Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [51]
She unfastened the seat belt, reached for the door and opened it. She didn’t take the hand he held out for her, climbing out on her own instead, and she glanced back at her BMW for a doubtful moment. On a street full of low-riders and ancient sedans it stood out, even in its current less-than-stellar condition.
“Will my car be here in the morning?”
“There are no guarantees. If people know you’re with me though, it’ll probably be safe.”
“Why? Are you that strong an influence in this neighborhood? Are you a drug dealer? Is that where I know you from?”
“If I’m Hispanic I’m either an orderly or a drug dealer? Not very politically correct, chica,” he chided her, unoffended.
“Sorry,” she muttered, oddly ashamed of herself. It wasn’t often that that happened—her behavior was usually so reprehensible that regret was a waste of time. But for some reason this man had her doing all sorts of unexpected things, feeling unexpected feelings.
He lived in a second floor walk-up in an old building that smelled of spices but shone with cleanliness. He preceded her into the apartment, leaving the lights off, and she wondered if he was just going to jump her in the dark. So much for old-fashioned courtesy.
A moment later the lights came on, and she saw she was in a small, tidy studio apartment, slightly shabby, oddly comfortable-looking. She looked around her, surveying her surroundings. There was a sofa with a brightly colored afghan thrown over it, a wall of books and stereo equipment and a television. A desk and computer by the window that faced the fire escape, a kitchen in an alcove, equally spotless.
“It’s very nice,” she said weakly.
“It’s a good thing my cleaning lady was in today, or you wouldn’t be so overwhelmed by my luxurious living quarters. Are you hungry?”
“You’re going to cook for me?” She was oddly uneasy. She wasn’t used to doing this stone-cold sober, and he wasn’t making much effort at moving things along. He should have backed her against the wall, pulling up her sweater so he could touch her breasts.
But she didn’t want him to touch her breasts. Or maybe she did—he was very attractive in a loose-limbed, rumpled sort of way. But he wasn’t coming any closer, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to start things.
“I could order pizza.”
Which made her think of Coltrane and her weird reaction to him. “No pizza,” she said. “I’m not hungry. Got a drink?”
“Diet Coke.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know. But if you wanted to drink you wouldn’t have come home with me, would you?” he said reasonably, locking the door. Locking her in, she thought, wondering if she should be even more nervous. Locking out the night.
She shrugged. “Where’s the bed?”
“In a hurry? The night’s young. Why don’t we—”
“Sit and talk?” she suggested. “Get to know each other? Maybe have a little AA meeting on our own? I didn’t come here to talk. Where’s the bed?”
Without a word he went to the sofa and opened it, laying the brightly colored afghan on his desk with a certain reverence. “Clean sheets,” he said with a crooked smile.
“I don’t care.” She began unbuttoning her sweater, afraid that if she hesitated she wouldn’t do it, that she’d start crying. Then she’d have to run away. And she had no place to run to.
She pulled off her sweater, dumped it on the floor, then slid out of her jeans, standing in her skimpy silk underwear. She took a handful of brightly colored condoms out of her purse and put them on the table beside the bed, just as Rico came back into the room carrying pillows and a duvet. He glanced at the stack of condoms with a faint smile. “You think I’m going to need all of them? That’s a little overoptimistic, isn’t it?” he said, then turned to look at her.
She was too thin and she knew it. Heroin chic, they called it. That was the one drug she’d managed to avoid, but she