Page 8 of Jane Deyre
I glance down at my Smurfette costume.
“Ed... I mean Mrs. Rochester. Would you like me to wear a uniform?”
“Of course not, dear. I want you to be yourself and change out of that dreadful costume.”
“Um, that’s a problem.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t have any of my own clothes with me.” I find it a little weird she’s not noticed this.
“Perhaps, you would like to borrow some of mine? You look like we can be the same size. Or at least when I was your age.”
The thought of having any of this legendary actress’s clothes gracing my flesh makes my skin prickle. The temptation is great. Maybe their success will rub off on me. On second thought...
“I wouldn’t be comfortable doing that. Plus, I need to get my computer and a few other personal belongings.”
“Where do you live?”
“In Culver City.” Actually past the airport, but I’m not going to tell her that. “I’ll take the bus and can be back here in a few hours.”
Edwina makes a face. “You will do no such thing. I can’t have my employees who are in close contact with me travel on a germ-infested bus. I’ll have Alice call you a cab.”
Gah! How will I pay for it? I lied when I told her I live in Culver City, which is only five miles away. I live in Compton, which is twenty miles away. To taxi there will easily cost over fifty dollars. I only have five dollars on me—my lunch money and bus fare.
Edwina lifts a prescient finger. Her amethyst eyes twinkle. “Better yet, I’ll have Ward drive you.
A warm smile spreads on her face. “You will love him.”
CHAPTER 4
Jane
Having gotten a taste of Thornhill, I dread going back to my place. The ramshackle one-bedroom craphole I rent. Culver City and Compton may both start with the letter ‘C,’ but they couldn’t be more different, neighborhood-wise. Culver City has been gentrified. Compton’s still a ghetto.
Hooking her arm through mine, Edwina leads me outside. My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. Awaiting us in the driveway is a car fit for royalty. A vintage fire-engine red Rolls-Royce convertible. Puncturing the fog. Pristine and shimmering with whitewall tires. My eyes grow wider; my breath hiccups. Leaning against the hood is the man who almost ran me over with his bike!
“Dear,” breathes Edwina, leading me his way. “Meet Ward. He’s agreed to drive you to your abode. I hope you’ll be back before lunch.” She returns to the house and our eyes lock. He studies me; I study him. Two silent mutual words hang in the air between us.
It’s you!
He’s looks freshly showered and is now clad in all black—jeans, a T-shirt, and sockless black loafers. And sans his helmet, his hair is visible. An unruly jet-black swathe that only adds to his allure. My heart palpitates, my breaths grow shallow. I’m not sure if it’s embarrassment. Or an attraction.
While I’m still in my Smurfette costume, this is the first time he’s seen my face. His expression is inscrutable. But his eyes are intense. I now see they are a midnight blue so dark they look black. The division between his pupils and irises almost indiscernible. So penetrating I bet they can see under my costume.
Heat rising to my cheeks, I force myself to shove all these thoughts away. He must be Edwina’s chauffeur. Though with his casual dress and devastating looks, he sure doesn’t look like one. Aren’t they always older and wearing pristine uniforms with caps? At least in the movies, they are. Maybe he’s one of those young, handsome escorts wealthy older women often keep in their “service.” A gigolo. Edwina seems like the type. Though it’s not fair to judge her when I don’t know that for a fact. Another thought. With his powerful build, maybe he’s her bodyguard. Given the unthinkable tragedy she endured, I wouldn’t be surprised she has one.
We—he and I—play a staring game. Any second I think he’ll laugh at me. Or lash out at me. He doesn’t. Instead, his expression remains unreadable. Cold. His brows furrowed. Like he’s wearing a permanent scowl.
“Get in,” he grumbles.
With long strides, not the hint of a limp, he rounds the vehicle and flings the passenger door open. While he gets behind the wheel, I hop into the car. As gracefully as I can in my Smurfette costume.Flopis more like it.
The interior of the car is as dazzling as the exterior. Honestly, reader, I could live in this car. It’s like a luxurious house. With its buttery leather seats, polished burl wood dashboard, and shiny steering wheel, the same luggage color as the seats with an “R” in the center. I’m not sure if the “R” stands for Rolls-Royce or Rochester. I set the headpiece of my costume on the floor mat between my feet. My heart is still beating overtime, and beneath my costume, I’m overheating.
He settles into the driver’s seat. As he yanks the seat belt across his broad chest, I fumble for conversation. “Um, how’s your foot?”
“I’ll live.” Sarcasm barbs his voice. Like he doesn’t want to talk about the incident. He snaps his seat belt into the fastener. I manage another feeble attempt at conversation.