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“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.
Chapter Two
The following evening Logie poked his long-faced, shaggy blond head around the door of the big lounge where Riley was watching television with Lin and Harry. “For you, Ri.” He held out the portable receiver.
Riley jumped up from the floor where she’d been sitting with her back against the well-worn sofa and took the phone. “Hello?” She followed Logie’s lanky form into the wide passageway, away from the sound of the TV, and he ambled back to the room he shared with his girlfriend, Samuela.
“Riley Morrisset?”
She’d have recognized the deep male voice anywhere. “Yes, Mr. Falkner.”
Maybe she’d surprised him. It was a moment before he said, “My car’s going to the panel beaters tomorrow. If you meant what you said, you could take me home from the office after work.”
“Tell me where.”
He gave her a midtown address and said, “Can you make it by five-thirty? There’s a private car park under the building. My space is on the left, marked with my name.”
Next day when she headed the car down the short, steep ramp, he was already waiting, holding a black briefcase.
Riley was fifteen minutes late.
She stopped the car and he opened the passenger door, climbed in and put the briefcase in front of him on the floor.
“Sorry,” she said, “I got held up.” One of the children at the day care center had mysteriously disappeared, and the entire staff and the little girl’s parents had spent twenty anxious minutes searching before she was discovered, sulking under a pile of dress-up clothes in a large carton.
He didn’t answer, pulling the seat belt across his chest and clipping it into the housing. Today the shirt with his dark suit was pale lavender and his tie a deep plum color.
She tried to tell herself it was dandified, but truthfully he looked terrific. And Riley hadn’t changed out of her paint-stained yellow T-shirt and comfortable brown stretch leggings with a half-dried muddy patch on one knee.
“Do you know how to get to Kohi?” he asked, obviously uninterested in explanations.
“It’s not my part of town, but I know where Kohimarama Road is.”
“Head for that and I’ll direct you from there.”
He watched critically while she drove up the exit ramp and eased the car into the flow of home-going commuters.
After three sets of traffic lights, he apparently decided that he wasn’t going to have to grab the wheel from her or haul on the brake and leap for his life. Opening the briefcase, he said, “Do you mind if I work?”
“Feel free.” She was only his driver, after all—temporarily.
He pulled out a laptop computer and opened it, then began tapping the keys. Next time they stopped for a red light she glanced at the screen, filled with some kind of graph. “Are you a workaholic?” she asked.
His fingers stilled momentarily. “I don’t like to waste my time.”
Riley’s lips closed firmly, ostentatiously.
He looked at her and laughed. “And I had a feeling I was making you nervous.”
“You were.” The light changed, and she eased off the brake and moved the car forward.
“You drive quite well.”
“I told you I do.”
He didn’t remind her that she’d driven less than well when she scratched his car. Riley supposed she ought to be grateful. “Don’t let me disturb your work,” she said crisply.
A car swerved into the lane ahead of them, and Riley braked. Her passenger said, “I guess you need to concentrate in this traffic, anyway.”
They didn’t speak again until he said, “Left at the next intersection.” Within a few minutes he had directed her into a cul-de-sac of what looked like million-dollar, architect-designed homes. “Number thirty-five, down at the end.”
“Wow!” The place was a symphony of curved cement-work painted a mellow, warm gold, with inset glass panels. Balconies, railed with elegant black wrought iron, had been cleverly tucked into the design, one with a spiral stairway to the ground. Some, Riley guessed, would have a distant sea view.
“You like it?”
Riley drew up outside. “It’s fantastic!” Despite being architect-designed contemporary, the house woke vague memories of fairy-tale castles, perhaps because of its height and curved outlines. She turned to face him. “When shall I pick you up in the morning? I won’t be late again.”
“Eight-thirty?” As she nodded, his mouth curved in amusement and he lifted a hand to her cheek, rubbing at it gently with his thumb.
Before she could react, he’d drawn his hand away, looking at the smudge of green paint on his thumb. She saw he still had fading red marks at the base. Her cheeks stinging, she said, “How’s your hand?”
“I’ll live.” He looked up at her. “Didn’t it occur to you that it can be dangerous going around biting strangers? If you’d broken the skin you might have picked up something nasty.”
The heat faded from her skin as her eyes widened. “Do you have anything nasty?”
“No!” His brows drew together. “No chance. I’m a regular blood donor.”
“Well, you brought it up.”
The frown cleared, but he looked a bit exasperated. “By the way,” he said rather curtly, “I got an estimate on the damage to my car, and it probably wouldn’t be worth your while claiming insurance. If it comes out to more I’ll wear the difference.”
That was a load off her mind. “Thank you, Mr. Falkner.”
“Women who are on biting terms with me usually call me Benedict.”
The tiniest glimmer in his eyes confirmed that he was teasing. Riley breathed in quickly. “Not Ben?”
“Only those who know me…intimately.” His voice had deepened.
She didn’t suppose he was short of women who’d at least like to know him intimately. “Are you married?” she asked him.
“No.”
He’d think she was fishing. Was that wariness that she saw in his face now? Hastily she said, “Well, I’ll see you in the morning. I really have to get home now.”
Taking the hint, he opened the door, closing it behind him before he bent to say, “Thanks.”
Riley turned the key and did a fast turn out of the cul-de-sac. At the first traffic light she tilted the rearview mirror and peered into it. A faint smudge of green still marked her cheekbone. Scrubbing at it with the heel of her hand, she blew a fine strand of hair away from her mouth.
No wonder Benedict Falkner had found her amusing. Maybe she should have her hair cut short. But it would need to be properly styled and then regularly maintained to look halfway decent, and hairdressers were expensive. She wore it just past shoulder length so she could keep it trimmed herself and tie it back out of the way.
Back at the house Samuela, swathed in a brightly colored sarong that left her smooth brown shoulders and plump arms bare, had her hands buried in a large bowl, and had hardly raised her tightly ringleted black head to say hello to Riley before ordering Logie to bring those carrots over if he’d finished murdering them. There was a strong smell of curry in the air. Tonight’s dinner would be a triumph or a disaster. Sam’s cooking knew no half measures.
Retreating to her room, Riley retrieved from the floor the satin pajamas her parents had sent her at Christmas, pulled the imitation-patchwork duvet over the bed and closed the book she’d dropped on the rag mat last night, placing it on the painted box that served as a night table.
She’d rushed out early to get the morning paper and study the Situations Vacant before going to her polytech course.
Closing the gaping door of her second-hand rimu wardrobe, she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror and grimaced.
Impatiently she stripped off the grubby T-shirt and leggings and bundled them into an Ali Baba basket in the corner. At least in briefs and a bra she didn’t look half grown. Her figure might be small but it was quite curvy.
Still, she couldn’t go round wearing undies. She dragged a clean pair of shorts and another T-shirt from a drawer, put them on and went to the bathroom next to her room to wash her face.
The curry was one of Samuela’s disasters. She kept apologizing as the others, red-eyed and spluttering, bravely mixed it with rice and washed it down with cold water. All night there was a constant parade to the bathroom, and the old pipes gurgled and thundered after each visit, keeping Riley half-awake until dawn.
When her alarm went off she huddled under the duvet in denial for ten minutes, but finally crawled out of bed, had a cool shower in an effort to wake herself properly, then made herself toast and coffee.
Back in her bedroom, she pulled out the dark-green skirt she wore for job interviews, and a short-sleeved, pin-tucked cream blouse she’d bought for a song in Singapore, buttoning it as she slid bare feet into heeled shoes that gave her a little extra height but were still comfortable to wear.
After dragging a brush over her hair, she picked up a hair tie and raced out to her car, slipping the elastic temporarily over her wrist.
The traffic was heavy at this time of the morning, and while waiting in a line of cars to move through a set of lights, Riley pulled back her hair and twisted the elastic band about it.
She drew up outside Benedict Falkner’s house with ten minutes to spare and anxiously checked her appearance in the rearview mirror.
Her skin was even paler than normal, the freckles on her nose standing out against her skin. With her hair smoothed back her face seemed thin, the faint blue hollows under her eyes a legacy of her sleepless night.
On impulse she pulled the elastic tie off and tucked her hair back behind her ears.
She was surveying herself critically again when the passenger door opened and Benedict said, “Have I kept you waiting?”
Riley returned the mirror to its proper position. “I was early.”
He climbed in, put a newspaper on the dashboard and parked a briefcase in front of his feet, giving Riley an appraising glance as he fastened his seat belt. “Going somewhere special?” he asked, eyeing the neat skirt and blouse.
Riley put the car into gear. “Maybe a job interview.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Anything, really.” If she didn’t find a second job soon she’d have to give up her car. But without a car she couldn’t make it to the day care center in time after leaving her class, meaning she’d have no job at all and no money. “Something with flexible hours that pays well, if I had a choice.”
“You’re some kind of artist, aren’t you? I suppose it doesn’t pay much.”
Riley turned to look at him for a moment. “Artist?”
“Yesterday you were covered in paint. I thought…”
She laughed. “The artist is three years old. He wasn’t too sure exactly what it was he was supposed to be painting—me, himself, or the paper I’d given him to do his picture on.”
She slowed at the intersection to look for oncoming traffic, swung out of the cul-de-sac and changed gear again. Benedict was gazing through the windscreen at the oncoming traffic but probably thinking of something else.
“Are you married?” he asked her as she accelerated.
Riley threw him a startled look before returning her eyes to the road. “No.” She’d asked him the same thing yesterday, she recalled.
A car shot out of a driveway ahead of them, and she flattened the brake. Benedict was jerked against his seat belt, the newspaper falling from the dashboard.
“Sorry,” Riley gasped as the engine stalled.
“Not your fault. Bloody idiot,” he added as the other car roared off ahead of them.
“Yes,” Riley agreed. “There are lots of them around.” Restarting the engine, she added, “And please don’t say anything about pots calling kettles black.”
“Wasn’t even thinking of it,” Benedict assured her blandly. He bent to pick up the newspaper, looking at the headlines. “So…what’s the three-year-old artist’s name?”
She thought he’d forgotten all about that remark. “Tamati. He’s quite a sweetie.” Her lips curved affectionately. “Bit of a mischief if you don’t keep him occupied, though.”
From the corner of her eye she saw his swift glance at her. “Tamati…Maori?”
“Mmm, his father’s Maori.” She slowed at a corner, peering carefully for other traffic before accelerating again.
“Uh-huh.” Benedict unfolded the paper so he could read the front page. Later he turned to other pages, careful to fold them out of her way. By the time they reached his office building he’d read the main news and was perusing the business section.
When he made to fold it and gather up the rest, she said, “Do you want the Situations Vacant pages?”
“No. Do you?”
“If you can spare them, thanks.”
“Have the lot, I’ve finished with it.” He placed it on the dashboard again.
“Thanks. I’ll be here at five-thirty,” she promised. “Okay?”
“Look, you don’t really need—”
“I feel bad about your car, and it’s the least I can do, especially since you’re willing to take your money in installments.”
“All right,” Benedict said at last, but his voice sounded clipped and distant. “If you insist.”
When she fetched him, he nodded to her as he got in, not commenting on the fact that she was back in jeans and a T-shirt. She had made sure her face was clean and retied her hair but, anxious not to be late again, hadn’t taken the time to change out of her work clothes. Benedict Falkner had already seen how she looked at the end of an afternoon helping to keep twenty children stimulated and happy. And anyway, she wasn’t trying to impress him, was she?
As she merged the Corona into a stream of traffic, he reached for his briefcase, then apparently changed his mind, sitting back and folding his arms.
“If you want to work,” she said, “it’s okay.”
