After Hours (6 page)

L
ance headed north on Route 9, maneuvering expertly in and out of slower-moving traffic. Concentrating on his driving was safer than taking furtive glances at the woman sitting next to him. When he'd gotten up that morning he'd planned to drive from West New York to Englishtown to look at the classic cars at the Old Bridge Township Raceway because he'd contemplated adding another vehicle to his growing collection.

However, all thoughts of cars were forgotten when he saw the tiny woman enter the grandstand area. He followed her as if pulled along by an invisible string. He didn't know whether it was her hair, her sexy walk or her tiny body, but Lancelot Londell Haynes's nose had been so wide open that a tractor-trailer could have fit with room to spare.

Reaching for a pair of sunglasses on the dashboard, he slipped them on. He felt rather than saw Dina move closer to the door. She'd admitted she didn't trust men, and he wasn't very trusting of women, yet that didn't explain why two strangers were traveling together.

“How old is this car?”

Lance smiled. He'd driven more than twenty miles in silence, and Dina's first remark was about his car. “It's a lot older than you.”

Dina turned to stare at Lance's profile. Upon closer examination she concluded that he wasn't as nondescript as she'd originally thought. He had very little facial hair. Whereas his face was soft, it was not the same with his body. He claimed a pair of broad shoulders, a thick neck and muscled forearms.

“How old do you think I am?” she asked.

He gave her a quick glance. “Twenty-five.”

“Wrong. You missed by two years.”

Lance took his gaze off the road, his expression mirroring shock. “You're twenty-three?” He'd dated younger women, but not those young enough to be thought of as his daughter.

Dina laughed softly. “No. I'm twenty-seven.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. She was closer to thirty than twenty. “But I was close.”

“Yeah, right,” she teased. How old are you, Lance?”

“Take a guess.”

Leaning to her left, Dina peered closely at him. “Thirty-seven.”

“Nah,” he said, mimicking a goat.

“Thirty-nine?”

“Nah.”

“Thirty-six? No…no, I got it. Forty…forty-one.”

Smiling, Lance shook his head. “Nah, nah, nah.”

Dina threw back her head and laughed, the warm, honeyed sound filling the confines of the car. She couldn't recall the last time she'd laughed—laughed with a spontaneity that wasn't forced or fake.

She placed her hand over his, then pulled it back quickly as if she'd touched a hot surface. She had to be careful, very, very careful not to appear too forward. “Please tell me,” she pleaded, pushing out her lower lip like a petulant child.

“Later.”

“Pretty please.”

Lance gave her another quick glance. He didn't know what there was about Dina Gordon, but at that moment he couldn't deny her anything. “Forty-nine.”

Her jaw dropped seconds before she clamped a hand over her mouth. “No!” she said through her fingers.

“Why no, Dina?”

She lowered her hand. “I can't believe you're almost fifty.”

“I won't be fifty until December.”

“You look incredible for your age.”

Lance nodded, his chest swelling with pride. Dina had just made the reality of his turning fifty a lot more palatable. “Thank you. In answer your question about the car, it's a 1963 Cadillac DeVille.”

Relaxing against the supple leather seat, Dina listened to Lance extol the beauty and quality of his restored convertible. One thing that made her so adept at what she did was that she was a good listener. She'd learned at a young age that men were guided by ego and that their self-worth was measured by the speed of their cars or the number of women they bedded. No matter their age, they were still boys who needed their toys.

She closed her eyes, giving in to the smooth motion of the moving automobile.

She was sleeping soundly by the time Lance entered Matawan's city limits.

L
ance maneuvered into one of the few remaining parking spaces at LUA, a Hoboken waterfront restaurant/lounge. He was partial to the dining establishment not only because of its location, with views of Manhattan and the cross-Hudson ferry terminal, but because of its Latin-fusion cuisine, more than twenty kinds of tequila and a side room with doorman-barred club for private parties. He'd exceeded the speed limit to arrive before brunch ended.

Glancing to his right, he stared at Dina. She was still asleep, her chest rising and falling gently, her lips parted and her head at an odd angle. Streams of sunlight fired the gold in her satiny skin. His gaze lingered on the shape of her small, firm breasts, outlined against the body-hugging striped fabric. He tore his gaze away, staring out the windshield.

A shadow of annoyance crossed his face. He was angry with himself for staring at Dina like a pervert. What, he mused, if she'd caught him? His staring, though unintentional, would only serve to increase her distrust of men.

As if he'd willed it, he felt her stir. Stretching gracefully like a lithe cat, she came awake, her gaze meeting his. Long, thick lashes brushed the tops of high cheekbones when she sat up straighter. Combing her fingers through her hair, she pushed the heavy waves off her forehead.

Dina ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip, bringing Lance's gaze to linger there. “I'm sorry I fell asleep on you. I suppose I'm not much for keeping you company.”

He put up a finger. “Remember, I was the one who offered to take you home. So forget about keeping me company. Are you ready to eat?” he asked, deftly changing the topic.

She gave him a warm, open smile. “Yes.”

“Don't move,” he warned when she made a motion to get out of the car.

Dina sat motionless, wondering what he'd planned. It didn't take long for her to realize he wanted to help her out of the car when he opened the passenger-side door. Bending slightly, Lance extended his hand and she placed her palm on his, permitting him to pull her effortlessly to her feet. Cradling her fingers, he tucked her hand into the bend of his elbow. The only men who'd opened car doors for her in the past were hotel doormen.

“Thank you,” she whispered, giving him a demure glance. “This looks like a very nice place.” The luxury cars in the restaurant's parking lot were a testament to the restaurant's elegance.

Dina had said the first thing that had come to her mind. She had to talk, say anything to hide her growing apprehension. She was disturbed by Lance's behavior because he was treating her as if she were a fancy lady.

“It is,” Lance confirmed. Dina pulled back, forcing him to stop. “What's the matter?”

“Is what I'm wearing okay?”

“Of course it's okay. Look, I'm not wearing a jacket. We're having brunch, not dinner.”

She nodded, following him around to the front of the restaurant. How could she tell him the men she saw usually entertained at clubs or private rooms at hotels or in casinos. And if it was a restaurant, they usually paid the owner to take over the premises for the night. She'd become just another pretty face, smiling and laughing for the host's pleasure and entertainment.

What Dina hated most was coming home after a night of partying smelling of cigars, cigarettes and weed. She didn't drink, so she spent hours nursing a virgin cocktail until her “date” informed her he was ready to leave. Once she climbed into bed with him she became an actress in a role, giving an award-winning performance. None of them knew that her whispered words of passion, her grunts, groans or orgasms were faked. Afterward she went into the bathroom to discard the condom and wash away the smell of sex mingling with sweat, cologne and her perfume.

She'd lost count of the number of men who'd professed their love; none were aware that she'd never return their affection. She deemed them prey and, once caught, it was time to move on to the next creature to trap in her web of lies and deceit.

 

Lance was greeted by name by the maître d'. They exchanged handshakes and within minutes they were shown a table next to a window. Dina was overwhelmed by the architectural lines of the restaurant's design and the views of Hoboken's waterfront area and the Manhattan skyline on the other side of the Hudson River.

Her eyes danced with excitement. “The views must be spectacular at night.”

Lance nodded, smiling. Dina reminded him of a child opening gaily wrapped Christmas gifts. He found her spontaneity and enthusiasm contagious. “They are. Would you like to come back here one night?”

“Yes!” The word had tumbled from her lips before she could censor herself. A flush crept up her neck to her hairline as she lowered her gaze. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.”

Reaching across the table, Lance captured her hands, tightening his grip when she attempted to pull away. “There's no need to apologize, Dina. Look at me,” he urged softly. Waiting until her head lifted, he met her tortured eyes. “If you want to come back, I'll bring you.”

“I don't want to impose upon you, nor do I want you to feel obligated to do more for me than you're already doing.”

“I never do what I have to, only what I want to.” He loosened his grip, staring down at the tiny hands with delicate fingers and perfect nails. Even without polish they were exquisite. It was with reluctance that he released his hold on her. “I'm going to order a mojito. Would you like one?”

Dina wrinkled her nose. “What's that?”

“It's a Cuban drink made with rum, lime juice, sparkling water and crushed mint leaves. They serve it here it with chunks of shaved sugar cane.”

She shook her head. “No, thank you. I don't drink.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Not at all?”

“Hardly ever,” she said truthfully. “I saw what alcohol did to my mother, and it wasn't a pretty sight.”

“Would you prefer that I don't drink?” Lance asked.

“No, please have your mojito. It doesn't bother me when other people drink.”

“What if I order one for you without the rum?”

Dina gave him a bright smile. “I'd like that.”

Lance signaled a waiter and gave him their drink order, then rounded the table to pull back Dina's chair, leading her over to the area where a buffet was set up. His arm slipped down her back and settled around her waist as they waited on line to sample the fusion of Latin cuisine comparable only to South Beach.

D
ina took a sip of her virgin mojito, peering over the rim of the glass at her dining partner. Surprisingly she enjoyed Lance's company. With him she was able to relax enough to enjoy her food and beverage. She didn't have to analyze everything he said with the hope that he would reveal a clue or clues which she would pass along to Payne. Sharing brunch with Lance was close to perfect until the topic of conversation shifted to Dina Gordon.

“What about Dina Gordon?” she asked, touching the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

“Who is she? What does she do? What does she like? Dislike?”

A veil dropped over her eyes when Dina glanced at a spot over his shoulder. “Why are you referring to me as if I'm not here?”

Lance leaned back in his chair, wondering if he'd stepped over the line with Dina. She was so open, vulnerable, then without warning she put on a shield that made him feel as if he'd become a bother, an annoyance.

“I'm trying not to get too personal. Now, if Dina Gordon doesn't want to answer my questions, then she can opt not to.”

Dina's gaze swung back to Lance. He'd finished his mojito, ordered another one but it sat untouched. “There's not much to tell.”

Lance chose his words carefully. “Are you willing to tell me what little there is to tell?”

Nodding, she closed her eyes, and when she opened them she felt as if Lance could see beneath the tough-girl facade she'd erected to protect herself from pain and disappointment.

“I never knew my mother or my father.”

Her delicate features tightened with her pronouncement. Her expression had changed so quickly that Lance thought he was looking at a stranger. Dina's transformation reminded him of a snake he'd seen at the zoo. It'd shed its skin and completely changed its appearance.

He reached for his drink, taking a deep swallow. “Were you put up for adoption?”

The seconds ticked off before Dina spoke again. “It should be that simple.” There was an edge of hardness in her sultry voice, the timbre deepening with her dark mood. “I meant it when I said I never knew my father. My mother was an alcoholic, a drug addict and a prostitute. When I asked her about the man who'd fathered me, she said she couldn't remember whether he was white, Latino or Asian. Her claim was ‘after a while they all look alike.' I can count on one hand the number of times I remember her sober. I don't think she was ever clean. If she couldn't get her drugs, then she drank until she passed out. She was away more than she was home, and if it hadn't been for my grandmother, I don't know where I'd be today. One day she went out and never came back.”

Lance found himself drowning in compassion for Dina, but there wasn't anything he could do to help her. Her mistrust of men had begun at conception, and he wondered if she'd spent her childhood staring into the faces of strange men with the hope that she would find the one man she resembled.

“Did anyone report her as a missing person?”

Dina lowered her head and her gaze. “Yes, but she was never found. Or she didn't want to be found. My grandmother put her name on the prayer list of every church she visited. After a while she knew Bernice wasn't coming back and finally released her.”

Lance gave Adina a penetrating look. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Her head came up. “No.” She emitted an unladylike snort. “I guess you'd say that was a blessing.”

Picking up a fork from his place setting, he speared a sea scallop in a blood-orange marinade. He shook his head. “I can't agree with you on that.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

Lance's hand tightened on his fork. “Yes. I was six when my older sister was killed in a hit-and-run. Her death devastated my parents and eventually destroyed their marriage. My dad worshipped his little princess, and the day they buried her a part of him also died. I missed her then and I still miss her.”

Dina curbed the urge to reach across the table and hold his hand. “Where are your parents?”

There was another swollen silence. “My father passed away three years ago and my mother now lives in a Charleston, South Carolina, retirement community.”

She shifted on her chair, leaning over the table. “May I ask you a favor?”

Lance sat up straighter, his expression brightening. “Sure. What is it?”

“Can we talk about something else? I've never been comfortable talking about death and dying.”

He successfully concealed his disappointment behind a too-bright smile. He'd hoped that Dina would ask to see him again. “Of course, ba…” He'd stopped himself before he called her baby. “Yes, let's talk about something else.”

Propping an elbow on the table, Dina rested her chin on the heel of her hand. “What do you do for a living?”

“I'm software engineer.”

“You're into computers?” He nodded. “The only thing I know about a computer is how to turn it on and go online.”

“There's a lot more to computers than the Internet.”

“So say you,” she teased.

“Tinkering with computers helps pay the rent,” Lance countered.

“Not only the rent but also buys classic cars.”

“Oh, so you noticed I like old cars?”

“Of course I noticed.” Dina wanted to tell Lance that she'd also noticed his Italian-made shoes and gold timepiece. It was apparent he didn't live from paycheck to paycheck. “Did you go to the raceway today to buy another car?”

“I was thinking about it. However, I only buy something if I truly like it.”

“Do you need another car?”

“Nope.”

“Then why buy another one?”

“I collect classic cars.”

Her waxed eyebrows lifted with this disclosure. “How many do you have?”

“Three.” There was a hint of pride in his voice.

“You have three and now you're looking for a fourth. Are you aware that you can only drive one car at a time?”

Throwing back his head, Lance laughed, the rich sound causing couples at other tables to turn in their direction. “Of course I'm aware of that. But that's not going to stop me from buying another one if I like it.”

“Men and their toys,” she whispered.

He winked at her. “That's because men are just big boys. I don't have a wife or children, so I compensate with big boy toys.” He sobered, staring at the large eyes that changed color with Dina's mood. “Would you like to drive back to Irvington?”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I don't have a license.”

“Do you know how to drive?”

“Yes.”

She'd learned to drive but never taken the time to get a license. She hadn't needed a car when there were buses, the subway and car services readily available. And she hadn't wanted the responsibility of getting up early in the mornings to move a car from one side of the street to the other for alternate-side street parking.

Dina peered at Lance's watch. It was close to three-thirty and the restaurant's waitstaff had begun clearing away the buffet. “If you don't mind, I'd like to leave now.” She'd left her cell phone back at the motel and she wanted to check her voice mail for Karla's call.

Reaching into the pocket of his slacks, Lance took out a large bill and left it on the table. Dina made no move to stand up until he rounded the table and pulled back her chair. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled up at him, and she wasn't disappointed when he returned it with a thin-lipped smile that she found adorable.

They were still smiling when they left the restaurant.