The Best Of Both Worlds. Elissa AmbroseЧитать онлайн книгу.
replied. “Becky’s made a career of getting fired. She’s perfected the technique all on her own, without any help from anyone.” He had to give her credit, though, for sticking it out this long. Who would have thought someone as pampered as Becky would work in a rattrap like this in the first place? He dropped a five-dollar bill onto the table and stood up. “Thanks for the refill, but I think I’ll skip it. Maybe I can catch up with her.”
“Coffee’s only a buck-fifty. What about your change?”
“Keep it. Working for someone like him—” he motioned to the man behind the counter, who was scowling in their direction “—I’d say you’ve more than earned it.”
By the time he reached the car, it was already buried in snow. Grumbling, he proceeded to clear the windshield with his bare hands. Dammit, it was only the first week in December, too early for a major storm. He should have remembered his gloves. In seconds his hands were stinging with the cold.
This is what happens when you don’t plan ahead, he thought.
Like Becky, for instance. He should never have let it happen.
As kids they had flirted innocently. She’d been cute and funny and charming—and spoiled worse than an overripe peach. A princess-in-training, her brother used to call her. She was also five years younger. But as she grew into womanhood, the age difference began to fall away, and cute gave way to radiant, funny to endearing, charming to devastating. Ringlets of long sable-brown hair tumbled freely down her back, as though daring someone to tame it. Her large brown eyes were unfathomable, and her mouth, which seemed to curl in a perpetual half smile, half pout, was sinfully tantalizing. She was, however, from a different world. Without ever having to say a word, his family had made sure he knew the boundaries.
Not pursuing a relationship was a mistake he’d regretted for years. And three months ago, on the night of David’s wedding, he’d made another one.
Since then sleep had evaded him. He’d lain awake in his hotel room, trying—without success—to drive the memory of that night from his mind. As much as he hated to admit it, she’d gotten under his skin.
But he wasn’t going to do anything about it. Except apologize.
What had he been thinking, letting her come back with him to his apartment? He no longer felt that the difference in their backgrounds was a barrier, but these days, thanks to a failed marriage and a fast-paced lifestyle, any kind of involvement was at the bottom of his wish list. Becky was the kind of woman who needed a husband. She wasn’t the type who would settle for an affair.
That devil-may-care, free-spirit act didn’t fool him for a minute. She might look like a temptress, might act like a temptress, but he knew the truth. Becky Roth was as homegrown as apple pie, or in her case, apple kugel.
Of course, if the truth were told, she had seduced him.
And that’s why he felt like a heel. He should have turned her down.
Three teenagers, bundled in coats and scarves and gloves, ran out of a large saltbox-style house. A boy around sixteen stopped to roll a snowball, then shot it at the girl, who appeared to be a few years younger. The girl squealed and the two boys laughed.
“Oh, you think you’re so macho!” the girl shouted, retaliating with a bull’s-eye shot to the taller boy’s shoulder.
“I think I’m going to defect to the other side,” the taller boy called to his friend. “With a windup like that, your sister could pitch for the pros.”
For a brief moment Becky was that young girl, and the taller boy was Carter, her teenage crush, her brother’s best friend. She closed her eyes, trying to conjure up memories of her youth, a carefree time when life wasn’t encumbered with complications. Back then there weren’t as many choices, she thought. You did what was expected of you.
Without warning a snowball smashed against her forehead, causing her to lose her balance. Her legs slipped out from beneath her, and a moment later she was down on the sidewalk. “Oh, no,” she said, noticing the rip in her panty hose. Along her shin was a nasty red patch. At first she felt nothing but the cold, but then the pain took over. She wasn’t bleeding, but her skin felt as if she’d been whipped with steel wool.
“Are you all right?” the taller boy asked, concern written across his brow. “Gee, I’m sorry, ma’am. With all this snow, I didn’t see you. I didn’t mean to clobber you.”
Ma’am? Did he just call her ma’am? Just when she thought the day couldn’t get any worse, some kid has to come by, practically knock her unconscious and then call her ma’am.
“He meant to clobber me,” the girl by his side said. “Randy, you moron, don’t just stand there. Help her up.”
Becky squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to squeeze out the pain. It was a trick she’d learned when Jordan left, and it had worked. She hadn’t cried, and afterward she had gone about her life as though nothing had changed. And nothing had, really. All that had happened was that she’d moved out of her husband’s domain back to her parents, where she’d been living in limbo these past nine months.
Nisht ahir un nish aher, Bubbe would say. Neither here nor there.
A tear rolled down Becky’s cheek. The trick wasn’t working. “My leg,” she moaned. “It hurts.”
“I’ll take care of her,” she heard someone say. It was a man’s voice, deep and resonant. She opened her eyes and winced, but not because of the pain. Carter. Above her stood Carter Prescott, III, her brother’s best friend, her teenage crush. Carter Prescott, III, father of her unborn child.
She felt her head spinning, and it wasn’t because of the fall. His massive shoulders, his lean, trim waist and his muscular, perfectly proportioned frame were only part of the reason. With smoky-gray eyes a dramatic contrast against his fair hair and skin, his ruggedly handsome face had always sent her head reeling, but it was more than his appearance that made her pulse fly off the charts. It had something to do with the way he carried himself, tall and proud, as though the world had been created for him to command.
She’d always been a sucker for a take-charge kind of guy, and Carter Prescott, III, was no exception. As a teenager she’d flirted with him innocently, but she’d been David’s kid sister, five years younger. Too young for Carter.
So what did the jerk go and do? He married someone older than he was. All right, so the bride was only two years his senior, not exactly a Mrs. Robinson. But she was the hoity-toity Wendy St. Claire. Wendy Wasp, Becky had called her behind his back. If her blood were any bluer, it would be ink.
“Take my hand,” he was saying now. “Let me help you, Becky.”
Maybe she’d always been a sucker for a take-charge kind of guy, but all that was about to change. Over her dead body would she let him touch her. Never again. She pushed away his hand and stumbled to her feet. “Ouch!” Another wave of pain surged though her leg and she fell against him, cursing.
“Such language from a nice Jewish girl,” he said, catching her in the circle of his arms. “Your mother would be shocked.”
If all it took were a few choice words to throw her mother into a tailspin, Gertie Roth would probably lapse into a coma after what Becky had to tell her. “Let go of me,” she demanded. “I’m better now.” She took a step forward, trying not to let the pain register on her face. “There, you see? It’s just a scratch. Nothing broken. Not even sprained.”
The teenagers looked at each other with relief. “You lucked out,” the girl said to the boy named Randy. “She could have sued you. If she’s smart she’ll still sue you, for assault and battery.”
“I’ll show you assault and battery!” Randy said, laughing. He picked up a handful of snow and threw it at the girl, who ran off squealing with mock indignation.
“Have a nice day, ma’am!” the other boy called as the three of them disappeared around the corner, their