The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [96]
“You make fun of it before anyone else can. ‘Blowing up scenic mountaintops,’ you called it.”
“Lobbying’s a misunderstood occupation. Add ‘energy industry,’ and people assume I melt the polar ice cap for a living.”
“It’s true,” she realized, abashed. “Well, what do you do?”
Hands in his pockets, he stared down at the path his expensive shoes were cutting through the wet turf. “Talk, mostly. Try to get somebody’s point of view across to somebody else.”
“For lots and lots of money.”
He slanted her a look.
“I’m sorry, that was incredibly rude. Money’s a—sore subject these days. Sorry.”
“Forget it.”
“So you’re a professional persuader.”
“There you go.”
She stopped in her tracks.
He noticed; stopped, too. “What?”
“Nothing.” He’d sounded so much like Shorty! There you go. It was uncanny.
They resumed their walk. Talked about the weather for a while, the likelihood of more rain, the imminence of summer. “How old is your dog?” Oliver asked.
Pancho had abandoned the tennis ball to chase after the low-flying barn swallows crisscrossing the field. “Two, I think. He’s not mine, I’m just walking him for . . . somebody.”
“Who?”
“Oh . . . somebody.” She blanked. Physical therapists probably didn’t do part-time dog-sitting. Oliver was scowling at her. “A friend,” she said shortly. “Who do you think?”
“I really have no idea.”
“No, you don’t.”
Were they fighting? What about?
Next he asked, “So you live around here,” but in such a flat way, every word in the question implied disbelief.
“Yes, I’ve told you. I have a house in Kensington.”
“Mm hm. How come you’re not in the phone book?”
“I am.” Oops. “I mean, I was.” Krystal Smith-Jones was definitely not in the phone book. “I—now I’m unlisted, that’s all. I just—decided to be.”
“Mm hm.”
“What is wrong with you?” They’d completed their circuit of the ball field and were back at the parking lot. “I don’t see how you persuade anybody to do anything when you go around with an attitude like that.”
“Like what?”
“What is it exactly that you dislike about me, Oliver? I would really like to know.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.”
“Maybe we got off on the wrong foot.”
“It’s more than that. You said you wanted to talk about Charlie—okay, what about him?”
It started to rain.
“All right.” Oliver wiped a drop of water off his nose and took an offensive stance. “For one thing, there’s nothing the matter with his spine. Lumbar or cervical.”
She blushed. Couldn’t think of a response. Her hair was getting wet.
“For another, he’s an old man, he’s lonely. He lost his wife two years ago—”
“I know all that.”
“He’s trusting, vulnerable. And let’s face it, not exactly rocksteady in his judgment sometimes. I’m not accusing you of anything—”
“Aren’t you?” The soaked dog sidled over and leaned against her thigh.
“I’m just saying it would be easy to take advantage of him.”
“I’m not taking advantage of Charlie.”
The heavens opened up. Oliver swore out loud, Molly to herself. “In the car,” he ordered, and started for the Pontiac, Pancho trotting behind him.
“What’s wrong with yours?” A joke, and it worked—Oliver’s look of horror made her laugh. They all climbed into her car, where Pancho immediately gave a vigorous full-body shake. Muddy water everywhere.
High humidity, smell of dog, and relative quiet, just the drum of rain on the roof. Within seconds, the windows steamed up.
“Here,” Molly said, leaning over to pull tissues from the glove compartment. She and Oliver dried their faces. His clothes were stuck to him, hers to her. The situation was anything but romantic, but—she was steaming up, too. She could feel her body changing. The physical pull was so strong, she was almost trembling. What was this? She didn’t like Oliver—she wanted to touch him everywhere. “Chilly,” she mumbled, to mask the cause of the shivering. And then she blurted out, “Okay, all right. I’m not exactly a physical therapist.” Lust, apparently, was like truth serum.
“Except in a very broad sense.” Oliver’s sensuous lips sneered a little, but she didn’t think his heart was in the insult.