Life With Riley. Laurey Bright
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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