“Ralph drives a catering truck, not a taxi. Besides, we’re busy tonight.” He added meaningfully, “We’re one hand short.” The scarecrow of a man swooped down and scooped up the apron, tucking it under his arm, then stalked off.
That left three of them. The events of the last minute and a half seemed to have gotten through to Stack. Instead of basking in his petty triumph, he looked abashed, but Elliot knew his father wasn’t man enough to say he was sorry unless it suited him. Stack’s eyes took in Shani’s stricken face and then he, too, slunk away.
And then there were two. Elliot put his hands on his hips and took in the pain on Shani’s face. He’d known this woman only ten minutes, but inexplicably he was hurting for her. “You okay?”
She looked at him as though he’d asked the world’s most asinine question. “No.”
“What’s the problem? What bee are you talking about?”
“My daughter,” she answered irritably, as if he should have known. “Béatrice.”
“Ah.” Now he understood. “She’s sick?”
Shani nodded wearily. “She had a fever when I left home this evening.” She found her purse next to the broom cupboard. As she shouldered it, he noticed a thin wedding band on her finger. For some reason, that disappointed him.
“Was that your husband on the phone?”
She turned and wrenched open the kitchen door, which gave side access to his father’s garage and, beyond it, the broad driveway. “That was my sitter. My baby’s worse. Her fever’s a hundred and four.” She slipped through the doorway and into the darkened garage.
He hurried to keep up with her. “Where’re you going?”
Her look made him feel as if his IQ didn’t graze eighty. “I’m taking her to the hospital.” She twisted, looking for the garage light, the better to see her way out. He found it easily and clicked it on.
“Let me rephrase that. How are you getting there? Yvan said—”
“I heard what Yvan said. I’m walking to the bus stop.” “But there aren’t any—”
“Night buses that pass through Belmont. I know.” He could see her legs flash in the floodlights, hear her heels click on the driveway. “I’m walking to Ventura.”
“That’s two miles away!”
She didn’t even glance in his direction. Her determined mouth barely moved as she told him, “Then I better get to walking.” A stiff, late-September wind stirred her hair. She didn’t have a coat on, and that dress of hers, what passed for a dress, barely brushed the tops of her thighs.
Elliot watched as she hurried away, her hips rolling in her haste, legs moving swiftly past each other. Seeing a mother so concerned for her child’s well-being that she was willing to trot across town on heels too high for waitressing stirred something in him. “Shani, wait!”
She half turned, frowning at him for interrupting her pace.
He ran down the path, grasping her by the arms.
“Wait.”
She looked down at the hands he’d placed on her, brows together, and when he read on her face the indignation at being restrained by a second Bookman in one night, he let go. The lady had already proved she didn’t mind biting—and not in a good way.
“I have … to get … to my daughter,” she explained carefully. “Fast.”
The fear in her eyes made his heart constrict. “It’s too late. Too cold.”
“I don’t have a choice.” She resumed walking as though her pace had never been interrupted.
He wasn’t explaining himself right, dammit! “Wait!” As he stopped her again, she sucked in a breath. He was sure she was about to scream, so he talked fast. “Just give me ten seconds, all right?”
“Why?”
“I’ll take you.”
“What?”
He left her standing there and sprinted back to the kitchen. The Triumph wasn’t the best mode of transport for what he had in mind. He snagged his father’s car keys without a second thought and darted back outside.
The burgundy Lexus chirped a friendly welcome as he unlocked it. He rammed the keys into the ignition with less respect than such a machine deserved and, not even bothering to let it warm up, slammed it into gear and nosed it down to where she was waiting. As he drew alongside, her already-arched brows lifted just so much higher. He leaped out, opened the passenger door and bundled her in. She complied, more bewildered than anything else, letting him click her seat belt into place before he leaped back into his seat again and hit the gas.
She was staring at his face, still puzzled. “Why’re you doing this?”
Why, indeed? “Just trying to help,” he explained lamely. “I’d hate to know a child was sick and I didn’t do anything about it.”
“Oh.” She was still examining his face, but whether she was looking for an ulterior motive or asking herself what she’d done to deserve the random kindness of a stranger, he couldn’t tell. “Thank you.”
Again, that strange ache inside him, for her. What kind of sad creature was this, so unaccustomed to receiving kindness that it took her by surprise when she found it? And where was her husband, anyway? Shouldn’t he be doing this? “Besides,” he added, joking to relieve his tension, and hers, “I need brownie points in heaven. God knows I’ve racked up enough for the other team.”
She smiled weakly and relaxed into her seat. “Thank you,” she said again. It came from somewhere deep inside her.
“So, where to?” “Catarina.”
He nodded. They were already approaching Ventura, a pleasant neighborhood that formed a buffer between the genteel suburbs and the busy city. From there it was just a minute or two to the highway on-ramp. On an ordinary day, it would take maybe forty minutes to get to the heart of Santa Amata. But it was well after midnight on a Saturday, and, after all, this was a Lexus, not a station wagon. They made it in twenty.
He looked covertly over at her. Her eyes were taking in every detail of the custom interior of the vehicle, the lovingly polished wood finishing, the muted glow of the array of dials and screens that illuminated her face. He saw her extend one finger and slowly stroke the leather on which she was sitting, and he smiled. It gave him an irrational, childish pleasure to share this little luxury with her. He had a feeling her life wasn’t filled with much of that.
She spoke only to give directions, and he was grateful. Sometimes when you offered a person a ride, they felt obligated to make conversation, to fill the air with irrelevant chatter. She wasn’t the type to indulge in that nonsense, and he liked her for that.
Catarina was on the other side of Santa Amata, a slightly … more lived-in side of town. A few blocks beyond Independence Avenue, the city’s main artery, the streets grew narrower, the buildings just a shade shabbier. It was chilly—which reminded Elliot he didn’t have his coat on, either—but many of the bars had their doors thrown open, and he could hear music spilling out. Trees were beginning to shed their leaves; the wind danced with them in the street as cars swooshed past.
“Left on Bagley,” she told him, and he turned onto the street without a word. It was lined with brownstones and shop fronts. Most of the houses had small family businesses downstairs, with living quarters upstairs. The occasional building that rose past three or four floors looked out of place next to the squat two-story houses beside them.
“Here.” She pointed, and he pulled smoothly