Waiting For A Girl Like You Part 5

"Of course I need money. Lots of it. What woman in her right mind wants to be tied up and spanked?" My voice spiked high and loud. The hissing espresso machine saved me from embarra.s.sment.

"Then get another job."

"I did have two jobs," I shot back. "I lost the good paying one two months ago...not that it's any of your business."

For all my bravado, I wilted a little more inside. Mark didn't ask why I needed the money, proof he wasn't really into me.

The seam of his mouth flattened. "You're right. It isn't, but I'm asking anyway."

People like him p.i.s.sed me off. They lived thinking the world was full of opportunity and choices when all I'd seen were dead ends and closed doors. I'd worked my a.s.s off for every decent sc.r.a.p that ever came my way. Three days ago I was worn to the bone and weak. That's why I said yes to Mrs. Smith's easy money. She asked for two nights a month and would pay me close to what I earned in a month at my old day job. It wasn't my proudest moment, but I was a survivor.

Mark sat across the table, stern and beautiful, one eyebrow arching the longer I stayed silent. Ice chips could've formed around me.

"Why is it so important to you?" I asked.

"Because you're smart. You can do more than sell your body."

Sharp laughter erupted from me. "So says the smart man who bought my body for a night."

Mark had the grace to avert his eyes to the window. He scrubbed his nape, air gusting from his lips as if my circ.u.mstances weighed him down.

"Yeah, sometimes I'm an a.s.s." Clear blue eyes speared me. "Humor me. What's going on with you?"

His gruff concern was two parts forceful and one part hidden. It was enough to melt my icy wall. I gave him the quick version of my mom's situation. Only the barest emotion flickered across his hawkish face as I went from telling him about Mom and Grandma to my return to California. I was going to get my degree, but first I needed a good job to keep sending a monthly check home.

That opportunity came when Dr. Howard hired me four years ago to manage his one man dental office in Laguna Niguel. Everything was on track until three months ago he barely survived a heart attack. His wife closed the office. Life was too short she'd told me. She wanted as much time with him as possible. I understood but the setback crushed me. When the manager at Howell's found out I'd lost my day job, he offered me full time hours while I looked for another job. The pay was basically minimum wage, but I took it. After a series of dead-end interviews, I'd poured out my tale to my friend Tara, a nail tech at a high end salon, telling her I had to cut back on my once-a-month luxury, a pedicure.

"My friend Tara likes the finer things," I explained. "She's a Neiman-Marcus shopper on a nail tech's salary. For a while she hooked up with a sugar daddy in Marina Del Rey to finance her habit." I exhaled slowly. "But her knowing about Mrs. Smith's business...now that surprised me."

Mark was cool and sphinxlike. "It's all over the place."

How deep was he into this subculture?

I scratched the logo on my mug with my thumbnail, worn out by my own story. I didn't get his blase acceptance of s.e.x for hire any more than I did Tara's. For all my survivor's independence, my roots were Midwest working cla.s.s. People fell in love and got married. It didn't happen for Grandma and Mom, but the neighborhood I grew up in was filled with people who stayed together.

"Tuesday night was when I talked to Tara," I said, winding down my story. "She called Mrs. Smith right away and arranged my, ah, interview on Wednesday, and you were my Thursday night."

We were at an impa.s.se. Part of me wanted to leave, yet I couldn't help but sense explaining myself was as much about me as him. Everyone's got a story. Sharing it was one way to weave your life with someone else's, as long as they opened up in return. Eyes hooded, Mark's face betrayed no emotion.

He tapped the side of his plate. "What you said about being tied up. Are you saying you didn't get anything from last night?"

"I, I had a good time."

A good time? I cringed at my way with words. Lunch s.h.i.+fted from stale to disaster. Mark and I weren't clicking. Not like last night. Better to leave while I was ahead. I twisted around to get my purse, wincing at a twinge in my back.

"You have pain, don't you?" he asked.

I slipped my purse over my shoulder. "Some. Mostly my shoulders and arms, a little soreness across my upper back."

"I didn't do a good job of finis.h.i.+ng what I started. After care is important."

I'd heard of after care. It was in those billionaire books. Did couples who intentionally played painful games end their nights with lavish care, talking about what they did? Why not skip the pain and go straight to s.e.x and intimate conversation? Was that so difficult?

"You're not obligated to take care of me."

Mark scowled, dragging an unused napkin across the table. "You have a pen I could use?"

"Sure." I handed over the one tucked in my plastic name tag.

Part of me hoped he'd shoot down what I'd just said. Instead, he asked for a pen. He started writing, and I sat at the edge of my seat, making sure we didn't end on a totally bad note. I'd never make good b.i.t.c.h material.

"Last night actually was...well, out of this world." I played with a leather ta.s.sel on my purse. "Different than anything I've ever experienced."

Thank you for the best o.r.g.a.s.m ever!

He grunted while making slash marks on the napkin, not bothering to look at me.

"Keep the pen," I mumbled, getting up.

Mark got up, scowling and scribbling fast enough to rip the napkin. "Is your seat on fire?"

"I have to get back to work. Lunch is almost over."

He handed back my pen. "I'll walk with you."

There was a good ten to fifteen minutes left of lunch, but I wanted to put this behind me. Mark dipped down to pick up the grey Howell's Bookstore bag. I'd forgotten about the cookbook. The plastic shopping bag made him a regular guy, not a kinkster I happened to meet under dubious circ.u.mstances.

The contempt line slashed the skin beside his mouth. "I scared you off. Because of last night."

"Scared me? No," I said quietly. "You made me feel a lot of things. Fear wasn't one of them."

An unseen shutter went down over his hard sh.e.l.l eyes. "Honest Abbie."

His lips parted as if he didn't mean to say that aloud. After a heartbeat, Mark relaxed, shrugging off the interlude, heading to the door. I figured his conscience cleared after trying to talk sense into the nave bookstore clerk. Life would go on. He must have a lot more practice at awkward good-byes. Me? I preferred to slink off alone and lick my wounds the short distance back to work, but I'm a terminal nice girl, and Mark had already decimated my boundaries.

I kept a wide berth between us as we left Coffee Barn. Coastal drizzle misted the asphalt. People stepped off the sidewalk, palms up testing the weather. I couldn't help wondering what Mark would do with the rest of his non-working day. With the wind kicking up, any waves would be choppy. Bad for surfing. Live here long enough and you learn the basics. My lips clamped shut. I had no business asking him about what he'd do. Conversation would thread a connection I needed to cut.

Stopping outside Howell's I stuck my hand out for a business-like handshake. "Well, thanks for lunch."

Mark's eyes matched moody skies. Sun-streaked brown hair fell around his tanned face. He took my hand and put the ripped napkin in my palm.

"What's this?"

"My address."

My head snapped up fast. You could've knocked me over with a feather.

"Show up at seven tonight and I'll give you twelve thousand four hundred thirty-one reasons to be there." He dug keys out of his front pocket, his grin sliding sideways. "I'll feed you, too."

I gaped at him. He didn't ask what time I was off work or if I already had plans.

His gaze raked me from head to toe. "Wear whatever you want, but no bra."

Mark's deep, intimate voice sent a zing of excitement from my head to the soft skin between my legs. Two moms pa.s.sed by pus.h.i.+ng strollers, their chatter faltering when he gave his no bra edict. Both feminine stares latched curiously on me before sliding to Mark as they rolled on by. Heat flamed my cheeks and scalp. He'd intentionally spoken loud enough for those women to hear.

Grinning ear to ear, Mark stepped off the curb, jangling his keys. "If you're a good girl, I might let you go at midnight."

CHAPTER NINE.

"I'm so glad you're back," Jill said in a rush. "We got super busy but you need to see this."

She waved me over to Reference Central. Howell's tried to give patrons the library experience with dark paneling, lots of small tables and chairs scattered around the store, and a circular information desk called Reference Central in the middle of the store. I walked in a stupor, stuffing the napkin in my purse. My head was in the clouds but my body vibrated with want. Excitement shot through me. Mark didn't speak in if you show up terms, rather when you show up. My pa.s.sive agreement was a forgone conclusion. He was forceful without being domineering. He played me...probably knew my brain was yelling thank you for last night. The hormones dumping into my system were proof positive.

"What is it?" I stowed my purse under the counter, coaching myself to stay centered. I had a full day of work ahead.

"It's your surfer. Mr. Mark Green."

Bending over her shoulder, I braced a hand on the counter. There in full color Mark stared back at me, the corners of his mouth curving with a put on smile for the camera, his face hawkish and intense. What stole my breath was him in a slim-fitting, black tuxedo with one hand in his pocket. No s.h.i.+ny trim. No vest. A thin black bow tie broke the white V of his s.h.i.+rt. The plainness was devastating, a perfect foil for his sharp handsomeness.

"He's so..." I let out a puff of air.

"Scrumptious? Yummy? A perfect male?" Jill's Ches.h.i.+re cat smile split from ear to ear. "And he just happens to be interested in you, my friend."

"Oh, I'm not sure about that."

"Please," she groaned. "You meet a guy last night and he shows up the next day at your place of employment instead of waiting three or four days to maybe text you." Jill paused, her brows up in her hairline. "He's hot for something."

I chewed the corner of my mouth. She nailed it, but what he was hot for was a secret. Mine and Mark's.

Studying the image on the screen, his hair was shorter but still too long and mussed for whatever refined event called for a tuxedo. Mark had probably shaved, showered, put on the tux, and finger-combed his hair as he went out the door. He was a wild creature in a field of tame men holding champagne flutes.

"Mark Green." I repeated his name before diving into the caption. Jill didn't have to know I learned Mark's last name the same time she did.

The event was a Save the Ocean fundraiser dated fourteen months ago. I'd heard of it. The foundation had major pull in this area since Laguna Niguel lived and breathed by its beaches. Jill was more tuned in to those things.

What would happen if all those portly, middle-aged business types in the background knew what I knew about Mark?

"After you left I couldn't stop thinking I'd seen him before, but I couldn't place where. Then I remembered the Save the Ocean Foundation on the local news. It helped that he used his credit card, too," Jill said, scanning the screen. "Not sure why you didn't tell me you met him."

I ignored her grumbled accusation and hunted for more information about Mr. Mark Green, but the text was mostly about the foundation's work.

Jill scrolled through the post. "We had a stream of customers after you left, so this was my first chance to search for him. There's more." She peeked at me over her shoulder. "Want me to click one of those links?"

"Yes," I said, jiggling the chair's back rest.

"Romance in the Information Age," she sighed. "Nothing like researching a man on the internet."

Jill and I usually shared dating fiascos or the lack of good men when we got together during off hours. Just yesterday we'd both commiserated our current dry spell. I trusted her with a lot, but I couldn't spill the beans on my new, seedy nighttime employment. Jill didn't know Tara and those two worlds would never intersect.

The computer's brightness reflected off Jill's gla.s.ses. "I want details."

"Later. I promise."

Voices rose in the store, the volume and number increasing as people ducked in laughing about drizzling skies. Customers meandered past the desk rain drops beading on their nylon jackets. Their gazes sought eye contact with a casual Are you available to help? face.

"Welcome to Howell's. We'll be with you in just a moment," I said, my head popping up.

Jill inhaled fast and the mouse clicked again. "We should do this later. The store's getting busy."

She'd clicked back to the blank search engine page.

"What'd you find?" Leaning closer, I planted my forearm on the laminate desktop.

"Why don't you go help that lady, and I'll shut this down."

"Jill..." I commandeered the computer mouse and clicked the back arrow.

A mosaic of Mark pictures rendered on the screen. This time in some of them he was standing with a sophisticated woman with jet black hair. In one image, she s.h.i.+mmered in a silver spaghetti strap dress zig-zagging with tasteful sequins. A pair of silvery high heels peeked out under her hem. The whole ensemble must've equaled half my annual salary. In another picture, she pulled off a mint green suit.

"If I wore that, I'd look like a key-lime popsicle," Jill murmured, poking a finger at the green suit image.

"Who is she?"

My breath shallowed. There were too many images of Mark in a tuxedo, Mark in a suit, Mark in jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt...most of them with her. In one picture his mouth brushed her ear intimately, crus.h.i.+ng my ridiculous hope that she was his sister.

"Click that one." I pointed at the picture of his lips on her ear. If I was going to squash any romantic hope, that was the one to do it.

The image rendered on the screen at the top of the online article, the woman's name in bold font. Lacey Boudreaux, CIO of Nor Star Laser Technology. I went numb. So they had a work place romance. Great. Ms. Boudreaux was elegant, well-off, and accomplished.

Everything I was not.

I fixated on one picture in particular. The longer I stared, the harder it was to breathe. Lacey Boudreaux was a boulder crus.h.i.+ng my chest. Everything about her was perfect. Her hair's straight center part, every sleek strand pulled into a knot at the back of her neck. Glossy nude-shaded lips spread in a full, genuine smile. The only creases on her alabaster skin were the single lines at the corners of her eyes.

The picture showed Mark's profile, his lips partially open as if speaking mid-sentence. Whatever Mark said made her glow. I'd only known him one night, but I knew he could do that to a woman.

Jill cleared her throat, her finger pointing at a line further down. "It says they're engaged."

I flinched. She didn't mean to make things worse. The picture was more than enough for that. The image obliterated fledgling emotions for a man I barely knew. This was good. I didn't want to be a sap, getting all gooey over a man who was no good. Was I a final fling before he got married? Men sewing their wild oats before wedlock was so cliched. It was the last thing I wanted to believe about Mark, but overwhelming evidence stared me in the face.

My grandma once said all it takes is one bad decision with a man to leave a woman paying the price the rest of her life. I had twelve thousand four hundred thirty-one reasons to show up at his tonight and one big reason to never lay eyes on Mark again.

Talk about the worst odds.