THE LIBRARIAN’S neighborhood was made up of immaculately restored colonial cottages, each with pocket- handkerchief front yards full of lavender and standard roses. Figured, Devin thought.
Few had garages, so everyone parked on the street, which meant he had to leave his car a mile down the road and walk. Having been raised in L.A., he bitterly resented it.
He also seriously resented being nervous. It wasn’t that he was hot for the librarian, simply that this was his first date ever without the social lubricant of alcohol.
Devin found number eight. The house was the same as every other except instead of being painted cream or white like its neighbors, it was honeysuckle-yellow and the garden was a subtropical jungle of banana palms, black flaxes, and orange and red canna lilies. He was picking up way too much plant lore from his mother. A well-used mountain bike was chained to the old-fashioned porch railing.
Sucker. She gave you the wrong address. Why hadn’t he seen that coming? He was about to turn away when the door was flung open. “You’re forty minutes late,” said Rachel. “I’d just about given you up.”
Devin checked his Hauer. She was right. “Timekeeping’s never been my strong point.” He saw she expected an apology, and shrugged. “Sorry… So your roommate owns this place?”
“I live alone. You know, I tried ringing the number you gave me-” her gaze traveled from his Black Sabbath T-shirt down to his slashed stone-washed jeans “-but there was no answer.”
“The number goes to a message service. Only close friends get my direct line.” She actually had to think about why. Hello, I’m famous. He caught himself. Channeling his egotistical brother. Ouch. “Ready to go?” he asked politely.
“I was beginning to think you’d stood me up,” Rachel confessed. “It felt like the high school ball all over again.”
So the librarian had insecurities. “Yeah? What happened?”
Her expression shut faster than a poked clam. “I’ll just get my cardigan.”
Cardigan? He might not be a hell-raiser anymore but Devin valued his reputation. “Haven’t you got anything sexy?”
“Yes,” said Rachel. “My mind.”
Fortunately, the cardigan was a clingy black number and it did have the advantage of covering another hideous buttony blouse. It was a shame Rachel didn’t do cleavage because she had great breasts. Turning from locking the front door, she caught the direction of his gaze and stiffened. Oh, great, now she probably thought he wanted her.
“Let’s take my car,” she said, pointing her remote.
Devin looked at the little silver hatchback emitting a high-pitched beep, and pulled out the keys of the Aston Martin he kept in town. “Let’s not.”
“So yours is parked close?” she inquired too damn innocently. For a moment they locked gazes.
“Fine,” he conceded. “But I’m driving.” He held his hand out for her keys, but her fingers tightened around them.
“I’ll drive… I don’t drink.”
“Neither do I.” When she looked skeptical, he added, “Anymore.”
An indefinable tension went out of her. She gave him the keys. “You don’t know how glad I am to hear that.”
“It figures you’d be an advocate of prohibition,” he commented as he opened the passenger door.
“I’ve noticed before that you typecast librarians,” she said kindly. “But as your experience of learning institutions is obviously quite new I’ll make allowances.”
Devin started to enjoy himself. “Now who’s stereotyping? Besides, if you don’t want to be seen as old- fashioned, you shouldn’t dress like that.”
He shut the door on her protest and crossed to the driver’s side. “I’ll have you know this is vintage,” she said as soon as he opened his door.
Devin folded himself into the ridiculously small interior. “I know what it is, I just don’t like it.”
“Is this how you usually talk to your dates?” she demanded.
“Actually,” he said, deadpan, “we don’t usually talk.”
Her lips tightened; she reached for her seat belt and Devin gave up on any expectation of fun. He turned the ignition and the engine spluttered into life. It sounded like a lawnmower on steroids. “I thought we’d drive into the city,” he said, “and wander around the Viaduct until a menu grabs us.”
“It’s Thursday night. We won’t get a table unless you’ve made a reservation. And if you’ll excuse my saying so, you won’t get in wearing torn jeans.”
Expertly maneuvering the toy car out of its tight parking space, Devin snorted. “Watch me.”
“IT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE famous, I suppose.”
Rachel’s luscious mouth was set in a disapproving line. “You make that sound like a bad thing,” he joked. Mentally, he confirmed his game plan. Dine and dump.
They sat in a private alcove in one of Auckland’s most exclusive restaurants. Through the open bifold windows, city lights reflected in the harbor and the incoming tide lapped gently against the moored yachts.
Rachel unfolded the starched napkin and laid it on her lap. “I wouldn’t like to think anyone else missed out on their booking because of us, that’s all.”
Loosen up, will you? “Bread?” He passed the basket over. She took a whole wheat roll and declined the butter. “Why are you really here, Rachel?” She obviously wasn’t enjoying this any more than he was.
She looked guilty and he was struck with a sudden suspicion. “Did the chancellor want you to hit me up for another donation?”
“Of course not.” Her shock appeared genuine and he envied it. It must be nice not to suspect people’s motives in being with you.
“So you’re just punishing me then…for giving you a hard time?”
Her lashes fell, screening her eyes. “Sure.”
Maybe he should have chosen his words better. “I didn’t mean to imply spending time with you was a punishment,” he clarified. “Just that you’re not my type.” Oh, yeah, that made it better. “I mean-”
“Devin.” She lifted her gaze. “I’m not offended. You’re not my type, either.”
Perversely, he was piqued. “Not a nerd, you mean?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Not housebroken.”
He chuckled. “Okay, I deserved that. Let’s try and be nice to each other.”
There was an awkward silence, then Rachel cleared her throat. “I understand your band produced a fusion of post punk and metal-” she paused, obviously trying to remember research “-which evolved into the grunge and later indie genres.”
“And here I thought it was about playing guitar and scoring chicks.” Devin dipped sourdough into herb-flavored oil. “Rachel, how the hell did you miss out on rock music?”
“I had…ill health in my teens, which forced me to drop out of school.” With tapered fingers she pulled the roll into smaller and smaller pieces. “Then spent all my twenties working days and studying nights to get my library degree.”
Devin was attuned to picking up wrong notes; her story was full of them. He shrugged. “Don’t tell me then.”
She glanced up. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t have to lie, just tell me to mind my own damn business.”
“You know, Devin, civility has a social purpose. It stops people from killing each other.”
He grinned. “I like to live dangerously.”
“That’s fine,” she said seriously, “as long as you don’t hurt bystanders.”
All alcoholics left casualties in their wake. Devin had to work to keep his tone flippant as he replied, “You say don’t a lot, you know that? You’ll make a great mother.”
She said nothing. Glancing over, he saw a bleakness in her expression that shocked him. He knew that level of despair intimately. Instinctively, he laid a hand over hers. “What did I say?”
“Nothing.” Sliding her hand free, Rachel gave him a small smile. “I’d have thought it would be easier studying business at an American university, considering most of your tax is paid there.”
