. She hadn’t even introduced herself.

“Both, I guess,” she said.

“My daughter lives here in the city. Her husband arranged a temporary membership at the club while I’m here.”

Why did she keep doing that—smiling mysteriously over his answers, as if he was passing some kind of test?

Once again she patted the creases on the white linen tablecloth and kept her gaze lowered. “Your wife didn’t come with you?”

“I’m widowed.” It hurt to say the words. Even after twenty-five years it cut into him, a double-edged sword of loss and guilt.

Jasmine watched tension settle over him. Without thinking, she touched his coiled fist.

He opened his hand and captured hers, squeezing as if he were drowning and she was his lifeline. She felt the distinctive texture of calluses…and warmth—pure, masculine warmth. Then he released her hand and lifted his salad fork.

“Can I get you anything else? Another drink?” she asked, regretting that she’d shattered the mood with her nosiness, especially since he seemed embarrassed by his brief show of emotion. He must have lost his wife recently for his grief to be so fresh. She fought the image of taking him into her arms to hold and comfort. She understood grief. She understood it all too well.

“I’m fine, thanks,” he said, dismissing her by stabbing some lettuce.

She watched him for a second, then said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

He set down his fork. “It’s been—”

“Hi, there, honey. My name’s Magnolia. Is my sister taking good care of you?”

Jasmine watched as, in a blink, he changed moods upon the arrival of her younger sister, who was as different from Jasmine as borscht from chicken noodle soup.

“Magnolia,” he repeated with some humor, glancing at Jasmine. “Your mother must’ve liked flowers.”

“Our mama was a fine Southern belle who gave her girls respectable Louisiana names. ‘Course Jazz here prefers to leave her roots behind. She treatin’ you all right, is she?”

“Maggie,” Jasmine cautioned, fighting a grin at her irrepressible sister.

Bright blue eyes sparkling, Maggie tossed a triumphant look in her direction then spoke conspiratorially to Patrick. “You must be one mighty interestin’ man to get Jazz to carry on a conversation. She likes to keep business in its place, you understand.”

Jasmine put her arm around her sister’s delicate shoulders and turned her to face the opposite direction. Maggie’s coal dark hair swung softly against her collar with the movement. “Table six is trying to get your attention, Magnolia, dear.”

“Why, so they are!” Maggie looked over her shoulder and winked at Patrick, then left, her hips swaying provoc-atively.

Patrick smiled. He could handle Maggie—she wouldn’t present any surprises. She knew she was flirting and so did he. His glance shifted to Jasmine. Now there was an enigma. She might be making an effort to flirt; she might not. Just the fact that she wore a conservatively loose uniform as opposed to the more formfitting one her less voluptuous sister sported said a lot about her personality— and her need to keep customers at a distance.

So why in hell was she making an effort with him?

“Don’t mind my sister,” Jasmine said, breaking into his thoughts.

“I like a woman who speaks her mind.” Patrick held her gaze until she gave him a small smile and walked away. Ah, yes, this woman was much more interesting.

The chicken was broiled to perfection, the vegetables tender-crisp, the rice neither clumped nor sticky. It was a meal some workout guru would turn cartwheels about, but not this red-blooded American man who’d earned his calluses by moving freight. Patrick swore he could hear the last bite of chicken hit bottom in his stomach, like a bucket splashing into a well.

No way in hell was some damned plate of fruit going to fill the emptiness. Not even a basketful would do it.

His good mood deteriorated into annoyance. Hunger did that to him. As the hospital nutritionist, Nurse Crackwhip, had instructed, he visualized a healthy heart, the blood flowing unrestricted through a steadily pumping machine. Of course, she had also told him stress would add to his problems, and he was extremely stressed when he was hungry.

Eating healthy was for women.

He drummed his spoon on the table and watched Jasmine approach with his fruit plate and coffee—decaf, another curse from the evil Crackwhip. He felt the stick of pins in him at the slightest temptation to deviate from his healthy food program, as if she’d made a voodoo doll of him and would push in a pin when necessary to keep him on the straight and narrow. Okay, so it was really the road to recovery. It felt like capital punishment.

“How was your dinner?” Jasmine asked as she exchanged one plate for another, then began filling his coffee cup.

“Fine. Great.”

She looked up at his tone of voice and he apologized.

“Jet lag catching up with you?” she asked, smiling.

He shrugged. It was a convenient excuse, and probably part of his problem, as well. “I’m sure a good night’s rest will straighten me out. How about you? How much longer until you get off your feet?”

“A couple hours. Midnight, usually, unless we’re really slow.” She glanced around the room. “Excuse me. A customer wants more coffee.”

Patrick jabbed a slice of cantaloupe and took a bite. Not too bad. The grapes were okay, as well. And the strawberries juicy and tasty. He felt better when he was done, and sat back to enjoy his coffee. His gaze landed on Jasmine’s sister, Maggie, as she laughed with a couple of men old enough to be her father.

Hell, he was old enough to be her father. He’d bet she was near Paige’s age, and a good ten years younger than Jasmine. Still, he was holding together all right, considering he had an almost-thirty-year-old daughter. The first strands of gray had made their appearance over the past year but his hairline hadn’t receded at all.

And recently he’d been more sought after than ever. The reason for his sudden popularity probably stemmed from the announcement a few months ago of the merger of his company, O’Halloran Shipping, with the smaller firm of Collins-Abrahamson, especially since actual dollar figures had been revealed in newspaper articles. When his net worth had become public knowledge, ambitious mamas had doubled their dinner party invitations and seated him next to their twenty-something daughters, hoping to draw his interest.

There was nothing wrong with either his eyesight or his libido. He found many of those young women beautiful, sexy…and far too young to be of interest. He wanted a woman who had a memory of the Vietnam War, not one who’d learned about it in high school history class. Neither did he want a woman who hung on his every word or whose focus was on shopping and partying.

Then there were the divorced women blatantly prowling for a new mate…and meal ticket.

Why couldn’t he find someone in between, maybe someone with a couple of children he could still be a father to? He wiped a hand down his face. Nothing like acknowledging your mortality to bring on an attack of sentimentalism, he decided.

“All done?” Jasmine asked. “Or would you like more coffee?”

He hadn’t even heard her come to the table. “I’ve had enough, thanks.”

“Are you running a tab or paying cash?”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be around, so I don’t want to run a tab.”

“Oh? This is a really quick trip, then?”

“I’m not sure. My daughter and son-in-law had to leave town. As soon as they get back I’ll probably be with them instead of coming here.”

She placed his check upside down on the table. “So, you may not be back?” she asked, her voice soft but her chin lifted.

Patrick didn’t know what to make of the contradictions he saw in her. She looked as if she’d had the wind knocked out of her and seemed suddenly small and lost, yet she also appeared ready to do battle. “Do you want me to come back, Jasmine?” he asked, equally softly and with as much intensity.

“I—I’ve enjoyed talking with you.”

“Do you want me to come back?” He had a sudden urge to kiss away her hesitation, and an even stronger urge to feel her pressed against him. Was she stalling because she was an employee and he a guest? Or because she was feeling the same attraction that he was, and didn’t know how to handle it either, especially this soon? She was the first woman he’d met in a long time whose intentions weren’t conspicuously apparent within the first fifteen minutes of acquaintance—which didn’t say much about his choice of women lately.

“Good night,” she said softly.

Patrick watched her walk determinedly away, then he pulled a slim gold pen from inside his jacket and wrote a message on the check stub. After adding several bills, he strode out of the club and into the night.

Jasmine watched him leave, regretting that she hadn’t answered him. She didn’t have time to be a fatalist. If she wanted something to happen, she had to make it happen.

She’d seen him write something on the check. Usually when a man did that, it was his phone number. Please, don’t let it be his phone number, she prayed. She wanted him to be better than that.

First she noticed the staggering tip he’d left, then she lifted the check. “I’ll be back.” The words were printed in bold, masculine script.

She closed her eyes, tore off the perforated stub and shoved it into her pocket, keeping her hand on it for a few seconds. She’d seen complexity and intelligence in the man, along with some pain and, she was pretty sure, mutual attraction.

She hoped he would be the one to fath—be The Donor, yet she didn’t even know his name.

And she didn’t dare ask J.D., who would gloat over finally accomplishing his goal of the past year—getting her to show the slightest interest in a man.

No, she had to wait for him to come back and then work up her nerve to entice him to her bed. It was a tall order for a man-hating woman who treasured honesty above all else.

Honesty. Why should she worry about it? How long had it been since a man had been completely honest with her?

Her father had left before her first birthday. Her first stepfather lasted six months. Her second stepfather had stuck it out until Maggie was almost three.

Then there was Jasmine’s ex-husband, Deacon, the supposed love of her life. He’d broken through all of her defenses and convinced her to marry him. She’d given up so much of herself to please him. But when he’d wanted out, she’d suddenly become a second-class citizen—and her children, Matthew and Raine, pawns in his game.

Six years ago he’d spirited their children out of the country. Six years of her searching and hoping. Six years of hell. What would it be like to have so much money and power that you could break all the rules, legal and moral? she wondered for the thousandth time, even as her subconscious whispered that she was breaking the rules by deciding to find a donor—not a father. No. She couldn’t give in to that particular weakness. The end had to justify the means. For once, her needs were going to come first.

“What’s going on between you and the code green from last night?” Maggie asked as she and Jasmine changed into their uniforms in the women’s locker room.

“Nothing.” Jasmine almost wished for a more figurehugging uniform like her sister’s, something to draw the man’s interest in a hurry. The basal thermometer had registered a normal temperature that morning, but she had to be ovulating soon.

“Uh-huh,” her sister commented as she lined her lips with cherry red lipstick.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Snow White?” It was an old joke between them. Jasmine with her long blond hair had always been Sleeping Beauty. They taunted each other with the contrast whenever they wanted to change the subject.

Maggie sighed. “Why is it we complain about wanting men to admire us for our minds, then we spend a fortune on makeup?” She turned toward her sister. “You’re as transparent as spun sugar, you know. Not only did you spend time talking to that gorgeous hunk of masculinity, you only had to put one quarter in the jar the whole evening and that was before you met him.”

“So?” Jasmine leaned into her locker to exchange shoes.

“So…you’re good for three or four slams against the male gender every night. How am I supposed to buy myself a wedding dress if you stop maligning men? I’ve only saved two hundred and sixty-two dollars so far. I’m counting on you.”

Jasmine tossed her street shoes into the locker. “You might find it handy to get yourself a fiancé first.”

“By my thirtieth birthday I—”

“Better hurry up.” Jasmine shut the door and gave the combination lock a twirl.

Maggie sniffed at the reminder. “Obviously, you don’t want to discuss your gentleman caller.”

“There’s nothing to say. He came, he ordered, he left. Same as a thousand other men before him.”

“Except you didn’t have conversations with the other nine hundred and ninety-nine.” Maggie pushed open the door and preceded Jasmine down the hall and into the kitchen.

“Only one out of a thousand men is worth engaging in conversation.”

Maggie pointed dramatically at the Michelangelo jar labeled Men Are The Scum Of The Earth, with its handprinted addendum, Except J.D. “Two hundred and sixty-two dollars and twenty-five cents.”

Compact. Patrick had finally come up with a word to describe Jasmine that wouldn’t get him into trouble. Maybe. She probably wouldn’t think it much of a compliment.

He’d spent the day contemplating her behavior. She hadn’t wanted to be interested in him, yet she was. She hadn’t flaunted herself before him, yet he’d been more attracted than he’d been in years to any woman. He hadn’t let her catch him eyeing her—he’d learned that women either loved or hated that kind of attention—but he’d observed her thoroughly.

As he followed the maître d’, a dark-haired man by the name of J. D. Duran, to the same table as the previous night, Patrick realized he was nervous. That in itself was a rarity. He’d always had an abundance of self-confidence. Suddenly he felt like a teenager at his first school dance, and he didn’t know any of the steps.

He’d just been served his club soda when Jasmine made her way to his table.

“So. Your daughter isn’t back yet,” she said, looking at his glass.

“I made you a promise.”

She lifted her gaze. “I didn’t know whether to believe you.”

“Now you know.” He said the words lightly, not wanting the conversation to get too serious, and he was rewarded by seeing her shoulders relax.

“Still recovering from jet lag?” she asked. “Club soda again?”

“Drinking alone is a sobering thought.” Nurse Crackwhip could keep her stickpins to herself, too, he thought. “I slept twelve hours straight last night. I guess I needed this vacation more than I realized.”

“How’d you spend your day?”

He grinned. “Doing something I haven’t done in years. Watching television.”

“San Francisco is a beautiful city. You should get out and see it.”

“If I had a companion—”

“Well, hello again, honey.”

“Miss Magnolia,” Patrick drawled, shifting his glance to the dark-haired woman.

“Did you come back for more of our tasty morsels?”

The ambiguous words made Patrick smile. “My appetite’s healthy.” His gaze flickered to Jasmine, who was watching her sister indulgently.

Maggie eyed his suit jacket. “It appears you favor Italian tailors.”

“Not unless Geoffrey St. Clair has stopped telling the world he’s the only important African-American designer.”

“Really? It’s a St. Clair?”

Patrick leaned forward. “I knew him when he was Jeff Troutner He gives me suits to buy my silence.” He laughed at the expression on Maggie’s face. “I’m kidding. Well, not about his name, but that’s common knowledge. He and my daughter went to school together from kindergarten on.”

Jasmine let them talk for a minute as she looked him over, noting more detail this time. His hair was a little long but well cut, his clothing already noted as designer. When he showed Maggie the trademark St. Clair logo embroidered in the lining of the jacket, Jasmine spotted a discreet monogram on the stark white dress shirt, which was probably made of the finest cotton known to man.

What had she been thinking? She couldn’t intentionally deceive this man. He was a power unto himself, she could see that now. He probably headed up some high-revenue computer company or high-visibility law firm. He wouldn’t be welcomed at the Carola unless he had money and power to back him, no matter who his son-in-law was.

What in the world would he want with her—some waitress who saved fifty percent of her income in the useless hope that she could have a second chance at motherhood? He probably made in a month what had taken her seven years to save. He was so far out of her league, they weren’t even playing the same sport. She’d already played a mismatched game once in her life. And lost.

You only need him for a day, maybe two. The reminder slithered from her conscience to her brain, her practical side emerging to tamp down the emotional side. It only mattered that he be attracted for a couple of hours, maybe two nights in a row. Then he’d have his visit with his daughter and return to his life in Boston. Surely a couple of nights in bed together would satisfy his curiosity about her. He might even pick up on the fact she was faking it with him and not want a repeat performance.

And maybe she would end up with a child from their brief affair. But perhaps she could give him something, too—the human contact missing in his life since his wife died.

That was the way to look at the situation, of course. A brief, life-altering bisecting of lives, then each could move on. No broken hearts, just a moment out of time.

“Jasmine.” Patrick watched her seem to shake herself back into the real world. Maggie had left half a minute ago, yet Jasmine had stayed frozen in place, her eyes glazed.

“I’m sorry,” she said with a slight smile. “Are you ready to order?”

She angled toward him and tossed her head, a gesture he would expect her sister would make. Every time he decided Jasmine was just being friendly, she would do something obviously flirtatious—and look uncomfortable doing so.

On her recommendation he ordered the fresh fish of the day, his mouth watering for the steak he’d watched her place in front of another customer just before she’d come to his table, but Crackwhip’s pin jabbed him just as he’d been about to order. He slid out of his jacket and started to lay it across the seat beside him.

She reached for it. “I’ll hang that up for you, sir.”

“Patrick,” he said. “Patrick O’Halloran.”

“Mr. O’Halloran.”

“Patrick.”