Shadows At Sunset (11 page)

“What do you want me to do?”

It was a simple question, and she knew what the answer should have been. She should tell him she wanted him to stop her. But she was so tired of giving the expected response. So tired of it all.

“You want the truth?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I want you to come with me.”

He rose, and she couldn't see his face any more, just the rumpled clothes, the bottom of his jaw rough with five o'clock shadow. He walked away from the door, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Until he came around the other side of the car and got in beside her.

He put on his seat belt. She hadn't bothered to wear hers. “Where are we going?” He seemed no more than casually curious.

“Does it matter?” Her hands were still shaking, and she turned the key, forgetting that the car was already running. The starter shrieked in protest.

“No,” he said. “Put on your seat belt.”

“Why? Because it's the law?”

“No,” he said. “Because I want you to keep yourself safe.”

She glanced at him doubtfully. The interior of the car was filled with shadows, and she could barely see him. “You're not going to tell me you've suddenly fallen in love with me, are you?”

His laugh was soft, unexpectedly charming. “No.”

“Then you can come with me.”

“I thought you wanted me to.”

“I don't have any idea what I want.”

“Yes,” he said gently. “I know.”

She drove into the L.A. night, and because she could think of nowhere else to go she took him to the Kit-Kat Klub, the most decadent public place she could think of. He followed her in, watching her quietly as she ordered a margarita. And then she sat there staring at the glass, not touching it.

“Am I cramping your style?” he asked with an unexpected trace of humor. The club was very noisy, and she had to lean forward to hear him. She could smell the tequila, and the odor made her sick.

“Aren't you going to stop me?” she asked him. “Lecture me?”

“If you want.”

“What if I want you to drink with me?”

He shook his head. “Now that I won't do. Do you want to drink it, Rachel-Ann? Or do you want to leave this place?”

There was something odd about the way he said her name. Something familiar about it. She picked up the margarita, her eyes meeting his defiantly.

His eyes looked familiar, too, in a face that was weary, lined and oddly appealing. He looked like a man. She usually didn't bother with men, just good-looking boys.

“Who are you?” she asked, still holding the salt-encrusted glass. “I know you, don't I?”

“Do you?”

“Stop answering my questions with questions. You're like some damned therapist. I must have run into you in my drinking days,” she said. “Or drugs. Were you also into drugs?”

“Yes.”

“But now you're clean and sober,” she mocked him. “We probably slept together and I've forgotten all about it.”

He didn't say anything, just kept looking at her out of those enigmatic dark eyes.

“Well, did we?” she demanded.

“What do you think?”

She took a deep breath, oddly shaken. She'd had a nagging sense of familiarity bothering her for days, and it seemed to reach out and touch everyone she ran into, including Coltrane. Maybe it was simply this forgotten face from the past that had triggered it.

“Well, Rico,” she said defiantly, “aren't you going to take this drink out of my hand?”

He shook his head. “You need to put it down yourself,
chica.
It has to be your decision.”

Chica.
No one had called her that in years, at least that she could remember. Consuelo used to called her that when she fed her chocolate chip cookies and milk.

She set the drink down, untouched. “Okay,” she said with a crooked smile. “My decision. Let's blow this pop stand and we can relive old times. Your place or mine?”

She'd managed to startle him, a good thing. “It's up to you,” he said finally.

She rose, tossing the car keys in front of him. “Your place,” she said. “You can drive.” And she walked out of the night club, certain he was following her.

R
ico reached over and fastened her seat belt, then slid the driver's seat back to accommodate his longer legs. Rachel-Ann hadn't realized he was so tall. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She didn't want to think about it. It didn't matter. She had someone to keep the darkness away, she didn't have to go back to La Casa and dodge the ghosts, and she might make it through one more day of sobriety. All good things, right?

So why was she closing her eyes, hiding from him as if he were the threat?

He drove smoothly, but she didn't want to see where they were going. She knew it was a mistake—she didn't have the best sense of direction, and when she left later she might have a hard time finding her way home.

It didn't matter. The longer she spent driving the mean streets of East L.A. the longer it would take to get home.

Of course, she had no idea whether they were heading into East L.A. or not. It was probably just latent prejudice on her part, to assume that because the man she'd picked up was Hispanic that he'd live in East L.A. For all she knew they'd end up in a condo in Century City.

She opened her eyes a tiny bit, to glance at him in the reflected light of the dashboard and the city lights. Good profile. A strong nose, high forehead, silky black hair in a widow's peak. Nice mouth, as well. If she tried very hard maybe she could convince herself he was dangerous. Going off with a stranger wasn't half as effective if the stranger was safe.

“What are you thinking?” He must have realized she was watching him, but he kept his gaze on the crowded streets, driving with a casual self-assurance in the insanity of L.A. traffic.

“You're a good driver,” she said.

“It's a family trait. My father was a chauffeur.”

“And what do you do? Besides go to AA meetings and pick up women.”

“I don't make a habit of picking up women,” he said calmly, avoiding a Lexus bent on destruction. “And I work for Los Angeles County Hospital.”

“Doing what?”

“In the emergency room.”

“Are you an orderly?”

“If you want.”

He was beginning to annoy her. “Are you always so agreeable?” she said in a cranky voice.

“No. Ask my mother—I can be a pain in the butt. I just happen to be in a good mood.”

“Why?”

He glanced at her then, just a brief look before he turned back to concentrate on the heavy traffic. “Because I'm with you.”

She grimaced. “I told you, I'm not interested in someone who's going to fall instantly in love with me.”

“Not a problem,
chica,
” he murmured. “I promise.”

There was something going on, some undertone she didn't quite understand, and she sat up, casting a suspicious look at him. “You aren't a sicko, are you? I'm not into D and S, S and M, or any of those other initials. I just want oblivion. I'll take it with sex if I can't use drugs or alcohol, but I don't get off on pain.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then why do you work in an emergency room?” she shot back, distrustful.

“Because I can help,” he replied calmly. “Isn't it a little late to be having second thoughts about coming with me?”

“Is it? What if I tell you to stop the car and get out, let me drive away? Will you do it?”

Without a word he pulled over, out of the traffic, and turned to look at her. “It's up to you. I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to do, and I'm not going to hurt you. If you want me to leave I will.”

And leave her alone, with nowhere to go but back to La Casa. Or the Kit-Kat Klub. She nodded. “Okay, I trust you,” she said.

He laughed softly, putting the car into gear and pulling deftly back into the stream of cars. “No, you don't,
chica.
You don't trust anyone. But we'll work on that.”

Great, she thought sourly. “What's your name? If I'm going to spend the night with you I ought to know your name.”

“You know it. It's Rico.”

“Your full name.”

“Enrique Ricardo Salazardo de Martinez y Columbo.” The Spanish syllables flowed off his tongue so smoothly she could barely follow them.

“Rico will do,” she said wryly. She waited a moment, but he said nothing. “Don't you want to know my name? Or do you prefer to keep this anonymous?”

“‘Hi, my name is Rachel-Ann and I'm an alcoholic,”' he quoted lightly.

“Except that I've never said that,” she pointed out coolly.

“I know.”

Of course he knew. That was why he'd said it. And why the hell had she chosen someone like him to find forgetfulness? He was far too observant.

Except, in fact, she hadn't chosen him. He'd simply appeared, available when she needed someone to distract her. To keep her sane. “My name is Rachel-Ann Meyer. Not nearly as exotic as yours, I'm afraid.”

“Not as many ancestors,” he said with a crooked smile.

“Not that want to own up to me. I was adopted.”

He nodded, seemingly unsurprised. “But you have family?”

“A sister and a brother,” she said.

“No parents? What happened to the people who adopted you?”

“My mother died years ago in a car crash. She'd already divorced Jackson.”

“Who's Jackson?”

“My father. He's still alive.”

“So you have a brother and sister and father….”

“I don't want to talk about it. We're sleeping together, not getting married,” she snapped, uneasy.

“You don't like talking about your father?”

“Drop it, Rico,” she said. “Or you can get out and walk.”

Once more he pulled up to the curb, into a parking space, and he turned off the car, plunging them into a darkness lit only by the streetlights and the passing cars. “So will you,” he said. “We're here.”

She craned her neck to look out the window. She wasn't quite sure what she expected—certainly not the working-class neighborhood that looked more like New York than L.A. “You live here?”

“My apartment's just down the block.” He took her hand, and for a moment she tried to jerk away, suddenly nervous. He held on, putting her keys in her palm and closing her fingers around them before releasing them. “Your decision, Rachel-Ann,” he said calmly. “But I'm going in.”

He slid out of the car, coming around to her side. It would be easy enough to push the lock, to slide over into the driver's seat and get the hell out of there. He'd given her that choice—he wouldn't try to stop her. He didn't open the door for her, either. Not out of a lack of courtesy, she realized. But because he wanted her to make the choice.

She unfastened the seat belt, reached for the door and opened it. She didn't take the hand he held out for her, climbing out on her own instead, and she glanced back at her BMW for a doubtful moment. On a street full of low-riders and ancient sedans it stood out, even in its current less-than-stellar condition.

“Will my car be here in the morning?”

“There are no guarantees. If people know you're with me though, it'll probably be safe.”

“Why? Are you that strong an influence in this neighborhood? Are you a drug dealer? Is that where I know you from?”

“If I'm Hispanic I'm either an orderly or a drug dealer? Not very politically correct,
chica,
” he chided her, unoffended.

“Sorry,” she muttered, oddly ashamed of herself. It wasn't often that that happened—her behavior was usually so reprehensible that regret was a waste of time. But for some reason this man had her doing all sorts of unexpected things, feeling unexpected feelings.

He lived in a second floor walk-up in an old building that smelled of spices but shone with cleanliness. He preceded her into the apartment, leaving the lights off, and she wondered if he was just going to jump her in the dark. So much for old-fashioned courtesy.

A moment later the lights came on, and she saw she was in a small, tidy studio apartment, slightly shabby, oddly comfortable-looking. She looked around her, surveying her surroundings. There was a sofa with a brightly colored afghan thrown over it, a wall of books and stereo equipment and a television. A desk and computer by the window that faced the fire escape, a kitchen in an alcove, equally spotless.

“It's very nice,” she said weakly.

“It's a good thing my cleaning lady was in today, or you wouldn't be so overwhelmed by my luxurious living quarters. Are you hungry?”

“You're going to cook for me?” She was oddly uneasy. She wasn't used to doing this stone-cold sober, and he wasn't making much effort at moving things along. He should have backed her against the wall, pulling up her sweater so he could touch her breasts.

But she didn't want him to touch her breasts. Or maybe she did—he was very attractive in a loose-limbed, rumpled sort of way. But he wasn't coming any closer, and she wasn't sure she wanted to start things.

“I could order pizza.”

Which made her think of Coltrane and her weird reaction to him. “No pizza,” she said. “I'm not hungry. Got a drink?”

“Diet Coke.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“I know. But if you wanted to drink you wouldn't have come home with me, would you?” he said reasonably, locking the door. Locking her in, she thought, wondering if she should be even more nervous. Locking out the night.

She shrugged. “Where's the bed?”

“In a hurry? The night's young. Why don't we—”

“Sit and talk?” she suggested. “Get to know each other? Maybe have a little AA meeting on our own? I didn't come here to talk. Where's the bed?”

Without a word he went to the sofa and opened it, laying the brightly colored afghan on his desk with a certain reverence. “Clean sheets,” he said with a crooked smile.

“I don't care.” She began unbuttoning her sweater, afraid that if she hesitated she wouldn't do it, that she'd start crying. Then she'd have to run away. And she had no place to run to.

She pulled off her sweater, dumped it on the floor, then slid out of her jeans, standing in her skimpy silk underwear. She took a handful of brightly colored condoms out of her purse and put them on the table beside the bed, just as Rico came back into the room carrying pillows and a duvet. He glanced at the stack of condoms with a faint smile. “You think I'm going to need all of them? That's a little overoptimistic, isn't it?” he said, then turned to look at her.

She was too thin and she knew it. Heroin chic, they called it. That was the one drug she'd managed to avoid, but she was still waif-thin, and she didn't want him looking at her, passing judgment.

“Would you turn off the lights?” she said in a deceptively calm voice.

“If you want.”

“Are you always so agreeable?”

“If you were looking for abuse I'm afraid you picked the wrong man.”

The wrong man. Too many times the wrong man. “Turn off the lights,” she said again, and the room was plunged into darkness.

She heard the rustle of clothes as he stripped and got into the bed, and she reached for the front clasp of her bra, ready to do what she'd done countless times before. At the last minute she changed her mind, slipping beneath the pillowy duvet with her underwear still on. She lay on her back beside him, rigid, trying to control her racing heart, her shallow breathing.

He was nothing more than a shadow in the room, lying beside her. She couldn't see him; he wouldn't be able to see her. It was a small comfort. She waited for him to touch her, but he was in no hurry, seemingly content to watch her in the shadows, when he couldn't really see her at all.

“You have a lot of books,” she said.

She didn't have to see his smile to know that she'd amused him. “Yes, I do. Do you want me to turn the light back on so you can read them?”

“They looked a little too heavy-going for me. What are they?”

“Medical texts. And you're right, they're pretty heavy-going.”

“Why do you have medical texts?” she asked.

“Oh, even an orderly gets curious. Actually my interior decorator thought they'd dress up the room a bit…”

“You're not an orderly.”

“Nope.”

“You're not a nurse, either?”

“Nope.”

“Paramedic?” she said hopefully. “Medical technician?”

“Why does it matter?”

She already knew the truth. “I don't like doctors.”

“Then stay out of the ER and you don't have to see me at work.”

Not good enough. “Shouldn't a doctor have more sense than to sleep with a stranger who has a history of drug and alcohol abuse? Ever hear of AIDS? HIV?”