Sizzle in the City. Wendy EtheringtonЧитать онлайн книгу.
check didn’t clear, or Shelby was a big fan of gossip mags, then his efforts at subterfuge would fail no matter what Trevor did or didn’t do. “Well, I’m pleased you’re here, but I’m truly in the dark about why you’re aggravated.”
“You kissed me.”
He didn’t have to pretend to be surprised by that accusation. “I’ve been complimented heavily in the past on my technique. Can you be specific about why you’re disappointed?”
Leaning across his desk, she propped her chin on her fist. “Can you explain why even absurd questions sound intelligent when spoken with an English accent?”
Her sass and directness were enthralling—as well as her proximity.
He tilted toward her. Their faces were bare inches apart. “That’s a fascinating debate. Why don’t we discuss it over dinner tonight?”
She simply shook her head. “Not so fast, Your Lordship. You kissed me while deliberately keeping your identity a secret. In fact, the only reason I found you was because Calla never throws anything away, and she uncovered a magazine article about you landing a high-dollar contract last year.” She raised her eyebrows. “At least I know you transport legitimate goods now.”
“What did you think I transported?”
“Could’ve been anything.”
“Like knockoff designers bags, I suppose.”
“Yeah, maybe, but I don’t like those. It’s real or nothing for me. I buy vanilla from Madagascar, for heaven’s sake. I was thinking more pharmaceutical for your possibly illegal transportation business.”
Terrific. The woman he had a massive crush on thought he was a drug dealer. “All the more reason for dinner. There’s a lovely Italian restaurant down the street.”
She angled her head, considering him. The anger had been doused, replaced by interest. “Why didn’t you want me to know who you were?”
“I don’t like to advertise my family background. It tends to make people act … unusually.”
“Suck-ups.”
With a satisfied grin, he nodded. “Precisely.”
“Why doesn’t your brother talk like you?”
“Max puts on an American accent. He likes to blend.”
By the way she cocked her head, Trevor assumed she found that as odd as he did, but he didn’t really want to discuss Max’s idiosyncrasies.
“I like your accent better.” Her eyes smoldered into golden. “Is this Italian place down the street Giovanni’s?”
Fascinated by the way her eyes changed in rhythm with her mood, he slid his finger down her arm. “It is.”
A smile teased her lips. “I could eat.”
“Excellent. Perhaps we could also work on my kissing technique. I’d hate to be a disappointment the second time around.”
“Were you planning this practice during dinner?”
“I could wait till after. Or be persuaded to before.”
Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “Let’s see if the pesto sauce is as good as I remember.”
Pleasure and anticipation raced down his spine. Their chemistry had been pretty electric the night before—maybe even more so because of the suspicion between them. “I’ll speak to the chef personally.”
“His name is Mario.”
He walked around the desk and assisted her to her feet. “He’s not your knife-wielding cousin or boyfriend, is he?”
“My cousin lives in Fort Lauderdale and runs a car wash, and I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“I always thought the men of New York had good taste. Clearly, I’ve been misinformed.” He opened his office door and allowed Shelby to proceed him. “I’m leaving, Florence.”
“For the day?” His secretary’s pink painted mouth rounded in shock. “It’s barely after five.”
“It’s Friday. Go home. Enjoy yourself.”
“Yes, I remember how. Do you?”
Trevor narrowed his eyes briefly as he passed Florence’s desk. “Of course I do.” The last thing he needed was Florence blabbing about his obsessive tendencies. Success didn’t come without sacrifice, after all.
The irony that his secretary wanted him to slow down and have babies she could spoil, while his mother’s worst nightmare was becoming a grandmother wasn’t lost on him.
“But you’ll miss out on your workaholic merit badge for the week,” she called after him.
“Good night, Florence,” he said, refusing to rise to her critique.
To his relief, Shelby laughed. “And here I thought we had nothing in common. My friends and assistants are always trying to get me to work less and play more.”
“Easy to do when it’s not your company on the line.”
“Exactly.”
Trevor pressed the button for the elevator, which arrived immediately.
“Is your brother a crook?” Shelby asked abruptly.
He nearly stumbled. It was rare for him to be knocked off stride, and this woman had done it twice in ten minutes. “No. Why do you ask?”
She shrugged as the elevator doors slid closed. “Just curious.”
CALLA WALK ED AWAY FROM a lovely spring evening, through the police-station door and into chaos.
The large, pitiful waiting room, painted a dingy gray and containing no more than ten folding chairs, strained at all the emotions and activity.
In one corner, a group of people stood in a circle, holding hands and praying. A trio of women cried in the other. A pair of children bounced and giggled on their chairs as a harried-looking woman stood nearby and yakked into her cell phone.
Lording over the masses, a bored-looking clerk sat behind a high, imposing faded wood counter and flipped through a magazine.
Lady Justice could hardly be proud.
But then Calla figured the police had a mostly thankless, as well as dangerous, job. They’d no doubt be grateful for her help.
Shifting her briefcase strap on her shoulder, she approached the counter. “I need to speak to someone in the fraud department.”
The clerk never looked up. “Appointment?”
You needed to make an appointment to report a crime? “No, it’s rather urgent. If you could just—”
“Is anybody in immediate danger?”
“Yes, I guess so. My friend Shelby’s parents trusted this guy with their life savings, then he took off for parts unknown, but then we—Shelby, me and our other friend Victoria—read an article last week about how he’d bought a hotel right here in Manhattan. So, you can imagine how surprised we were. Where did he get the money to buy something like that?” She jabbed her finger on the counter to emphasize her indignation. “On the backs of gullible seniors, that’s where. So, as you can see, it’s imperative that I talk to somebody right away.”
The clerk looked up, her expression weary. “Is somebody about to die?”
Calla blinked. “Uh … no, but—”
“Everybody’s busy.” The clerk’s attention went back to her magazine.
It was no wonder Max Banfield was running around free as a bird.
But Calla had been a newspaper reporter in her hometown of Austin before she’d moved to New York