Rearranging Fate, page 2
Quickly scanning the crowded diner, I see that no one is frantically looking around, no panicked patrons asking about a missing wallet. Bob must still be in the kitchen, and Sissy is busy tending to a family with three young kids. I turn back to the smooth, classy leather in my hand.
I don’t know what comes over me. Maybe it was all the useless musings, the audacious goals of wanting more...
My heart knocks against my chest as I peek about once more, my palms dampening the gorgeous wallet. Choppy air stings down my throat as I stare back at the begging temptation.
I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t.
It wouldn’t be right.
Bob trusts me.
He would kill me.
But I do.
With a sharp inhale and shaky hand, I swiftly peek about before quietly slipping it into the wide pocket of my worn apron.
2
~ Cara ~
Damian Matthew Delevan.
He has dark brown hair and green eyes, six feet tall, weighs one hundred eighty-two pounds, and turned thirty last month. His address is on Wall Street in the zip code 10005.
And he’s missing his very fine and awfully loaded wallet.
Along with fourteen credit cards, his New York Driver License, miscellaneous receipts including one from Café Love from just this afternoon, and eight thousand, four hundred, twenty-seven dollars in cash.
Who carries that much money around these days? Aren’t the fourteen pieces of plastic enough to get him through the day? Anyone that frivolous and flashy is asking to have his dough taken.
It’s facetiously obscene.
Ugly guilt eats at me as I stare at his photo.
The guy with the equally obscene sports car. He abruptly stopped coming. Did he get tired of the menu? Today was his first time in a year and a half. From what I could see in the dimmed interior of that outrageous ride, he looked the same, still breathtakingly handsome.
Yes, I noticed, had spent long, quiet months wondering what happened to him.
How could I not? Not only was he the most attractive man I’ve ever encountered, but those light eyes often tracked me while I worked, trailing my every step and routine until I wanted to whirl around and demand what he was gawking at. I never did, because he made me nervous, hot and cold at the same time, self-conscious and jittery, with his tall, amazing frame and lazy, bedroom gaze that I’ve only read about. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake him from my running thoughts.
A one-dimensional Damian Delevan stares back at me, stern and unsmiling. Hard and judging, like he prefers his burgers still mooing with a side of seasoned nails. Cooked food and ketchup are for chumps. In fact, the standard picture looks more like a mug shot flashed as a warning during the ten o’clock news than identification to operate a motor vehicle. Perhaps he doesn’t care for city traffic.
I groan and toss the wallet aside on my bed, knowing in my defeated heart that I need to return it. Even during our darkest days after we lost our house and were wandering aimlessly through the streets with our few measly possessions, Dad didn’t resort to stealing. As desperate as we were, Dad never once took anything that didn’t belong to him or wasn’t obviously a handout.
That’s what this would be if I kept the wallet. Stealing.
But all that money, all that crispy green, would go a long way in helping me become a normal person. I can learn to drive. Get some decent shoes so there wouldn’t be any more painful blisters at the back of my feet. Sit in one of those cushy chairs in the fancy salons I’ve seen through the windows, getting my hair fussed at and styled while sipping champagne with a pretty berry drifting amid the bubbles.
A breath heaves out of me as my lids squeeze, willing my loud conscience to shut up and go to sleep, only my heart is beating too fast, cranking out stress and anxiety.
“All right!” I holler at the empty room. “I’ll return the stupid thing tomorrow.”
Slow, shuffling footsteps approach from just beyond my closed bedroom door. “Did you say something, Cara?”
Mrs. Fernandez must have her hearing aid turned up. Having damaged her left ear when she was young, she’s needed one most of her life.
“Just talking to myself,” I call back.
My landlady is wonderful, but I’ve caught her sparing me pitying looks more than once. I haven’t shared with her how I ended up here and likely never will, but when I moved in, she saw I only had a small garbage bag of clothes and nothing more. I’m grateful to her for taking me in, but our worlds are so different. We meet on the neutral ground of politeness and accommodating. After Mr. Fernandez died a few months after I moved in, she’s been trying to get to know me, talking to me about my family, where I came from, but what would I say? She wouldn’t understand, would never be able to relate to not being normal, so I don’t bother.
I pay her rent at the beginning of every month. That’s all she needs from me.
Speaking of money...
If I bring Damian Delevan’s wallet back to Love’s, Bob would no doubt question where I found it. He would look through credit card transactions from today looking for one Damian Delevan for contact information and find that, at that point, I’d taken and sat on it for a day.
What was that strict rule he recited before handing over the uniform? Oh yeah, no stealing from him or his customers or I’d be out of a job.
I can pretend like I just discovered it, but Bob is adamant about keeping his place spotless, which means the restaurant was thoroughly cleaned before closing today and Ahmad, who was assigned that glamourous duty, would have found it and not me.
There’s always the option of taking it to a police station and let the cops deal with it... except the thought of voluntarily getting within walking distance of a bunch of cops gives me the spooked chills. People like me and cops don’t get along. There’s an innate mistrust between the two opposing groups, one automatically treating the other like criminals. That’s definitely out.
What if I just dump it into any mail receptacle on the street? But then I would have to trust whoever picks it up that it would be returned, untouched, to its rightful owner. Eight thousand dollars is a hell of a lot of money. If any of it went missing but everything else was returned, fingerprints might be dusted or something in search of the missing money, and I would be blamed for a crime I didn’t even commit.
Ugh!
I dismiss that idea with a grimace.
I can call Paige, have her return it to him, only that would have to wait until she comes back from Europe, and Mr. Damian Matthew Delevan would know I had it the whole time.
Who knew trying to do the right thing would be so hard?
Since I can’t think of any way around it, I throw the covers over my head to sulk.
There’s only one thing I can do.
Take it to him.
MY DISPOSABLE PHONE isn’t made for anything besides calls, so Mrs. Fernandez helps me pin down the address listed on the driver license, turning her tablet over so I can take a look at the building I should keep my eye out for. Technology!
The thing looks massive. A skyscraper in the financial district of Manhattan. It’s odd that someone would live in what looks very much like an office building, but what do I know?
Prepared for work in the red Café Love T-shirt beneath my jacket and the blister inducing black walking shoes-since I’m certain I would have to run straight there after this dreaded exploit-I decide on the subway. It takes over an hour and many stops, but I know I’m in the right place when I get off the station and find myself getting a pinch in my neck from gazing up, up, and up at towering buildings. It’s ginormous and quite simply spectacular to behold as arrogant, imposing concrete shoots and seems to kiss the clouds. Men in power suits bickering on phones and women with lavish haircuts and pretty purses that probably cost a year of my earnings intersperse with gawking tourists.
Within minutes I’m in the posh, hushed lobby. The driver license doesn’t list an apartment number, so I’m not sure where I should go.
That doesn’t turn out to be an issue, as I’m immediately stopped by security.
“May I help you?”
Uncertain and not a little uneasy, I scan the busy lobby in the vain hope I’d find dark brown hair and green eyes just happen to be floating around. No such luck. “Um, I’m looking for Damian Delevan. Do you know what room he’s in?”
The expressionless woman only stares at me. “We don’t have rooms, ma’am. Do you mean floor?”
“Oh.” Feeling like all kinds of a fool, I nod. “Yes, I meant floor.”
“I can look in the system. One moment, please.”
Fingers tap over a keyboard hidden behind the security console. I step aside as others proceed around me to the expansive elevator banks. I wait, completely out of place and trying desperately not to appear like the ugly duckling among regal, alluring swans even if I’m exactly that.
The uniformed guard frowns as she stares down at something beyond my periphery vision, then asks, “And your name, ma’am?”
My heart stops. It picks up again in triple beats. “Why do you need my name?”
“Standard procedure. If you’re an expected visitor, your information would be in the system for building access.”
I bite my lip and consider. “Well, I’m not expected. I, um... I have something important that belongs to Mr. Delevan that I need to return. In person.”
Not by so much as a blink does the guard give away her thoughts. “I’d still require your name and a photo I.D. and will have to contact the tenant.”
She watches me, not an emotion on her blank, steady face as I blow out a breath. I look her right into her unimpressed brown eyes. “Cara. Cara Nightingale. And I didn’t bring a photo I.D.”
She picks up a handset on the console and begins speaking into it almost instantly. “Good morning. This is Mary Finkle with security. We have a Cara Nightingale asking to see Mr. Delevan.” A pause as she listens to the other end. “She states she has something important that belongs to Mr. Delevan.” Another beat of silence, then, “Let me ask her.”
“Mr. Delevan’s assistant wants to know the nature of this item that belongs to Mr. Delevan.”
Disquiet quickly morphs into irritation, triggering my pet peeve. I have to be on my way to Love’s soon, yet I’m having my time wasted while once again being treated with narrowed-eye suspicion. A crook in street clothes.
“The nature of this item gave me enough to track him here, to be able to recite his date of birth, weight, height, and what he had for lunch yesterday.”
Mary Finkle isn’t indifferent now. She looks downright hostile. I don’t care. I’m trying to give the man back his wallet, and that’s turning out to be harder to do than getting on Air Force One like that movie Mrs. Fernandez was watching on TV the other night. I haven’t got all morning. I’ve not been late in all the years I’ve worked at Love’s, and I’m not about to start now because of Mary Finkle or the nail-chomping-hold-the-ketchup Damian Delevan.
With a dubious glare at me, the guard is about to open her mouth when her attention is diverted by the receiver she still has in hand. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll send her right up.”
I guess the assistant accepted the nature of the item as I’d described it.
Now irritated fingers jab at buttons and within seconds a slip is spilling out of a slot. “This is your visitor tag. Please keep it with you while you remain on the property. Mr. Delevan’s on the ninety-second floor,” she details. “Take the elevator to your left and select the button for the ninety-second floor. Have a nice day.”
I’m the only person in the elevator and the instant the doors silently slide together, I’m whisked up. It’s comfortably warm but not toasty, yet I’m starting to sweat. My nervous hands tremble and I unzip the jacket before clutching at the strap of the small canvas tote I use for a purse to give them something to hold on to. It only takes a minute, but my aggravated ears pop at the sudden altitude shift as my body is taken where such body should not go. A soft chime sounds and the metal accesses glide apart. I’m immediately met with a young, average height woman in a gray skirt just south of decent and a blue button blouse one fastened too loose.
It was quick, automatic, and thorough. Her kohl-lined eyes sweep over me from my plain puffy jacket and worn black jeans to my vinyl-clad toes. She doesn’t bother to introduce herself, probably guessing correctly that I wouldn’t be stepping foot into the rich, thick carpet again, so why bother?
A practiced smile skims bright red lips. “Ms. Nightingale?” I nod. “If you will follow me, Mr. Delevan will see you in a few minutes.”
I do as I’m told, secretly gawking at the gorgeous nude-colored heels in front of me as I’m led down several long corridors. This is obviously an office and not Mr. Delevan’s residence, unless he sleeps where he works. I make no eye contact as curious gazes glance up from computer monitors, some visually trailing my silent progress before we round yet another corner into yet another hallway. By the time we actually get to Mr. Delevan’s side of the world I’ve lost all sense of direction and wonder if we’re still in Manhattan.
Ms. Killer Heels gestures to the tastefully designed sitting area of blinding white leather and chrome. “Please have a seat. Can I get you anything? Perhaps some coffee?”
Shaking my head, I keep in place. “No thanks. I won’t be here long.”
“Very well then.” Another one of those fake, too red smiles before she goes behind a large white desk and begins pounding away on a keyboard.
I don’t get restless. I’m used to being on my feet all day, so that doesn’t bother me one bit since I refuse to make myself comfortable by sitting on one of those ridiculously spotless seats. At one time in life all I did was wait, wasting the hours away on nothing until I could return to the shelter, but now things are different. I have a job. I have responsibilities and money to earn. Bob counts on me to show up on time every day. It might not be a rising career, nor am I on my way to making millions, but it’s still something I take pride in, something I never had before and am determined to keep.
But I might just pass out from nerves.
After what feels like an hour, the phone sounds on the assistant’s desk. Brightly manicured fingers snatch it up before the instrument strikes a second time. “Yes, Mr. Schmitt?” A glance at me. “That’s right.” There’s no goodbye, no, “Talk to you later,” before she promptly returns the receiver and pushes to her feet to round her desk. “Mr. Delevan is ready for you. This way, please.”
All kinds of nerves kick in then. Only a few minutes ago I managed to tame it by being annoyed, now my stiff fingers are shaking overtime as I clutch at the tote once more. My heart jumpstarts as I lag after the efficient assistant. My breaths come in faster than I’d like as we halt before a set of heavy wooden doors. She knocks briskly, waits a second, then flicks down the metal handle.
“Cara Nightingale, sir,” she announces without entering and instead gestures for me to proceed by her.
Lavish. Floor to ceiling windows gleam to showcase the city spread out like a panoramic feast before the starving eyes. My surprised, unprepared gaze blinks in the streams of heightened natural light, though the expansive room is cool and even soothing with its earth tones and the gentle, steady trickling from the large, built-in water feature in the corner of the office.
When my spotted eyes finally adjust, I realize there are three men in the room. Three big men, all suit-clad. One of them, well over six feet and stands there like he owns the place, has hair long enough to graze over his big shoulders and an expression mimicking that of Mary Finkle downstairs. An old scar of about an inch slithers down his temple near his right eyebrow. He’s lingering at the door and within arm’s reach. Instinctively I take a step back in retreat, the rear of my shoes bumping against the closed door, my not too steady fingers tightening on my bag.
The other two have their backs to me, both with similar dark hair. One of them appears to be holding out something that looks similar to what Mrs. Fernandez used this morning to help me. The other man is focused on whatever is being shown to him while both completely ignore me as though a stranger hasn’t just walked into their meeting. I can’t see either of their faces, but even though their built is almost identical, I know one of them has to be Damian Delevan.
The man with the scar dips his head once in acknowledgment. I dimly wonder if his ear popped like mine did in the shifting altitude of the elevator. “Ms. Nightingale. Sheila said you have something that belongs to Damian Delevan that requires his personal attention.”
“I, ur... I found his wallet.”
A dark head goes up.
Swallowing what feels like lead in my throat, I slip a hand into my bag and am about to dig for the offensive thing when, quick as a snapping snake, my arms are seized and crudely jerked behind my back, my chest slamming hard against a wall. There isn’t even time for a shocked gasp as my arms are twisted painfully behind me.
I suck in shocked, outrage air when a massive paw begins patting me down like I’m a felon.
“Ivan.”
The name was uttered in a low but steel tone. Immediately my wrists are released without fanfare or apology. Swiveling around, I find two pairs of eyes studying me expectantly, assessing and distrustful. The last pair, the green one, is guarded.
Red hot blood overpowers nerves. My chest smarts from sucking in fuming breaths and from the infuriating manhandling. I rub at my stinging arms and stare back. No good deeds go unpunished, as Mr. Fernandez would say.
Damian Delevan. He’s the one that was being shown something on the electronic device and now has his hands in his faultlessly cut trouser pockets as his eyes track me the same way his assistant did earlier, no doubt taking in my shoddy, rumbled work wear and finding it offensively lacking in his gorgeously designed space.
He’s seen me in this outfit, possibly a hundred times. There’s recognition. The stalking, predatory kind.
