The Money Man. Carolyn McSparren

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СКАЧАТЬ desperately wanted to help, but Rick had told her she wasn’t needed. She sat on the hard chair and crossed her arms. Great. Just great. What was that old saying? When something sounds too good to be true, it usually is. Rick’s job offer had sounded like paradise and had come at absolutely the best possible moment. Things at home were a mess. No matter how often she tried to tell him, Gerald never understood why she was so upset with him. Neither did her family. They always took Gerald’s side. In addition to her personal problem was her unhappiness in her job. No wonder Rick’s offer had seemed like the perfect opportunity to start afresh.

      The door opened and Mark Scott leaned in. “Hi. How about we get out of here and go see your motel? We’ll have to take both cars, so I’ll lead, you follow.” He handed her a card. “This is my cell phone number. If you get lost, call me.”

      “On what? A can and a string?”

      His eyebrows went up. “No cell phone?”

      “It belonged to the practice in St. Paul. I’ve never had one of my own.”

      “Okay. I’ll put that on my list. We’ll get you one tomorrow morning. Until then, just stick close to my tail.”

      He turned around and left with the blithe assumption that she’d trot after him. Watching that particular tail in its well-tailored slacks, she suspected that most women did trot after him.

      She intended to keep her vow. No more good-looking men. No more entrepreneurs and titans of industry. No more hard-driving A-type personalities. She’d sworn off them forever. One Gerald in a lifetime was one too many.

      The next time she fell for a man, if she ever did, she’d find a nice, gentle nest-builder with a sensitive heart, who actually listened to the things she had to say. A nurturer. Someone with glasses.

      Her ruminations took her to the parking lot, where she watched Mark climb into a British racing-green Jaguar sedan. He would drive a Jag. He’d never be able to fit his long legs under the dashboard of a Porsche.

      She climbed into her black Dodge Ram truck and pulled in behind him. He drove well and made following him easy, though she’d never be able to find the clinic again on her own with all the twists and turns they took down country roads, past vines heavy with wisteria and riots of azaleas in bloom.

      After a twenty-minute drive, the Jag pulled up to a shiny new motel advertising executive suites. He climbed out, waited for her to pull up beside him, and lo and behold, opened her door for her and offered her a hand. It felt cool, smooth. She was certain that if she glanced down she’d find his fingernails better cared for than hers.

      “Come on. My assistant said the keys would be over the door. Bags?”

      She opened the back door of her truck and pointed to a pair of bulging duffel bags. She was suddenly aware of how ratty they looked. He probably carried matching monogrammed pigskin cases—but he reached for her duffels without batting an eye.

      She tried to take at least one, but he walked off before she could snag it. The man had shoulders on him. Probably one of those guys who worked out at the gym five days a week and did iron-man competitions on the weekend. No wedding ring.

      She followed him down the hall, waited while he carefully lowered the bags (which she would have simply dropped), unlocked the door and stood aside. She entered, to find a tiny hall, a small living area with a couch, a couple of chairs at a round table and chairs for dining, a credenza, a small kitchen that could be closed off with louvered doors, and at the back a bedroom with a king-size bed and a bath with a whirlpool.

      The thought of the whirlpool was seductive. Her arms and shoulders ached not only from the drive, but from the tension of the past few days.

      The suite was institutional and bland, but still more than she had expected. “I can’t possibly afford this,” she said.

      “The clinic is paying for the first two weeks,” he said over his shoulder as he carried her bags to the bedroom. “By then, you should have your own place and can send for your things.”

      “What things? With the exception of books, stereo equipment, my computer and a few old pictures that mean something to me, I’m starting from scratch. New furniture, new town, new job, new apartment.”

      “Excellent idea. I didn’t know whether you’d prefer to be on an upper floor, but this level has a small terrace—and the security is good.”

      “A terrace?” She hadn’t noticed. She walked past him, unlocked a sliding glass door, and opened it. The motel had been built on the edge of a golf course, and acres of landscaped grass stretched down from the tiny terrace. She turned. “This is heaven.”

      For the first time Mark smiled. “Glad you like it.”

      He had a genuinely sweet smile. “You ought to do that more often.”

      “What?”

      “Smile. Makes you look human.”

      “Coy says it makes me look like a gator who’s just spotted an absent-minded duck.”

      She laughed. “He has a point.”

      “I had the refrigerator and the bar stocked. Could you use a drink?”

      “Yeah, I guess I could. Could we sit out here?” She pointed at the two molded plastic chairs.

      “If you like. I didn’t know what you like, so my assistant brought over a bit of everything. Frankly, I’m amazed she got here and left again before we arrived— but then, Beth’s amazing.”

      “I’d better go with what the natives drink.”

      “That would be Jack Black and branch.”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “Jack Daniels bourbon and branch water. Or in this case, good bottled water.”

      “Oh. Make it very light, otherwise you’ll have to pour me into bed when I pass out.”

      He raised an eyebrow. She felt her face go red, as he turned away and went back into the suite. One lousy eyebrow, and she reacted like a schoolgirl.

      He handed her the drink in a heavy crystal glass that clearly had not come with the motel’s stock of bar glasses, and took the chair beside her. He stretched his long legs in front of him. “To crime.”

      “How about to secrets?”

      He glanced over at her. “Huh?”

      “Come on, Mr. Scott…”

      “Mark.”

      “I doubt you generally baby-sit newcomers in your busy executive life, yet here you are playing bartender, while Rick ran from me to trim a pig’s toenails. What gives?”

      He took a deep breath. “You’re too observant for your own good, Dr. Marsdon.”

      “Oh Lord, don’t tell me there’s no job!”

      He raised a hand quickly. “No, no, there’s a job. There’s very much a job. You are our only СКАЧАТЬ