"Christine W. Murphy - Through Iowa Glass" - читать интересную книгу автора (Murphy Christine W)

Marvin's cab and gently shook Alex's shoulder. "Are you all right?"
He turned his head toward her, but didn't open his eyes. He looked
young. No, not exactly young. Fine lines around the eyes and mouth, an
occasional gray hair amid the dull black, made him at least thirty.
Not young, but innocent, even with several days' growth of beard on his
pale face. He'd carelessly secured his shoulder-length hair with a rubber
band, as if it had suddenly grown too long and he hadn't the time or the money
to cut it.
This wasn't the big city, even if some out-of-town hooligans had
attacked him. People in Close didn't sleep on the street, not even in their
cars. "Hey. You can't sleep here. Wake up."
No response.
She brushed a lock of hair from his cheek.
His lashes fluttered, revealing eyes bloodshot and bruised from lack of
sleep, and he stretched his arms overhead.
When he opened his eyes fully, she realized she'd been holding her
breath, trying to guess their color. "Brown," she murmured.
"Brown what?" He yawned. Brown eyes, deep and dark, came alive when he
looked her up and down.
Skye stepped back. Blatant appraisals weren't new to her, but they
usually came from gangly teenage boys. Coming from a full-grown man, the
lingering gaze that flicked from her head to her feet and slowly rose to
settle on her breasts sent sparks careening down her back.
When he continued to stare, she crossed her arms over her chest. "I
said town. You can't sleep in your car here in town. Come in and I'll get you
a cup of coffee. It is Alex, isn't it?"
"That's what I told Marvin."
Deep and rich, his voice sent a new batch of shivers down her spine.
She stepped away when he opened the door. Standing close to a stranger set off
silent alarms. Skye swallowed hard as she rounded the front of the tow truck
and stepped onto the curb.
"Your Marvin's an excitable man."
She couldn't place his accent, but he didn't sound like he came from
Iowa or from California. Wherever he was from, she could stand here and listen
to him all night. "He's not my Marvin. I'm sure he told you he runs the
garage."
Almost a foot taller than her five-feet-three-inches, Alex stood
slightly hunched over, thumbs hooked on his belt. He looked up and down the
deserted street with a disdainful air of mild curiosity and dry amusement.
The stranger's dress hardly qualified him to turn up his nose at Close.
He wore a white, long-sleeved shirt, expensive from the detailing on the
collar, but dirty, rumpled, and wet with sleeves shoved to the elbows. The
shirt clung to his chest, barely staying tucked into his pants. His blue jeans
were worn white above the knees where the steering wheel rubbed. Alex from
California had been on the road a long time.
He retrieved his jacket and grabbed a small duffel bag from the back
seat of his car. When he straightened, he winced and pulled the jacket against
his side. "And what's your function in this delightful little town? Are you
the Welcome Wagon?"
"The closest thing we've got. Would you like some hot food? It's no