Читать книгу Making Babies - Wendy Warren - Страница 10

Mitch stood outside Elaine Lowry’s rented front door and tried not to let his mounting anger get the best of him. The duplex she’d been living in for the past several months was the pits. According to his friend at Portland Property Management, the building was structurally sound. But cosmetically?

Mitch flicked a barklike wedge of peeling brown paint off the door frame and swore under his breath. This was not the type of place he’d pictured for Elaine when he’d asked his friend at the management firm to find her a “good deal.”

Standing with his hands on his hips, head lowered, he waited for her to answer the bell. The work shirt that had been tied around his hips now covered his torso, albeit half buttoned and untucked. Perspiration trickled down the nape of his neck, and he swiped it away, grumbling as a wasp dive-bombed past his face. He looked up to see a nest under the eaves. Great. Another thing he’d have to take care of.

He did not want to be here. Should not be here. In life, as in work, Mitch preferred situations that were black-and-white. Cleanly opened, cleanly closed, like the best cases.

Elaine Lowry was not black-and-white. She was a problem for him in walking, talking Technicolor.

For the past decade and a half, Mitch had made quite a reputation for himself and his firm by representing high-profile divorce suits. He considered it his job to make people act responsibly and with integrity when feelings were hurt, egos were bruised and money was involved. Quite a challenge and one he enjoyed. Usually. Representing Kevin Lowry, however, had been as rewarding as sticking needles in his eye.

Raising a fist that was clenched too tightly, Mitch flexed his fingers, balled them again and knocked on the door.

He never got personally involved with one of his own clients; he certainly never got personally involved with the opposing attorney’s client. Never. Capital N, capital EVER. He’d crossed the line. And he was about to cross it again.

It wasn’t his business to make sure she was protected financially.

It wasn’t his business to make sure she was well housed.

It wasn’t his business to make amends for her marriage or her divorce or…anything else. Yet here he was.

“Just make it fast,” he hissed to himself, knocking on the door one more time, harder than he needed to. He would stay briefly, speak his piece, make sure she was at least comfortable here and maybe give her the name of a good financial advisor. She could do what she wanted with the information. Or not. It was none of his business.

Elaine’s nose, lips and chin were pressed against the door when Mitch knocked. Caught off guard, she jumped, nearly blinding herself on the old-fashioned peephole. She twisted the knob and opened the door.

“Wait a minute! Don’t open—” Mitch started to say, but it was too late; a wasp so big it was probably in violation of the leash law, flew straight at her face.

Elaine yelped and flailed her hands.

“Don’t move!” Mitch ordered with the same deep authority she remembered from the courtroom.

Unfortunately the wasp kept buzzing, so she kept flailing. Then the buzzing stopped, and her nose felt like an entire pincushion had launched itself at her.

“Ow!”

“Damn it.” Mitch pushed the door open in an effort to reach for her. It banged into her bare shin.

“OWWW!!!”

He swore more colorfully. “Sorry. Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not all right!” Elaine shook as she pointed to her nose. She could see the wasp if she crossed her eyes. “Get it off, get it off!”

“Stop hopping.” He grasped her elbow with a strong hand and pushed her a step back, following her into the room. Holding her steady, he examined her face from a distance of less than a foot. “It’s got you.”

She stared back at him; pain and exhaustion that was about a lot more than a wasp sting filled her to overflowing. “This newsflash just in,” she snapped, “I Already Know That.”

Mitch’s brows rose ever so slightly at her tone, but he didn’t seem offended. “Hold still.” Reaching up, he slapped the wasp and—inadvertently, she assumed—her nose.

“Hey!” she protested.

The wasp buzzed away, still alive and only a little worse for the wear.

“Duck,” Mitch ordered, using his hand like a racket to swat the insect out of the house. He slammed the door shut.

Turning back to her, he ignored the glare she attempted to give him. Her poor nose was starting to throb already. She cupped her hands around it.

“Where’s your bathroom?” he asked. Elaine pointed, and Mitch took her elbow, overriding her little tug of resistance.

He found the light switch and flicked it on, then pulled her in front of the sink to the medicine cabinet. “Are you going to put your hands down so I can see your nose?”

“No.” Her voice emerged muffled. Call her vain, but if sensation was anything to go by, her nose was swelling already, and she didn’t have the smallest shnoz to begin with. “It’s fine.”

Reaching up, Mitch drew her hands away from her face, gently but insistently. He had large hands; one easily wrapped around both her wrists and with the other he tilted her face and gazed at it, taking his time. “Not too bad,” he said finally.

Elaine licked her lips. “It isn’t?”

When he shook his head, she expected him to let her go, but he didn’t. He continued to hold her. His touch, however, was light. It was impersonal.

It was driving her crazy.

Elaine’s heart pounded far more than it should have under the circumstances, unless, of course, wasp venom was making her delirious. She knew she was staring at Mitch’s mouth, but felt helpless to look away.

And then the hand cupping her chin moved. He ran his knuckles lightly across her cheek. When he reached her jaw, his fingers unfurled to wander into the hair at her nape.

Oh, Lord, they had slept together. Elaine knew it the moment he touched the back of her neck. She couldn’t remember the last time a man other than Kevin had touched her there, except for Dr. Larson when she’d had swollen glands last winter, and he was seventy. Yet Mitch’s hand did not feel new or strange or even unfamiliar. She remembered it. Her body remembered it.

A shower of tingles raced down her back, along her arms and, incredibly, over her thighs. During the last few years of her marriage to Kevin, she’d forgotten she even had thighs. Mitch was barely touching her and suddenly she felt every pore.

“Where’s your antiseptic?”

Elaine licked her lips. “Where’s my—” She blinked, blurry with desire, but not too blurry to realize what he’d just asked. Her lips formed a confounded O. “What?”

“Antiseptic,” he repeated. “That sting is…pretty nasty.”

“Is it?” Her racing heart skidded to a dull, heavy thud. Embarrassment washed up her neck and face. What she remembered clearly from that night in the bar was the incomparable comfort of Mitch’s presence. The case had ended. Her marriage was over. Sitting in a bar, in her winter coat, in the middle of the afternoon, she’d felt more alone than ever before in her life. She’d tried hard not to show despair, humiliation, or any of the myriad emotions she’d felt. She’d tried not to look at Mitch’s face, so often shuttered and unreadable, but on that day almost…compassionate.

Then over the sound of waves crashing in her ears, she’d heard him say, “He’s not worth it, Elaine.”

He’d sounded so sure and so angry and so on her side.

That had to be the reason she’d agreed to stay. And why she had found herself, over an hour later, still sipping brandy and actually laughing at the awful jokes Mitch told her and which she was surprised he even knew. And why, when he’d said finally, “I’ll take you home,” she’d unresistingly handed him her car keys, bundled into the passenger side and had felt—for the first time since she’d realized her life was falling apart—safe.

But a moment ago, standing in the confines of her small bathroom, with Mitch touching her, she hadn’t felt safe at all. For an instant, with his brown eyes fixed on her, she had felt the thrill that something wild and unknown was about to happen.

Men!

Anger kindled in Elaine’s stomach. Tightly she said, “Your hand is on the back of my neck.”

Mitch frowned quizzically.

“Your hand,” she bit out again. “It is on the back of my neck.” And clearly that was an erogenous zone. “I can’t get to the medicine cabinet.”

“Oh.”

He let her go. Elaine’s neck felt cold and bare.

They did an awkward dance as she moved around him. Catching sight of her own face in the mirror, Elaine longed to sit down right where she was and weep. Her nose where the wasp had stung her was red and inflamed and now that her adrenaline was calming, she could feel the throb again. Every part of her felt like it had been stung. Glancing above her own head, she saw Mitch’s reflection as he watched her.

She shoved the sliding glass of the medicine cabinet harder than she needed to, but could barely see the contents through the tears filling her eyes. Not the damned tears again, she groaned silently, pressing her lips together to refuse the emotion. No, she was not going to cry over this…this…whatever it was. Stupid…hormonal…mistake.

“Excuse me,” she said tightly, without turning around. “Would you please… This bathroom is just not that large.” Nothing happened. He didn’t move. “Would you leave?”

Mitch frowned heavily.

Elaine waited with forced calm, hand on the Neosporin, until she heard him walk quietly across the tile floor and through the hall. Without looking, she reached out, grasped the bathroom door and slammed it as hard as she could. She had no intention of crying in front of Mitch Ryder, and she certainly wasn’t going to cry over him.

She had plans, born of her heart only. If she intended to get on with them, she had better get used to feeling alone. No doubt she was going to feel alone a lot in the coming months as she embarked on a journey usually traveled by two.

As for discovering what had happened the night she left the bar with Mitch, that was a mystery that would have to remain unsolved. What difference did it make? She didn’t need an affair; she didn’t want the headache.

What she wanted was a pint-sized headache who needed all the love she had to give.

Splashing cold water on her face, Elaine dabbed her nose with antiseptic, replaced the tube and closed the medicine cabinet. Time to get down to business. She had a pregnancy to get under way. And a possible ex-lover to get rid of. She didn’t want Mitch Ryder here one moment longer than necessary.

Mitch looked down at the oak floor, grateful for the dimness of the living room with the curtains closed. As if the dimness would keep him from having to see himself too clearly.

What the hell was going on with him?

He had come here to relieve himself of the gnawing, uncomfortable sense of personal responsibility Elaine’s case had engendered. He had come here so he could feel less involved after he left. So far, his plan could be considered a failure.

Mitch wasn’t stupid. He knew what people—co-workers, most clients, his ex-wife—thought of him: that he was cold, impenetrable, virtually emotionless. That was fine. Experience told him their estimations were accurate. He’d long since stopped feeling guilty for his own inadequacies. That which had made his personal life a failure had lent strength to his professional life once he’d learned to use rather than deny his personality traits.

He shook his head. Every time he tried to make amends to Elaine—so he could walk away with a clear conscience—he got sucked in further. And yet he felt compelled to go on trying. Why?

Mitch’s sister, the youngest partner on record at the respected law firm of Cowden, Hardy, Hardy, Nash & Ryder, would tell him to snap out of it. “Do what you’re good at—pay someone else to do the other stuff” was M. D. Ryder’s credo. By “other stuff,” M.D. meant anything having to do with emotion. Mitch had lived by the same philosophy and on those rare occasions he hadn’t—his brief marriage, for example—the results had been suitably disastrous.

His sister was the only person he knew who could separate emotion from…well, everything better than he could. Family quirk.

“Do what you’re good at, forget the other stuff,” Mitch muttered, reminding himself that he had a reason for being here, a reason he could handle quickly and then leave.

He was staring at the closed curtains, at nothing, really, when Elaine emerged from the bathroom.

Her bare feet stepped quietly across the wood floor. She continued on to the kitchen without glancing at him. “I’m getting water. Do you want anything?”

Mitch frowned. From the start, he had admired Kevin Lowry’s wife for her innate warmth, for the gentle grace that came as a surprise every time he saw her. Now her tone was formal, brusque and businesslike.

“Water’s fine,” he said, following her into the kitchen.

As she pulled glasses out of a cabinet and a jug of ice water from the refrigerator, Mitch filled the yawning silence by taking his first really good look at the interior of the duplex.

Like the exterior, the interior had aged and was not as well maintained as it should have been, but the big, raw bones of the divided house were good. What he appreciated most, though, was the simple way Elaine had decorated, with dish towels in a bright sunflower pattern, yellow checked curtains on the windows, and several teapots—one that was covered in ridiculous red cherries—on wooden shelves above the cabinets. Late afternoon sun reached soothing streamers of light through the well-placed windows, enhancing the soft glow of butter-yellow walls.

The kitchen in his Mountain Park condominium was white and stainless steel. A twice-weekly housekeeper kept everything sparkling, though he rarely gave her anything to clean. He didn’t cook. Take-out was infrequent. Occasionally he nuked a frozen meal, but by and large he ate in restaurants and used the kitchen primarily as a wine cellar for occasional entertaining. Elaine lived in her kitchen. It was oddly appealing.

Filling both glasses with water, she set one on the counter in front of him and sipped from the other, eyeing him over the top of the rim. Mitch started to drink then noticed his glass was only half-full. Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?

Draining the glass, he set it down. She made no move to refill it, and Mitch smiled. Had to. He’d met few people as unintentionally candid as Elaine Lowry. Clearing his throat, he got down to business, presenting his opening gambit as if addressing a court. “You’re wondering why I’m here.”

She crossed her arms. “I’m wondering how you knew my address.”

Right. He’d forgotten that would be a question.

“I assume Maggie gave it to you,” she continued before he could respond. “Which is profoundly unprofessional, but I will take that up with her next time the rent is due.”

Maggie Lewis owned Portland Property, the company that managed this rental. Mitch had handed Elaine his friend’s business card the afternoon he’d followed her into the Heathman. Later he’d phoned Maggie personally and told her to find Elaine someplace clean and safe where the rent was cheap and likely to stay so. This duplex had been absentee-owned for over a decade. The rent had been raised only twice in that time. Unfortunately the owners had decided to sell one month ago, taking advantage of the spike in area home prices. New owners were sure to increase the rent. Maggie had mentioned the fact to Mitch in passing.

“So other than a love of lawn mowing, what brings you here, Mitch?”

He scowled. He could overlook her patent hostility because she hadn’t realized yet that he was on her side. But she would soon. He decided to warm things up a bit before he answered her question. “How’s your nose?”

“It hurts. I think I’ll go to bed early.”

Mitch plowed a hand through his hair and surrendered. Okay. Get to the point. Once he clarified the situation, she would realize he was here to make amends. No doubt she would be surprised by the news, so he’d give her a moment to process it. Because he tended to feel uncomfortable with profuse expressions of gratitude, he would take his cue to leave when the thank-yous began.

“If you recall, Maggie is a former client. I represented her in her second and third divorces.”

Elaine raised a brow. “I hope she got the frequent flyer discount.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a joke.”

“Oh.” She was being wry. Unfortunately, humor was not his forte. He’d been told that on a number of occasions as well. Clearing his throat, he attempted to get back on course. “As I was saying, I know Maggie, and because I referred you to her originally, she thought I would be interested in any changes that occurred in your current living situation.”

“There aren’t any changes occurring in my living situation.” Elaine frowned then stared at him hard. “Are there?”

Mitch hesitated, his assurance beginning to waver. Something told him his news was not going to be quite as graciously received as he’d originally thought.

The furrow between Elaine’s brows—the one she was going to Botox come Monday—deepened. Mitch had tucked Maggie’s card in her hand, and she’d used the referral because she knew she needed the good deal he had said Maggie would provide. She had a nest egg—half the proceeds from the sale of the house she’d owned with Kevin—but that was in savings, and her thirty hours a week at Dr. Gussman’s didn’t stretch very far. She’d been looking for a new job, but the market was slim in Portland. The cheap rent here had turned out to be her saving grace, so— Oh, no.

“The new owner wants to raise the rent,” she deduced. “Maggie told me she was certain he wouldn’t raise it for at least a year.” She made no attempt to check the panic coursing through her. Welcome to the perfect end to her perfect day: special delivery notice of a raise in rent. There wasn’t enough ice cream in all of Portland to make this news go down sweetly. With her lower lip pushing hard against her upper, she went ahead and glared at Mitch even though it wasn’t his fault and she’d been darned grateful to him for turning her on to Maggie in the first place. Stubbornly, she crossed her arms over her chest. Screw logic. She wasn’t in the mood. And then suddenly it occurred to her.

“So that’s why you came out here.” Her eyes widened. She put a hand on her forehead. “And that’s why you were mowing my lawn. It was a pity mow!”

“Your rent is not being raised. I came out here—” Mitch paused for a moment and stared. “A pity mow?” He shook his head. “I came out here to tell you the duplex has been sold.”

“Sold.” It took a protracted moment to process that information. Mitch wore a small smile, as if he considered this good news. “Sold? Sold is worse than the rent being raised,” she told him as if she were explaining why we don’t bite to a stubborn five-year-old. Lord, she was exhausted. She had lost too much; she was not losing her run-down duplex with the tilting ornamental cabbage. “They can’t do this. No way! I…am not…going…anywhere.”

She grabbed a dish towel—anything she could harmlessly wring to within an inch of its life—and used it to point around the kitchen. “Do you see those walls? I painted those walls. I did it. I went to classes at Home Depot for a month to learn how to glaze. I’ve invested something here. Time, energy, expectation.” She flung out an arm. “I gave my youth to those walls! One person cannot just waltz in and stomp all over another person’s dreams.”

“That wall is your dream?”

“Yes,” she said, but that sounded pathetic, so she backpedaled. “No. That’s not the point.”

“What’s the point?”

He asked gently, like he’d asked her a lot of things during the divorce, and those damn ready-to-roll tears threatened again. She took a breath. “The point is I have a lease. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll get a lawyer.”

“You’re one tough cookie, Elaine.” Amusement shone in his eyes, but not only humor. There was appreciation, too. He wagged his head. “Stop glaring at me a minute. I think you’re right. You shouldn’t let anyone get in the way of what you want. And you do have rights. If you’re not satisfied with your current lease—for any reason—we can draw up a new one to keep on file with the rental agency.”

Elaine’s confusion showed plainly in the furrow of her brow. “‘We’? You’re a divorce lawyer.”

“Yes.” Mitch cleared his throat. Now was a good time to tell her the rest of his news. She’d worked herself into a pretty good froth over a misconception. He was about to bring comfort and relief. Though most people didn’t think of divorce lawyers in this way, bringing comfort and relief was part of the job description. He was tying up loose ends so Elaine could feel safe and secure in her home, and he could put an end to the guilt that had been gnawing at him. Then he could stop thinking about Lowry vs. Lowry and get on with life the way he knew it.

Holding out his hand, he introduced himself as if for the first time. “How do you do? I’m your new landlord.”

The door on Mitch’s newly purchased Toyota Tacoma slammed with a satisfying crunch.

He attempted to start the vehicle, realized the key wasn’t in his hand, dug it out of his pocket and shoved it into the ignition. Grinding the gears, he backed out of the driveway.

Elaine had been slightly less appreciative for this turn of events than he’d anticipated. Her exact response, in fact, when informed that he had purchased the duplex and intended to give her a five-year lease guaranteeing her current below-market rent had been, “No, thank you. I’m moving.”

Moving. Two seconds after she’d just insisted she’d fight tooth and nail to stay!

Punching the steering wheel, he expelled a slow hiss of air. Who the hell could figure out people? Did she have any idea that he’d lain awake nights wondering if she could swing more rent right now in the event a new owner raised it, not to mention wondering how long her money would last and whether she was investing wisely? Then he’d got the idea to buy the duplex. According to the real estate agent he’d consulted, it was a sound investment—well-priced property in an up-and-coming area. Mitch figured he’d work a little less than he normally did on the weekends and become a handyman for a couple of months, getting his exercise here instead of at the gym. It was supposed to be simple.

He’d anticipated Elaine’s relief, her pleasure and, dammit, yes, her gratitude. He had not imagined she would look at him like he’d come to tell her he was putting a freeway through the family farm. He was offering her an updated, rent-controlled duplex, for crying out loud, in a city that had no rent control. And with him as her landlord, she could trust him to keep an eye on things. But following her initial shock had come a look of profound resentment.

The hell with it. He’d tried to make amends. The lady wasn’t interested? Fine.

“Stick to what you’re good at.”

The new-car smell in the cab of this pickup reminded him that he’d bought a truck and gardening tools with the expectation that he was going to be a landlord for a long time…but the hell with that, too. Abusing the stick shift as he came to a stop sign, Mitch realized he had no desire to go home to an empty apartment. He did, however, have to find someplace in his complex to stow the gardening tools, then shower and change. A glance at the digital clock in the dashboard and a quick calculation told him it would be approximately seven-thirty by the time he was done. Seven-thirty on a Friday evening. Between now and then he had plenty of time to find a dinner companion. A rare-steak dinner at Jake’s, a scotch and some logical conversation was just what he needed to forget Elaine Lowry.