Guilty Pleasures - Laurell K. Hamilton [48]
“What do I win?” he asked.
“You’re wonderful, you’re gorgeous. You are one of the best-looking men I have ever seen. From the soles of your boots, the length of your skintight jeans, to the flat, rippling planes of your stomach, to the sculpted line of your jaw, you are beautiful. Now can we go to lunch and cut the nonsense?”
He lowered his sunglasses just enough to see over the top of them. He stared at me like that for several minutes, then raised the glasses back in place. “You pick the restaurant.” He said it flat, no teasing.
I wondered if I had offended him. I wondered if I cared.
19
THE HEAT OUTSIDE the doors was solid, a wall of damp warmth that melded to your skin like plastic wrap. “You’re going to melt wearing that jacket,” I said.
“Most people object to the scars.”
I unfolded my arms from around the folders and extended my left arm. The scar glistened in the sunlight, shinier than the other skin. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
He slipped off his sunglasses and stared at me. I couldn’t read his face. All I knew was that something was going on behind those big brown eyes. His voice was soft. “Is that your only bite scar?”
“No,” I said.
His hands convulsed into fists, neck jerking, as if he’d had a jolt of electricity. A tremor ran up his arms into his shoulders, along his spine. He rotated his neck, as if to get rid of it. He slipped the black lenses back on his face, his eyes anonymous. The jacket came off. The scars at the bend of his arms were pale against his tan. The collarbone scar peeked from under the edges of the tank top. He had a nice neck, thick but not muscled, a stretch of smooth, tanned skin. I counted four sets of bites on that flawless skin. That was just the right side. The left was hidden by a bandage.
“I can put the jacket back on,” he said.
I had been staring at him. “No, it’s just . . .”
“What?”
“It’s none of my business.”
“Ask anyway.”
“Why do you do what you do?”
He smiled, but it was twisted, a wry smile. “That is a very personal question.”
“You did say ask anyway.” I glanced across the street. “I usually go to Mabel’s, but we might be seen.”
“Ashamed of me?” His voice held a harsh edge to it, like sandpaper. His eyes were hidden, but his jaw muscles were clenched.
“It isn’t that,” I said. “You are the one who came into the office, pretending to be my ‘friend.’ If we go some place I’m known, we’ll have to continue the charade.”
“There are women who would pay to have me escort them.”
“I know, I saw them last night at the club.”
“True, but the point is still that you’re ashamed to be seen with me. Because of this.” His hand touched his neck, tentatively, delicate as a bird.
I got the distinct impression I had hurt his feelings. That didn’t bother me, not really. But I knew what it was like to be different. I knew what it was like to be an embarrassment to people who should have known better. I knew better. It wasn’t Phillip’s feelings but the principle of the thing. “Let’s go.”
“Where to?”
“To Mabel’s.”
“Thank you,” he said. He rewarded me with one of those brilliant smiles. If I had been less professional, it might have melted me into my socks. There was a tinge of evil to it, a lot of sex, but under that was a little boy peeking out, an uncertain little boy. That was it. That was the attraction. Nothing is more appealing than a handsome man who is also uncertain of himself.
It appeals not only to the woman in us all, but the mother. A dangerous combination. Luckily, I was immune. Sure. Besides, I had seen Phillip’s idea of sex. He was definitely not my type.
Mabel’s is a cafeteria, but the food is wonderful and reasonably priced. On weekdays the place is filled to the brim with suits and business skirts, thin little briefcases, and manila file folders. On Saturdays it was nearly deserted.
Beatrice smiled at me from behind the steaming food. She was tall and plump with brown