Getting Lucky Page 10

  “If he realizes his mistake, then he probably won’t be foolish enough to expect forgiveness,” he said quietly.

  “Oh, dear, I didn’t mean to sound so—”

  “Miss Agatha, look!” Josie Dalton scrambled up the steps, her left arm encased in a bulky splint. “It’s not broke or nothin’, but look what I get to wear.” She fixed her gaze on Ben. “Hey, I ’member you. Did you find the grocery store?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “He got losted, Miss Agatha, and had to get directions to the store from me and Lannie. Well, mostly Lannie, on account of she had her hand over my mouth so’s I couldn’t talk.” She wrapped her good arm around Agatha’s neck. “I gotta go tell Aunt Emilie I’m okay so she won’t worry. Uncle Nathan said it was okay to cry if I wanted, but I didn’t—well, not very much—’cause cryin’s for babies, and there wasn’t any reason to cry with him there, ’cause he’d never let anything bad happen to me. See ya, mister. See ya, Miss Agatha.”

  After she was gone, Agatha sighed softly, stood to leave, then turned back. “Can you imagine how it must feel, Ben, for a child to have such unwavering faith in you?”

  He could—barely. The only thing he’d ever trusted his parents to do was let him down. Alanna didn’t expect even that much from him.

  “It would be pretty scary,” he said, watching Josie with Emilie and a dark-haired man whom he assumed was perfect-father, perfect-uncle Nathan Bishop.

  “Oh, no,” she disagreed. “It would give you something to live up to. Expectations to meet. A precious little heart to not break. A good father works hard to become the person his child believes him to already be.”

  What did Alanna believe him to be? he wondered as Agatha returned to her seat and Sophy came back carrying two cups of lemonade.

  Irresponsible. Selfish. Uncaring. Absent.

  He could live up—or was it down?—to those expectations. He’d been doing it all his life.

  But could he become better than he’d already proven himself to be?

  More important, would anyone care if he did?

  Chapter Seven

  I wish you didn’t have to go back.”

  It was Sunday afternoon and Lynda was sitting on the bed in the guest room, watching as Melina packed her bag.

  “Me, too. But the job that pays the bills and supports Melina in the way she likes is in Buffalo.”

  “If you’d met Mr. Right while you were here, you wouldn’t think twice about staying.”

  “If I met Mr. Right, I wouldn’t think twice about moving to Timbuktu.” Melina glanced around the room, then closed the bag. “Let’s get some food before I leave.”

  “It’s already four o’clock. You won’t get home until—” Remembering how fast she drove, Lynda broke off. “Where do you want to go?”

  “Harry’s. I’ll get some pie to take home with me.”

  Melina picked up her bag, and Lynda followed her downstairs. They took separate cars into town, parking side by side. Lynda tried not to notice the midnight-blue GTO parked a few spaces down, but Melina wouldn’t let it go unmentioned.

  “Well, well, our Southern bad-boy is here and probably anxious for some company. Let’s take pity on him, Lyn—and no transforming into the ice maiden.”

  “Let’s don’t,” Lynda countered. “Let’s enjoy your last evening here without strangers.”

  “But Ben—”

  Lynda gave her friend a stern look. “All right,” Melina grumbled. “Whatever you say.”

  Her compliance lasted only for the length of time it took them to walk inside and locate Ben’s booth. The instant she saw him, she plastered on a delighted smile and stopped beside his table. “Fancy meeting you here. Mind if we join you?”

  He gestured to the opposite bench and Melina slid in. Barely. Leaving Lynda to, presumably, sit next to Ben. She wasn’t doing it.

  “Your hips are expanding, but you don’t need that much room … yet,” she said dryly. “Slide on over.”

  “My hips— What— Aaahhh!” Melina slid across, scowling at her, then turned on the smile again for Ben. “How was your weekend?”

  “Good. How was yours?”

  “Oh, great. Lynda’s always such fun.”

  “I’m sure she is,” he replied in that lazy, honey-smooth drawl. “When are you heading back to the city, darlin’?”

  “Darlin’,” Melina echoed with a sigh. “Tell me, do you call me that because I’m so adorable? Or because it’s easier than remembering my name?”

  “I remember your name. It’s Melina.” He barely touched on the M and slid right into the L M’lina. All liquid and soft and slurry.

  While he said her name matter-of-factly. No sliding, no gliding, no soft, sensuous sounds. Just Lynda.

  “I’m heading home after dinner,” Melina said in answer to his question.

  “Hope the rubber band doesn’t break.”

  She gave him a saccharine smile. “Jealousy isn’t pretty. But I realize I have this great, classic Beetle and all you have is an old GTO.”

  “Jealousy? Over your turtle-on-wheels?”

  Lynda listened to them with a faint stirring of her own jealousy. Why was it so easy for Melina to talk to him? Why was he so willing to flirt with her? And why did he call Melina darlin’ and her just plain Lynda?

  The waitress came, took their orders, and told Ben his meal was about ready. He asked her to hold it until theirs was ready also. “Isn’t he a sweetheart?” the woman said, directing the comment to Lynda.

  “Oh … sure. A sweetheart.”

  “Don’t sound too enthusiastic,” Ben drawled. “You give the hired help such extravagant compliments, and they might start thinking they’re actually worth something.”

  The comment was uncalled for, and it stung. She didn’t respond, though, other than to meet his gaze for one cool moment before looking away.

  “Well … Maeve, I’m Melina.” Sounding unnaturally cheery, Melina offered the waitress her hand. “I’m Lyn’s best friend, occasional employee, and the little voice in her head that keeps her from getting too stuffy.”

  Maeve took her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Melina. Let me get these orders in, or you all might fade away from hunger.”

  After she left, silence settled over the table. Melina looked from Lynda to Ben. “We’re a quiet bunch, aren’t we? Let’s see … Ben, why don’t you tell us something about yourself we don’t already know?”

  “You mean there’s something in my past you might have missed? Some private something that escaped your snooping?”

  Heat flooded Lynda’s face. She hadn’t known he was aware of Melina’s occupation. He’d understood that she was going to check his references … but checking references and doing a full-scale background investigation were two totally different things. One was accepted business practice. The other wasn’t.

  “So much for not telling that I blabbed,” Melina said tartly, then continued, not the least bit apologetic.

  “Nothing escaped my snooping. If I wanted to know it, I found out. But I imagine you do have a few secrets left. Everyone’s entitled to that. Don’t be cranky, Ben. You have to admit, it’s not unreasonable. She’s a woman living alone, and you have access to her house. She couldn’t hire just anyone—”

  Lynda stopped the flow of her words with a hand on her arm. “It’s all right, Melina. If Mr. Foster is offended, he can ask for his paycheck and quit.”

  His green gaze was impossible to read. So was his expression. Even when he slowly smiled, she still didn’t have a clue what he was thinking. She knew she wouldn’t trust that smile, though. It was about as friendly an expression as an alligator might wear just before he bit off your fingers. “Why would I quit a steady job with good pay where I get to work without supervision, just because the boss lady is nosy?”

  “I’m not—”

  This time it was Melina who cut her off. “She’s not nosy. She’s like a computer, though, that collects data constantly, files and stores it f
or later use. She can give you chapter and verse on anyone in here right off the top of her head. Test her.”

  “Melina—”

  “Go ahead.”

  Ben glanced around, then gestured to a man sitting alone at a table against the wall. “What’s his story?”

  “Drop it,” Lynda said.

  “Don’t you know? Or is the database down? The hard drive giving an error message?”

  His mocking tone set her teeth on edge. In a quiet, controlled voice, she said, “His name is Sebastian Knight. He lives on the family farm a few miles outside of town, but he’s a carpenter by trade. He was married, but his wife left a few years ago, leaving their little girl, Chrissy, with him. He has family in town and a few friends, but mostly he keeps to himself.”

  Ben nodded once, as if something she’d said had meant something. She didn’t waste any time trying to figure it out.

  “Obviously, Mr. Foster, you aren’t in the mood for company—at least my company. For whatever it’s worth, it wasn’t my idea to join you. If you’ll excuse me….” Rising from the seat, she moved to the booth farthest from where he sat. Huffily, she slid onto the bench so her back was to the room, dropped her purse, and covered her face with both hands. When she heard Melina sit down across from her, she gritted out, “Damned insufferable Southern pig.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then, “One thing I like about you Yankees—when you insult somebody, there’s no doubt.”

  Silently, Lynda groaned.

  Ben sat across from her, looking not at all insulted and just the slightest bit ashamed. “If you’re wondering what that was about”—he gestured toward the other booth —“it was me, being an ass. It’s just …” For a moment he seemed to contemplate his excuse, then made a dismissive gesture. “Never mind. I’m sorry.”

  She wished he hadn’t apologized—wished she could continue thinking of him as rude, because that justified her own rudeness. But now that he’d apologized, she had no recourse but to do the same, when the truth was, she didn’t feel the least bit sorry.

  “I—I shouldn’t have said what I did.” It was such a shabby apology that her face turned hot again. Her parents never would have let her get by with such a poor substitute for a simple, sincere apology. She could hear Janice in her head, admonishing, We taught you better than that.

  But Ben seemed satisfied. “Want to move back over there or call Melina over here?”

  “I think it would be best if I cancel my order and go on home, and you and Melina can have dinner together. I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on, and I don’t have much of an appetite anyway, and—”

  He was studying her so intently that her words dried up. The silence dragged out—one beat, two, four—then he silkily broke it. “I can’t figure you out. Are you afraid of me, or do you believe the hired help’s place is as far away from you as possible?”

  “I’m not a snob.” She hated sounding so prim and snooty—hated more that he thought she sounded that way, too.

  “You’re rich. You can’t help but be a snob to some extent.”

  “I have money, but I’ve earned every dime of it. I wasn’t raised rich. I’m sure my upbringing was hardly different from yours.”

  “You think so?” he asked cynically. “Put a dollar on the table.”

  Warily she did so. He added one from his pocket.

  “Describe a typical day in grade school,” he challenged.

  Lynda thought about it a moment, then shrugged. “Mom would get us up for breakfast—my brother, Lucas, and me—and make our lunches. We lived only two blocks from the school, so we walked. After school, Mom always had cookies and milk waiting, and dinner cooking. She sat down with us at the kitchen table, and we told her everything we’d done, then we did our homework, and then we played. When Dad got home, we had dinner, watched a little television, played a bit more, then it was bedtime.” She smiled self-consciously. “Sounds like something off The Donna Reed Show, doesn’t it?”

  He didn’t smile back. “I missed a lot of school because my mother was usually too hungover to get herself up, much less me. Breakfast was usually a candy bar swiped from the convenience store down the street. I mostly remember getting into trouble because I hadn’t done my homework or I’d fallen asleep in class. Most days I went home to an empty apartment, and I entertained myself until she came home or I fell asleep. If I got too hungry, or too scared, like the time in second grade when someone broke in while I was there, I called my grandmother, who came and got me and kept me until my mother realized I was gone.

  “Hardly different from yours? I don’t think so.” He picked up the two dollar bills, slid them into his pocket, then stood up. “Come on. Our food’s on the other side of the room, and I do have an appetite tonight.”

  She wanted to refuse, to walk out the door and go home. She wanted him to admit that the tale he’d just told wasn’t true. She wanted him to smirk, say “Gotcha,” and laugh at her gullibility.

  But he wasn’t smirking, and when she moved, she didn’t leave but got up and walked across the room with him. She slid in beside Melina, and Ben sat across from them. They both ignored Melina’s curious looks and began eating.

  A few minutes was all Melina could stand. “Well?”

  Ben glanced up. “What? You want company and conversation?”

  “Are you two going to make nice?”

  “Is this nice enough for you? How long have you had that turtle-on-wheels?”

  “The Beetle’s the only car I’ve ever had. She was a gift from my parents for my sixteenth birthday.” Melina pouted. “I’ve had nothing but good to say about your GTO. It seems only fair that you return the courtesy.”

  “Darlin’, we’re talking about a GTO versus a Beetle. Of course you’ve said good things about it. She’ll turn one-eighteen in the quarter mile in the low twelves. It takes more than twelve seconds for your Bug to get rolling.”

  For a moment, Lynda thought Melina was going to drool at the prospect of such speed. Then she grinned wickedly. “Okay. So the Bug doesn’t fly. But you can’t park the GTO at the top of the world on a balmy summer night, put the top down, strip down naked, and make hot, lazy, crazy love under the stars.” She fanned herself languidly with one hand. “Take my word for it—it’s a completely different way of flying … and the only punishment for going too fast is doing it all over again. Sloooowly.”

  When had the diner become so warm? Lynda wondered dazedly. Harry must be baking back in the kitchen, or Maeve hadn’t adjusted the thermostat for the body heat generated by the crowd of … seven diners. Okay, so maybe the heat was hers, and hers alone.

  One thing was for sure. She would never put the top down on the Mercedes again without thinking of Melina’s words … and Ben.

  He took a long drink of iced tea, but his voice was still husky when he spoke. “Fair enough. Each car has its advantages and its limitations. I guess when a vehicle’s as ugly as that Bug, it’s got to have some redeeming grace.”

  Oh, yeah, Lynda thought grimly—jealously—as she caught a glimpse of the look in his eyes. She would think of Melina’s words, and Ben making them a reality. With Melina.

  It was no big deal. It wasn’t as if she’d been interested in anything more than a short-term fling. Just a brief reminder that she was a woman, with womanly needs and desires that couldn’t be satisfied by a good hostile takeover. But, hey, what did she need sex for? She’d gone without it for so long that soon, feelings like lust and arousal would be leached from her system, like files deleted from the computer she apparently reminded both Ben and Melina of. Then she would officially be a spinster.

  “Hey.” Melina’s elbow applied to her ribs brought her attention back to the present. “I’ve got to head home. Slide out, give me a hug, then have some dessert for me.”

  “No, I’d better go, too.” Lynda stood up, and all three of them reached for the ticket.

  Ben got it first. Before Lynda could protest, Melina grinned. “Why, thank y
ou, sugar,” she said in a bad imitation of a Georgia peach. “You Southern gentlemen are so kind.” Offering her hand, she reverted to her own voice. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Ben Foster. I like you, and impressions to the contrary, I can’t often say that about men I meet. Have Lynda bring you to Buffalo soon. We’ll introduce you to the big city, Yankee-style.”

  “Be careful on your way home,” he said, accepting her hand, not even blinking when she kissed his cheek.

  Feeling very much like an interloper, Lynda didn’t know where to look or what to say when it was her turn. “Thank you for dinner.” Oh, God, she sounded stilted and formal.

  While Ben took care of the check, thankfully Melina pulled her outside. “Aw, Lyn, you’re a hoot, you know? Relax. Treat him like a person.”

  An attractive male person who made her hot, whose own temperature was affected by her best friend. Sure, that would help her relax. “I wish you’d spend the night and go home in the morning.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m wide awake, and I’ve got my cell phone, my gun, and my pepper spray. I’m ready for anything.” She wrapped her arms around Lynda, hugging her tightly. “Be good—but if pretty boy in there gives you a chance to be bad, be real bad. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” Lynda stepped back and watched Melina settle in behind the wheel. As she backed out, Lynda raised her hand in a wave that looked a lot more lonesome than intended. “Be careful,” she called, and Melina responded with an exuberant wave out the window.

  Once the car was out of sight, Lynda glanced inside. Ben was talking to Sebastian Knight. Their conversation apparently pleased him. They shook hands, then with a grin, Ben ambled out. He slowed his pace when he saw her standing on the sidewalk between him and his car.

  “I thought you were anxious to get home.”

  “I am. I wanted to give you this.” She pulled a card from a pocket inside her bag and handed it to him.

  He studied it a moment before looking at her. “Melina’s business card? I don’t need a private detective.”