Deeper Than Dreams (13 page)

Sidra

Cinderella in Reverse

Do a good deed and what do you get? Sidra reasoned. The shaft.

Literally.

Truth be told, she had been too busy sneaking a glance at the gorgeous specimen who had entered the tight quarters of the elevator to notice her silly shoe was falling off her foot.

And that accent. Talk about imported!

Guys in power suits usually intimidated her, but something about this guy was different. Make no mistake; he absolutely owned the look. Especially with that cascade of long hair. The unexpected contradiction made him even more intriguing.

His suit had appeared tailor-made for his body, and that tie screamed spendy. Sidra would bet the last bagel in her bag that his shoes were a) Italian and b) worth more than her whole wardrobe combined. Not that her wardrobe contained much more than yoga pants and sports bras, but still. His shoes were really nice. Way too expensive (
and whoa—big!
) to ever lose down an elevator shaft.

She thought back to her “where have all the good guys gone” conversation with Liz.
Gay?
Maybe.
Taken?
Maybe that too. He had had a faint but fresh-looking lipstick mark on his cheekbone, she had noticed. Shoot. Oh well.

Sidra delivered the bag of bagels left behind by Seamus without incident. The receptionist even gave her a tip. Enough for the subway ride home, but since she only had one damn shoe, she'd have to spring for a cab. No way was she going to deal with the hassle of the MTA while a paper bootie was cinched to her ankle.

Mr. Import had offered to treat her to a tetanus shot. Cute.

And she totally blew him off for his trouble.
Nice one, Sid. You may as well have given Manhattan's last knight in shining armor the finger.

She wondered if he was a doctor. Plenty of them seemed to have abandoned the white coats these days. And the way he carried himself gave the impression he was some sort of Big Cheese, compared to the other lab rats in the maze of a medical center. But why the hell had he been riding the service elevator? Sidra knew why she was on it. Upon checking in at the front desk, she had been relegated to taking the route reserved for deliveries and dirty laundry. Certainly not the preferred mode of transportation for someone so well dressed.

The clap-scuff of her hurried pace echoed through the empty hall. Back to the scene of the crime, she thought, as the elevator doors slid open.

“Your chariot awaits.”

Mr. Import was back, and he had brought a wheelchair.

“You've got to be kidding me.” Sidra laughed self-consciously. She hoped the Manhattan Goddess bagel hadn't given her tuna-breath.

“It's the least I can do.” He pointed to the seat. “In you go.”

Sidra humored him. Maybe he could roll her down to the taxi stand, at least.

“Do you make a habit of this?” she asked.

“Of what? Absconding with hospital property?” As his laugh rumbled above her, she wished she hadn't taken the seat so she could see the smile that went with it. Like his suit, she bet it looked like a million bucks. “Hardly.”

“No, of riding the dirty service elevator all day.”

They passed by two more floors before he answered. “Only when there's the possibility of rescue and redemption.” The handsome stranger's stilted murmur was close to her ear, raising goose bumps and questions she didn't dare ask.

The ride going down was fast and smooth, with no stops in between. He whisked the wheelchair into the busy lobby and finessed his way to the sliding glass doors, humming something in a melodic baritone as he pushed.

“Okay, well. The ride stops here. I'm fine, thanks.” She really needed to get downtown so she could grab another pair of shoes from home and hoof it to the studio. “I'm going to be late for work.”

“Well, you certainly can't go to work barefoot.”

Now it was Sidra's turn to laugh, as she accepted his large hand and allowed herself to be helped out of the wheelchair. “Actually, I can.”

He raised one heavy, sculpted eyebrow. “Look. You said no to my offer of coffee . . .”

“And to your offer of immunization,” Sidra interjected.

“So let me at least replace your shoe. I insist.” He was already signaling to a—no joke—a long black limousine idling out front. Its driver popped out and stepped lively toward the back door.

“Dude. I'm not getting in a car with a total stranger. Sorry.”

Mr. Import's dark brow furrowed as if he didn't quite understand. He
so
wasn't from around here.

“You're not getting in a car with a total stranger, you're getting into a car with . . .”

“James, sir.” The driver tapped his own name tag with a smile.

“You're getting in a car with James.” He turned to the driver and Sidra saw a flash of a bill disappear into the liveryman's breast pocket as they spoke in hushed tones. “James is going to take you to a shoe store, and then he's going to take you to work.” Now Sidra caught a glimpse of his smile, which appeared to be tinged with the tiniest bit of regret. “I've actually got a plane to catch.”

Sidra watched from the open window of the limo as Mr. Import stepped to the curb and raised his arm. “JFK airport, please,” she heard him say.

So, chivalry isn't dead after all,
she thought.
It's hailing a yellow medallion cab to Queens.

Jessica Topper
is an ex-librarian turned rock 'n' roll number cruncher. She is the author of the Much “I Do” About Nothing novels, including
Courtship of the Cake
and
Dictatorship of the Dress
, as well as the Love & Steel novels, including
Deeper than Dreams
and
Louder than Love
. Jessica lives in Western New York with her husband, daughter, and one ancient cat.

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