Loe raamatut: «Life With Riley»

Chapter One

“Damn!” Too late, Riley Morrisset slammed on the brake.

Backing out of the narrow shopping-mall parking space, she’d turned the wheel too early. The ominous metallic shriek of her front bumper scraping against the side of the car next to hers had come all too clearly through her open window.

Groaning, she shoved strands of straight brown hair from her eyes, pulled on the brake and switched off the key before pushing open her door and going to inspect the damage.

Her ancient red Corona seemed unmarked, but the gleaming dark-blue BMW showed a long, telltale gouge right down to the metal, with a nasty dent at the end.

“Damn, damn, damn!” She’d have to leave her name and address for the owner. But first she’d better shift the Corona from the path of other traffic. Already a battered gray van was entering the end of the lane.

Quickly she returned to her car, switching the engine on.

The van was nosing into a space farther up the row, but there could be other cars entering soon. Riley grasped the gear lever, then jumped as a dark-sleeved arm reached in the open window and long male fingers switched off the key. At the same time a grim masculine voice said, “Oh, no, you don’t!”

Riley’s strangled yelp of alarm was drowned by her horn as she pressed the flattened palm of her free hand down on it.

The sound was abruptly cut off when strong fingers gripped her wrist and forcibly lifted her hand away. “What the hell—” the man said.

Looking up in panic, Riley had a confused impression of blazing eyes—a startling meld of navy blue and deep, deep gray—close-drawn black brows and a threatening expression, before she realized that his other hand had removed the ignition key with its attendant house keys and large plastic Snoopy tag.

She snatched at Snoopy, but didn’t get a good grip, and the keys jangled to the floor of the car.

Riley tried to close the window with her free hand, but the manual winder was stuck again. Under her breath she cursed the garage mechanic who was supposed to have fixed it.

Twisting in her seat, she fumbled with her free hand for the knob to lock the door. Finding that her face was within an inch of the implacable hand encircling her wrist, she sank her teeth into the man’s flesh, tasting soap and warm, slightly salty male skin.

He let fly a vicious word and pulled back but didn’t release her. Desperately Riley opened her mouth wide and screamed. A loud, aggressive, attention-getting scream.

The mugger muttered something savage and dropped her wrist at last as pounding footsteps made him look away from her.

Riley was hugely relieved to see two large men bearing down on them. Both wore torn jeans and studded belts, and their muscular arms were heavily tattooed. One would have been described as Caucasian by the police. He looked as though he might be on intimate terms with them. His big pale head was shaved bald, and the orange T-shirt stretched over his chest had a foam-fanged, spike-collared bulldog printed on the front. The other man was Maori. Well-greased dreadlocks fell to massive brown shoulders bared by a black bushman’s vest.

Riley expected her attacker to flee. Instead he stood his ground as the unlikely Galahads bore down on him. Riley tried the window winder again without success, mentally vowing to boil the inept mechanic in his own sump oil.

“Trouble, lady?” the bald guy queried, casting a threatening look at the man beside her, who was half a head shorter. His companion moved so that they were hemming him in, glowering down at him.

Before Riley could say a thing the man answered, “She sure is. She damaged my car and was making a getaway. When I tried to stop her she bit me.”

Riley’s mouth fell open. She shifted a hunted brown gaze to the BMW, then back to him, her heart plunging like a stone on the end of a plumb line. For the first time she looked at him properly.

His suit might have come out of the pages of GQ. And with it he wore a white shirt with a fine gray shadow stripe and a tie.

A tie. Probably silk, probably with a designer name hidden somewhere discreetly behind its elegant blue and maroon design. For all she knew, it was an old school tie proclaiming his presumed respectability.

Even his accent was cultured—with neither flat antipodean vowels nor a fruity fake-British affectation.

He didn’t look like a mugger. Not a bit.

Oh, hell!

Her would-be rescuers looked from her to him, and the long-haired one ambled over to inspect the BMW. His lips pursed, and he sorrowfully shook his shining black dreadlocks. “Got a panel beater’s job there, mate,” he said sympathetically.

Riley turned her head to confront her attacker. “Your car?” she squeaked.

“My car,” the not-a-mugger-after-all confirmed, his dark gaze still accusing as he looked down the arrogant slope of his nose.

She closed her eyes for a moment, then flicked them open. “Prove it,” she said, daring to look him straight in the face—a smooth-shaven, stubborn-jawed face, with broad cheekbones and a wide forehead under impeccably groomed black hair that hinted at a firmly discouraged wave. He probably had quite a nice mouth when it wasn’t set in an angry line, the lips well-defined and not unduly narrow.

For a long second he just stared back at her. Then he dug in his trouser pocket and took out a small leather folder, flicking a plastic tag from it and pressing a button with his thumb. “Don’t let her take off,” he said to the bald man.

“I wasn’t going to!” Riley said indignantly as The Suit walked away, pausing to read her number plate on his way toward the BMW. Memorizing it, she supposed.

Another car tooted gently behind hers and swung to go round it. Baldy moved to the front of the Corona and stood foursquare with his arms folded, facing Riley through the windscreen. A blue dragon writhed on his brawny forearm.

Great. Now he was guarding her for heaven’s sake. She glared at him, every bit as belligerent as the bulldog on his shirt.

The other car nudged by with about two inches to spare. Riley wouldn’t have even tried to negotiate that space.

Her watchdog was looking to the other side. She followed his gaze and saw that the BMW’s driver door was open.

The man in the suit slammed it and came back to her window. “Satisfied? Now can we exchange insurance companies and addresses? I’ll see that yours gets a bill for the damage.”

The watchdog and his mate were looking at Riley almost as censoriously as the car’s owner.

“Okay?” Dreadlocks queried her.

“Yes,” Riley conceded reluctantly. “Thank you for coming over. I thought I was being assaulted.” Dammit, she had been assaulted. “He grabbed me!” She transferred her fulminating gaze to the man between them.

“To stop you running away,” he agreed without a blink. “You’re not hurt, are you?” As he spoke he lifted his hand and inspected a row of deep teeth-marks in the pad of flesh just below his thumb.

Riley’s wrist still tingled from his hold, but she could see no sign of the remembered strength of his fingers, not even a slight redness. “No,” she admitted.

“I’m sure we can sort it out from here.” He nodded affably to her two heroes. “Can’t we?” he asked her pointedly. “Thanks, though,” he added to the knights errant, making Riley’s already simmering blood almost boil over.

“Good luck, bro.” Bulldog-shirt grinned.

“Women drivers, eh?” Dreadlocks commented as they turned away. He rolled a look at Riley and laughed.

Riley gritted her teeth. “I was going to drive back into the parking space,” she told the man still standing by her window, and added distinctly, “before I left you my name and address. We are in the way here.”

In her rearview mirror she saw another car coming slowly toward them. “See?” she insisted as he looked up and behind her.

“Be my guest.” He stepped away to allow her room, and she carefully reparked.

When she got out he was standing between their two cars with a pen in his right hand and a small notebook in his left. He scribbled something on a white business card and handed it to her.

Before she could read it he offered her the notebook, opened at a blank page, and the slim gold pen. “Name, address, insurance company,” he said tersely. “Mine’s all on the card.”

She shoved it into the back pocket of her jeans, taking the pen and notebook.

Hemmed into the space between the cars with him, she could smell his expensive suiting, and a hint of soap or aftershave. Something sort of woodsy, with an undertone of spice. And an over-priced brand name, no doubt.

She lowered her head, pushing back the strands of hair escaping her carelessly fastened ponytail.

“I suppose you do have a license?” he said.

About to write down her insurance company’s name, she looked up. “Of course I have!”

“You scarcely look old enough,” he said skeptically. “Is the car yours or your parents’?”

“I’m twenty-four,” she snapped. “And the car’s mine!”

His dispassionate gaze swooped from her dead-straight, too-fine hair escaping in hanks from its ponytail, to her ancient trainers, on the way taking in the baggy bottle-green T-shirt that concealed small but quite decently shaped breasts, and the comfortable, wash-softened jeans.

When she’d dressed, the jeans had seemed perfectly respectable. Now she was acutely conscious of the fading, thinned fabric at the knees—and the tear, barely perceptible this morning, that had widened when she’d bent to pick up a child who’d taken a tumble at the day care center where she worked.

Still, that was no reason for this stranger to eye her with what she strongly suspected was scorn. Her head instinctively went up in defiance. It was about level with his chin, which meant that he was under six feet by some inches. But the breadth of his shoulders and an unmistakable air of assurance more than made up for the height he didn’t have.

Riley was used to literally looking up to people, but not many of them made her feel this intimidated. He was too big, too damned close, and she had no way of escape. “Don’t crowd me,” she said fiercely as his eyes swept up again to hers.

He stepped back, doubling the space between them to a meter or so. “Are you paranoid or something?”

“I don’t have to be paranoid to be wary of strange men. Especially men who go round abusing innocent women.” She handed back the notebook and pen, unflinchingly standing her ground as he came closer again to take it.

“I don’t.” His gaze this time lingered rather thoughtfully on her as he pushed his hands into his pockets, sweeping back the sides of his jacket. “You’re very small. I suppose you would feel—”

“You’re not exactly Arnold Schwarzenegger yourself, are you?” Riley didn’t like being reminded of her deficient height.

With deliberate insolence she returned the look he’d given her, contemptuously examining the solid chest behind the pristine shirting, the black leather belt fastened about a taut waist above lean hips and what looked like rather well-muscled thighs encased in trousers so nicely fitted they must have been tailor-made.

Reaching his polished leather shoes—Italian, at a guess—she brought her gaze back to his, glad that she didn’t have to get a crick in her neck to do so. She wasn’t actually keen on very tall men—they made her feel her own lack of inches too acutely.

Surprisingly, his mouth twitched, and a spark of laughter lit his eyes. “Do you want to look like Arnie?” he asked her.

“Of course I don’t—”

“Neither do I,” he cut in. “Luckily.”

So he was quite happy as he was. Self-satisfied jerk.

He took his hands out of his pockets and looked down at the one she’d bitten.

“I’m sorry about that,” Riley said uncomfortably. “How bad is it?” Instinctively, as she would have done with a hurt child at the day care center, she took his hand to inspect the wound.

His palm was broad, his fingers long and blunt-ended with clean, short-cut nails. An expanding strap held the stainless steel watch on his wrist. She’d have expected gold.

Again that subtle scent tantalized her. She turned his wrist and paused, momentarily fascinated by the tiny pulse beating under the skin. There was no blood although the marks of her teeth were hideously clear.

“You really thought I was attacking you,” he said to the top of her head.

“Yes.” Riley released him.

“I didn’t mean to terrify you.”

Riley’s head jerked up. “I wasn’t terrified. I was furious.”

He grinned suddenly, a grin of pure amusement. She’d been right about his mouth—it was rather nice really. And his teeth were white and straight.

Capped, most likely. He looked the type who could afford it. She ran her tongue over her own slightly crooked left canine, a habit she’d had since childhood, making her lips involuntarily part.

“So was I,” he said.

“I was going to stop and leave my name and number,” she insisted. “You didn’t have to jump on me like that.”

“The way you raced back to your car, it looked as though you were making a fast getaway,” he pointed out.

“If I was going to cut and run I wouldn’t have stopped to check what I’d done,” she argued. Her gaze going to the ugly scrape on his car, she muttered gloomily, “I don’t suppose the repair bill will be less than the no claims discount on my policy.” Not on a BMW. They’d probably have to import the paint from Europe or something.

“I could get it assessed and let you know the cost if you’d rather just pay for it.”

“Mmm,” she said doubtfully. “Well…”

“Is that a problem?”

Riley didn’t suppose it would be any use trying to explain to him just how much of a problem it was. She would lay odds that he’d been born chewing on a mouthful of silver spoons—or if not, that he owned a drawerful of them now. She sighed. “I’ll work it out. I’m responsible.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Her indignation resurfaced. “I am a responsible person. And a good driver!” Although she’d learned in America she’d become accustomed to driving on the “wrong” side of the road in England even before coming to live in New Zealand.

Silently he turned his head and looked at the damage she’d done.

“We all make mistakes!” she protested. “You did, when you thought I was taking off.”

His considering, gunmetal eyes met her defiant brown ones. “Okay,” he said slowly. “I accept that.”

Riley’s relief was disproportionate. She couldn’t help breaking into a smile, her wide mouth tilting up at the corners, her lips parting. “Thank you,” she said.

He must have noticed the crooked tooth, because his gaze remained riveted on her mouth and there was the strangest expression on his face, as if he’d just seen something that he found utterly disconcerting.

Maybe he was a dentist. After all, the tooth was a very small imperfection—one of many, including the few freckles peppering her nose—and surely not all that noticeable?

Involuntarily her tongue moved almost protectively to touch the tooth, but something rebelled against showing her self-consciousness and she quickly altered the movement, instead unthinkingly moistening her lips.

His head twitched up slightly, and his eyes narrowed as again they met hers.

No! she thought, blinking at the glint she saw in the metallic depths. Surely not…

Then it was gone, his expression bland and his eyes hooded as he stepped back again. She must have been mistaken.

He turned and walked around the back of his car, not looking at her again until he reached the door, then he studied her over the BMW’s shiny, dustless roof. “Do you have a job?” he asked abruptly.

Riley blinked. “Part-time.”

“Forget the insurance,” he said. “I believe in people facing up to the consequences of their actions, but I’ll have this fixed and maybe we can come to some arrangement.”

Riley stiffened. “What kind of arrangement?” she asked suspiciously, wondering if she hadn’t been mistaken after all. She shouldn’t have licked her lips like that. Had he thought she was giving him a come-on?

He looked startled, then laughed as his gaze dropped disbelievingly to her baggy T-shirt and the damaged jeans before returning to her face. “Not that sort.” His tone implied that the idea was too absurd to consider.

The skin over her cheekbones burned. So she’d been wrong. He wasn’t in the least tempted by her unremarkable body, but he needn’t rub it in.

“I was thinking along the lines of time payment,” he told her.

Riley swallowed her unreasonable humiliation. “That’s very considerate. I…I am sorry about your car. I hope you’re not going to be too inconvenienced.”

“It’ll be a couple of days in the panel shop, I guess. I’ll have to find some other way of getting into the office, that’s all.”

“Where do you live?”

“Kohi,” he answered. “Why?”

Kohimarama, one of Auckland’s more expensive suburbs, was twenty minutes or so from her shared flat in Sandringham. Perhaps thirty in the rush hour. “I could take you to work and drive you home afterward while your car’s being fixed.”

He looked at her tired little car, and she said quickly, “It’s actually quite respectable when it’s cleaned up, but I suppose you’d prefer not to be driven round in this. It was a dumb idea.”

His expression said he was going to refuse again, but he paused. “What about your job?”

“I work from one till five. If you don’t need to leave your office on the dot of five then it’s not a problem. Just let me know when you want to be picked up and where.”

“All right,” he said abruptly. “I accept.”

Riley broke into another smile. “Good!”

“I just hope you’re right about being a good driver—usually. I’ll phone you.” He gave her a curt nod and climbed into his car.

Riley got into hers and waited until he’d left before backing out again, unwilling to run any risk of making another mistake in front of that man.

She didn’t even know his name. His card was in her back pocket, but she’d scarcely glanced at it when he gave it to her.

After driving home more cautiously than usual, she drew into the lopsided double garage outside an old, much-repainted-and-renovated villa.

The driver’s window closed without a hitch, and she muttered at it darkly before hauling grocery bags from the back seat, slamming the door with an elbow and then going up the worn back steps to tap on the door with her sneaker-clad toe.

Linnet Yeung opened the door to the big old-fashioned kitchen, her pretty, golden-skinned face breaking into a smile as she reached for one of the bags.

Riley smiled back. One reason she liked Lin so much was her helpful nature. Also she was the only one of Riley’s friends who was shorter than she was.

As they unpacked the groceries, Lin said, “Harry found a new girl so he won’t be eating here tonight.” She grinned and rolled her brown eyes. “He does look tasty when he’s all togged up.”

“Mmm,” Riley agreed, taking out a packet of pasta from a bag. Harry was part Samoan, part Maori and part Irish, and the rest was anybody’s guess—which made him a pure full-blooded Kiwi, he joked, New Zealand being such a racial melting pot. “Logie and Sam?” she inquired, placing the pasta on the counter.

“They wouldn’t miss dinner when it’s your turn to cook.” Lin opened the fridge to stow some butter. “How was your day?”

Riley lifted a red string bag of onions. “I pranged someone’s car at the shopping center.”

“Ooh!” Lin winced in sympathy. “Was it bad?”

“A scratch, really, but it was a BMW. The owner was quite decent about it considering I’d just bitten him.”

“You what?”

The explanation sent Lin into giggles as she folded the empty bags. “So what’s his name?”

Riley fished in her pocket for the card she’d shoved in there. “Benedict Falkner,” she read aloud, then squinted, trying the name against the face that came vividly to mind. She’d never have guessed Benedict. “I think he’s a dentist.” Consulting the card again, she corrected herself. “No, actually, this says Executive Director, Falkner Industries.”

“And he drives a Beemer? He could probably afford to buy himself a whole new car—and he’s making you pay for a teeny little scratch?”

“He believes in people taking responsibility for their mistakes.”

Lin snorted down her delicate little nose. “Pompous git!”

Riley laughed. “A good-looking one.”

“How old?”

“Um, thirtyish, probably.”

Lin tipped her head to one side inquiringly, her sloe eyes dancing.

“He was big,” Riley said. “Well…not tall for a man, but…he seems to need a lot of room.”

And yet he hadn’t allowed her much room, she recalled. Until she’d asked him not to crowd her and he’d stepped back.

“You fancied him, didn’t you?” Lin teased.

“No chance,” Riley retorted. But it wasn’t really a denial. More a resigned acknowledgment that even if she had fancied Benedict Falkner, there was precious little hope of anything coming of it. He’d made his lack of sexual interest in her almost insultingly clear.

Besides, the man was out of her league, with his tailor-made suit and his expensive car and his business card embossed with the title Executive Director.