The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [83]
“Well, ’bye,” she said, braving a last glance at Oliver. She took in details she’d missed before, the way his straight shoulders filled out the jacket of his dark suit, his sexy five-o’clock shadow. Tall men were her weakness.
That’s all it was, she assured herself on the way down the hall to the elevator. Physical attraction, and already she was over it. Good thing she hadn’t met her soul mate or anything. Because Oliver Worth couldn’t stand her.
SIX
“Please enter your credit card number now.”
Oliver obeyed, trying not to think too much about what he was doing. Which wasn’t like him. But if he thought about it, he’d hang up, turn off the TV—muted on The Virginian, the 1929 version with Gary Cooper—and try to get some work done. Instead he crossed his bare feet on top of the leather ottoman that matched his Eames chair and waited for the voice.
“Hello. This is Madame Romanescu.”
“Hey,” he said in a dusty Western drawl he hadn’t planned on using—it just came out. “How’re you this pretty evenin’, ma’am?” On the TV screen, The Virginian was riding the range with Shorty, one of his scruffy ranch hands. “Name’s Shorty,” Oliver said, unimaginatively. “Just thought I’d call up and say how-do.”
Madame Romanescu had a friendly smile in her voice when she said, “Hello, Shorty. I am so glad you called. How are you?”
“I’m pretty peaceful. Don’t know what it’s like where you are, but out here, seems like there’s more stars than sky.”
“It sounds beautiful. You are somewhere out West, I’m thinking.”
“Wyoming, ma’am, just outside Medicine Bend. How ’bout you? If you don’t mind me inquirin’,” he added, recalling that she didn’t like to talk about her personal life.
She hesitated before saying, “New Jersey. Just outside Hoboken.”
Now, that had to be true. What kind of psychic, especially one with a Gypsy accent like hers, would say she came from Hoboken unless she did? “Well, I’m damned,” Oliver said. “What’s it like in Hoboken tonight?”
“Oh . . .” Her voice went away, as if she were craning her neck, looking out a window or a door. “I can’t see any stars. The lights from the city, they turn the sky orange.”
Lights from New York, she must mean. “Now, that’s a shame.”
“What is it like where you are?”
“Hot, ma’am. Hotter’n a whorehouse on nickel night.”
“And what do you do out there in Wyoming, Shorty?”
He gave a low, lazy laugh. A Gary Cooper laugh. “Hey now, you’re the psychic, ma’am, you tell me.”
“Mmm . . . I’m thinking you work outdoors quite a lot.”
“Now, that’s amazing.”
“With . . . animals? Is that right? I’m seeing animals.”
“Say, this is incredible. ’Cause I work on a cattle ranch.”
“Yes. And . . . you are the boss? Perhaps not the big boss, but there are men who work for you. Respect you.”
“I like to think they do. I’m the foreman at the Double K. Aw, heck, I shoulda tried to make you guess that.”
She laughed, an earthy rumble deep in her throat. Marlene Dietrich, but without the man-eating vibe. “I am no mind reader, Shorty. I can only read the messages you send me.”
“Yeah, but send you with my mind.”
“Tell me what is on your mind tonight, dear one. Something is troubling you, I think. Is it anything I can help you with?”
She was getting right to the point. He could’ve talked about the weather in Medicine Bend and Hoboken indefinitely—big bucks for Madame Romanescu. Maybe she wanted to go to bed.
“I doubt it,” he told her, taking a sip from his cup of decaf. “Just wanted to hear a voice, tell you the truth. Gets powerful lonesome out here on the range, just me and the dogies.”
“The dogies?”
“Cattle, ma’am. Longhorns. We’re herdin’ about two hundred head out to plains pasture for the summer.”
“But you like this work, I think. It’s hard, but it suits you.”
“Most o’ the time.” Most of the time he enjoyed his job at Cullen