Conflicting Hearts (2 page)

“I am, as a matter of fact,” he unexpectedly declares,
interrupting my thoughts. He cocks his head to the side and sports an arrogant
smile. His hand slips into that inside pocket, which apparently carries
everything he needs, and whips out a business card, handing it to me. I gawk at
it and then read his name aloud in disbelief.

“Ian A. Richards, Attorney at Law.”

Damn it!
I scream in my head. This day is
not
going well.

“You have got to be kidding me.” Suddenly, I feel the blood
drain from my face as I pale to the color of the concrete barrier behind me. “I
can’t believe I just rear-ended an attorney, of all people.” I bring my hand to
my head and hold it, as if it’s going to help or something.

“I’m a corporate attorney, not a litigation attorney, if
that makes you feel any better.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” I look into his
eyes, which look playful and not mad. “I bet you know a few bright litigation
attorneys anyway.”

“I do.” A painful grimace replaces his smile, and he reaches
his hand back to his neck and rubs it with a groan.

Oh, damn. He’s going to sue my ass, and I hope my
insurance company’s hands are large enough.
He sees my horrified face and
then stops his tease.

“I have no intention of suing you, Miss Hayward,” he says,
flashing a grin as he removes his hand.

“God, I hope not, but I’m sure if your neck starts to ache,
my insurance will cover whatever you need.” There go my cheap premiums. I’ll be
categorized as a risk on the road.

 “Here.” I give him back his driver’s license and
insurance card. “I am really sorry,” I whine, while throwing him a remorseful
look that screams for pity. I look over at my car, which obviously isn’t going
anywhere on its own accord.

“I guess I should call for a tow.”

“Please, let me,” he says. He flips out his cell phone, does
a quick contact search, and hits speed dial. The next I know he’s summoned a
tow truck to haul my car off the freeway and tells the guy to charge his
account.

“Someone will be here within the next half hour, if they can
squeeze through traffic,” he confidently states.

“Wow, that’s really nice of you, but I do have towing coverage
through my insurance,” I tell him, digging through my wallet looking for the
card again.

“It’s on me,” he insists.

He seems determined, so I forgo the search. “What about your
car?”

“Hum, well, let me see,” he says, walking over to the back
end. He plants his feet at a wide stance and examines the damage for a few
moments. “It should be drivable to the repair shop,” he says, after stooping
down and peeking under the bumper. He stands upright, pushes open the crunched
trunk and then leans over fishing around for something inside. The next I know,
he’s sporting a roll of duct tape in his hand.

“The cure for the world,” he notes, as he rips a long strip
off and begins wrapping his bumper. After a couple of minutes unrolling and
tearing tape, he has the bumper secured, as well as his trunk.

“Well, that should hold,” he announces with pride.

Impressive. I stare at him and secretly gush. I’ve run into
a stud on wheels. As my tongue hangs out of my mouth, I hear the tow truck pull
up behind my car. He guns the monster truck once, turns it off and then opens
the door. A man in a dirty white shirt and blue jeans wobbles toward me. He
walks over, scratching the unruly hair on his head and surveys the damage to my
hood.

“Where to, ma’am?” He sounds as if he has a wad of chewing
tobacco in his mouth.

“Where to what?” I sound like a dumb blonde.

“Where do you want me to tow it?”

My mind draws a blank. I don’t know where to tow it. Should
I have it dragged back to my apartment? It’s not like I have a list of body shops
in my head.

“I…I’m not sure,” I answer with a befuddled look on my face.

“Look, lady,” he says, exasperated. “I can either tow it to
the yard and you can pay storage fees or I can tow it—”

“Tow it to Johnson’s Auto Body on Canyon Road,” the attorney
pipes up. “That’s near the lady’s home and should be a convenient location.
They’re reputable and should do a proper job.”

“Fine with me,” he says, walking back to his truck. He
starts fiddling with chains and gears, and whatever they do to haul cars away.

I turn and look at Mr. Richards, grateful for his help. “I
feel like the proverbial helpless woman. I’m not really.” I lie through my
bashful smile.
With a gentle, comforting tone, he puts me at ease.

“That’s quite all right, Miss Hayward. Automobile accidents
have a tendency to leave us in a bit of a haze.”

“You coming with me, ma’am?”

The driver is now scratching his beer belly and looking at
me. Does the man have bugs? The idea of sitting next to him from here to the
body shop does not appeal whatsoever. My nose wrinkles.

“I’ll take her,” Mr. Nice Guy offers.

“What?” I brandish a startled glance and look into his dark
eyes, which scare me a bit.

“It’s your birthday. Hey, it’s the least I can do.” His
smile sends me vibes.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” I promptly answer, horrified over the
thought of sitting in his car next to him. The chance he’s a serial killer
still exists. He did brandish a roll of duct tape.

“Surely, I must be keeping you from work,” I remind him.

“Is this keeping
you
from work?” He furrows his brow.

I glance at my watch mortified over the time. “Oh, God, I’m
late for a meeting now.”

“Were you on your way downtown?”

“Yes, Second and Main.”

“Well, that’s three blocks from my firm’s office.”

“But what about my car?” I glance over at the tow truck
driver, who now looks peeved over my conversational exchange with the law man.

“He can drop off your car, and you can phone the body shop
when you get to work and make arrangements for repairs. Would that be
convenient?”

He’s undeniably eager to convince me to come with him. I see
in his eyes a distinct kindness, and foolishly I want to relent. Mr. Richards
is jingling the keys in his hand; the tow truck driver is glowering at me as he
waits for my answer.

Rationally, I try to think this out. He does have a business
card, so maybe he is legit. I weigh my chances looking back and forth at two
strangers, who both could rape and strangle me at a moment’s notice. If I have
to die, I chose the clean-cut attorney to do me in.

“All right then.”

A winning smile curls his lips. He walks to his car and
opens the door for me. I can’t remember the last time anyone bothered. For a
brief moment, I glance at him, and like an obedient little girl, I crawl
inside. He gently closes the door and waits for traffic to clear before jumping
in the driver’s seat. A car whooshes by his side.

“I wouldn’t advise that tactic,” he says, putting the key
into the ignition.

Quickly, I snatch the seatbelt and buckle myself into his
snazzy car. A moment later we’re back in traffic, and I’m riding in the cockpit
of a roadster probably worth over fifty grand. I glance over my shoulder and
see my car worth twenty-four hundred that is being pulled up on the tow truck
bed. The poor thing needs a hug, and so do I.

“I’m ashamed,” I admit aloud. “I’m taking advantage of your
kindness, and you should be mad at me.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake?” He glances over at me with a
surprised look upon his face. “It was just an accident. They happen.”

“A stupid one on my part. I should have been looking where I
was going.”

“Perhaps, but frankly I think it might be a fated
occurrence.”

Huh, fated? What’s that supposed to mean?
I glare at
him over his bizarre comment. A grin, which looks far too mischievous, spreads
across his face. Now I’m really uneasy.

“So where do you work? What’s at Second and Main?” he
suddenly asks.

I feel uncomfortable over the question, but answer anyway.
“Ah, Kennedy Advertising Agency.”

“I’m impressed,” he says. “That’s a large and prestigious
organization. What do you do there?”

He’s impressed? Wait until he hears of my stellar career.
“Administrative Assistant,” I mumble under my breath, feeling like the
extremely dumb secretary that I am. He’s probably a Harvard law graduate, and
I’m a high school graduate—the vast difference between us looms like the Grand
Canyon.

“Frankly, I don’t know what I’d do without my assistant,” he
sincerely expresses. “I’d be lost. Admirable job that doesn’t get enough
credit.”

I’m in a car with a freak, or he’s pulling my leg to make an
impression. I’ve worked at a law firm before and know the pecking level. An
assistant is at the bottom of the scum pile, and there is no fraternizing
between the attorneys and staff.

The traffic crawls down the freeway, and I’m wondering how
long I’ll be in the car with Mr. Perfect sitting next to me on my left. I look
out the window, and for a minute get lost in my thoughts. Hopefully, he’s a
decent driver, because I feel as if I have no control over my destiny when I’m
not behind the steering wheel. Of course, my ability to care for myself has
suffered a tremendous blow this morning.

“So, what are your plans to celebrate your birthday after
work tonight?”

His out-of-the-blue question catches me off guard. “Plans? I
have no plans. It’s business as usual,” I nervously answer, clutching my purse.

“And what’s business as usual, Rachel?”

Oh, now we’re on a first name basis? I don’t like his
prying. “Well, tonight, I’ll probably stop at a restaurant on the way home, get
a high carb carryout dinner for comfort food, go home, hug my cat, and find
some British soap opera series on cable.”

“Not exactly what I would call a memorable birthday,” he
swiftly responds in a critical tone. “Your thirtieth should be a milestone celebration.
Don’t you have any friends that want to take you out for drinks or dinner?”

“Not really. I have work acquaintances, but everyone has a
life after five. I hate to intrude.” Being a fifth wheel is worse than being
single and alone, but he probably doesn’t know that. He’s quiet for a moment
and then comes back with his next question.

“What about family?”

Now, he’s annoying the hell out of me. I swing my head to
the left and glance at him again. His eyes are narrowed as if he’s worried
about me. Why does this stranger give a damn how I celebrate my birthday? With
a tone of irritation, I give him a snappy answer.

“I have no family, except a brother two thousand miles away
who never keeps in touch. My parents are dead.”

Swiftly, I look out the passenger window, stifling the urge
to cry. I stick my fingertip between my teeth and start chewing on my nail. The
freaking traffic won’t move fast enough so I can get out of the car. Finally,
he takes the City Center exit and weaves through downtown to Main Street. I see
my building approaching off to the right. The light turns red, so I quickly
grab the opportunity.

“This is fine. I can walk from here.”

His car comes to a halt, and I grab the door handle and
swing the escape hatch open next to the curb. I jump out as if I’m on fire,
lower my head, and catch a glimpse of the astonishment on his face.

“Thanks for the ride, and, again, I’m very sorry for the
accident.”

I gently close the door and walk quickly to the entrance of
the building, duck inside, and heave a relieved breath after taking a ride with
a complete stranger. My mother would have scolded me for sure.
Sorry
, I
talk to her in my head as if she can hear me.
But, God, he was adorable,
Mom.

Chapter 2

A Surprise Invitation

I take the elevator to the tenth floor thinking about which
comfort food to stuff myself with when I get home tonight. Suddenly, I’m
reminded I need a rental car. The first order of business is to call my
insurance company and report the accident. Afterward, I need to check with the
body shop and see if my clunker has been delivered.

The elevator door opens, and I sprint to my desk. Oh, great,
the usual “come get a donut to celebrate Rachel’s birthday” email has gone out
department wide. Already, the pastry box on the corner of my desk is three
quarters empty. Crumbs and powdered sugar are sprinkled everywhere on my
desktop, and I’ve missed all the well-wishes.
Whatever, like it matters
,
I inwardly gripe
.

Julie runs up to my desk. “Rachel, where have you been? Mr.
Stewart is spitting mad you missed the meeting. He pulled in Kathy in from the
Marketing Department to take the minutes.”

“I got into an accident,” I moan, while shoving my purse
into my bottom desk drawer.

“Accident?” She brings her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my gosh,
what happened?”

“I rear-ended some lawyer in a fancy sports car, if you can
believe that. I guess I should be thankful it wasn’t a cop.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, but my car isn’t. They had to tow it away.”

“What a way to start your birthday,” she says, giving me a sorry
look of empathy.

I shrug my shoulders. “
C’est
la vie
.
It’s just another day as far as I’m concerned.”

“Hey, Rachel, happy birthday.” Stephan, our mail clerk,
rolls up the basket with the morning delivery. He picks up a donut and stuffs
it into his mouth. “Hope you have a happy one.”

I can barely understand him as he chews the tasty fried
grease. I reach over, choose one of the leftover donuts, and shove the whole
thing into my mouth too.

“Thank you,” I mumble, anticipating the incoming sugar high.
Before I can swallow the mass of dough stuck to my tongue, my boss is standing
at my desk.

“Where have you been?” He creases his bushy eyebrows
together and scowls at me with his brown eyes.

Julie, the coward, hastily retreats leaving me alone to fend
for myself. As fast as I can, I push the pastry down my throat.

“Accident,” I mutter. “I got in an accident.”

“I thought you were caught in traffic last I heard.”

“Well, yes, but afterward I got in an accident.”

“Next time, call if you can’t make the meeting.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” He returns to his office and closes
the door without a happy birthday well-wish, or I hope you weren’t hurt
comment. As usual, there goes another male that could give a damn.
Creep
.
I give him the Rachel evil eye.

I sit down at my desk, rev up my computer, and squeeze in a
few quick calls to my insurance company. Apparently, I can’t get a rental until
the morning, which means it’s public transportation to get home. I shudder at
the thought of the stinky bus, two transfers, and the three-block walk from the
bus stop in the dark. This is not going well, and I will have to skip my fancy
takeout dinner on the way home. Looks like I’ll have to settle for delivered
pizza.

After that business, I immediately call the body shop and
give them my insurance information. They want me to drop by and sign some
papers before they start work, so another task I need to take care of first
thing in the morning. I’m angry at myself for being so stupid and not watching
where I was going! Now, I’m paying for it, like I always pay in life for all my
dumb-ass mistakes.

The day progresses, as usual, until three o’clock arrives
when I get a phone call from the receptionist, Melanie, at the front desk.

“There’s a delivery for you, Rachel.”

“All right,” I acknowledge and hang up. Immediately, I
figure it’s some package being couriered to my boss, which is the usual reason
I get calls to come fetch. As I arrive at the reception desk, I see a large
bouquet of red roses on the corner.

“Wow, some lucky girl,” I say, gawking at the flowers. I
peer over the reception counter looking for an envelope or package for my boss.
Melanie looks at me cockeyed.

“I would say so, they’re for you.”

Rapidly, I stand up straight and drop my jaw. “You’ve got to
be kidding me?” I squawk.

She leans her elbows on the desk and sighs wistfully. “Looks
as if you have a secret admirer.”

“I sincerely doubt that.” I quickly dismiss her conclusion.
“Maybe my brother had a pang of guilt after twenty-five years of ignoring me.”

The suspense is killing me, so I grab the card and open it.
My heart leaps into my throat when I recognize the neat-freak’s handwriting.

“Miss Hayward, no woman should spend her thirtieth
birthday alone. Let me take you out for dinner and drinks after work to
celebrate. If you refuse, you’ll be hearing from my personal injury attorney.”

He signs it “Ian Richards” in impressive script and then
adds RSVP and his phone number underneath.

“Unbelievable,” I mumble, shaking my head in disbelief.

“Who sent them?” Melanie pries.

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe it.”

My hand grabs the bottom of the vase, which looks like
crystal and not glass, and holds a dozen long-stemmed red roses, surrounded
with baby’s breath and decorative ferns. The fragrance is overwhelming. I’m
grinning like a fool from ear to ear, because I really can’t remember the last
time I received roses from a man.

Hopefully, my cat won’t eat these,
I think to myself.
I don’t keep live plants in the house for fear he will. As I’m heading back to
my desk, I’m trying to think where I can put the flowers out of reach from
Whiskers.

As I walk into the cubicle world of my department, all the
female heads follow me with their eyes. Julie jumps up from her chair and tags
along behind me to my desk.

“Gosh, pretty. Who sent those?”

“My victim,” I say impassively, trying to hide my giddiness.

“Victim?” She buries her nose in one of the blooms and
inhales.

“Yes, the guy I rear-ended this morning.”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “Wow, you must have made an
impression on him.”

I shake my head in doubt. “No, he’s just feeling sorry for
me, because I started my birthday off on the wrong foot.” Purposely I fail to
mention the dinner and drinks invitation, because she’ll give me advice if I
do.

The blooms look spectacular on the corner of my desk. I
decide to leave them here at the office rather than take them home. At least I
won’t worry about Whiskers overindulging on some toxic plant and me coming home
to find him dead by the front door. I scrunch my nose over the thought, because
I’m such a freaking worrywart about everything.

It’s three-thirty, and five o’clock is fast approaching.
He’s probably waiting for my phone call. After sliding open my bottom desk
drawer, I fish my cell out of my purse. Discreetly, I take the gift card and
walk over to a private employee lounge area, which is out of range of
everyone’s hearing.

My stomach flutters like a butterfly. I dial his number and
notice I’ve pushed one of the numbers wrong. Damn, I’m so freaking nervous, my
brain won’t work.
I repeatedly blink a few times to get my vision
squared away so I can see straight. Afterward, I try again and meticulously tap
the numbers on my shiny cell phone screen. I bring the phone to my ear, hear it
ring, and he immediately answers.

“Ian Richards,” he says, upbeat and cheerful.

The lump in my throat won’t let me say anything. A few
seconds pass, and I hear him again.

“Hello? Anybody there?”

“It’s me,” I squeak out, sounding like a mouse.

“Me who?” I hear a chuckle in his voice as if he already
knows ‘me who.’

“Rachel.” The pitch in my voice is still high.

“Well, hello there,” he drawls in a relaxed tone. His voice
reminds me of black velvet, and I see his handsome face in my mind and turn to
putty.

 I draw in a breath and control myself. “Thank you for
the flowers, Mr. Richards.”

“You’re very welcome, Rachel. Are the roses to your liking?”
He sounds so sweet and sincere.

“Yes, but you shouldn’t have.”

“Why not?”

“Because, I don’t really know you, and I killed your fancy
car this morning.”

“Well, you know the rear end of my car, the interior of my
car, the contents of my trunk, my driver’s license number, address, height,
weight, color of my eyes, and location of my employment. I would say that you
do know
some
things about me.”

I try and stifle a girlish giggle, but it’s no use.
Why
am I having this conversation with this man?
I ask myself.

“So, what about dinner, Miss Hayward? Can I pick you up at
five?”

“I don’t do dinner out,” I reply in a sheepish voice.

“Why not?”

“Because.” My eyes close. I’m such a ninny.

“I’m not sure I understand. Can you explain the ‘because’
statement?”

The reason is childish and silly, but I might as well tell
him the truth. Maybe he’ll go away. “I get nervous when I’m with strangers, and
I can’t eat. And if I do eat when I’m nervous, I get sick to my stomach. So I
made a pact with myself never to eat out with strangers. Saves the hassle.”

He pauses for a few moments as if he’s digesting my stupid
explanation. “Then how about drinks?”

“You’re not giving up are you, Mr. Richards.” I state it as
a fact and not a question.

“Well, I don’t want to pressure you into anything.”

Oh, yes, you do,
I think warily to myself.

“Do you need to pick up a rental car after work?” He
continues his questions.

“No, I couldn’t get one until tomorrow morning.”

“Well, then how will you get home?”

“Bus.”

“Have one drink with me, and then I’ll drive you home.”

Boy, this guy is pushy. I hesitate and then continue. “How
do I know you’re not an attorney during the day and a serial killer at night
and on weekends?” My tone is dead-serious. “You did have duct tape in your
trunk.”

I’m not joking, and his breathing gets heavier at the other
end. Maybe he is a serial killer, and he’s thinking how to do me in even now
because I’ve annoyed the hell out of him.

“You’ll have to trust me that I’m not.” His voice is calm
and unnervingly even.

Trust. Oh, sure. A concept that for me doesn’t exist
,
my brain reminds me
.
“It’s hard for me to trust,” I admit, clearing my
throat.

“Look, Miss Hayward,” he says, slightly annoyed. “I have no
intention of harming you whatsoever. I felt sorry that you were spending your
birthday alone. Since we met during unpleasant circumstances, I just thought I’d
offer you a chance to celebrate. Nothing more.”

I’ve offended him. Guilt washes over me and anxiety gnaws at
stomach. I hate it when I’ve annoyed people, especially when they are trying to
be nice. It’s not my intention to make him dislike me. Rejection hurts, even
from strangers. Perhaps I’m reading way too much into this, like I usually do,
so I relent.

“Okay, then.”

“Five o’clock? I’ll meet you in the lobby of your building?”
He sounds as if he’s about to spring out into a chorus of Hallelujah.

“Okay.” I’m feeling the usual deer in the headlight
syndrome. I can’t think of anything to say, because my brain is frozen. He gets
what he wants, and I can’t say no.

“Okay, five o’clock in the lobby,” I repeat.

“See you then,” he replies and hangs up.

Immediately, I feel like I’m on the verge of a panic attack.
I hate doing things I don’t want to do. Now I’m mad at myself for giving in to
his offer and want to throw up.

I wander back to my desk clutching my phone with a death
grip.
I don’t want to do this
, I moan again to myself, but now I’m
committed.
Stand him up
, the cowardly little voice inside suggests.
No,
I can’t
, I dismiss the taunt
. He’ll sue me if I do.

For the next hour I can hardly work, stewing over what’s
ahead. Time ticks toward the hour of doom. At quarter to five, I run into the
ladies’ room and powder my nose. My dull blonde hair is in disarray. Thank
goodness I find a brush in the bottom of my purse. I try to untangle the
strands, but I don’t have any hairspray to make it stay. A quick freshening of
my lipstick, a mint to suck on the way down to my rendezvous, and I think I’m
ready—for what, I have no idea.

As the elevator descends to the ground floor, so does my
self-esteem. Why is this man insisting on taking me out for a drink on my
birthday? He’s way out of my league, and I question his motives. I’m beginning
to wonder if he thinks I’ll sleep with him so he won’t sue me.

When the elevator door opens, my brick wall is stacked high.
After inhaling deep breath, I turn the corner and enter the lobby. He’s
standing by the front door with his hands in his pockets. For a minute, I think
he looks worried and uneasy too. Maybe he’s having second thoughts. It helps
with my jitters.

I walk toward him, and he turns around at the sound of my
heels clicking across the lobby floor. A smile spreads across his face, and he
suddenly looks relieved.

“Rachel,” he says, flashing a smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”

I stop a few feet away and release a coy grin myself. “Did
you think I’d stand you up?”

He tilts his head and glances at the floor. “Oh, the thought
crossed my mind.”

“It crossed mine too,” I admit to my shame. “But I’m here.”

“Yes, you are,” he says with a smirk.

He gazes intently at me, roving his eyes up and down my
frame. Is he undressing me in his mind or something? I’m a bit miffed.

“So, what’s next?” I eye the revolving door, wishing I could
make a quick escape.