Читать книгу Everybody's Hero - Tracy Kelleher, Tracy Kelleher - Страница 10

CLAIRE WAS READY.

But Trish wasn’t. Neither was Elaine. Maybe they couldn’t deal with putting on eyeliner and lipstick before sunrise two days in a row.

A certain member of the male population didn’t seem to have those worries. Jason was there waiting, tapping his foot as he leaned against the check-in area in the Plaza’s lobby. A giant arrangement of Asiatic lilies and birds-of-paradise, which was perched on the marble counter, quivered in time to his strict tattoo.

And talk about the opposite of all dressed up with nowhere to go. Under his leather bomber jacket, he wore a ratty sweatshirt and sweatpants. On his feet, an old pair of sneakers held together with duct tape. There wasn’t a logo in sight.

It was a sponsor’s nightmare. And from the looks of the female clerks on duty, every woman’s fantasy.

How could a man who’d just rolled out of bed and into yesterday’s laundry possibly generate that much raw sex appeal? Claire wondered. Thoughts of his just rolling out of bed lingered in her imagination. She set her jaw and marched forward. Simply do your job, she told herself. No weak knees today.

Jason spotted her instantly and pushed himself away from the desk with his elbows. Claire stopped two feet in front of him and performed an obvious once-over. “Don’t overdress on my account,” she said in greeting him.

Jason leaned over and picked up a canvas backpack. “I figured I’d change into my formal wear for when we go house hunting.”

“Always important to impress the co-op boards.” After Jason’s morning workout, Claire was supposed to capture his search for the perfect abode in his new hometown. She couldn’t wait to see what marvel of mirrored glass and steel he would choose for himself. Her image of bachelor jocks living alone fit with some slick, Donald Trump skyscraper on the Upper East Side.

“Vernon not joining us?” She let the doorman hail a taxi out front.

“No, he has to hold some Romanian gymnast’s hand today. I’ve been upstaged by an eighty-pound tumbler.” He didn’t look stricken. “What about Trish? Still too early for her nail polish to dry?”

“Don’t be so hard on Trish.” Claire defended her friend, even though there might be a grain of truth in Jason’s crack. “She may get a little carried away at times—”

“Trust me. No man would ever complain about a woman getting carried away. At anytime.”

Claire frowned and was about to snap back a retort when she caught herself. Jason had this unerring way of getting her goat. She had always considered herself fairly immune to “male speech.” After years of living in close quarters with war correspondents and soldiers, she had developed a tough skin when it came to many things—constant innuendos being only one of them.

But conversations with Jason seemed to leave her as vulnerable as a schoolmarm. Why did he always seem to know which button to push? She must be getting soft in her old age. These days, after all, she was in the habit of sleeping on clean sheets—Pratese, Trish had informed her—and having a cleaning lady to do her wash—never had her T-shirts been so cuddly soft and April-fresh smelling.

That was it! It was all that fabric softener. It was affecting her brain as well as her nasal passages.

Satisfied that she had a petrochemical explanation for her softening response system, Claire squared her shoulders with a renewed sense of self-confidence and replied with her customary glibness. “I must remember that insight the next time the Secretary General of the United Nations asks me for my opinion on global warming. In the meantime, I’d like to discuss some of Patti’s other admirable traits.”

“Patti?” A taxi pulled up, and Jason gave the address.

“Sorry, Trish. Trish used to be known as Patti back in high school, but she decided to change it.”

“Before or after sleeping with the sports editor?”

Claire turned to him in the back seat of the taxi. “As surprising as this may be to you, the change was not part of some post-coital response. ‘Oh, now that I am a woman, I think I’ll change my name to Trish.’”

Jason leaned back in his seat and gave her a wide-eyed stare. “That is hard to believe.”

Claire stared back, taking in his look of mock amazement. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

He tilted his head. “Very much so. Aren’t you?”

Claire smiled thoughtfully. “I guess I am, too.” And she was. Despite her earlier misgivings, she found herself amused, maybe relaxed. No, not relaxed. “Anyway, to make a long explanation short—Trish used to be known as Patti because her name is really Patricia. But then she thought that sounded too Gidget-ish.”

He leaned forward. “I realize that’s supposed to make it all crystal-clear, but who or what is a Gidget?”

“Never mind. That’s not important. What is important is that Trish took me under her wing when I first showed up in Leeds Springs. I had never lived in America, never heard of the suburban high school scene. I was so out, I didn’t even know there was such a thing as an ‘in’ crowd. And Trish immediately made me part of the newspaper crowd, made me feel accepted. And her generosity didn’t end there. Later, when I’d be between assignments and back in the States, she always let me crash at her place, even kept a trunk with all my stuff. I’m there now as a matter of fact.”

“She seems like quite a friend.”

“The best. It’s on account of her that I’m shooting this job.” She turned to face Jason. The taxi turned sharply at the corner.

“I’d say it was probably talent that got you the job. It’s probably just as much to Trish’s benefit, if not more, that you’re shooting the pictures.” He looked deadly serious.

Claire scoffed. “Come off it. We all know that in this world, talent only gets you so far. Well, maybe not in your world, but in mine, anyway. It’s who you know that counts. If I can help out Trish, great. But bottom line, she’s the one who hired me.”

“Were you always this cynical?”

“You can call it cynical if you want. I prefer to think of it as realistic. In any case, it’s important to me that Trish doesn’t get hurt with this whole wedding business. Very important.” Claire studied her hands. She realized she’d been folding and unfolding them on top of her camera case.

“Claire?” he asked softly. “Claire?” he asked again. She looked up. “I understand your loyalty, and I applaud it. Heck, you’re talking to someone who plays on a team as a profession. But I want you to get one thing straight.” He paused.

Relieved to see that the taxi had stopped, Claire leaned against the door, ready to get out.

Jason put a hand on her arm. His voice was low, barely above a whisper. “I will make sure that everything goes okay for Trish at the wedding. But get one thing clear, crystal-clear.” He tightened his grip on her arm. Claire looked at the hand on her jacket sleeve, then at his face. There wasn’t a grin in sight. And just when she would have preferred him to tease her in some good-natured, tasteless way, he said, in a deadly serious tone, “I’m not doing this because it’s important to Trish. I’m doing it because it’s important to you.” And then he let go of her arm.

CLAIRE SWUNG open the door, climbed out, and adjusted the awkward load of her camera bag. She gulped for air, any air, to counter the sudden attack of hyperventilation that had seized her. And she was having a hard time blaming it on laundry products.

Jason Doyle is an assignment, she told herself firmly. And he’s the means to helping out a good friend. Period. What she needed now in her life was the safety of simplicity. No complications. No risks. Just uninterrupted nights of sleep, regular meals and a paycheck every two weeks.

What she didn’t need was Jason Doyle messing with her brain, and messing with the rest of her insides. And right now she was definitely having a mind-body experience, one that wasn’t leading to a greater state of bliss. No amount of self-help gurus, green tea or lavender bath salts was going to provide an antidote, either. What she needed had to be far more potent—one-hundred-percent caffeine.

She turned back and watched as Jason paid the driver. He slung his backpack over his shoulder. His jacket rose to expose his hipbones, jutting against the low-slung, soft fabric of his sweatpants. She gulped and turned away quickly. “I desperately need coffee,” she gasped. She was going to need it intravenously if his pants slipped any lower.

She looked around for a coffee shop, taking in her surroundings for the first time. “What are we doing in the Village?” So intent had she been during the conversation in the cab that she hadn’t paid any attention to where they were going. “I thought we were going to the gym.” She’d naturally assumed they were using a training facility at the Garden. Or if not, some posh health club, with state-of-the-art machines and freshly squeezed carrot and guava juice in a carefully constructed snack bar.

She turned a three-sixty on her heels. When she thought of the Village, she thought of jazz clubs, wacky Halloween parades, and shops selling rhinestone handcuffs and crotchless underpants. She didn’t think of strapping specimens of male beauty—at least not in the context of professional sports. But here they were, on the edge of the New York University campus, not exactly a powerhouse in hockey.

“I would have thought you usually worked out with the team,” she said again.

“That’s true. They have special equipment tailored to building up quads and hamstrings for lateral movement.”

Claire nodded, not having the faintest idea what he was talking about.

“But I also like to scout out universities. It’s something I got into the habit of doing when I was with my last team. Their gyms may not have the shiniest equipment, but the gym rats are really eager. Nothing pushes you harder than a bunch of cocky twenty-year-olds watching your every move.”

Why anyone would voluntarily want to compete against guys who could party all night, live on bags of Oreos, and still come out and run a sub-five-minute mile, was beyond her comprehension. Unless you still felt you could do the same thing. She studied Jason. “I suppose you think you can drink shots of tequila all night and still outrun, out jump and out lift any of them.”

“I can’t?” Jason looked incredulous.

If he didn’t look so boyishly handsome in his sloppy clothes and unkempt hair—no, there was nothing boyish about Jason Doyle—Claire would have clocked him right there and then. Talk about delusional. The man thought he was immortal, or at least immortally young. Chalk up another reason for her to steer clear. In her experience, people with an unnatural sense of their own invincibility tended to do reckless things that got themselves and others into trouble. Big trouble.

“Well, some of us are mature enough to realize that we need to take care of our bodies, to nourish them with essential vitamins. That being the case, I’m going over there to get coffee.” She pointed to an espresso bar on the corner. “Can I get you something?”

“No, I never drink coffee. Do you know what coffee does to your system?”

“It’s the one thing that my body responds to in a predictable way.” She rummaged in a side pocket of her bag for some money.

“Maybe it’s time to generate some unpredictable responses?”

“And you’re just the guy to do it, right?” Claire shook her head and managed to pull a five-dollar bill free of some tissues and gum wrappers. “Talk about being predictable.”

“Honey, nothing’s predictable when it comes to me.”