Dreamveil (4 page)

His black hair, long enough to merit a ponytail, had begun to escape the band at the back of his neck, and strands of it fell around his face in poetic disarray. She spent a long time looking at his hair, concentrating on it as if it were the most important thing in the world. Only when her eyes began to burn did she remember to blink, and then she fell right back into staring.

After some time had passed, Rowan shook off her uncharacteristic fascination with his mop. As she did, she felt a peculiar disorientation, as if time had stopped while she’d forgotten where she was, and what she was doing.

What’s wrong with me?

Evidently she’d hit her head harder than she’d thought during the crash, and it had turned her into a semizombie. She knew what she should have been thinking of: what to do next, how to get out of this, this restaurant, this accident, this city—this whole mess. Someone had hit her from behind. She’d come close to smearing herself like a bug all over the grille of a Volvo. She’d survived, only to strand herself in the last place on earth she wanted to be stranded.

Idiot that she was, she’d also let Dansant—a bona fide stranger—pay for the damage she’d caused, and then had followed him inside his restaurant. Now she was letting him touch her, take care of her, like they were best friends. Sitting there and doing nothing, like it was nothing. Like she couldn’t think for herself anymore.

But she
was
thinking now, just one thing, over and over.

God, he’s so damn pretty.

It seemed Dansant had come into the world with all the luxury upgrades: golden, flawless skin, strong jaw, stunning mouth, perfect nose, sculpted cheekbones, heavenly blue eyes, smooth arched brows. Rowan had never thought much of handsome men—too in love with their own reflections, most of them—but Dansant seemed almost too beautiful to be human, much less a regular guy. She kept trying to find a flaw somewhere; something that would make him seem less celestial.

She didn’t seem to care that she wasn’t succeeding. Maybe it was those angel eyes of his, she thought as she breathed in.

His eyes were as morning-sky blue as his hair was midnight black, which was the only peculiarity. Men with Dansant’s dark coloring usually came with all-matching accessories. From where she sat she could smell flowers, spices, and heat, but couldn’t decide if it was coming from his hair, his body, or the restaurant’s kitchen. Or all three. The floral fragrance seemed hauntingly familiar, too, although the exact name of it eluded her.

If that’s what he’s using as aftershave, he’s been shopping in the wrong cologne department.
That could also be why it didn’t offend Rowan’s nose like other guy cologne, although it seemed to be everywhere: on him, in the air, all around her—even on
her
clothes.

She couldn’t remember ever seeing this restaurant, even when she’d lived in New York, but for the first time since crossing the river, she felt as if she’d come home. In fact, she couldn’t remember feeling as comfortable and protected as she did in this moment.

“Ow.” Fresh pain shot through her throbbing thigh, abruptly sending the alarming amount of happy bullshit she was thinking straight out of her head. “Fuck, that hurt.”

He glanced up, something she was sure he hadn’t done once since she’d given him permission to have his way with her skinned knees.

Was that disapproval she saw? Probably; she had a mouth like a truck driver’s. “Sorry about the language.”

“
Vous êtes tout excusé.
That one, it was deep.” He showed her a nasty- looking, bloody splinter before pitching it into the trash can beside them and going back to work.

Jacqueminot.
That was what she was smelling. It had seemed so familiar because the woman who had saved her life had grown it in her garden. It might explain why she felt so at ease with Dansant; the scent brought back memories of the only place she had ever considered her home.

“Do you live near here?” he asked as he dampened a square of gauze with some water from a brown bottle.

“No, I don’t”—she took in a sharp breath as he began cleaning the blood from her knee—“live in the city,” she said as she exhaled. A burning, fizzing sensation spread over her abrasion, which began to bubble with pink foam. “I guess that’s not water,” she said, gritting her teeth to hold back another
Fuck
-prefaced protest.

“Peroxide, to kill germs.” He showed her the label on the bottle. “The ground in the alley is filthy.”

“Right.” And if he kept talking, soon she might not feel any pain.

Not only was Angel Eyes the most physically beautiful man she’d ever met; he also had without a doubt the best voice she’d ever heard: rich, deep, dark and sweet—a double shot of espresso with a honey chaser. Hearing it made her bones melt. Part of it had to be the way he spoke English, with that low, liquid French accent spilling over every word; it felt like being kissed on the ears. She could close her eyes and listen to him read his grocery list, and probably get off by the time he reached the dry goods. . . .

Something here was seriously wrong. Twenty minutes ago she’d almost smeared herself all over a Volvo and had come within a phone call of mixing it up with the cops. Was she scared? Was she rethinking her declaration of independence? Was she even figuring out where she was going to sleep tonight?

No. She was thinking about banging the gorgeous Good Samaritan.

Jesus Christ.
She had to get the hell out of here.

“Hey, uh, you don’t have to do this. I’m sure I’ll be okay.” When that didn’t get a response, she tried, “It’s pretty late. Isn’t there someone waiting for you at home?”

“My partner sleeps until dawn.” He turned away to look for something in the kit. “Why are you here so late, Rowan? Do you visit someone?”

“Yes,” she lied without hesitation, and pushed herself down from the crate. “Thanks for helping me out. If you’ll give me your address, I’ll send you the money as soon as—”

“Ça ne va pas, non?”
He caught her hips between his palms. “You cannot go.”

That grab went over the line for her, and she clamped her hands over his, intending to shove him away. Shifting her weight caused another jolt of pain to radiate from her knee, forcing her to instead hold on to him.

“Be still,” he murmured.

It was the damnedest thing. Those two words chased off the pain and brought back that sense of safety and well-being, just as she’d felt before when he was cleaning her up. It confused her; she was hurt and that always made her angry. But trying to push him off suddenly didn’t make sense, either; it wasn’t as if he was trying to grab her ass or anything. Why was she acting like such a bitch? “It’s okay; I’m fine.”

“Your motorcycle,” he reminded her as he stood up, sliding his fingers through hers as casually as if they were on a date. “It needs some repair,
oui
?”

“It needs a lot of repair.” She thought about the contents of her wallet; making the trip from Savannah had left it pretty thin. What cash she had wouldn’t replace the tires, much less fix the damage to the chassis or whatever the crash might have done to the engine. She used to have a street map of the city in her head, but she’d replaced it with mental diagrams of Atlanta and Savannah and Albany. “Is there a bus stop near here that I can walk to that will take me to the Port Authority?”

“There is,” he said. “But you cannot push the bike there or put it on the bus.”

This would be the second set of wheels she’d abandoned in as many months, and she wouldn’t have anything but her feet or public transportation to help her get around Boston. Still, she had no other option.

“I’m not taking it with me.” She freed her hands from his, and stuffed them in her pockets to keep from reaching for him again. At the same time her head seemed to clear. “If you call in a complaint about the bike to the cops, they’ll send someone to tow it away.”

“There is something better to do,” he assured her. “You can stay. Work for me. Until your bike is fixed.”

“Work here? At the restaurant?” Rowan couldn’t understand why he was offering her a job, until she remembered him paying off Bernard.
He thinks I’m going to stiff him.
“Listen, I
will
get you your money back, Dansant. There’s a job waiting there for me in Boston, and I start as soon as I get there.” Honesty made her add, “It might take me a couple of months to earn enough to cover what you gave Bernard, but I’m good for it. I promise.”

“So? You are here now. I have a job for you.” He spread his hands. “You stay, work, pay me back.”

“Exactly what kind of job are we talking here?” She glanced at the industrial-size dishwasher in the far corner of the kitchen. “You want me to do dishes? A little cliché, don’t you think?”

“You, a
plongeur
? Never.” He began replacing the supplies in the first-aid kit. “I think you would be very good as
un tournant
, a . . . kitchen helper?”

She knew what a
tournant
was; little more than a glorified drudge who ran between stations to fetch and carry for the line cooks, and handled the dirty work no one else wanted to do, like cleaning out the grease traps and scraping plates. It was supposed to be like an internship, to give an aspiring chef a chance to see a professional kitchen staff in action, and learn how things worked on the line. But that didn’t change the fact that
tournants
were minimum-wage gophers who spent hours up to their elbows in trash and shit.

Rowan might never have gone to culinary school, but she was better than that. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

“It is work, Rowan.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “You have family here, or Boston? Friends? Someone to help you?”

She would have lied to him again, but by the time she’d completed the thought the “no” had already left her lips.

“Do you have any friends?”

She had friends, plenty of them, but the thought of asking them for help didn’t appeal to her in the slightest. Matthias and Jessa were living on his farm in Tennessee, but at the moment she felt as if she’d rather walk to Boston on foot than call Matt and ask him for money. She hadn’t exactly faced up to Jessa or explained why she’d deceived her, either, and she was in no hurry to have that conversation. Drew, the closest friend she had after Matt and Jessa, had moved on himself, all the way out to California.

No, she thought, dismissing the last shred of doubt. Her life was her own now; she had to deal with this mess herself.

“Rowan?” he persisted.

She shook her head. “There’s no one I can ask for help.”

He slid his hands down her arms before letting go. “Except me.”

If he kept smiling and touching her like that she was going to climb the wall or jump him.

“It’s sweet of you to offer me a job, Dansant, but even if I took it I’d still need a place to live.” Seeing his blank look, she added, “This is Manhattan, my man. I’m broke, and minimum wage won’t cover the rent for closet space around here.”

“Of course.” His expression cleared. “You will live here.”

She couldn’t help the laugh. “Uh, as comfortable as the floor looks, I think ceramic tile would be bad for my back. Or are you planning to let me use one of your storage rooms?” He was staring at her again, and she brought her hand to her nose. “Is there something on my face?”

“Yes. No.” Dansant shook his head a little. “I am sorry. I do not mean live here in the restaurant.” He gestured toward the ceiling. “Upstairs, there are two flats. One is empty.”

Maybe he didn’t understand the concept of
I’m broke
. “And what does the landlord want for rent?”

“Nothing.”

Her brows rose. “There’s no such thing as a free apartment, pal.”

“There is when I am the landlord.” He smiled briefly. “My partner and I own the entire building.”

“Nice.” She glanced up to keep from drooling over his teeth, which were of course as dazzling white and perfect as the rest of him. “You’d let me stay there for free, when you could rent out the apartment to someone who could pay?” The way he kept touching her, maybe he meant to handle rent another way. “You thinking of taking it out in trade?”

He was staring at her face again. “What is this trade?”