Parallel Roads Page 2

  After travelling most of the night and half the day, he was in sore need of a long, hot shower. Then he’d see if there was a landline phone downstairs.

  He dragged a hand through his hair. Never mind his most recent restaurant acquisition. He could enter damage control once he got the out of this hellhole and away from whatever psychotic breakdown he’d had.

  It was Lolita who concerned him right then, Lolita he sensed he needed to contact. His sister was going through a rebellious stage, an identity crisis of sorts where she was trying to find where she fit in the world.

  Cutthroat television deals, arrogant chefs, shifty architects and staff disputes—he’d handled them all with professional ease. But a beautiful young woman with abandonment issues and low self-esteem was a whole ballpark out of his league.

  Finding the communal bathroom a couple of doors down the hallway, he peeled off his clothes and stepped gingerly into the shower stall with its yellowed tiles and mould-for-grout. The shower taps squeaked protest, the spray spluttering and choking before streaming out in a warm torrent.

  He lathered up some soap and washed himself all over. As the water cleansed the suds and grit away, he tipped back his head and closed his eyes on a shuddery sigh, mentally picturing the water sluicing away all thoughts of what had transpired earlier. It was as though he was one of those people who’d sighted a UFO but didn’t speak or even think of it afterwards.

  Little wonder. Some things were just too improbable to believe, even seeing it with his own eyes.

  His thoughts turned to other matters. Real-life dramas.

  If he’d had his life over, he would have stayed with his long-time girlfriend, Mercedes. Not only had she grounded Lolita and been the role model his sister had desperately needed, he’d grown to love her. But he’d been too immersed in his business dealings, in his desire to prove himself, to realise just how unhappy Mercedes had become with his long work hours—until it’d been much too late.

  He snapped off the shower and stepped out, drying himself and pulling on his clothes. His life had been filled with a lot of ‘what ifs’ lately. And his new dream restaurant, the one thing that had been of the utmost importance, somehow concerned him very little right then.

  He slid a hand through his damp hair, bemused by the irony. Mercedes would have laughed her gorgeous arse off to witness his sudden insight.

  Dried and dressed, he went downstairs to find the barman pulling beers for his first two patrons. Clapping the frothing glasses onto the bar, the other man looked up and lifted a tattooed hand in greeting. ‘What can I get you, mate?’

  ‘I’m looking for a payphone.’

  ‘It’s out of order.’ The barman jerked his head towards the exit. ‘You’ll find one in the restaurant across the road.’

  Jessie nodded thanks and then strode across the narrow main street, aware of the quiet. No cars roared past, no drivers blasted their horns with impatience. All that could be heard was a dog barking half-heartedly in the distance.

  A sudden wind picked up, swirling dust through the air and rattling an empty plastic bottle across the road.

  His pulse jumped for a moment, then settled back into rhythm. But the shiver trickling down his spine had nothing to do with the cooling gust of air.

  Get a hold of yourself. What happened at that house was nothing but a temporary attack, a weird chemical malfunction in the brain.

  These past seventeen years had taken their toll. He just hadn’t realised quite how much. Clearly, it was past time he slowed down and enjoyed his life. He’d built a business empire, now he just had to learn to appreciate his success and unwind from the day-to-day pressure he could easily allocate to someone else, or perhaps, a few someone elses.

  The bell tinkled on the shuttered door as he entered the cosy little restaurant. A pretty, curvy young blonde looked up as his eyes swept the room for the telephone. When he located it in the far corner and strode towards it, his peripheral vision caught sight of the waitress patting the sides of her hair in its tight chignon.

  He shook his head even as his own interest stirred. There was something about her that tugged at his senses and made him want to look twice. Perhaps her innocence and sexuality that was so at odds, and yet so endearing?

  At thirty-five he was already jaded. There weren’t too many women who’d knock him back, but he’d learned money was his biggest calling card. Even if he hadn’t been recognised because of his television show, there were plenty of women who could scent the smell of success a mile away.

  ‘Cynic,’ he muttered aloud.

  Pushing the right change into the telephone slot, he dialled his sister’s phone. An automated voice droned in his ear, telling him the number was disconnected. He exhaled heavily. His memory was sharp, he was certain he’d dialled the right number.

  He pushed the change back in and tried his home phone. He frowned as it rang out. Hanging up, he checked his watch, and then tapped its face. Bloody hell. The damn timepiece cost a small fortune and it chose now to stop working?

  ‘It’s a little after three-thirty,’ the waitress called out.

  He turned to see her flick an exaggerated glance at the plastic eyesore on her wrist. He murmured thanks, his lips curling into a smile despite his anxiety.

  His sister would be at university still, but surely one of the hired help, the live-in housekeeper or even Aldo, his personal chef, could have picked up the phone? What was the point of having top-notch staff if they couldn’t be relied on?

  ‘Would you like a menu?’

  He started a little at the blonde who was suddenly hovering before him, a laminated menu outstretched in her hand and an impish grin on her lush lips.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ His belly clenched with hunger as he inclined his head. ‘Thank you.’ His career meant he invariably had a diverse and bountiful diet, but the rush to get to his latest restaurant had seen him forgo a couple of meals.

  Her pretty lavender scent tickled his nostrils as her sky-blue eyes sparkled up at his with blatant interest. ‘A table for one?’

  Blood rushed to his cock as hunger of a far different kind encroached. God, he was a pushover—she was about as subtle as a steam train. Then again he’d never really been into the shy, wallflower types. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you sit by the window? Though there’s not much to see I’m afraid, except the occasional drunk from across the road.’ She nodded her head towards his Hummer. ‘I saw you pull in earlier. Are you staying the night?’

  ‘Yes.’ He raised a brow. ‘It’s been a rather long and, ah, eventful day.’

  Disquiet uncurled deep in his belly, making him forget all about his hunger. But once again he managed to repress the bizarre experience that had been far too real for his peace of mind.

  ‘Well, it sounds like you’re in need of a strong coffee.’ At his distracted but grateful nod, she added, ‘I’ll leave you to decide what you want to order. I’ll be back in five minutes.’

  She returned with the promised mug and placed it on the table. ‘Here you go. On the house.’ At his thanks, she retrieved an order pad and pen from the front pocket of her frilly, red-checked apron. ‘The special of the day is macadamia-crusted barramundi or spiced lamb crêpes.’ She flushed a little, then added huskily, ‘Or if you’d prefer something more appetising …?’

  Her innuendo was bold and open with invitation. And despite himself, he was intrigued. Hell, he was a single guy, had been for just over two years now. And it had been months since he’d indulged his sexual needs. ‘What exactly is on offer?’

  ‘That depends,’ she breathed, her cheeks reddening prettily as her eyes darted almost guiltily to the hand-tooled leather wallet visible in his shirt pocket.

  So that was it. Money. He should have known. Disappointment bit deep before logic overrode it. At least he knew where he stood. At least he could lose himself in her without the guilt of leaving her afterwards. He raised a brow. ‘Then I’ll have the crêpes followed by the
appetiser.’

  Blood rushed to his groin she nodded, her front teeth gnawing her full lower lip, and her flush deepening. ‘Good choice.’ But her shoulders were taut as she spun away and retreated through the double doors leading into the kitchen.

  Damn. Was she having second thoughts? He might be paying for the honour of her company, but suddenly he didn’t much care. He really didn’t want to spend the night alone. He was still unsettled by his experience earlier at the old house and now he wanted only to immerse himself in pleasurable reality with an accommodating woman.

  He gulped down some coffee, glad of its burning distraction as it slid down his throat. Fifteen minutes later, the waitress, who evidently also doubled as a cook, placed a delicious plate of food in front of him. Her voice was a little strained, but breathless too as she informed him once again what he was about to eat.

  Over the top of the crêpes some melted cheese was sprinkled with lightly toasted pine nuts. He leaned over the dish and inhaled the spiced lamb aromas in creamy sauce. It smelled delicious. He tried a forkful and flavour exploded in his mouth, the meat within falling apart.

  She stood watching him, as though uncertain of her next move. He looked up. ‘You really know how to cook.’

  Her lips curled into a semblance of a smile, but he realised she was unaware just how big a compliment she had been given—if his success in the food industry was any indication. He took another mouthful, pleasure undoubtedly stamped into every crevice of his face. The dish was divine.

  Her flush deepened and she muttered, almost unwillingly, ‘Cooking is my passion.’

  He paused, his blood warming through his veins. He understood her passion all too well. ‘I can tell,’ he said throatily. He gestured to the other chair. ‘Please, take a seat. Why don’t you share these with me?’

  She paused, and then breaking into a full-blown smile, she took the chair opposite. ‘Okay, thank you. I can’t say a customer has ever asked me to eat with them before.’

  Was that because she’d never asked a customer to have paid sex with her before? Was it selfish that he even wanted to be right?

  Warmth curled through Jessie as she smoothed out an imaginary crease in her apron. He remembered what it’d felt like being taken for granted as a chef. He’d had to claw his way up the rungs of success until he’d become almost indifferent to the critics’ praise of his culinary skills. He was certain no cook or chef in a town this size would have had the same sort of opportunity to gain that kind of respect.

  He skewered a piece of crêpe onto his fork and offered it to her. She leaned forwards, her eyes closing and her lips parting as she sampled the food with a little sigh of appreciation.

  His mouth dried, his mind heading towards the gutter with no way back. ‘Good?’ he asked hoarsely.

  She nodded, and murmured, ‘I swear it tastes even better from your plate.’

  Jessie leaned back, aware his whole body was loose and relaxed … well, aside for a certain part of his anatomy. He hadn’t even touched her and yet there was already a level of intimacy between them.

  He couldn’t think of a more wonderful and welcoming distraction.

  ‘So … what are you doing after your shift?’ he asked once his plate was empty.

  ‘I own this place,’ she shrugged, ‘well … the bank does. My shift ends when I’m done.’ She swept out a hand as if in weary resignation, ‘And since it’s not likely I’ll have any more customers, there’s no reason I can’t close early.’

  Is that why she needed the money? Her business was floundering? ‘Are you sure?’

  She smiled again, flustered and perhaps even a little shy. ‘Positive.’

  ‘Then I look forward to seeing you soon. I’m in room two across the road.’ When she chewed her bottom lip again, clearly torn, he asked gently, ‘You’ve never had a one-night stand before, have you?’

  ‘Well … no, I haven’t. But … it’s not that. It’s just I’ve never … that is—’

  ‘Never been paid for it?’

  As if relieved by his admission, she conceded heavily, ‘Yes. I’m … I’m not like that. I’m no whore.’

  His stare caught hers. ‘I know that. And I’m not a customer. We’re going to enjoy each other’s company, that’s all. And I’ll be a gentleman and leave you a little something to remember me by.’

  She burst into a relieved fit of giggles that was oddly entrancing, and nodded in the direction of his vehicle. ‘I can see now why you’re successful. You have a way with words.’ She stood, blowing out a slow breath. ‘Well, I guess I’ll … I’ll see you in a few hours.’

  He nodded, watching her tongue dart out and lick her upper lip as he said, ‘I hope so.’

  The amusement reflected in her eyes became something deeper, an awareness that throbbed between them like something tangible. Taking his empty plate and cutlery, she nodded thanks and then swung away.

  He watched her leave with admiring eyes, wondering what she’d look like naked and with her hair long and loose. He still hadn’t touched her, and yet the thought of caressing her satin-soft skin, and pressing his mouth to hers before kissing her throat, her lovely breasts, had his cock hardening with anticipation.

  He gulped down some more of his now cold coffee—a caffeine hit was in order for what he had in mind for the night ahead. Scraping back his chair, he left some cash on the table, adding a considerable tip, and stepped outside.

  He spotted a convenience store open a few doors down. Perfect. Striding that way, he passed a closed down shop that had the faded lettering of ‘second-hand’ still visible on its grubby window.

  He slowed. Some old stock had been left behind. A scratched wooden dresser with a cracked mirror, a nude, armless mannequin and a record player with its lid up, a warped vinyl sitting within.

  His pulse jerked erratically.

  An aged, yellowish chair with the stuffing coming out of its seat.

  Chapter Two

  Goosebumps crawled over Jessie’s flesh he lengthened his stride and entered the convenience store next door. What was the matter with him? It was only logical that a matching chair would be found in a second-hand store in the nearest town. It was also feasible there was more than one of those chairs.

  Yeah, but how many chairs are there altogether in all those rooms? Or is there only one chair, repeated, like an echo or a ripple … or an infinite mirror image?

  Not unlike the ceiling of the abandoned old house.

  ‘It’s not real,’ he muttered absently, his gaze lurching over the canned goods, then onto baking needs before he found the aisle he was looking for. ‘None of it’s real.’

  An overweight lady in her uniform of black apron and tight floral dress turned towards him from where she’d been stacking some shelves. One of her plump, quivering hands pushed a hank of grey-streaked hair away from her wide-eyed, button stare.

  Jessie forced a smile that probably didn’t quite make it to his eyes when he added theatrically, ‘It’s unreal, isn’t it, ma’am, the prices they put on these damn groceries?’

  She nodded quickly, before glancing away from the apparent madman she faced.

  Christ, perhaps she wasn’t far off? One bizarre episode surely didn’t make him a lunatic? No, he was some way off from having men in white coats pin him in a straitjacket and take him away.

  Pushing aside irrational fears, he allowed the much sweeter thoughts of the night ahead to take over. His dick immediately swelled into life at the image that sprang to mind. The blonde waitress nude and wild beneath him, her head thrown back and her shapely legs wrapped around his hips …

  Oh for fuck’s sake.

  He swung a glance at the lady who’d used his short burst of contemplation to escape to the check-out, where she stood as though a patient at a dental clinic waiting to get the confrontation over.

  He blew out a breath. The matronly employee would think his inane mutterings a ray of sunshine compared to an apparent hard-on for her.

  Focusin
g on the task at hand, he collected what he needed, making do with some generic creamy yellow candles with matching plain holders, matches, fruit and a packet of condoms. On impulse, he grabbed some chocolates and a bunch of crimson roses from a big metal bucket.

  ‘Thanks, ma’am,’ he said to the tense and flushed cashier. Plucking free a rose, he presented it to her with a dramatic flourish and added, ‘For putting up with my … odd behaviour.’

  Her flush deepened, as bright as the rose. She accepted his offering with a stammered, ‘What … what was that all about?’

  He gathered his purchases and shrugged offhandedly, ‘It’s been a rough day.’

  As he left, his peripheral vision caught the cashier pressing the fragrant rose to her ample bosom and taking an appreciative sniff. He grinned. Seemed he hadn’t completely lost his wits after all, if he could charm his way into a matron’s good books.

  At the hotel he bought two dusty bottles of Moët, to the raised brow of tatts-the-barman. Then, inside his room he unpacked everything he’d bought and set it out with deft efficiency.

  A water jug became the vase and he reassembled the flowers as artfully as he supposed a man in a hurry possibly could, before he plunked the arrangement in the centre of the coffee table, which doubled as a dining table. He placed two candles either side of the flowers, and the remaining candle near the bed on the side table, with a box of matches nearby.

  He stacked the fruit: a mango, a bunch of grapes and two apples, onto a dinner plate, which he placed on the kitchenette benchtop. The Moët he slid straight into the bar fridge to chill. Placing the box of chocolates near the candle on top of the bedside table, he opened a drawer and placed the condoms inside.

  He surveyed his handiwork, ardour pulsing through his veins. He hadn’t felt this giddy with excitement since … forever. When had the exhilaration of being a television celebrity chef, and taking restaurants to turn them into a resounding success, worn off?