"Stuart Hughes - Clock's Runnin, Mister" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hughes Stuart)

"Sure," she said. "Pepsi. If you have it?"
He raised his eyebrows and those ocean eyes looked at her astonished.
"I don't drink," she said. He was still looking at her with that
expression of astonishment on his face and for some reason she felt she
had to qualify it further. "When I'm ... on the job, that is." It was
true, at least. Staying sober kept you in control, stopped things getting
out of hand. Another way to minimise the risk.
"Fine by me," he said. "Pepsi's in the icebox, won't be long."
Despite the size and ornateness of Jack's place, she wasn't too impressed
with his air conditioning. She could hear it cranking away in the
background but it didn't seem to have kicked in yet. The air was hot and
thick. Her throat was dry.
He was back in less than a minute, drawing the drapes and flicking a
switch to send the room into subdued light.
He snapped open a can of Pepsi and poured it into a tall glass, then
poured himself a vodka. "Ice?" he asked. She nodded. He added ice, carried
the drinks over, and put them down on the coffee table between them.
"Don't go away," he said and left the room again.
She gulped her drink. The cool cola refreshed her and soothed her dry
throat.
He returned carrying a small red and gold 49'ers holdall, its contents
rattling every time the bag knocked against his knee. He set the holdall
down on the sofa and sat next to it.
"I'm afraid I didn't level with you earlier," he said.
"No shit, Sherlock!" she said harshly, trying to sound street-wise and
controlled. She had trusted her instincts on this one, but she was
beginning to suspect her instincts had been wrong. Hell, her luck had to
run out some time. She wondered if this was going to be a bad thing. She
had a damn good idea what was inside the holdall, but she wondered about
that as well. "Jack ain't your real name, huh?" Street-wise and
controlled, she hoped, but she was afraid the expression on her face might
let her down again.
He smiled at her. "That too," he said. "I guess I need more stimulation
than most people. I'm into bondage, S & M, that kind of thing."
"Shit!" she exclaimed. She stood up. Her left knee banged the coffee table
spilling Pepsi and vodka over the glass top. "I don't do that shit man! I
don't mess with it!"
"Hold on," he said, raising his hands and holding the flat palms towards
her in a warding off gesture. "Please hear me out."
She stood staring at him, hands on hips. He was looking at her sadly, and
his ocean eyes pleaded with her. His lower lip trembled slight_ly and he
seemed about to cry.
She nodded. "Okay," she said. "I'm listenin."
"Please ... please sit down."
"I'm okay standin," she told him.
"Fine," he said. He dropped his gaze and stared at the coffee table. He
picked up his glass and drained what remained of his vodka. Then his
gorgeous blue eyes locked with hers again, and she found herself being
drawn in, found herself swimming in the ocean of his eyes. She forced
herself to concentrate.