Mr. Hall Takes A Bride. Marie Ferrarella

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ sailed by him as if he was nothing more than one of the desks or chairs in the place. Her attention seemed to be completely focused on the couple who had just walked in. He looked at the couple now. They appeared to be in their later fifties, possibly early sixties and life had not been kind to either of them.

      He caught himself wondering what had brought them here and what had put that close-to-panic look on the woman’s face.

      “Please, have a seat,” Sarajane was saying. She gestured toward two chairs in front of the desk closest to the front door. The desk had an incredible amount of papers piled on it. As she coaxed the couple to sit, Sarajane scooped away one of the piles of paper, depositing it onto the adjacent desk. “I was just about to make some coffee. Can I get either of you a cup?” Sarajane asked.

      “No, no coffee.” The woman had an accent he couldn’t readily place. He watched her open her purse and take out a much-creased packet of papers. “Just help,” the woman entreated simply. “We got this in the mail—” she began, holding up the papers.

      But Sarajane stayed the woman’s hand before she could launch into her tale. She nodded her head toward Jordan. “Mr. Hall over there will be right with you.” Retracing her steps back to him, Sarajane took possession of the files again, digging them out of his arms. “These will be waiting for you on the table,” she promised. She placed them next to the pile she’d just shifted from the first desk.

      It was clear that the walk-ins took precedence over all the other instructions she’d fired at him.

      “What about Mr. Wyatt?” he wanted to know. The light on the phone on what she indicated was his desk was blinking almost hypnotically.

      Even as he posed the question, another line lit up and began to ring. Followed immediately by another. He had the feeling that this was business as usual in this place.

      He looked at Sarajane expectantly and barely heard the sigh that escaped her lips. She tossed her head ever so slightly as her eyes met his. “I’ll take care of him for now.”

      He couldn’t remember ever hearing more confidence infused into a sentence.

      More lines began to ring until every light in the single row was lit. The buzzer went off again as two more people came in.

      The man nodded in Jordan’s direction and made himself at home on one of the chairs along one wall. The woman, apparently less familiar with her surroundings than the man, took a seat as well, perching awkwardly on the edge of the folding chair, looking as if she intended to take flight at the slightest provocation. Upon closer scrutiny, Jordan saw that she looked as if she’d been crying.

      In the background, Jordan could discern what sounded like the arthritic rumblings of a battle-worn coffeemaker going through its paces, the water grumbling as it was being heated.

      This was a far cry from the plush corporate offices where he usually spoke to clients, Jordan thought as he took a seat at the desk opposite the couple that had come in first.

      The second he put his full weight on it, the chair began to wobble beneath him. Caught off guard, Jordan grabbed either side of the desk to steady himself and keep from ignobly sinking to the black-and-white-checkered floor.

      “Oh, and your chair has a loose wheel,” Sarajane called out without even turning in his direction. She was busy taking down the names of the two people who had just entered. “I’d be careful how I sat down on it if I were you.”

      Maybe the woman was better suited to the fortune-teller’s shop next door, Jordan thought as he nodded at the distraught couple.

      He put on his most confident smile, the one he wore for the paying clients. He’d been told it put them at their ease. “How can I help you?”

      Those were his last words for the next twenty minutes.

      Chapter Three

      Sarajane was prejudiced against good-looking men.

      She had firsthand experience with the nature of the beast. Her opinion was built on a very firm foundation. Fresh out of college, ready to take on the world, she’d lost her heart to a good-looking man with a golden tongue: Rocco Santori, an incredibly good-looking man who was as shallow as a puddle on the pavement.

      Lonely, needing love, needing to feel that soothing rush that came from being committed to just one man, she’d actually thought that Rocco was the man she could spend the rest of her life with. In addition to his looks, he was bright, intelligent and intent on making something of himself. She’d poured her heart into the relationship—and he had poured words. Lovely, beautiful words that had turned out to be empty, holding only air and precious little else.

      She’d left him when she’d discovered that he was sleeping not only with her, but with two other women as well. Each of them had his promise of exclusivity to wrap their dreams around. It turned out that he was seeking to further his own career by using the women he slept with to his best advantage, to feed his ego, to make him feel invincible.

      She couldn’t get away fast enough. After that, she was wary, but her heart being what it was, she fell in love with someone almost a year later. Again, she was hopeful. Again she gave away her heart. Because Andrew Hopkins seemed different.

      Seemed, but wasn’t.

      Like Rocco, Andrew belonged to the DDG Club, the Drop Dead Gorgeous Club. She came to the conclusion that all men who qualified for that club never bothered developing their personalities, or, more importantly, their scruples, feeling that their looks absolved them of ever having to trouble themselves with a sense of decency or morality.

      In her experience, good-looking men didn’t have to try as hard or do as much and they were still forgiven, still worshipped. All because of their looks. If they had the body to go along with that, almost any woman they encountered was lost.

      Almost.

      She now belonged to that small but exclusive group that could see right through the men of the DDG Club. Men like Jordan Hall, she thought, covertly observing him throughout the morning. Clinically speaking, Jordan was even better looking than either Rocco or Andrew had been. But it didn’t matter. She’d had her shots. She was immune to handsome faces and biceps that rippled and butts that quarters could be bounced off. She’d take a homely, honest man any day.

      If she were taking men, which she wasn’t.

      Mentally, she’d decided to retreat from the male-female battlefield for the present. Given that she was only twenty-five, she figured she had time to get back in the game—if she ever wanted to. And right now, that was doubtful.

      Sarajane frowned thoughtfully to herself as yet another call came in and she picked up the receiver. She had fully expected Jenny Logan’s high-profile brother to fade, to give up. It hadn’t taken a stretch of her imagination to envision him backing away from his desk and heading for the door an hour after his arrival.

      Especially after the Trans had arrived. Twelve people, all talking at once, a few lapsing into Vietnamese when they grew excited. One of them—the mother, she had discovered after joining the fray to try to untangle what was going on—had been the victim of identity theft, which, according to what the woman’s oldest daughter had figured out, had begun over nine months ago. Mrs. Tran was being brought to court on all kinds of non-payment charges. There were bounced checks and staggering СКАЧАТЬ