He snickered. She heard it, which made her feel better because laughter, even the scoffing kind, counted for something.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m beat. Give me a shot of scotch, clean sheets, a decent surface and I’m out anyway.” He ended up with a careless shrug, this from a man who didn’t do careless at all.
Edie squinted through the windshield, the rain pelting down, the wipers squeaking. “What are you here for? Business? Pleasure?” she asked, merging to the right to escape the upcoming traffic.
“I was meeting someone.” When he answered, his voice was flat, missing both thunder and lightning. In fact, Edie would bet copious amounts of cash that he didn’t even know who AC/DC was.
“And thus the Belvedere,” she surmised. A romantic getaway for the romantically challenged. “You should thank your brother for the hotel suggestion when you get back home.”
“After I kill him.”
This time, she heard the dip in his voice, the Southern drawl so disdained by every self-respecting New Yawker. “Where’s home?”
“Houston.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s a good city.”
“It’s not New York,” she corrected.
“Have you ever been to Houston?”
“Once. I had an ex who was a bull rider. Leon ‘The Ball-Breaker’ Braker. I completely bought in to the image until I went to the Houston livestock show. The bull threw him off in two-point-seven seconds, and that was it. I broke up with him the next week. Faker.”
“That’s very cold of you.”
“Nah. I fixed him up with this chick I met in the hotel bar. She was a chiropractor. They’re married now.”
He resumed the blind stare out the window. He was either directionally challenged or emotionally numb. She was betting on the latter, which made her try even harder to cheer him up.
“This weather’s hell. Where’s the girlfriend? Flight delayed?”
Instead of cooperating, he stayed silent, choosing not to spill his most private thoughts to a complete stranger.
Since he left her mind to its own creative devices Edie assessed his situation. Girlfriend wasn’t showing and he was crushed. Windsor knots never took rejection well, although he didn’t seem as heartbroken as she thought he should be. She wondered if he liked quiet redheads because Patience needed to meet a guy who didn’t yell. Somebody who knew how to keep his emotions in check, and Mr. Trench Coat was nothing if not repressed.
“She’s not showing, is she? Tough beans, but hey, the Belvedere’s great for getting to know people. I’ll bet you’ll meet someone new tonight, a leggy blonde, or maybe twins.”
He chose to ignore her attempt to perk him up, which annoyed her, because she was going out of her way to be nice, and why didn’t he appreciate it? Most of all, Edie didn’t do silence well. Never had.
“Oh, come on. We’ve got another thirty…fifty…ninety minutes. People bond in long car rides, and I don’t like talking to myself. Let’s try something easy. Like…how long you two been together?”
“Do we have to talk?” he asked, as the cars behind them started to honk.
“Yes. I’m trying to give you the full New York cabbie experience, so couldn’t you try to be a sport? It’s an easy question. Just something to keep me going here.”
She heard the deep indrawn breath, a slow glacial defrosting sound. “Three years. Or maybe five?”
“You don’t know?” she blurted out, not bothering to hide the horror.
“Not exactly. Can we drive now?”
Whoa, boy. No wonder he was getting the cold shoulder. Forget fixing him up with Patience. She deserved better. Gingerly, Edie got the cab moving again. “I can see the problem.”
“And I’m sure you have advice.”
“No way, buddy. You dug that hole all by yourself. A grave is a dark, damp place late at night.”
“If you sleep well, you never know. I always sleep well.”
She glanced in the mirror, noted the confidence in his eyes, his face, even the rigid posture, all the while enduring a death-defying motor-vehicle experience. A humiliating moment in Edie’s bright cab-driving career that was getting dimmer by the minute.
“I bet you use meds for sleep,” she muttered, because she didn’t like being a failure at anything. It was a trait inherited from her father—one of the very few that she admitted.
“No meds. You have to be smart about your life. Control stress, eat healthy, exercise.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“It’s your funeral,” he answered.
“Hey, I’m not the one sleeping alone tonight,” she shot back. Perhaps it was a petty taunt, but it wasn’t like his ego couldn’t take it.
“Barnaby?” He sounded shocked. Disapproving.
Delicious.
“Nah,” she answered smoothly. “I’ll go out trolling after I drop you off. Premeditation takes all the spontaneity out of it. It’s like walking around with a lightning rod over your head and pretending to be surprised when the storm hits. What fun is that?”
And he completely bought it. “You’re going to go hook up with some stranger?”
“Oh, sure,” she gushed, finally discovering which buttons to push. “It’s a lot more exciting that way.”
“It’s unsafe.”
“Not if you’re smart.”
“What if he’s a criminal?”
He sounded genuinely concerned. It was sweet, but unnecessary since Edie didn’t believe in one-night stands. Sex was part of the biological symbiosis that wove through the earth. You had to follow the strands of karmic DNA that were laid out in front of you, and picking up strange men in clubs was forging a connection that didn’t exist.
She noticed his worried frown, and should have eased up on the man. But not yet. “You can tell a killer by the eyes, cold and flat, missing the soul.”
“By that definition, I’m a serial killer.”
She smiled. “No, you’re not. I can read your eyes.”
“Right,” he shot back. Cocky, but clueless. Typical. “What do my eyes say?” he asked, possibly because of her dismissing snort. “You
really
want to know?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on, you know you want to.”
And once again, he sighed. “Go ahead.”
She considered fibbing, but Mr. Trench Coat needed something to perk him up. “You’re cold and flat, but you still possess the soul. However, you belong in the Hilton, not the Belvedere.”
“Flattering.”
“Yet, true,” she dared him to deny it.
“Why is Manhattan that way?” he finally asked, his hand pointing to the west. “Shouldn’t we be headed in that direction?”
“I thought you’d like to see more of the outer boroughs. Most people don’t appreciate the architectural diversity of the city. It’s very picturesque.”
“I’m not going to pay extra because you got lost.”
Lost? Edie? Ha. “Flat rate from the airport to the city. It’s the rules.”
“Now you’re law-abiding?”
“You’re just fun to joke with, and you look like you needed cheering up.”
“It’s late. I’m tired. I want to get to the hotel.”
“Are you always this crabby when you’re tired?”
“No.”
“Don’t you want to see Underground New York, the part that tourists always overlook?”
“No.”
“At some point, you’ll have to get out and see the sights. You can’t let rejection get you down. She’s not worth it.”
“She’s not getting me down.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Believe what you want. Tonight, when you’re alone in bed staring at that mirror on the ceiling, you’ll see those empty eyes. And before I know it, you’ll be the front page, having jumped naked from the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“A mirror on the ceiling?” he repeated, picking out the least inflammatory bit of her sentence. It said so much about his sexual psyche.
“Of course. You should check out the theater.”
“What theater?”
“At the hotel. It’s live. The guests can reserve a time slot, and ahem…perform for whoever wants to watch. I heard the seats fill up fast.”
“Please, no.”
Edie grinned at him in the mirror. “I’m kidding.”
“I thought so,” he told her, so obviously a lie.
“I’m kidding about the reservations. It’s first-come, first-serve.”
“I don’t believe you,” he answered stiffly, but she noticed him pulling at the knot at his throat.
Certainly, some of the Belvedere tales were urban legends, and then some were nothing but Page Six gossip, although Edie firmly believed that where there was smoke, there was usually an arsonist with a can of kerosene and a match that didn’t want to light. Frankly, a viewing room sounded fun—as long as the man was sexy, and the woman didn’t have leg hair. Edie always shaved. A woman needed some standards.
“Suit yourself.”
“Can you just take me to the hotel?” he asked, impatience finally starting to show. Sadly Edie realized that her joyride, such as it was, was over. She’d have to go back to the apartment. Have to listen to her upstairs neighbor and his girlfriend getting hot and sweaty between the sheets. She’d have to stare at bad TV, and listen to the clock ticking in the dark. All of which she hated with a passion.
So okay, perhaps when she took the U-turn in the middle of Nostrand Avenue, it was a little reckless. The car rocked over the curb and Edie jerked at the wheel, pulling tight to the left. At last all four tires were firmly back on the ground. Perhaps a little too firmly because that was when she heard the noise.
For a split second, panic struck her, until she met his gaze in the mirror. Unmoved, and completely in control. Jerk. Quickly, she cleared the anxiety away, and when she spoke, her words sounded almost calming. “What was that?”
His lips curled at the corners, and the cool, emotionless eyes gleamed like the devil. “A flat.”
Oh, hell.
At his question, she turned to face him, and he could see the shakes receding. Her color was better and the quiver in her eyes was gone. “I don’t know.”
His mind ran through the steps, making a mental checklist of tools and procedure, and he was happy for the diversion. Changing flats, performing a quadruple bypass—these were the things that he was prepared for. A kiss-off from Cynthia? Not in this lifetime. And Tyler hated being unprepared. “We’ll check the trunk.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, already falling into blind obedience, which peopled tended to do at the sound of his clinical voice. Was it uncertainty, or a sheeplike personality that suddenly made her so agreeable? Considering the magenta streaks in the short blond hair, he was betting on the uncertainty.
The rain pounded on the roof, but regrettably his trench coat would have to go. Tyler wasn’t about to sacrifice it to axle grease and New York grime. He took a deep breath, rolled up his sleeves and headed for the great outdoors.
The great outdoors showered his head, and he bit back a curse. Tyler didn’t believe in using disrespectful words. It indicated a lack of control, as well as a juvenile vocabulary. Neither of which were necessary because he thrived on bad circumstances. He had pulled off aortal coarctations that were nothing short of miraculous. In the big scheme of things, rain was nothing.
Except a damned inconvenience.
As he waded toward the trunk, he felt her presence behind him. Tyler smiled with relief when he spotted the jack, the lug wrench and the treadless doughnut. Not great, but it’d do.
“Thank God,” she whispered in an awed voice. For the first time she didn’t sound quite so cavalier. None too soon, either.
It was no surprise when she started to unwedge the tire from the trunk. In fact, he had expected it, but he stopped her with a polite tap on the arm. “I can do this.”
“I should do it,” she insisted, tugging uselessly on the tire. “I flew over that curb like a rabid bat. And it’s my personal dogma that when you do bad, you need to immediately make right, or something worse will come down the pipe.”
Something worse? What was she expecting? Famine, pestilence?
Patiently, he met her eyes, watching the rain stream down her face, waiting for wisdom to dawn. Tyler believed that at some point, a person needed to abandon principles and simply do what needed to be done. Her stubborn jaw-line didn’t bode well for foregoing principles, but her irises were getting a little smarter. Eventually, she nodded.
“At least let me help,” she suggested—almost sensibly. “If you’re going to get soaked and be miserable, I should, too.”
Her T-shirt was transparent. Yes, Cynthia had blown off their relationship in a text message—
in a text message
—a fact that really grated, because it seemed rude. Not that he was hurt or disappointed, and he wasn’t sure why he wasn’t hurt or disappointed, but a text message? Perhaps that was why his macular muscles kept straying to her chest because Tyler wasn’t a big fan of carnal philandering. He never had the time nor the inclination, however, the sight of jutting nipples was torpedoing his normal restraint. “Not necessary. Wait in the cab,” he instructed.
“Please,” she asked, and it was a testament to the power of the sexual dynamic that he stood there, foolishly dripping wet, his gaze locked on her face, which was—unfortunately—nearly as tasty as the twin nipples that he didn’t want to want.
Her blond hair was cut short, which he wasn’t normally a big fan of, but it worked for her in that “I’m too sexy for a boy” look. His eyes tracked down her chest, then tracked back to the trunk.
The flat.
“Do you have a flashlight? Maybe Barnaby has one in the glove box?”
He didn’t need the light, but he didn’t want her breasts near him while he worked. The rain, the text message, the punctured tire—everything was starting to flat-line his common sense.
“I don’t think Barnaby’s that well stocked,” she argued, shoving her hands in her jean pockets, which only drew the shirt tighter.
“Can you check? Please?” he pleaded, needing to have her and her tightly packed body out of his sights.
Happily she disappeared, but then returned in a too-short two seconds with a flashlight. Of course. Trying to help, she directed the light beam in the direction of the rear wheel. “I remembered I had one in my bag. It was a giveaway at this Hudson River wildlife and fisheries symposium. It was a few months back, so I’d forgotten.”
“Lucky me,” he murmured, setting the jack under the axle, and starting to twist off the lug nuts. Twisting tight. Painfully hard. Until he felt something give. Principles. Dogma. Ironlike restraint.
“I’m Edie,” she told him, because apparently now was the perfect time for introductions.
Edie. A cute, perky name. With cute, perky breasts. And gamine brown eyes that sparkled in the rain.
Sparkled.
Tyler gave the nut another vicious twist.
“What’s your name?” she asked. Her conversation wasn’t what he was used to. Tyler liked coldly impersonal, eight-syllable words that didn’t involve sex, emotion, or—god-forbid—nipples.
Instead of replying, he pulled even tighter.
“Don’t be mad. You know rain is very good for the planet. It’s cleansing and nourishing, feeding the parched earth.”
“Not in New York,” he said, wiping at his face, feeling the moisture cling to his skin. Dirt was unsanitary, a breeding ground for flesh-eating bacteria and flesh-licking sex. Quietly, he groaned.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. Obviously she was finally feeling the guilt that she should have felt several thousand hours ago.
Fully intending to give her a well-deserved lecture, Tyler glanced up, but she looked so…so needy. “I’m Tyler.”
“Tyler. Pleased to meet you. You got that?” she asked, just after he finished with the nuts, and was prying off the hubcap.
“Yeah. Doing great,” he answered, flinching when a city bus cruised by to splash him from head to toe.
He tried wiping the muddy residue away, not happy when he saw her expression. If she were a nice person, she wouldn’t be laughing at him. She would be grateful.
Deeply grateful.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, polite, thoughtful, trying to set an example. Although on the plus side, the situation did keep him from staring at her nipples.
“Nope. No problem,” she answered, stifling another laugh. Then, of course, she had to cross her arms over her chest. The nipples were back.
“Good,” Tyler agreed. However, he had a painful problem in his pants, and he wondered if this two-month interventional cardiology fellowship in New York was really a great idea. Of course it was a great idea. Working with Dr. Abe Keating, competing for the ACT/Keating Endowment Award. The cardiology fellowship was a chance to showcase his talents, and most of all, give him a shot at Keating’s endowment, a chance to work side by side with the surgeon for another three years, doing the research that would change the way cardio-vascular surgery was done forever.
Spurred on by the drenching rain, the occasional honking car and his barely restrained sexual frustration, Tyler changed the tire in record time. He twisted hard on the wrench, tightening the nuts on the doughnut, feeling his nuts tighten with each miserable twist.
Just as he was putting the flat in the trunk, a cop car slid to a halt beside them. The officer rolled down the window.
“Need any help?” asked the officer, his eyes straying to Edie’s chest.
“All done, Officer,” Edie replied agreeably, possibly with a newfound respect for the law. Probably because she was driving without a proper taxi license.
“You need any help, miss?” the cop asked the criminal cabbie, because apparently the dripping, greasy-handed cardiothoracic surgeon now looked the part of the perp.
Tyler scowled and then stepped in front of her chest. “She doesn’t need anything,” he told the officer, because the last thing he needed was for her to get thrown in jail. If that happened, then he’d never get to the hotel. He’d never get sex….
Sleep.
Sleep was what he desperately needed.
The cop, sensing there was no criminal activity afoot, drove away, and Tyler and Edie climbed back in the cab. This time when she drove, Edie took the corners as slow as a grandmother, humming happily.
Tyler examined his ruined shirt, pulling it free from his pants, ready to burn the filthy thing. He looked up into the rearview mirror and met her eyes. “Why are you smiling?”
“You look good in dirt,” she told him, and he noticed the dimple on the right cheek, which was completely free of both dirt and guilt.
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m trying to cheer you up.” She sounded sincere and completely comfortable. Not painfully aroused. Not wondering what he would be like naked.
“Get me to my hotel,” he growled, too tired to use his clinical voice. “That’ll cheer me up.”
“Why don’t you like me?”
“Because you feed on people’s pain.”
“I do not,” she insisted.
“Then why are you so intrigued by the fact that I got dumped?” It stung. Yes. Stung. Tyler wasn’t used to pain. He cured pain. He prescribed meds for pain. He analyzed pain, and monitored pain, but damn it, he did not feel it. It wasn’t even Cynthia so much as the idea that he wasn’t good enough. It was a pain he’d stopped feeling a long time ago. Or so he thought.
“Aha, I knew I was right,” Edie chirped, rubbing salt into the wound. “Not that I’m happy you got dumped. Satisfied, yes? I mean, I do like to be right, especially about reading people. Don’t you like adventures?”
Adventures were the nation’s number one cause of death.
He blamed Cynthia for his foul mood. She had forced him into this embarrassing juvenile behavior. Edie had merely pummeled him until he had no choice but to regress even further.
“Sorry,” he apologized politely.
“Why don’t you let me buy you a drink?” she asked, apparently not sensing his still painful sexual arousal.
“Why?” he asked, stalling for time, because the first answer that leaped to mind was
yes.
“I owe you. You’re doing a nice thing, and you didn’t say a word when I tooled all over the five boroughs. Tonight you’ve changed a flat and your girlfriend of some indeterminate amount of time dumped you, all of which happened when you should be getting well laid at the hotel. If there’s anybody in the world that needs a drink, it’s you. Maybe a shot of tequila, or ouzo. I know this Greek bar….”
“I don’t want to go to a Greek bar,” he told her, shifting uncomfortably, finding an exposed spring in the seat, feeling it cut into his thigh. Probably severing the femoral artery, thereby letting him bleed out a quick and painless death. In which case, Cynthia would have to feel bad since she had dumped him in a text message.
“How about an American bar?” Edie suggested, as if all his immediate pains could be solved with alcohol.
A bar was a recipe for disaster, but since Tyler had apparently not severed his femoral artery and was going to live, alcohol now seemed like a good idea.
“If I let you buy me a drink, one drink—will you drive me directly to the hotel?” There was a roughness in his voice that worried him. This wasn’t about a drink. He should’ve been fantasizing about a shower, a bed. No, there were darker forces at work. Darker forces that were visualizing her. Naked in his shower. In his bed. Even naked proudly offering him one drink.
“I’ll drive you straight back to the hotel. I swear,” she promised, but Tyler knew when disaster lurked around the corner. He didn’t like to think it was a premonition because that implied his subconscious was guiding his decision—or worse, his penis.
Tonight Cynthia had dumped him. Texas’s number-four-ranked cardiothoracic surgeon with a net worth of over four million, who had saved her father’s life, not once, but three times, not that anyone was counting. If there was a woman in the world who owed him the simple courtesy of a proper goodbye, it was Cynthia.
So what if he wanted to be a jackass? If he wanted to have a drink or wild sex with a woman who felt some deep-seated desire to make him feel better, then by God, he should. If he wanted to do something spontaneous and hair-raising, then he had a premeditated right to go for it.
It was because of such elaborate rationalizations that his father called him Shit-For-Brains Sophocles, but Tyler always shrugged it off. Although now he did wonder if Sophocles ever created meaningless justifications in pursuit of wild sex. Probably not. Probably Sophocles never had shit for brains. Only Tyler.
“One drink. An American bar,” he agreed, resigned to his decision.
“A friend of mine works in a strip club.”
He smiled at her, mud-splattered and grimy with an agenda that was just as black.