Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [50]
“Doing what?”
“In the emergency room.”
“Are you an orderly?”
“If you want.”
He was beginning to annoy her. “Are you always so agreeable?” she said in a cranky voice.
“No. Ask my mother—I can be a pain in the butt. I just happen to be in a good mood.”
“Why?”
He glanced at her then, just a brief look before he turned back to concentrate on the heavy traffic. “Because I’m with you.”
She grimaced. “I told you, I’m not interested in someone who’s going to fall instantly in love with me.”
“Not a problem, chica,” he murmured. “I promise.”
There was something going on, some undertone she didn’t quite understand, and she sat up, casting a suspicious look at him. “You aren’t a sicko, are you? I’m not into D and S, S and M, or any of those other initials. I just want oblivion. I’ll take it with sex if I can’t use drugs or alcohol, but I don’t get off on pain.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then why do you work in an emergency room?” she shot back, distrustful.
“Because I can help,” he replied calmly. “Isn’t it a little late to be having second thoughts about coming with me?”
“Is it? What if I tell you to stop the car and get out, let me drive away? Will you do it?”
Without a word he pulled over, out of the traffic, and turned to look at her. “It’s up to you. I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do, and I’m not going to hurt you. If you want me to leave I will.”
And leave her alone, with nowhere to go but back to La Casa. Or the Kit-Kat Klub. She nodded. “Okay, I trust you,” she said.
He laughed softly, putting the car into gear and pulling deftly back into the stream of cars. “No, you don’t, chica. You don’t trust anyone. But we’ll work on that.”
Great, she thought sourly. “What’s your name? If I’m going to spend the night with you I ought to know your name.”
“You know it. It’s Rico.”
“Your full name.”
“Enrique Ricardo Salazardo de Martinez y Columbo.” The Spanish syllables flowed off his tongue so smoothly she could barely follow them.
“Rico will do,” she said wryly. She waited a moment, but he said nothing. “Don’t you want to know my name? Or do you prefer to keep this anonymous?”
“‘Hi, my name is Rachel-Ann and I’m an alcoholic,”’ he quoted lightly.
“Except that I’ve never said that,” she pointed out coolly.
“I know.”
Of course he knew. That was why he’d said it. And why the hell had she chosen someone like him to find forgetfulness? He was far too observant.
Except, in fact, she hadn’t chosen him. He’d simply appeared, available when she needed someone to distract her. To keep her sane. “My name is Rachel-Ann Meyer. Not nearly as exotic as yours, I’m afraid.”
“Not as many ancestors,” he said with a crooked smile.
“Not that want to own up to me. I was adopted.”
He nodded, seemingly unsurprised. “But you have family?”
“A sister and a brother,” she said.
“No parents? What happened to the people who adopted you?”
“My mother died years ago in a car crash. She’d already divorced Jackson.”
“Who’s Jackson?”
“My father. He’s still alive.”
“So you have a brother and sister and father….”
“I don’t want to talk about it. We’re sleeping together, not getting married,” she snapped, uneasy.
“You don’t like talking about your father?”
“Drop it, Rico,” she said. “Or you can get out and walk.”
Once more he pulled up to the curb, into a parking space, and he turned off the car, plunging them into a darkness lit only by the streetlights and the passing cars. “So will you,” he said. “We’re here.”
She craned her neck to look out the window. She wasn’t quite sure what she expected—certainly not the working-class neighborhood that looked more like New York than L.A. “You live here?”
“My apartment’s just down the block.” He took her hand, and for a moment she tried to jerk away, suddenly nervous. He held on, putting her keys in her palm and closing her fingers around them before releasing them. “Your decision, Rachel-Ann,” he said calmly. “But I’m going in.”
He slid out of the car, coming around to her side. It would be easy enough to push the