Bend - Bromberg K. (читать книги онлайн бесплатно серию книг txt) 📗

“Let me see if I’ve got service. The e-mail you sent had the longitude and latitude of the island. I’ll copy that and send it to a friend. Just in case you turn out to be a lunatic. Promise me you won’t turn out to be a lunatic?”

He nods, looking surprisingly serious. “Scouts’ honor.”

“Shit. That’s not enough. Just e-mailing my friend is definitely not enough to convince me to go with you. I need something more. I need…I don’t know. A reference. Or maybe I don’t…” I have a Taser in the bottom of my purse. I could always use that.

No—I’ve got a much better idea!

He turns away from me and moves over to the motors and I point my phone at him. With trembling fingers, I pull my camera up and set it on video mode. When he turns back toward me, I get a brief shot of his face and send it, along with a note and the island’s coordinates, to Katie.

He’s leaning back over the motors, pulling on the top of one of them so it rises slightly out of the water, when I notice the bulge in his pants.

Chapter Three

RED

This is a surprise.

Does he find me attractive? This man? I’m not ugly, but I’m no beauty—and I know that. And yet, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a hard-on for my brilliant personality.

All we’ve done so far is argue.

Maybe he gets off on arguing.

He looks up from what he’s doing and, again, I think he looks tired. Much wearier and more sympathetic than a blackmailer has a right to look.

I wonder how close he was to Gertrude.

I wonder why he doesn’t want to leave the island.

I’m a fool for caring.

He turns back around toward me, and a quick glance-over reveals he’s tucked his boner away. Or lost it. For a moment I’m dizzied by how good he looks in those slacks; how much broader his shoulders are than his hips.

Tall, dark, and handsome. That’s what he is. And an asshole.

“So, you ready?” The corner of his lip tugs up, as if he’s trying to smile and failing.

“Hmm.” I make him sweat it, because he deserves that much. Then, after I tuck my hair behind my ears and sit down on one of the benches, I tell him, “I guess so.”

A brilliant grin spreads over his face, confirming what I’d figured: He’s got a nice smile. It lightens his eyes, almost literally. They don’t look quite so dark-brown.

“Thanks for this. I’ll return you here tomorrow with a check.”

“You fucking better.”

I spend the next few minutes pretending to be absorbed with something on my phone. I have the wherewithal to be sure the GPS-tracking service is turned on, in the event he does turn out to be insane. But I don’t get that vibe.

A few minutes later, his big hand is pushing the boat away from the dock; he’s stepping over to the steering podium, and I’m shamelessly watching the way his shirt melds against the hard lines of his back.

I hunch my shoulders against the wind and watch him as he steers the boat, first idling through the cove, then pushing a handle up a few inches and increasing our speed until the boat’s nose rises out of the water, then the rest of it. The boat bobs and bounces as it flies across the sea.

I wonder if the money will be worth this ordeal. I hope I learn something from what I see of Gertrude’s home. I wish Gertrude was here.

This day has turned out to be so fucking weird.

I let my mind wander as the wind whips my hair out behind me.

I’m curious to know whether Gertrude liked the color blue, like Mom did; whether she was a fan of sunflower patterns and brightly colored kitchenware. Mom was the queen of neon orange and pink coffee mugs, of funky watermelon plates in summer. Did she get her style from her stoic poet mother? How far off base was I, when I would dream of meeting the great Gertrude O’Malley?

Maybe Gertrude was more like me. My favorite colors are green and pink, my favorite season fall. I’m a writer. Not a poet, but still a writer.

I gather my hair into one of my hands and wonder why I didn’t bring a rubber band. I guess I thought Gertrude’s boat would have an inside. I pictured it big. I pictured her on it.

Sigh.

Another glance up at Race’s back and ass, and I’m distracted by the bulge I imagine is still straining against his pants.

I’m practically twitching with nervous energy—nervous, sexually appreciative, emotionally irritated energy—so I decide instead of just watching him from my seat, I’ll join him at the pedestal that houses the steering wheel, the throttle, and a few keypads.

I hold onto the side of the boat as I move, feeling grateful I wore sneakers. Beyond the boat’s nose, the horizon line bounces; clouds bear down on the water, matching my mood.

I clutch the edge of the podium, and he looks over at me. He’s not wearing sunglasses, so his eyes are squinted slightly against the glare of the water.

I lean closer to him, and I swear I think I can feel him checking me out. Not simply looking at me; looking at me.

I lean back a little, trying to ignore the way my body calls to his, and raise my voice so he can hear me over the wind and choppy sea. “Why did she want you to have the island?”

He shakes his head, turning toward me, so his torso is an inch from my shoulder, and his lips are almost brushing my cheek. “Probably because I live there.”

We hit a bump, and my shoulder bumps into his chest, sending a starburst of sensation through me. I look into his face, wondering why it strikes me as familiar. There’s no way I’ve met him before.

“Are you a recluse?”

His eyes flick over to mine, then back out to the sea. His looks first annoyed, then amused. “Is this a quiz?”

“I think I have a right to quiz you. After what you did.”

One dark eyebrow arches. “Terrible thing, loaning you money to buy a car. That’s basically what I did, you realize.” That and offer to pay you ten thousand dollars for a night on an island.”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. You took advantage of me.”

“I wish you would stop saying that, Rojo.”

“I can’t pay for the fucking car! Broke people don’t buy cars.”

“How’d you get broke, Rojo?”

“Quit calling me that,” I say. “ It sounds like a man’s name, and the part that sticks out in my mind the most is ‘ho.’”

He smirks, and in that low voice of his, he says, “Are you a ho?”

I pinch my lips together to avoid a smile; his tone is clearly teasing. “No. I’m not a ho at all.”

A reluctant little half smile slips over his mouth, and my poor neglected vagina responds. I bite my lip to distract myself from the party in my jeans.

I wrap my arms around my waist, feeling a little weird about myself. This is hardly a normal response to finding out about the death of one’s grandmother. Then again, Gertrude was a total stranger. Her death is, for me, mainly just a disappointment. The end of some remote possibility that probably wasn’t ever possible at all.

I push my bangs over the top of my head, where they tend to stay, whipped back in the wind. Race’s lips twitch again, and I glare. “What?”

Why the hell am I feeling so warm and fuzzy? I’m like a high school freshman creaming my panties over the senior quarterback. I shouldn’t be so damn attracted to him—so I am. Of course I am. This is the way things go for me.

And then he tilts his head my way, gives me a full smile, and says, “You wanna steer?”

Total swoon land. Which is sad. So very, very pitiful.

I take a long, slow breath. “Are you being condescending?”

He shakes his head. Angles his body toward mine. In a low, scratchy voice that may just be the wind and my imagination, he murmurs, “Truth? I want to put my hands on you.”

Heat sings through me. “Did you really just say that?”

He grins, and I say, “You should keep your hands to yourself. I don’t need or want them.”

LIAR!