“If you call him Rory, how about getting that tattooed, instead of Roderick?” Crimson raised her brows. “It’s shorter. Cheaper. Less painful.”
And easier to remove or cover up when Becky and Rory split.
“No. He wants the tattoo to be his real name.” Frowning, Becky shifted her sandaled feet nervously on the scuffed black floor and nibbled on her index fingernail. “Why? Does it hurt a lot?”
“It’s uncomfortable,” Crimson said carefully.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Pete look up from his station, where he was inking a skull and crossbones on the one clear piece of real estate still left on the forearm of their favorite regular customer, Butchie the bronc rider.
Pete, a sixty-five-year-old former pro wrestler, owned the tattoo parlor, and he’d already warned Crimson he’d have to let her go if she didn’t stop talking customers out of getting work done.
“Some people say it’s very painful,” Crimson said. To heck with Pete’s glare. She’d signed on here as a tech and, at his urging, had learned to ink tattoos over the past few months. She’d become pretty good at it, if she did say so herself. She’d brought in a lot of work. She didn’t turn away the Butchies of the world, who genuinely wanted and loved their tats. Just the people who would end up regretting the decision within six weeks.
Sometimes six minutes.
The way Crimson saw it, she was saving Pete a load of bad publicity from unhappy customers. If he couldn’t see that...
“Tell you the truth, Becky,” she added firmly, “I’ve seen grown men cry.” When Pete growled, she just gave him a bright smile. It was true, so live with it.
Biting her lower lip, Becky flipped a few more pages, though her fingers had become clumsy. They were both silent a few minutes. Crimson considered offering Becky one of the cookies, but decided against it. She didn’t want her to calm down. She wanted her to leave. Without a tattoo.
But when the girl encountered another rainbow-colored fairy, her mouth relaxed, and her blue eyes lit up.
“Oh, that’s adorable!”
Crimson sighed.
Becky held up the plastic-covered picture. “Do you think that would look good above the name Roderick?”
“No.” Crimson stared at the foolish fairy blandly. “Not really. It’s too girly. You wouldn’t want to threaten Roderick’s virility.”
Becky nodded, the sarcasm clearly lost on her. Crimson’s throat tightened as she looked at the sweet, trusting face. Darn it. The poor thing was in love. Capital L, Love. And with an insensitive guy who kept his sheltered girlfriend waiting in a tattoo parlor, getting more scared by the minute. A control freak who wanted his name on her rear end like a brand. His full name.
So maybe a sadist, too. Roderick was twice as long as Rory...
Impulsively, Crimson reached out her hand and caught the slim fingers. “Becky, look, maybe you ought to consider this a little longer.”
She thought fast. What was the secret tunnel into Becky’s psyche? Everyone had one. Even Crimson’s twin sister, Clover, had had one.
Unfortunately for Clover, Crimson had known exactly what it was and how to exploit it. If she hadn’t, Clover might be alive today.
But she wouldn’t let herself think about that right now. Back to Becky.
What was Becky’s secret tunnel? She’d just demonstrated she wouldn’t flinch from the prospect of pain. Crimson tapped her fingers on the table, eyeing the girl thoughtfully. Vanity, maybe?
Might work. The girl’s skin was almost flawless, and her one scar, a small, starry patch of white in the center of her forehead, was mostly buried under several layers of thick foundation. She obviously hated that scar.
“You look like someone who takes good care of your body.” Crimson smiled. “You eat healthy. Work out, right?”
Becky nodded. “Oh, yeah.”
“So...think how hard you work to keep your skin so pretty. You don’t let it burn in the sun, and you don’t let it break out or get dry or freckle. You don’t want scars or cellulite...”
Becky was frowning again. The thoughtful furrow on her brow creased around the tiny white scar, giving Crimson hope.
“So are you sure you want to mark it up with permanent ink?” Crimson turned to the back of the portfolio, where she kept her secret pictures, the ones designed to scare the bejeezus out of innocents like Becky. “See this? This is what’s left when you have the tattoo removed. I mean, it’s not awful, but it’s certainly not as pristine as your skin is now.”
She let that sink in a minute before lowering her voice. “I always feel terrible when women come in to get their tattoos removed because they’ve finally found the right guy, the guy they want to marry and spend the rest of their lives with, and they don’t want the constant reminder about Rory...” She waved her hand to make the statement more vague. “Or whoever.”
She was taking a chance here. She was banking on having read this Rory character correctly—and she was counting on Becky being smart. Her instincts told her Becky knew, if only subconsciously, that she’d never walk down the aisle with Rory, and didn’t really want to, anyhow.
For a minute, as Becky remained poker-faced, Crimson thought she’d miscalculated. But then Becky closed the portfolio slowly.
“Yeah, maybe I’d better think about it some more.” She scraped back her chair and stood. “I’m sorry. I feel bad I took so much time, and then didn’t even—”
“Don’t feel bad.” Crimson stood, too. “I think you’re making the right decision.” Impulsively, driven by some unnamed instinct, she grabbed one of her business cards and held it out. “And listen, if you ever...if you ever need anything...”
The girl looked confused. Well, of course she was confused. Crimson wasn’t sure why she had said that, either. Except...her gut told her Rory was not a good guy.
Becky took the card, glanced down at the odd name, Crimson Slash—the name Crimson had adopted when she took the Needles ’N Pins job. Crimson’s cell number was on it, too. This was the card she gave only to her regular, trusted clients.
Becky didn’t react, simply shoving it into her jeans pocket. She cast a doubtful glance toward the door, as if she were afraid her boyfriend might saunter in now and force her to get the tattoo after all. “If Rory comes...”
Crimson smiled. “If Rory comes, I’ll explain you got called away.”
“Yeah.” Becky nodded. “Yeah, that’s good.” She started to offer to shake hands, but clearly decided that didn’t make sense and settled for a wave and a smile as she hurried out the door.
Relieved, Crimson sank back onto her chair.
“Not so fast, Doctor Freud.”
She looked up. It was Pete, all six foot four inches of him, standing in the spot where Becky had just been. His gloved hands were fisted on his hips, which accentuated the fact that he’d rushed over in the middle of Butchie’s tattoo.
“Pete, please don’t give me a hard time about this.”
She wasn’t in the mood. She’d have quit this job ten times during the past few weeks if she could just decide where to go next. If she could just get up the courage to leave Silverdell. “She would have regretted it before she got home, and then there would have been hell to pay.”
“Hell I can handle. But employees who chase off the customers...that I can’t afford.” To her surprise, Pete’s brown eyes seemed to hold an undercurrent of sadness. “Clear out your locker, Red. You’re fired.”
* * *
ACTUALLY, IT WAS perfect timing. She’d been planning to meet Grant Campbell for lunch at Donovan’s Dream, at noon, anyhow. Grant had given Kevin a lift into town for a meeting, which meant he’d probably be bringing Molly, Kevin’s baby.That was all the consolation Crimson could ask for. At six months, Molly was a dream, warm and loving and absolutely adorable.
And if Crimson was leaving Silverdell soon, she was glad of every minute she could get with the baby.
It didn’t take her long to pack up.
&n
bsp; She always traveled light and didn’t have much to clear out. The plate of cookies, her tea mug, her purse and a couple of spare black T-shirts she kept in case she spilled something...that’s all she’d ever moved into the shop, even after a year.
She dumped her portfolio in Pete’s trash can, where it hit bottom with a thud. A swoosh of relief moved through her as she realized she wouldn’t ever need it again. However much she loved Pete, she wasn’t a tattoo artist. This job had only been an attempt to leave behind the old Crimson, the “real” Crimson, who would have been happier in a restaurant or a kitchen, or waiting tables, or anything that involved food.
At the last minute, Pete came out to the car and hugged her awkwardly. His droopy brown eyes made him look like a basset hound with indigestion, and she patted his shoulder as if he were the one who’d been fired, not her.
“Damn it, Red,” he said thickly, “if you’d just behave yourself—”
“But I won’t. You know that.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets. Glancing at the sky, which was as lumpy and gray as a pad of old steel wool, he sighed. “Look, it’s going to rain. Why don’t you come on back inside? We can talk it over.”
She shook her head, smiling. He was so softhearted, poor guy, and he’d been good to give her a job sterilizing his equipment when she didn’t have a single reference, or a single day’s experience. She didn’t want him to agonize over this.
“It’s okay, Pete,” she said. “It’s time. Past time. I needed a nudge.”
He squinted as a few fat drops of rain splatted against his cheeks. “Maybe. Hell, at least don’t be a stranger. Come see me sometime. If you ever decide to get that tattoo we’ve been talking about, it’s on the house.”
The tattoo had been a running gag. She was the only person who had ever worked for him who didn’t have a single spot of ink on her skin. Probably that should have tipped him off that her heart wasn’t in it.
She laughed, and he hugged her again, clearly relieved there would be no hard feelings. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to let go. The rain fell harder, but she didn’t mind. Her hair was in that awkward, growing-out phase, anyhow, and never looked exactly great.
“Hey, what are you doing, hugging my girl on the public streets?”
Crimson and Pete broke apart at the sound of the deep, male voice. Grant Campbell stood there, with little Molly in his arms, the baby carrier and diaper bag dangling from the crook of his elbow.
He looked as gorgeous as ever—maybe more so, because, wow, there really was something about a man holding a baby...
He winked at Crimson, the thick black fringe of lashes dropping briefly over the gold-flecked brown eyes. His lopsided smile gave her a rush of warmth, as if he’d leaned over and kissed her...though naturally he hadn’t.
He was just kidding about the girlfriend thing. For a brief second, Crimson wondered why. Why hadn’t she ever let herself fall for this amazing specimen of male magnificence? Why was she dating his single-dad friend Kevin instead?
But then she remembered. First of all, Grant was a very satisfactory friend, and it was much easier to find dates than friends. Secondly, it was almost impossible to catch Grant between girlfriends, anyhow. He was like a thousand-dollar bill...if any woman was dumb enough to let him slip through her fingers, he wouldn’t hit the ground before another woman grabbed him up.
“Red’s not your girl, Campbell.” Pete sounded cranky. “And she’s not mine anymore, either. She just got fired, so you better be buying lunch, big shot.”
Grant glanced at Crimson, raising his eyebrows.
“Yeah, he’s serious,” she said. “I’m unemployed. But don’t worry. I’m buying lunch. I feel like celebrating.”
With a final, teasing smile at Pete, she took custody of the diaper bag and nudged Grant into motion. They needed to hustle before they got drenched.
Marianne’s restaurant, Donovan’s Dream, was a couple of blocks down, on the chichi end of Elk Avenue, the main downtown street of Silverdell. As the rain intensified, they started to run. By the time they ducked into the café, sweeping in on the familiar notes of “Danny Boy,” which played whenever the door opened or shut, Molly was red-faced and crying.
Immediately Grant handed her to Crimson. Crimson took over without complaint—this pattern had been established a couple of months ago, when Kevin and Molly had first come to stay with him. Grant was fine with Molly most of the time. He changed diapers like a champ, and he could play peekaboo for hours. He was even unfazed by spit-up milk and slobber.
But if Molly started to cry...that was different.
Then he just withdrew, somehow. Emotionally, a door slammed shut, and he was no comfort at all to the poor little thing.
“Red! Thank goodness you’re here!” Marianne Donovan came rushing to their table, her hair stuck to her damp forehead and a spatula in her hand. “Come quick. The meringue is weeping. It’s a mess.”
It wasn’t unusual for Marianne to consult with Crimson about her menu. At a potluck dinner a few months ago, a small get-together hosted by the Silverdell Outreach group, Marianne had discovered that Crimson wasn’t your average store-bought cookies kind of gal.
Crimson never advertised her history with cooking—and she certainly never mentioned she’d been to cooking school, or that she’d been this close to opening her own restaurant when her world fell apart. But it was hard to completely squelch your most primal interests, and gradually the two women had bonded over their mutual love of herbs and spices, pots and pans.
So. She considered the problem. Weeping meringue.
She ought to take a look. But...
Crimson glanced at Grant, who was already studying the menu. She jiggled Molly a few times, making soft noises and wiping the chilly raindrops from the baby’s fine hair. Molly seemed to be settling down, but she wasn’t calm enough yet to leave her with Grant.
“It’s probably just the humidity,” Crimson assured Marianne. She wouldn’t even have attempted meringue with such a bad storm coming, especially in an older building that wasn’t exactly airtight. Donovan’s Dream had been renovated enough to look delightful, but not enough to eliminate all the old windows and doors, which always let the outside in. Marianne had explained that she’d left those features partly to maintain the original feel—and partly to keep from going broke.
“Can you just lower the oven and cook a little longer? Or you could start over and add a little cornstarch.”
“Okay. I’ll try starting over, unless you’d like to...”
Crimson shook her head, looking down at the baby.
Marianne sighed. “Fine. I’ll do it. But I’m not a dessert chef. I make a fabulous Irish stew, but...” She held out her hand, spatula and all. “Quit that other job, darn it, and come work for me. Please. I clearly need you more than Pete does.”
Grant glanced up from the menu, his half smile back in place. “Funny you should mention that—” he began.
“Hush.” Crimson stopped the sentence in its tracks. She sat, and then she began arranging Molly in her baby seat. “Go fix your meringue, Mari. And when you get a minute I’ll take some of that stew.”
“Me, too.” Grant tossed his menu onto the table. “Gloomy days like this call for hot stew.”
Soon they were alone again, and Molly cooed contentedly. He leaned back in his chair and yawned, eyeing Crimson curiously. “Why don’t you take the job, Red? Unless you’re secretly loaded, you could use a new source of income.”
Crimson felt herself flushing. Secretly loaded? He was just kidding, of course. He couldn’t possibly know...
Her thoughts shot immediately to the life insurance check she always carried in her purse. It was hers, fair and square, made out to her, but she couldn’t have felt any guiltier if she’d acquired it at gunpoint.
“Oh, well.” She shrugged. “Sometimes, when you start doing the work you love for a paycheck, it ruins your pleasure.”
He frowned. “Baloney.”
He was right. It was nonsense. She would have adored working as a pastry chef—if she’d been able to do it with Clover. The two of them had dreamed of opening their own restaurant since they were toddlers making mud pies in the backyard. Even back then, Crimson had been the “sweet” cook. She’d decorated her mud pies with violets and rose petals and sprinkled her mother’s white beads of vermiculite over them for “sugar.”
But now that Clover was dead, Crimson had no desire to pursue the dream alone.
She had no right to.
“Come on—you know that’s absurd,” he went on, watching her as if he were trying to figure something out. “I still love the ranch. I might even love it more, actually, now that it’s a reality instead of a dream. Why on earth would getting paid to cook spoil your fun?”
“Never mind,” she said, bending over Molly with her napkin, though the baby was fine and didn’t need tending. “Maybe it wouldn’t. It’s just—don’t listen to everything Marianne says. She’s exaggerating. I’m nothing special in the kitchen.”
She began cooing to the baby, hoping to prevent Grant from pursuing the subject. And he got the message, of course. He was one of those rare men who could read nonverbal cues.
He dropped the topic. And he was kind enough not to discuss her getting fired, either. When the stew was served, they talked about his horses. He was in the early stages of building an Arabian breeding program, and one of his young fillies was turning out to be special. A three-year-old copper-colored beauty, her name was Cawdor’s Golden Dawn, though Grant called her Dawn.
It was kind of cute, how crazy he was about this horse. Even Crimson could see how beautiful Dawn was, and how elegant, but the bond between her and Grant was adorable. Grant obviously thought she’d hung the moon, and the feeling appeared to be mutual.
And of course Crimson wanted to hear about the foaling schedule. His main mare had delivered a promising little colt in April, which had been exciting for everyone at the ranch.
“So have you decided what to name the new colt?” Crimson knew he’d been trying to come up with the perfect name for days. She and Kevin had offered about a hundred suggestions, but nothing had hit the spot.
Her Hawaiian Homecoming (Mills & Boon Superromance) Page 27
