Underneath It All. Nancy Warren
Читать онлайн книгу.
recited it.
Ruby laughed. “Revenge of the Nerd?”
She told her friend about storming up to his apartment, and his apology, while Ruby continued fondling the silk camisole.
“And he can afford this?”
“I guess so. I told him to take it back, but he insisted I keep it, just to show there’s no hard feelings.”
“He’s got good taste for a nerd.” Ruby let out a lusty chuckle. “Why, you should model this for him some night.” Ruby thrust out her impressive chest and held the camisole against it. “Give that angel a workout.”
THE QUIET TAP OF THE computer keys was the only sound in the room, but Darren was having trouble concentrating. He was hungry, and he was spending so many hours alone he was starting to worry about his mental health.
Sure, he wanted to work on his project, and yes, if the media got hold of him there’d be hell to pay, but still he needed to get out more.
Little noises from downstairs told him his neighbor was home. And that was his biggest problem. The person in Seattle he most wanted to socialize with—the only one he knew—was the one he most needed to stay away from.
He told himself it was simply loneliness and not his frustrated libido that had him thinking about her when he ought to be working. Thinking about her reminded him of the schedule that anal-retentive Dean Edgar had promised to draft.
He worked out a very Dean Edgarish schedule, coded in blocks, that gave him exclusive use of the laundry facilities Saturday, Sunday and Wednesday, while Kate got Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. He printed the schedule and was just about to take it to her when he heard shrieks of laughter coming from the downstairs apartment. He smiled, enjoying the sound. Kate must have a friend over, and something had struck them pretty funny.
The laughter downstairs emphasized how quiet it was in his apartment. His first Saturday night in Seattle and he was sitting here all alone, not knowing a soul in the city and dressed like a goof. He shook his head.
Was he crazy?
He thought back to what he would be doing back home on a Saturday night. He almost groaned at the thought of all he’d left behind—the restaurants, the parties, the clubs, the women.
He glanced out the window. The stars were out tonight. Maybe he’d take a walk by himself and go find something to eat in a restaurant where there were other people. He gazed down at the quiet tree-lined street.
A young black woman emerged from the downstairs apartment, throwing a laughing comment over her shoulder. He heard Kate’s voice calling out in reply. Great, the friend was gone, he could drop the schedule off on his way out.
He donned the glasses and an old jeans jacket Bart and he had found in a thrift store, shoved a Mariners cap on his head and let himself out of his apartment, the computer printout in his hand. He ran lightly down the stairs and knocked on Kate’s door.
“Honestly, Ruby, you always forget something.” Kate was laughing as she opened the door. The smile turned to an O of surprise when she saw Darren standing there. For some reason she blushed when she saw him.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she answered, an embarrassed smile playing around her lips. She had bright yellow rubber gloves on, drops of soapy water clinging to them. They looked like clown hands, Darren thought, incongruous against the cherry-red sleeveless cotton sweater and jeans. Instead of shoes she wore oversize gray wool socks.
He cleared his throat. “I brought you the schedule,” he said, trying to hand it to her, but she backed away, laughing and flapping her wet yellow gloves.
“My hands are all wet. You’d better come in.”
Stepping into her apartment, he was assailed by delicious aromas: garlic and cheese, spicy tomato sauce. He breathed in rapturously. “Smells like a little Italian restaurant I used to love on…” He stopped himself before he mentioned East Seventy-third street. What was the matter with him? His cover was slipping again. “I can’t remember where it was,” he finished lamely. She didn’t look too surprised. She already thought he was a lame sort of guy.
“Lasagna.” She smiled. “You probably haven’t had time to get organized, do you want some?”
“No thanks,” he said, before his stomach and every other part of him could make him say yes.
She was even prettier when she wasn’t yelling. Her eyes were big and green with flecks of gold. Her lips were full and kissable. And that hair—if it was real—would be glorious to touch.
She peeled off the gloves and took the schedule from him. “Sure, this looks fine,” she said, casually perusing the page, then she focused intently. “You remembered my first and last name. And spelled it right, too.” She looked at him curiously. “Are you Irish?”
He chuckled, unable to resist. “No, I’ve got computer chips for brains, remember?” He leaned against the doorjamb, casually, watching one particular ringlet brush her temple. He could have watched it for hours. He’d never seen anyone with such sexy hair.
She put her hand to her cheek. She had the kind of fair skin that blushed easily. “Did I say that to you?”
“Among other things.” The urge to indulge in a little light banter, initiate the game, was strong. It took an effort of will to prevent himself, to move away from the wall and stoop as he backed outside.
“I’ll post that schedule in the laundry room, then. If there’s anything else we should schedule, like lawn mowing, or garbage duty or whatever, just let me know.” His glasses were sliding down his nose; he jabbed them irritably back up with a forefinger.
“Okay,” she said, a hint of humor in her voice. “’Night.”
“’Night.”
A long walk would do him good. He needed something to get his mind off the first attractive female he’d met in Seattle.
It was a clear night. From the duplex on Queen Anne Hill, Darren sauntered downhill in the general direction of the harbor. The smell of summer was in the air, assorted flowers, freshly mown grass and dogwood trees in full bloom.
After a good long walk, he’d worked up quite an appetite. He passed through Pioneer Square, his feet stumbling over the restored cobbled roads. He liked this area of town. Many of the late nineteenth-century buildings had been preserved and the old shells housed new life: coffee bars, offices, shops and restaurants.
He saw bright light spilling out of a corner pub and his stomach grumbled audibly. He read the name lettered on the door—O’Malley’s. He smiled to himself. It was a night for the Irish.
Inside, the atmosphere was warm. Wood paneling and a massive bar that must have been as old as the building gave an antique charm to the place. Taking a seat near the end of the long bar, Darren ordered a Red-hook ale, brewed locally he was assured, and a burger. Remembering to slouch was no problem as he tried to perch his tall frame on a bar stool.
A couple of attractive women came in and looked around for somewhere to sit. They looked him over and then sat at the other end of the bar. He’d never thought of himself as attractive to women, because he’d just never thought about it. But being evaluated and found lacking was a new and unpleasant experience.
As the bar filled up, no one but the bartender came near him.
He was just finishing his second beer and thinking about heading home when a slight, balding man entered O’Malley’s. His cheap suit hung awkwardly on his bony frame. The light seemed to bother him, or maybe it was a tic that caused him to blink rapidly as he looked around the room. Darren chuckled silently when the man chose the stool next to him. It seemed the man saw in him a kindred spirit. If he had to strike up a conversation with a stranger, he wished it had been the pretty girls.
The man ordered a cheeseburger and a light