Two hours of stalking while the woman looked but never bought. She'd seemed preoccupied but obviously, she'd figured it out.
Okay, Plan B: If she hassled him, he'd fake surprise, work the charm, hoping she'd feel foolish and walk away.
If she persisted-got nasty or downright paranoid-he'd find a way to let her know he'd found her attractive but was no weirdo.
What was the worst she could do, call for one of those brain-dead security types in charge of policing the shopping center? By the time they arrived, he'd be gone.
What did he look like, ma'am?
They all look the same.
Now she was ten feet away.
She stopped, did that absent-eyed thing. Stood right in the middle of the narrow street. No cars gliding past, but still, a woman could get pulverized that way.
Good-looking woman; finding her attractive wasn't a lie. Back at the bikini shop, he'd pretended to be interested in the surf-wear place next door, had gotten close enough to her to eye some details.
She'd tried on several swimsuits, frowned a lot, always dissatisfied. But not because she couldn't pull off skimpy. Under her clothes was a tight body. Lines on her face, but so what?
Fifties, but secure? Despite what Liana claimed about her being pounded regularly by Lem?
Aaron hadn't spotted any bruises or other telltale marks, but cotton and velvet were hiding most of her flesh.
She resumed walking, beelined for his table. Shit.
He put his nose in the book, faking concentration. Gemma Dement got close enough for him to smell her perfume.
Something light, grassy.
Aaron braced himself.
She glided by, entered the vegan joint.
He wiped sweat from his hairline, returned to his food. Hazarded an over-the-shoulder peek inside the restaurant.
No other customers at the order-counter. Skinny woman, but nice ass, that bit of extra cheek that gilded the lily. Looked natural, maybe no lipo.
Five minutes later, she was outside, carrying a plate of something green and beige.
Two other tables were positioned to the north of Aaron's, both empty.
She chose the nearer one. Chose the seat closest to his.
Fluffing her hair and straightening her back, she sat like a charm school grad, shoulders square, platinum butt barely touching the cushion. Inspecting her mushroom/sprout/tofu whatever, she unwrapped her own chopsticks.
Stared in Aaron's direction until he was forced to look up.
Smiled.
Said, “Yum.”
He finished a couple of pages on peanut technology, went inside and ordered iced tea. All the place served was hot and green but he cajoled the counter kid for a cup of ice, tossed in some sugar because the brew tasted like liquefied lawn trimmings.
When he got back to his table, Gemma Dement was still there, maybe even a little closer. Eating daintily and reading her own book. Something by Anna Quindlen.
Didn't Quindlen write about abused women and the like?
This time it was Aaron who tried to get eye contact going.
She didn't bite. Began humming. Closed her book, dropped it into her bag, picked up her plate, and placed it on Aaron's table.
Toed the purse over to a chair directly across from Aaron and sat down.
“Good afternoon.” Throaty voice, maybe a smoker. But no smell of smoke, just that fresh, clean fragrance.
Aaron didn't have to fake surprise. “Afternoon.”
She nodded, as if he'd said something predictable. Her eyes were aqua-blue, same color as the sea this morning.
Gemma Dement said, “Of course, it could've been Good morning.”
“Pardon?”
“Proper fit is such a hassle. But you know that by now.”
Aaron stared.
Her smile was crooked, oddly girlish. “We didn't exchange greetings an hour ago. When I was agonizing over bikinis and you were watching me struggle.”
Aaron didn't answer.
Gemma Dement clasped her hands prayerfully and leaned closer. “Please don't tell me I imagined you watching. You brightened my day.”
“I did?” said Aaron, amazed at how he'd morphed into an aw-shucks geek. Gee, Mrs. Robinson.
“You certainly did. Mr… Reader.” Reaching across the table, she touched his book. Short nails, no polish. Clean hands. Had Aaron imagined the tremor that passed through them quickly?
He said, “Light reading.” Felt a welcome rise of internal warmth as her fingers quivered again. Her weakness fed his strength. Time to work the woman.
She said, “Doesn't look light to me.”
“It is compared with what I usually have to deal with.”
Another skewed smile, this one hard to characterize. Aaron thought he spotted a dark splotch of skin peeking above the hem of her T-shirt, frosted by a granular patch of cover-up. Texture was the giveaway, the color was perfect, blended expertly with her golden skin.
Long years of practice hiding bruises?
She said, “Now I'm supposed to ask what you usually have to deal with.”
“Not unless you care.”
She laughed. “Has to be something boring-are you a professor?”
Aaron said, “Attorney. Legal briefs.”
“Ah,” she said, sitting back. “One of those.”
Aaron spread his arms. “Here come the lawyer jokes.”
“Don't know any lawyer jokes. I'm not much for jokes period.” She turned serious, as if illustrating. “So tell me, Mr. Lawyer Who's Also a Recreational Reader, why have you been watching me for the last hour?”
At least he'd gotten away with half the surveillance.
“Because you're gorgeous,” he said.
Her face went blank. That same glazed expression as when she stopped midstride and spaced out.
Aaron said, “You stood out.”
Did her eyes just get wet? She'd swiped them too quickly for Aaron to be sure.
“Please forgive me if I freaked you out. I thought of approaching you, then I saw your ring.” Eyeing her four-carat diamond.
She said, “Oh, that,” twisted the gem out of sight. Her other hand rose. She smoothed down hair.
Pulling out his little alligator card case, Aaron slid out the topmost rectangle, pre-positioned like a magician's trick deck.
High-quality paper, pale blue, embossed navy lettering proclaiming the credentials of Arthur A. Volpe, Attorney at Law. The Kansas City address terminated at a mail-drop, the phone fed to the sad bachelor pad of Arthur A. Wimmer, a distant cousin of Mom's. Arthur was a problem drinker who claimed to be a chemist but couldn't hold down a steady job. Aaron's yearly retainer went toward answering the line in a business-like voice and saying the right things. Decent dough for maybe an hour all year.
Gemma Dement scanned the card quickly, gave it back. “Lawyer on vacation.”
“Long-overdue vacation.”
She pouted. “All by your lonesome?”
“Aptly put,” he said. “L.A.'s a tough place when you don't know anyone.”
“Volpe,” she said. “You're Italian?”
Aaron searched her face for irony. Saw dead-serious curiosity.
“Mom's side is from Milan.” Picking the city, the way he usually did when questioned, because it was the hub of fashion.
“Like that character on that show-Homicide.”
“Lieutenant Giardello,” said Aaron. “He was half Sicilian, that's the south. Milan is up north.”
“Well,” she said, “sorry for not knowing Italian geography. I like that show. Lots of guilt and atonement. Don't you think that makes for a good story?”
“Absolutely,” said Aaron. “Nothing like guilt as a motivator.”
Spinning the line off lightly. Gemma Dement's blue eyes clouded. She forked her food, didn't eat. “Volpe. What does that mean?”
“It's Italian for ‘fox.’”
“Do you go there regularly? The Old Country, I mean.”
“Never been there. My Italian cousins keep telling me I need to go. Eventually, I'll get around to it.”