Love Me or Leave Me. Gwynne ForsterЧитать онлайн книгу.
in postponing it and stressing over it.
“Hello.” Her refined, airy voice always jump-started his libido, but that was too bad.
“Hi. This is Drake. Any chance we can meet for dinner this evening? I’ll be working in Frederick today, and I can be at The Watershed at six-thirty. You know where it is—right off Reistertown Road at the Milford exit.”
“Dinner sounds wonderful. See you at six-thirty.”
Pamela finished her third cup of green tea for that morning—she had substituted green tea for the five or more cups of black coffee she used to drink every day, thankful that she’d never taken up smoking. Being the only newswoman at a television station that had eight male reporters—half of whom considered themselves studs—was more pressure than she could enjoy, but she held her own as a newscaster, and her boss’s mail verified that. She didn’t prefer dates so soon after work—especially not with Drake, and not when she couldn’t go home and dress for the occasion.
If Drake Harrington knew how she felt about him, he would probably head for the North Pole, as skittish as he was about committing himself. After a calamitous affair when she was a college sophomore—the boy seduced her not because he cared, but for bragging rights among his buddies—she had sworn never again to get involved with a man who had a pretty face. And Drake wasn’t only as handsome as a man could get—all six feet and four inches of him—he was also very wealthy.
“He came up on my blind side” was how she explained to herself the way Drake mesmerized her when she met him. Fortunately, she’d had the presence of mind not to show it.
“How’s about a hug for the nicest guy at WRLR?”
At the sound of Lawrence Parker’s voice, Pamela spun around in her swivel chair. “Would you please knock before you open my door, and would you try being more professional? Your kid stuff gets on my nerves.”
“Aw, come on, babe. Give a guy a break. I know a real sexy movie, and then we can go to my place and—”
She glared at him. “Lawrence, you’re making me ill. I’m not going out with you, now or ever. Besides, I have a dinner date. Beat it so I can finish the copy for my five-o’clock newscast.”
“What’s he got that I don’t have?” He raised his hands, palms out, and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “All right. All right. Don’t tell me. I know.”
She heard her office door close and hoped he’d left, but she didn’t risk looking up for fear that he might be leaning over her, as he’d done a few times.
Pamela was much like Drake in that she believed in making the best of every opportunity. She decided that before she slept that night, she and Drake would have achieved a level of intimacy they hadn’t previously shared. Oh, he’d kissed her a few times, though he hadn’t put his soul into it, but this time she was going for the jugular. If she had to seduce him she knew how, and she would. She had coasted along in the relationship doing things his way, but beginning tonight, they would be using her road map.
She raced home on her lunch hour and changed into a red sleeveless silk dress that had a flouncy skirt and a matching long-sleeved jacket, and put her pearl jewelry in her pocketbook and her makeup and perfume in her briefcase. Within an hour and fifteen minutes, she was back at the station.
Her news report that evening included an account of one homicide, an attempted rape, Southwest crops ravaged by drought and a local practicing physician who was exposed as an eighth-grade dropout and possessed no formal medical knowledge. She exhaled a deep and happy breath when she got to her last story, which described the return of a missing baby to its parents. At the end, she folded her papers, shoved them into her drawer, locked it, grabbed her briefcase and pocketbook, and started for the elevator.
“Where’re you rushing off to, babe? It’s early yet. What about a drink next door at Mitch’s Place?” The elevator arrived, saving her the necessity of answering Lawrence.
She stopped at the service station about a mile before the Milford exit, bought gas and got an oil change. She liked that station because the attendants still serviced cars, and she didn’t care to pump gas or measure the air in her tires while wearing her best cocktail suit. The attendant came back into the station, made out her bill and handed it to her.
“She’ll run like new, Miss Langford. In the future, don’t let your oil get so dirty. It’s not good for your car. I checked your tires. You’re good to go.”
She paid the bill and added a tip. “Thanks. I’ll bring it in for a thorough checkup one day next week.” She looked at her watch. Five after six. She had plenty of time and didn’t have to speed, for which she had reason to be grateful five minutes later when her car swerved dangerously as she was crossing an old bridge that had only wooden railings. She eased the car to the elbow of the little two-lane highway, stopped and got out. With the sun still high, she had no difficulty finding the problem. Both of her front tires were flat.
Hadn’t that service-station attendant just told her that he’d checked her tires and they were fine? She searched her pocketbook for her cell phone, but couldn’t find it. She dumped everything in her purse and in her briefcase on the front passenger’s seat. Then she remembered having taken the phone out and placed it on her desk to charge it.
“Now what?” she said aloud. She opened the trunk of her car, got the sneakers she kept there for the times she played tennis, locked her car and started walking. Several cars slowed down and two drivers stopped to offer her a ride, but she wouldn’t risk it. She walked the two miles back to the service station, all the time wishing she wasn’t wearing that brilliant-red outfit.
“You told me my tires were fine,” she said to the attendant, “but as soon as I turned into the ramp going to Milford Road, both of my front tires blew.”
He stared at her. “That’s impossible, Miss Langford. Those are new tires in perfect condition. Did you drive over glass, or maybe some pieces of metal?”
She shook her head. “Neither one, and this is messing up what may be the most important day of my life.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m truly sorry. I’ll call a patrolman and alert him to the location of your car. Then I guess you need a tow truck, ’cause you only have one spare, and there’s nobody on duty tonight but me, so I can’t leave here.”
She waited for what seemed like hours until she could get in her car and drive on to the restaurant. She prayed that Drake would still be there, but she wouldn’t blame him if he left. She rushed into the restaurant so eager to know if she would see Drake that she walked past the maître d’.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” he said with his nose just a little higher than she imagined it usually was.
“A gentleman was waiting here for me. I suppose he left.”
The man gave her a dismissive look. “He did, indeed, and I can imagine that he was greatly embarrassed to wait an hour and a half with an untouched glass of wine in front of him.”
She spun around and went to the pay phone near the women’s room. “Oh, my Lord. I could have called him when I was in the service station, but all I thought about was that I didn’t have my cell phone.” When he didn’t answer his cell phone, she called Harrington House.
“He ain’t here.” It was Henry, the cook, who answered. “He said he was having dinner out. Who should I tell him called?”
“His… Tell him that Pamela called. Thank you.” She hung up and began the long drive home. No one had to tell her that wherever Drake was, he was furious, for he hated to wait for anyone and didn’t make anyone wait for him. She trudged into her house, locked the door and checked her answering service. He had not called. A ham sandwich and a glass of milk sufficed for dinner, which she ate pacing her kitchen floor. What had caused those tires to blow out?
She phoned the station attendant. “Did you check those old tires to find out what caused them to blow?”