New York Nights (A Heart of the City romance Book 2) Page 9

  Ben laughed, a deep-bellied laugh that made me frown as he turned to the stairs. ‘I think it’s safe to say she already does.’

  Ruth cleaned without complaint, which only made me more uncomfortable. I made a mental note to no longer eat food provided by Ruth, at the risk of being poisoned.

  Now that my clothes were infused with the smell of dinner, I had lost my appetite. Honestly, I couldn’t think of anything worse than another plate, even when Ben assured me there was plenty.

  ‘Um, if it’s all right with you, I might just make myself a cheese toastie,’ I said, smiling at Grace in her bouncer as I tried to pry a giggle out of her. She was playing hard to get.

  ‘A sandwich?’ Ben repeated with horror.

  ‘I’ll have you know that it’s not just any sandwich; in fact, I don’t want to boast, but I make a world-famous grilled cheese.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s known from Australia to Slovenia.’ That was true – the Liebenbergs loved my cheese toasties.

  Ben’s brows rose as he nodded, apparently impressed as he dished out a plate of dinner. ‘Cheese between white toast. Sounds mouthwatering,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, it’s so much more than that.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, placing the plate on the bench.

  ‘It’s pretty intense, and usually served on the side of my world-famous minestrone soup, but that’s a whole other story.’

  Ben grabbed another plate, filling it. He was facing away from me but I could see the pinch of his cheek that said he was smiling. It seemed strange that we were bonding over this topic, but aside from Grace, there wasn’t much else to talk about.

  Ben turned, putting the plate in front of me, then pointing at it. ‘Eat,’ he said, in that no-nonsense style of his that probably had all his business associates quivering.

  I barely flinched at his attempt to lay down the law. For the first time, I didn’t feel intimidated by him, and I didn’t know whether it was because he had stood up for me against Ruth or because he insisted I eat, even though I’m sure Ruth had no intention of feeding me.

  Ben picked up his plate and, without knowing what else to do, I picked up mine and followed him to the glass dining table where only two places were set, opposite one another. At the Liebenbergs’ I was used to eating with the children at their dinnertime, so this was a bit of a first for me. I glanced at Gracie, who seemed too fascinated with trying to stick her foot in her mouth to notice what was going on. She seemed in a particularly happy mood, no doubt that late sleep had given her plenty of beans.

  I suddenly didn’t feel so bad about Ruth on her hands and knees upstairs, scrubbing the carpet. It’s what she deserved for making me think that the reason she had been called was because I couldn’t be trusted. I took my seat, thinking – or hoping – that wasn’t the case, that my first week had showed Ben I was capable of looking after his daughter. And then strange things began running through my head.

  Maybe this is him wanting to have a chat with me. Soften the blow over dinner. Oh God —

  The sound of a cork being pulled from a bottle of red drew my attention, and before I could register what was going on, Ben was pouring me a glass. My eyes returned to Gracie and Ben smiled.

  ‘Relax, you’re off the clock, remember?’ he said, placing a glass next to my plate.

  ‘Yeah, but you’re not,’ I blurted.

  He looked up from filling his own glass. ‘Just one with dinner.’ He said it in such a convincing way, I believed him.

  ‘True,’ I said, watching him take a sip. ‘I mean, it’s not like you’re breastfeeding or anything.’

  Ben choked and spat out a dribble of red, clasping a hand over his mouth, before having a coughing fit, his eyes watering.

  I rescued the glass he put down in haste, moving it from the table that trembled with each cough.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked, trying not to laugh, because there wasn’t anything funny about seeing someone gasp for breath.

  Ben nodded. ‘Fine,’ he rasped, wiping down the front of his blue shirt that now had a smattering of red wine. With ragout on his shoes and red wine on his shirt, he was a hot mess. One night in with me and his dry cleaning bill had skyrocketed.

  ‘I’m sorry. I will not say “breast” mid-sip ever again.’

  Ben regained his composure. ‘Let’s toast to that,’ he said, taking his glass, clinking it with mine and giving me a sheepish smile. I masked my own smile, bringing my glass to my lips just as Ruth entered the dining area carrying a mop and bucket, her eyes darting between us. Sharing a joke with Ben, I felt awkward once again. It didn’t matter how Ruth had treated me, here I was, reflected in the eyes of an outsider, no doubt being wildly inappropriate with her boss.

  If only Penny Worthington could see me now.

  I put down my glass, silently swearing off another drop.

  ‘How did you go?’ Ben asked Ruth, unaware of – or ignoring – the laser beams that were shooting out of her eyeballs.

  ‘It will need to be professionally cleaned, but I don’t know if that will make any difference.’

  I thought of how my mother would have reacted: she would have been devastated by an unmovable stain in the carpet, but in Ben’s world it wasn’t a big deal.

  ‘I’ll call the carpet layers tomorrow and get them to replace it.’

  Oh, to have money.

  ‘Anything else, Mr Worthington?’ Ruth asked, like a robot programmed for obedience against her will.

  ‘No, that’s all, Ruth, you can go now.’

  ‘Will you need me tomorrow?’ she asked, glancing ever so briefly at me.

  ‘No, Ruth, that’ll be all.’

  She nodded before turning to head out.

  ‘But, Ruth …’

  She paused, looking expectantly at him. ‘Yes, Mr Worthington?’

  He casually shifted the base of his wine glass under his fingertips, his eyes focused intently on the way it turned. ‘If you are going to walk through the front door of this house, know this: Sarah is the appointed caretaker here and I would remind you to give her nothing but the utmost respect. Am I clear?’ His eyes lifted from the glass. It was a look that said, ‘Don’t fuck with me, and don’t ever bring your dirty looks or attitude here again.’

  My heart would have felt all warm and fuzzy had the tension not been so thick and I hadn’t wanted to slide under the table, mortified. I decided to opt for a sip – make that a big bloody gulp – of wine.

  The silence was broken by Ruth. ‘Yes, Mr Worthington.’

  ‘I’ll walk you out,’ he said, pushing his chair back. I thought Ruth might object, but she remained quiet, waiting for him before turning down the hall. I wanted to say goodbye to her but realised now wasn’t the time.

  And now that I was alone with the wine and the food, I wished I’d just taken the tray and stayed in my room. I was faced with a meal I didn’t want and an expensive glass of red I couldn’t bring myself to tip down the sink.

  There was nothing for it – I skulled the wine.

  I winced then cleared my throat, eyes watering, taking in the impossibly large pile of food before me. I couldn’t eat it. Ugh, why didn’t Ben have a dog? A hungry Rottweiler under the table would be perfect. I had limited time to think of a good enough reason to excuse myself. Headache? Nausea? Menstrual cramps? Definitely not.

  ‘What am I doing, Grace?’ I looked at Grace, who was staring at me and kick-kick-kicking her legs.

  ‘You’re no help,’ I said, thinking maybe I was being ridiculous, that I should just have dinner, get to know Ben a little; this was a prime opportunity. I didn’t know how many one-on-one dinners there would be, considering his work seemed so demanding, so I’d better take the chance while I could.

  I refilled my glass with wine, thinking myself mature and worldly, turning again to the plate of food. I ran my fork through the stew, letting the steam rise. Breathing in the aroma of spices made my mouth water. Who was I kidding? I would never turn down a feed
, even if seeing it plastered all over the stairs didn’t do wonders for my appetite.

  I was about to take a sneaky taste when light, quick footsteps came down the hall and, much to my surprise, Ruth appeared. I froze, fork suspended in front of my lips, as I watched her walk to the kitchen stool to unhook the coat she’d forgotten.

  ‘Lucky you remembered,’ I said, trying to seem like there were no hard feelings, but when Ruth turned to me, pulling on her coat, I could tell that the feeling was most certainly not mutual. I was nervous with her being within reach of sharp objects.

  ‘He might let you into his bed, but he will never let you into his heart.’

  I lowered my fork. ‘Excuse me?’ I said.

  ‘I’ve seen your kind before. He’ll find out soon enough.’ She almost spat out the words, looking at me in disgust.

  ‘And what kind is that exactly?’

  She buttoned her coat and swung her bag over her shoulder. ‘Gold digger,’ she sneered, looking me right in the eye, making sure I understood her.

  ‘He hired me!’ I said, astonished. I couldn’t help it – was this what she really thought of me? And then I realised how I sat at the table set for two, sipping red wine; all that was missing were some candles and some Barry White crooning in the background. Was this crossing the line? Ruth seemed to think so.

  Ruth strode off down the hall, to where Ben no doubt held the door for her. Her words were spinning in my head.

  He might let you into his bed but he will never let you into his heart.

  Is that what this was all about? Did he plan to wine and dine me tonight? Was Ben Worthington a smooth-operating playboy with an illegitimate child he was burdened with from a past lover? My stomach lurched, and it wasn’t just the red that had done it.

  I heard the front door close, and without needing any advice from a squirming Grace in her bouncer – or from anyone for that matter – I grabbed my dinner plate, marched to the kitchen and dumped the food in the bin, happy never to see it, or Ruth, ever again. I rinsed and shoved the plate into the dishwasher just as Ben reappeared. I didn’t give him a chance to speak; without meeting his eyes, I handed him my serviette.

  ‘Goodnight,’ I said, going down the hall to the stairs, aware of him watching me the whole way.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I must admit, I had been called far worse things in my life than a gold digger. Besides, the notion was so ridiculous I should have laughed. And yet I didn’t; I couldn’t find anything amusing about it. Ruth’s accusation bothered me, and I tossed and turned in my bed, smelling the faintest odour of damp carpet chemicals. Why was I wasting my last opportunity for an uninterrupted sleep by letting Ruth’s words keep me awake? And I was still bloody starving! Lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, I debated going all the way downstairs to get something to eat. Grace hadn’t stirred in hours and as far as I could tell the house was still, so if I was going to do it, I would have to do it now.

  I ripped back the covers, pulled on my fluffy bed socks and pressed my ear against the door, listening intently before turning the handle and stepping out into the—

  ‘Oh shit,’ I whispered, feeling the damp of the carpet seep through my socks. Even now Ruth was torturing me. I humphed, skimming my way along the wall to avoid the wet patch. By now I was an expert at moving from floor to floor in silence, stalking through the night like a jungle cat. I could almost feel my heartbeat spike when I reached Ben’s floor, but it was unlit and quiet like always. I had never explored this floor but it gave me the feeling that no one was home, no one lived here. Or maybe that was because I never, ever lingered on the third floor out of fear of finding out that someone very much did.

  Halfway down to the second floor, I came to a standstill, grabbing the railing and craning my head over the banister. There were lights and voices coming from the front parlour. Someone was most definitely here. At first I thought maybe Ruth had come back to stir up more trouble, or worse, Penny had dropped by. But I doubted it was Penny – it was the middle of the night and she was probably strapped into her coffin right about now. I lingered on the stairs, torn between my instinct to retreat to my room and my curiosity about who the voice belonged to. The female voice talking to Ben.

  I slowly stepped down, hoping that the shadows would help me stay hidden as I came closer to the parlour.

  Ben stood with his arms encircled around a woman: slender and blonde and … crying. He rubbed at her shoulders in a soothing caress as he made comforting sounds in her ear. Oh my god. I felt something inside of me twang unexpectedly, shocking me as much as the scene before me.

  Even though her back was to me I could tell she was from money. Her long tan coat was beautifully cut and made from lush fabric, her heels were black and high, and there was a Louis Vuitton purse hooked in the crook of the arm wrapped around Ben. She held on for dear life as her sobs filtered up the stairs.

  Who was she?

  And then as she drew away, looking at Ben’s sad eyes as he wiped tears from her dampened cheeks, it suddenly occurred to me. Was this Grace’s mother? My stomach plummeted with the thought.

  I wanted her to turn around so I could see her face, but then I was afraid to stay watching because – for some reason that really troubled me – the thought of him kissing her made my insides twist. I did not want to stay to see it. Whoever she was, she had come to see Ben in the middle of the night. And then with horror, I realised that if he chose to lead her up the stairs, I would be blocking their path.

  I cautiously made my way back up until I heard movement from below. I made the safety of the corner of the staircase in the nick of time, tentatively peering around to see the blonde striding to the door.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said, barely keeping her emotions in check as Ben rushed after her, forcing the door closed as she tried to open it.

  ‘Holly, wait!’

  It was then she turned to him, her face flushed, her eyes big and bloodshot from crying. She was plain; pretty enough but not overly beautiful. It was a surprise that someone like Ben would be into her, I thought rather bitterly, before scolding myself for judging, and for caring.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said quietly.

  Ben sighed. I could see the resignation in his broad shoulders as he looked at her, it was almost like he knew he couldn’t stop her. He grabbed her hand and gave it a firm squeeze.

  ‘Promise me something.’ His voice was etched with a meaning that dare not be denied.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t go back to him.’

  A small, sad smile touched the edge of her mouth. ‘Why, because it would break your heart?’

  Ben shook his head, reaching for the door and opening it for her. ‘It’s already broken.’

  I wasn’t sure what to do.

  Leaning against the front door below me, palms flat against the glossed wood, stood a defeated man. I wanted to go to him as much as I wanted to run from him. I had come closer to learning something about this man’s life, but rather than it being a story shared over a civilised dinner, I had witnessed it in the shadows, witnessed something that raised more questions than answers.

  ‘Do you want a grilled cheese sandwich?’ His voice trailed up the stairs.

  Fuck! My heart stopped, my mind returning to the present. Oh God, how long had he known I was there, being a total creeper?

  I took a deep breath before stepping onto the landing, suddenly wishing my oversized T-shirt with I NY on it was longer. He turned to me, his eyes stormy and his arms folded. I wanted to shrink into the shadows, lock myself away for what was left of the weekend and pretend this had never happened. I could have slinked up the stairs with a thousand apologies, but I had already slunk away once tonight and there were only so many times you could play the coward card. So this time, even with every fibre of my body screaming against it, I went down, closing the distance between me and the wolf that waited at the bottom the stairs. If he asked, I would totally deny that I had seen or heard anythin
g.

  I stopped on the fourth last step, giving myself a height advantage. I enjoyed having the tables turned, him having to look up at me with those penetrating grey-blue eyes. There was a wry smile on his face as his gaze swept over my attire. I fought against the urge to stretch the hem of my tee down over my thighs.

  He breathed out a laugh, shaking his head. He didn’t ask if I’d been eavesdropping, or if I was hungry. He just left me standing there as he walked down the hall to the kitchen. I lingered, wondering what I should do and then, before I knew it, I was heading for the kitchen too. It was unlit; the only thing illuminated was Ben, who stood in the doorway of the fridge as he peered inside. He was lit up like a god and I found myself lured to him like a moth to flame. I stood beside him, peering into the fridge, giving its contents as much serious attention as he did. The cool air caused my skin to prickle and I rubbed my arms against the cold. The movement caught Ben’s attention and he looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. I thought he might break the silence with some quip about grilled cheese, or drop his gaze again to my daggy apparel, but there was nothing, not an ounce of humour on his stern face. I shivered – maybe it was the cold blasting from the fridge? No, it was those eyes. Eyes that seemed haunted by something I wanted to discover so much. So many secrets, Ben Worthington.

  I didn’t expect him to tell me. I all but sighed in relief when he let the fridge door close. I knew he was looking at me though, I could feel his eyes on me. A part of me wanted him to turn the light on, but then a whole other part of me took comfort in the shadows. I thought I could handle the strangeness of the situation, forget about the mystery that shrouded this man, ignore the depths of his questioning stares. And then the unexpected happened. He spoke.

  ‘I’m not cheating on my wife, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  I was stunned by what he’d said. This was the smallest amount of information he had ever parted with, but perhaps held the most meaning. I was relieved that I hadn’t asked, and then I wished that I could see his face, read in his eyes the anger, the sorrow. And almost as if he had read my mind, the glossy marble slab was lit by the pendant lights above. I had to blink to adjust my eyes. Then I saw Ben, leaning against the counter, his arms folded and a faraway expression on his face that made my heart ache. I knew there was a story here. Caught between wanting to know more and frightened by the change in a man who was usually so stoic, I didn’t question him, didn’t dare bring him out of his memory. I moved slightly, feeling the coldness of the stainless steel fridge at my back. I knew that it was not advised to disturb a sleep walker, but what if someone was revisiting a memory, one that seemed so painful that lines of fatigue etched across their face?