“A woman on the sidewalk, sir. We just splashed the hell out of her. Begging your pardon, Miss Simmons,” he’d added quickly.
“Then it’s a good thing it’s raining,” Jessalyn had cooed. Marco had looked at her. Even the unflappable Charles had seemed shocked. “You know. She was wet to begin with.”
Her lips had drawn back in a smile that would have looked better on a carp. Botox, Marco had thought grimly, should be banned.
“Charles? Is the woman is all right?”
“Well, sir, she is, as far as I can tell, except that she has no umbrella.”
Charles had been born in London. Umbrellas, rainy day or not, were part of his life.
“And she’s also alone.”
Marco had frowned. Alone, at this hour? Was she a prostitute? No. Not in this godforsaken neighborhood. Customers would be few and far between.
He’d turned in the glove-leather seat and peered through the rear window, but he couldn’t see much beyond a lone figure standing on the sidewalk. There was a forlorn look to her. He’d thought of how much he wanted to get home, how much he wanted to avoid spending even a few more minutes in Jessalyn’s company, and then he’d huffed out a breath and told Charles to back up.
“Let’s see if she needs help.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Jessalyn had said. “Really, Marco—”
“Back up,” he’d repeated, and his mistress had slumped into the corner, folded her arms, crossed her legs, and set one Blahnik-clad foot swinging.
When they were parallel with the woman, Charles had stopped the car.
“Shall I get out and see if she needs assistance, sir?”
Marco had looked through the streaked window. The woman looked half-drowned. She not only had no umbrella, she wasn’t wearing a coat or a jacket.
“No need,” he’d said, “I’ll handle it.” He’d opened his door, peered into the rain and asked the woman whether she was all right.
She’d assured him that she was, but any fool could see that she was not. After another useless exchange of questions and answers he’d decided that the only way to deal with the problem was to get out of the car.
Charles had offered him an umbrella but why would he need an umbrella for a conversation that would surely take no more than a minute?
Marco had sighed and stepped outside…
Directly into a puddle.
He’d felt the water seep through the soles of his shoes. Into his socks. And things had quickly gotten worse. How else to describe being held hostage by a tube of lipstick wielded by a woman all alone on a deserted street in the middle of the night, coatless and shoeless in the middle of a rainstorm?
Logic told him to get back in the car and drive away. Honor told him that was out of the question. He had turned his back on many things during his life, but if he’d managed to cling to one principle, it had been honor.
Marco cleared his throat.
“Signorina.” He spoke in what he hoped were soothing tones. “I know you are fearful—”
“I have a b-b-black belt in tai chi!”
He considered pointing out that black belts were connected not to tai chi but to tae kwon do and decided against it.
“That is excellent but—”
“And I’m a karate expert!”
Dio. This was not going well.
“Truly, I understand your concerns but—”