Whisper Privileges (25 page)

“So do you speak Spanish?”

“Nope. I barely get by, actually.”

“You seemed to understand him pretty well,”
he said with a hitch of his head back in the direction of the
trailer, then bit into the warm crunchy ham roll. He chewed,
swallowed. Mushy inside, but good flavor.

“I come here a lot. They don’t speak much
English so if you want food, you’d better learn how to ask for
it.”

“You mean they wouldn’t understand me if I
asked for something?” he drawled, raising his
croqueta
for
another bite.

“Not when you roll that accent of yours
around like that, they won’t.”

Funny the things she noticed. It was true. He
liked to lay it on thick at times, depending on who he was talking
to and what he was after. Found it came in handy when chasing the
girls and charming the ladies. “You’re a sharp one, aren’t
you?”

“It’s my job to pay attention to details,
remember?”

Remember it very well, he mused, finishing
his ham roll. “So tell me some more about Sydney.”

“Didn’t we do this already?”

“We only broke the surface. I want to go
deeper.”

“Be careful. There are sharks in these
waters.” Seemingly pleased with the comment, she tore off half of
her fry-log in one bite, then chewed—in that amazing, taunting,
sultry way of hers.

Excitement stirred in his groin as he watched
her mouth in action. It made him think all sorts of sordid
thoughts. “I think it’s worth chancing the swim.”

Sydney shook her head and dropped her gaze to
the table. Grabbing her napkin, she dabbed the corners of her
mouth, yet her smile remained firmly in place. “I work, Clay. I
play volleyball. I ride my bike on occasion.” She cast a glance
around them, darting an eye toward the sky, a few clouds drifting
into the sun’s path. “When the weather is like it is today, I ride
for hours. That’s what I do. That’s all there is to me.”

The comment quieted him. “You work a
lot.”

“I work a lot, I work odd hours... It’s a
living.”

“What’s your dream job?”

“More of what I’m doing.” She downed the
remainder of the
croqueta
and followed with a swallow of
water.

“No, really—is this the only thing you’ve
ever wanted to do? You’ve never wanted to try something else?” He
took another heaping spoonful of beans and it felt like they were
coating his teeth as he chewed. It was an uncomfortable feeling,
one he’d quit altogether if they weren’t so damn good. Guess he’d
have to check for souvenirs when he was finished. His breath, too.
He watched her take another bite. At least she was eating them and
would hopefully offset the “stench” factor when they got close
later. And they were definitely getting close later.

She swallowed, lifted her shoulders. “I don’t
know.” Sounding almost uninterested in the topic, she said, “I have
plans.”

“What kind?”

“Plans,” she reiterated, a small smile
finding its way into her eyes. “You know, big plans, future
plans.”

Clay sensed turmoil. He knew the Special
Olympics games weren’t what she was after. She’d said as much. Was
she unhappy with her company, too? “Let me ask you,” he said. “If
you could do anything in this world, anything at all and were
guaranteed you would not fail, what would it be?”

Sydney looked at him with a wry smile. “Do
you have a magic wand I don’t know about?”

“I’m serious. What’s your real dream job? If
it could be anything at all, what would it be?”

Sydney hesitated, as though she were stumped
by the question. “What would I do? If I knew I wouldn't fail?” She
shook her head and picked up another
croqueta
. “It's an
unrealistic assumption.”

“Ah, now—c'mon. No cop-outs allowed.” He
wasn’t about to let her off that easily. “Really, think about it.
If you could design your perfect job, what would it be like?”

She sipped from her black coffee and
contemplated the question. “The inevitable ‘what do you want to be
when you grow up question?’”

He grinned, pleased that she was ready to
play along. “You got it.”

“Well, for starters, I'm detail-oriented... I
like working with people.”

Clay sipped from his water and said, “Okay,
so we have a good fit so far.”

“I'd like to travel, have the money I earn be
tied to my ability.”

“As in commission sales?”

The green of her eyes caught a bright wash of
sunlight just then. “Not necessarily.” She pitched her gaze
downward. “I don't see myself selling anything.”

“Not the sales gal type?” he asked, dipping
in for another bite of soup, wishing the clouds would return.
Eating piping hot soup beneath piping hot sun was not his idea of a
good time.

“Not really.”

“Hm. Okay, we can work out that angle later.
Go on.”

She laughed. “Why are we doing this again? I
already have a job, remember?” She reached for another
croqueta
, but this one she broke in half and plopped one end
into her mouth.

“I want to know what makes you tick, what
makes you happy.” He wanted to know more about the woman he was
beginning to have feelings for. If he’d learned anything from past
experience, it was that best practice dictated he get as many facts
up-front—before he hit the sack and lost any shred of perspective.
Like most men, Clay enjoyed beautiful women, beautiful bodies, but
he didn’t want to be burned again by a shallow mindset. He wanted a
woman with substance, depth. He homed in on Sydney’s green eyes,
underscored by long black lashes and prominent dark brows, her skin
the color and complexion of a Greek goddess and thought, the fact
that she was gorgeous only sweetened the deal.

“Okay, I’ll play along,” she said. “When I
say I want my earnings to be based on my ability, I mean that if I
work long, hard hours, I want them to show up in my paycheck.”

“Do you want a lot of money?”

She shrugged and pulled another small sip
from her coffee. “Define a lot.”

He smiled as though to say,
touché
.
“Are we after hundreds of thousands here, or millions?”

Clay thought the question caught her off
guard until she replied, “Millions of course. Billions would even
be better. You know, a girl can’t survive on a paltry six-figure
income. I’m young, but I do want to become accustomed to the finer
things in life.”

He frowned. “Really?”

“No, you
goof
ball,” she mocked.
“We're playing make-believe with my fantasy job, remember?”

Clay breathed in a sigh of relief.
Gold-digging women were definitely cut from the list. But still...
Did Sydney care about money? “Is money important to you?” It was to
most women he knew. And usually it was his money that was important
to them. Once they found out how much his family was worth, he
became a whole lot more attractive to them.

Sydney paused to consider it. “It is and it
isn't.”

Clay set elbows to dusty white table and
crossed his forearms. “Explain.”

“Well, I'd rather have it than not,” she
said, and dropped a forearm to the table.

“Wouldn't we all.”

“I mean, it’s like a stress reliever, you
know? When you have plenty of money, you have freedom—freedom not
to worry, freedom not to stress over bills. You can go where you
want, when you want, live where you choose. I could take time on my
bike, see the country. I could hit the tournament circuit without
the pressure of needing to win the prize money.”

“Liar. I watched you play. You'd put pressure
on yourself to win whether there was money at stake or not.”

She laughed and pointed a finger at him.
“True. Some men find that threatening.” She lifted a brow in marked
question.

“Not me. I like it—a lot.”

She smiled her approval. “Money would be good
in case I got sick. I'd have money for health care, and that’s
important.”

At the mention of health care, his pleasure
dimmed. She had no idea how much medical bills could run,
especially when dealing with long-term illness or conditions like
Q’s. The costs were exorbitant. “You’re right, there. Money
definitely eases the burden when it comes to doctors.”

Her gaze softened and she reached a hand
toward him. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He lightly patted her hand.
“It’s reality and you’re right—money helps to pay the bills.”

Pulling back from his touch, she added
quietly, “And if I had money, I could work the job of my dreams
well into retirement.” She tipped up the corner of her mouth. “How
am I doing?”

“Perfect.” So far, she was his dream woman.
“But we haven’t yet determined what that job is.” And how close to
South Carolina it can be.

Sydney laughed. “Give me some time, will you?
I’m still young!”

Clay realized suddenly how much he liked to
see her laugh. It made her body relax, her expression ease and her
eyes shine. It softened the tough edge of her personality, the one
she tended to put forward in what he had to assume was a defense
mechanism. From what he’d seen so far, she spent a good chunk of
her time on guard and he wasn’t convinced it was limited to him.
But when she laughed, her defenses melted away.

“How about you?” she asked. “Dream job
outline?”

“Lucky for me, I practically have my dream
job.”

“Practically?”

“I wouldn’t mind a little more travel. While
I’m very fortunate to have the setup I have, eventually Q will move
on and begin his life without me and then I’ll be on my own to do
as I please.”

“He will?”

He nodded. Most people didn’t understand how
autism worked and he didn’t hold it against them. If his son hadn’t
been diagnosed, he wouldn’t know the first thing either. “Q is
developing very well, becoming more high-functioning as he matures.
Eventually, he’ll have a life of his own and then I will be tasked
with the job of ‘finding myself.’”

“Are you lost?” she teased.

“I could be. Know somewhere nice we could
hide?”

Sydney slapped his hand lightly. “Do you ever
give up?”

“No ma'am, as a matter of fact I don't. Like
you, I'm the competitive type. When I set my eye on a prize, it
usually ends up mine.”

“Usually?”

“Well that depends on how my score card looks
at the end of my stay in your beautiful city.”

“Guess I’ll have to keep you posted,” she
replied.

Desire swelled. He liked the way she played.
“You do that.” He scrunched up his napkin and tossed it into the
empty cardboard container. He was ready to get his hands around
this woman again. “Ready?”

“But you haven’t touched your coffee.”

Clay picked up the Styrofoam cup and downed
its warm foamy contents in one sip. Cringing against the bitter
taste, it occurred to him that he might pay for that later.
“Delicious.”

She rose from her seat. “Liar.”

Within minutes the two pulled out of the
parking lot, headed for Charlie’s place in the Grove. He was
renting a primo condo in a private community on the bay. Already
gaining a sense of direction, Clay knew that by crossing the
highway, they were nearing his place. They were supposed to play
golf this afternoon, but as Sydney stopped at a red light in a busy
commercial district, his hands secure around her waist, golf was
the last thing he wanted to do. At the moment, he felt the distinct
need to extend his time with Sydney.

But they only had minutes before they made it
to Charlie’s.

Continuing, Sydney turned the motorcycle onto
a road that ran through the retail district of the Grove. He
remembered it from dinner the other night which meant soon they’d
be cruising along the bay. Traffic was slower here and Clay
searched for somewhere to stop—somewhere feasible, plausible. They
passed a restaurant, hotel, a marina, another restaurant... His
sense of urgency escalated. Squeezing her hips, he asked, “What’s
that?” He pointed to the park on their right.

“Kennedy Park.”

Palm trees with fat gray trunks lined the
park entrance amidst towering pines, the likes of which he’d never
seen before. But they were pine trees, because the ground was
covered with their burnt orange pine needles. A row of short cement
posts defined the parking lot boundary, presently packed with cars.
“Can we stop?”

Chapter Eighteen

Both hands on the handlebars, Sydney looked
back at him, fine strands of hair whipping about her sunglasses.
“If you want, sure.”

Clay wished he could see her eyes, gauge her
reaction, but he couldn’t. Her shades were as black as they
came.

“I do,” he replied, pleased that she had no
idea where he was going with this little pit stop. But keeping one
step of ahead of her was crucial.

Pulling the motorcycle into the shallow lot,
space was sparse. Apparently this was the popular place to be on a
Saturday. Sydney sidled up to the end car and made her own spot,
silencing the rumble of the motor. Good thing for him they were on
a bike. Clay was hit by the breeze blowing in off the bay. Heavy
clusters of pine needles swayed above him as he breathed in the
familiar scent of saltwater. Instantly he craved for his boat and
the wide open water. Surveying the expansive grass area, dark green
metal benches and garbage cans, he noted there were exercise
stations situated alongside a pathway. Bicyclists and joggers were
everywhere, as well as people walking their dogs. He looked to
Sydney for confirmation. “Is this some kind of exercise park?”

“I guess you could call it that. It’s the
place for locals to get outside and get active.”

“Hm. A workout by the sea. It’s nice.”

Sydney set foot out on the path, her pace
slow and controlled.

Clay followed. “Do you ever come here to work
out?”

She shook her head. “I get all the workout I
need at the beach.”

He smiled. The mention of her beach
volleyball conjured up visions of her in the bathing suit-uniform,
her knees and elbows covered by sand. “Yes, I remember.”