JК
Ыоуве Been Warned :: Patterson James
Страница: 11 из 138“That’s not a personal call,is it? Because you know how I feel about those when you’re supposed to be working.”
“No, it’s not a personal call,” I assure her. Unless, of course, you count your husband.
“Then who is it?”
I think fast. “It’s some guy from Lincoln Center. He wants to know if you’d be interested in attending an opera series they’re doing.”
Penley cocks her head and shoots me a suspicious look.
So I gamble.
“Here,” I say, offering her the phone. “You can talk to him if you want.”
Penley – a devout macrobiotic dieter – looks at the phone as if it’s a Twinkie. No, worse – a fried Twinkie. She wants nothing to do with any “salesman type,” even one from Lincoln Center.
She sniffs. “I thought we were on that do-not-call list.”
“You know, you’re right,” I say, relishing the thought of repeating this to Michael. He’s undoubtedly been listening the entire time. “We are on that do-not-call list,” I say into the phone.
Sure enough, as I hang up I can hear him laughing hysterically.
Michael Turnbull, my almost perfect man, loves to live on the edge. And he loves it even more when I join him there.
Chapter 8
I LOVE DAKOTA AND SEAN. Who wouldn’t? That’s the message lettered on T-shirts I gave the Turnbull kids last Christmas. It also happens to be absolutely true. I feel sorry for the kids because their stepmother is such an uncaring bitch toward them.
As we ride the elevator down to the lobby, Sean stares up at me with his big blue curious eyes. At age five, everything – and I mean everything – is a question for this darling little boy.
“Miss Kristin, how old are you?” he asks.
His sister, Dakota, seven going on seventeen, immediately chimes in. “You’re not supposed to ask a woman how old she is, dummy!”
“That’s okay, sweetheart. Sean can ask me anything.” I flash him a reassuring smile. “I’m twenty-six.”
He blinks his baby blues a few times as if mulling it over. “That’s really old, isn’t it?”
Dakota slaps her forehead. “Oh, brother! And I mean brother. ”
I laugh – something I do a lot when it’s just the three of us, especially during our daily trek to Preston Academy, or as New York magazine prefers, “The ‘it’ school for tykes on the Upper East Side that’s harder to get into than Fort Knox.”
“Miss Kristin, why do kids have to go to school?” asks Sean without missing a beat.
“That’s easy.
“No, it’s not a personal call,” I assure her. Unless, of course, you count your husband.
“Then who is it?”
I think fast. “It’s some guy from Lincoln Center. He wants to know if you’d be interested in attending an opera series they’re doing.”
Penley cocks her head and shoots me a suspicious look.
So I gamble.
“Here,” I say, offering her the phone. “You can talk to him if you want.”
Penley – a devout macrobiotic dieter – looks at the phone as if it’s a Twinkie. No, worse – a fried Twinkie. She wants nothing to do with any “salesman type,” even one from Lincoln Center.
She sniffs. “I thought we were on that do-not-call list.”
“You know, you’re right,” I say, relishing the thought of repeating this to Michael. He’s undoubtedly been listening the entire time. “We are on that do-not-call list,” I say into the phone.
Sure enough, as I hang up I can hear him laughing hysterically.
Michael Turnbull, my almost perfect man, loves to live on the edge. And he loves it even more when I join him there.
Chapter 8
I LOVE DAKOTA AND SEAN. Who wouldn’t? That’s the message lettered on T-shirts I gave the Turnbull kids last Christmas. It also happens to be absolutely true. I feel sorry for the kids because their stepmother is such an uncaring bitch toward them.
As we ride the elevator down to the lobby, Sean stares up at me with his big blue curious eyes. At age five, everything – and I mean everything – is a question for this darling little boy.
“Miss Kristin, how old are you?” he asks.
His sister, Dakota, seven going on seventeen, immediately chimes in. “You’re not supposed to ask a woman how old she is, dummy!”
“That’s okay, sweetheart. Sean can ask me anything.” I flash him a reassuring smile. “I’m twenty-six.”
He blinks his baby blues a few times as if mulling it over. “That’s really old, isn’t it?”
Dakota slaps her forehead. “Oh, brother! And I mean brother. ”
I laugh – something I do a lot when it’s just the three of us, especially during our daily trek to Preston Academy, or as New York magazine prefers, “The ‘it’ school for tykes on the Upper East Side that’s harder to get into than Fort Knox.”
“Miss Kristin, why do kids have to go to school?” asks Sean without missing a beat.
“That’s easy.