Her Secret Life. Gwynne Forster
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Название: Her Secret Life
Автор: Gwynne Forster
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
isbn: 9781474026857
isbn:
“There’s nothing to be ashamed about,” he said, when he couldn’t get her to look at him. “I know you didn’t mean for it to go so far, and I certainly didn’t mean for—”
“It’s all right,” she managed to say. “Considering what was going on, I don’t see how you could have avoided it. I…uh…I’d better get ready for work.”
“I’d take you, but if I do, someone will certainly see you get out of the car. I hate this secrecy, Jackie. I don’t like the idea of having to hide my behavior from anybody.”
She looked at him then. “I have no choice right now, Warren. It’s an honest living, and I need the job.”
“I know. Go on and get ready. I’ll wait here. I can at least see that you get a taxi.”
She didn’t want that, but to have refused would have raised his suspicions. She dressed conservatively, as she usually did, and took comfort in the fact that the doorman would be on his break when she left the building. She decided not to apply the heavy makeup that she wore as a waitress, and put her makeup kit in her handbag. Maybe he wouldn’t notice the difference.
But he did. As soon as she joined him in her living room, he said “You’re so much more beautiful without the makeup you wear at work. Why do you wear it?”
Her shrug was intended to suggest that the makeup was of no consequence. “My job description calls for a glamorous, sexy woman, and specifies that I wear that ridiculous uniform and high-heeled sandals.”
He stared at her with raised eyebrows. “Well, I’ll be damned. I wonder what idiot wrote that. It must have been Hornsby.”
“Whoever he was, I don’t thank him.”
He drove over to Broadway at 66th Street, double parked and hailed a taxi. “I’ll see you later,” he told her. “I’ll have some guests tonight, so when you get a call from me, remember that I won’t be alone.” He kissed her quickly, gave the address to the driver along with a twenty-dollar bill and said to her, “He’s been paid and tipped. Bye for now.”
She made it through the night in what she could best describe as a fog, thankful that she made no blunders and got her work done with a semblance of efficiency. But she couldn’t remember ever having been in such a daze. In every minute, she could feel him and taste him. And when she went into the private lounge to answer his call, she was practically tongue-tied.
“I’d like a round of vodka comets and a selection of hot hors d’oeuvres, please,” he said when she failed to ask what he wanted.
“Yes, of course, sir,” she replied, and left the lounge as quickly as she could without inquiring as to whether he would like anything else.
Twelve o’clock came slowly, but at last she could change into her street clothes and go home. She stepped out onto 63rd, walked toward Fifth Avenue to get a taxi and stopped for the light. Warren’s Town Car eased to the curb where she stood. “I’ll be on 64th just east of Fifth,” he told her, and drove off before she could answer. She walked to the next block and got into his car.
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