Close To The Edge. Kylie BrantЧитать онлайн книгу.
closed with his shoulder. “It’s almost closin’ time and Joan told me you didn’t have lunch. You have to eat. Men like curves on their women, not all bones and angles.”
She did glance up then, and the look she gave him would have sent most scurrying out the door. But Lucky considered himself a courageous enough sort. Besides, he happened to know her weaknesses.
“It may surprise you to discover that what men like is not a maxim that dictates my every action.”
He made a show of opening the sack, inhaling deeply. “It may surprise you to discover that these sandwiches are made with Leidenheimer’s bread.” He saw, and enjoyed, the way her expression changed. “But I forgot. You don’t like Ferdis anyway, right?”
“No.”
He noted her gaze never left him as he stopped at the curved-leg library table she used when conferring with clients. “Too bad about that. Me, I’m extra hungry today. But I’m not sure I can eat both of these. Maybe I will save the ham with roast beef gravy to eat later.”
“Beast.”
She could, he noted with sheer male appreciation, move quite quickly when she wanted to. She was out of her seat and had snatched the sandwich from him before he could even finish teasing her with it.
“I guess I could eat something after all.”
“And to wash it down…” He reached into the bag and withdrew two beers. He couldn’t really imagine Jacey drinking a beer. She was more the wine and champagne type. He was counting on her turning it down, leaving more for him. He happened to know she kept some fancy flavored water in the small ice box tucked beneath the counter.
She snuck a look at the closed door. “I don’t want alcohol on the premises, Lucky.”
“Relax.” He slouched low in one chair, hooked the one across from him with his foot to drag it closer. “Joan was on her way out as I came in. Something about a church dinner.” He stretched out, propping his legs on the opposite chair and crossing them at the ankles. The secretary was a straitlaced teetotaler. Her views on the evils of liquor were well known in the office.
“In that case…” Jacey reached out and swiped the second beer from him.
He attempted to hide his dismay. “You don’t even like beer. Do you?”
“Probably not, but this will teach you to bring something I do like the next time, won’t it?”
Giving in gracefully, he leaned over to twist the top off her bottle, then dealt with his own. “Last night was pretty bad, huh?”
“It was okay.” She bit into her sandwich, eyelids sliding shut in real bliss.
Her guarded tone didn’t fool him. He had reason to know that any amount of time spent in the company of Charlotte Wheeler could leave lasting ill effects. “You’ve been holed up in here since dawn this morning, and from the looks of you, you didn’t get much sleep last night.”
He knew her well enough to recognize the signs. She was wearing what he always thought of as one of her frighteningly capable power suits. The trim-fitting red jacket and skirt might have been sexy if she’d gotten rid of the no-nonsense buttoned-up blouse beneath. She had her hair scraped up into a knot, and wire-rim glasses perched on her nose, which meant she hadn’t put her contacts in. He’d always thought it weird that someone with her money hadn’t gone for that new eye surgery everyone talked about, until he’d discovered that she was deathly afraid of needles.
“What did Charlotte do this time?” He bit into the sandwich, never taking his eyes off the woman across from him. Interaction between mother and daughter often left Jacey driven and focused for days, as if renewed dedication to her job could alleviate her mother’s disapproval.
“Nothing. I’ve just been busy today, that’s all. I’ve decided to hire some part-time help so I wrote up a job description and ad for the paper. And the fund-raiser last night wasn’t a total loss. I picked up a case and I’ve been preparing a contract. The file arrived this afternoon.”
Interest flared. “Tell me about it.” He listened intently as she relayed the conversation she’d had with J. Walter Garvey. He’d heard of the man, of course. It would be difficult to live in New Orleans and be ignorant of Garvey Enterprises, although he couldn’t say with certainty just exactly what the man’s business entailed.
By the time she’d finished, he’d polished off his sandwich, while she’d barely touched her own. Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he reached out to snag his beer with two fingers. “So he’s going to decide who to leave his company to based on the dirt you dig up on his grandchildren?”
He had to wait until she’d finished chewing and swallowing her bite of sandwich before she responded. “By my initial calculations his business is estimated in the billions. So I guess you can’t blame him for wanting to be sure his successor has the ability to take his place at the helm.”
Lucky tipped the bottle to his lips and drank. “Why do I have the feelin’ that Garvey wouldn’t consider anyone worthy to take over for him?”
She gave a delicate shrug and continued eating. He took a moment to enjoy the sight. There was really no elegant way to eat a po’boy, but she came closer than most to making the task look refined. He liked her best in moments like these, when she forgot the manners that had no doubt been hammered into her from birth, and just enjoyed herself.
There had been a time, when he’d first met her, when he’d been convinced that she was just another deb with a pretty shell, possessing more money than sense. A time when he’d been certain that her insistence on dabbling in private investigative work was going to get her seriously hurt.
But there had been something about her from the first, a competence he hadn’t expected, and a hint of vulnerability that shredded him on the rare occasions it peeked through. The first had earned his eventual respect, the second a pesky thread of protectiveness. He’d been far more surprised than she when he’d decided to stay on three years ago. The time he’d spent employed at Wheeler and Associates was the longest he’d ever stuck at anything. Because the realization always filled him with a mild sense of panic, he preferred not thinking about it at all.
Draining his beer, he set it down and eyed hers, which hadn’t been touched yet. “How many grandchildren are there?”
“Four. Rupert has three children, two sons and a daughter, all by different women. So I guess they’re all really half-siblings. Lianna has one son. The four range in age from twenty-five to thirty-six.”
“Do you know them?”
“I’ve run into all of Rupert’s children on occasion at various functions. I don’t recognize the name of Lianna’s son, Jeffrey Wharton. While she was married she lived in Boston, and apparently the boy bounced back and forth between her and her ex-husband for most of his life. According to the file, he’s been living in New Orleans for the last six months.”
She slapped his hand just as his fingers would have closed around her bottle. He adopted what he hoped was a wounded expression. “C’mon cher, you know you’re not goin’ to drink that. Don’t be mean.”
“Yes, I am.” To prove it, she lifted the bottle to her lips and took a long pull. Immediately her eyes squeezed shut, and she choked a little. “That’s…” She hauled in a deep breath, smoothed her expression. “That’s excellent.”
He laughed out loud, delighted with her. “It’s an acquired taste, and one I wouldn’t have thought to your likin’. By all means, finish it.”
“I intend to.” She’d do just that to prove a point, and damned if he wasn’t going to enjoy watching her. Taking a more cautious sip the next time, she managed to swallow without grimacing. “Thank you for the sandwich. I guess I have been a bit single-minded today.”
Lucky stood, began gathering up the wrappers and shoving them back in the bag. “You mean uptight?