A Cowboy in Manhattan(46)

He didn’t stay. He didn’t kiss her. He didn’t even hug her goodbye.

How was a woman supposed to feel about that?





Caleb’s assistant at Active Equipment had arranged for Reed’s hotel room at the Royal Globe Towers. Entering the opulent suite last night, Reed had decided his brother was getting spoiled from being so rich. What man needed a four-poster, king-size bed, a chaise lounge and two armchairs in his bedroom? The living room had two sofas, a stone fireplace and a dining table for eight, along with two dozen candles and three bouquets of flowers and a marble bathtub in the bathroom that could hold a family of six.

It was ridiculous.

He’d have moved into something more practical, but he wasn’t planning to be in New York very long. And Katrina lived in Manhattan, so he preferred to stay in this part of town.

Still, he didn’t want to spend his entire fifteen million in the clothing shops on Fifth Avenue. So, this morning, he’d taken the friendly concierge woman’s advice and hopped on the subway to Brooklyn. There he found a nice shopping district that seemed to cater to ordinary people.

After wandering the streets for a couple of hours, he was enticed into a small bakery by the aromas of vanilla and cinnamon. The place had only a few small tables with ice-cream-parlor-style chairs, but a steady stream of customers came in and out for takeout. He bought himself a sugar-sprinkled, cream-filled pastry and a cup of coffee from the stern-looking, rotund, middle-aged woman at the counter and then eased himself gently into one of the small chairs.

The doors and windows were open, letting the late-morning air waft through. The staff were obviously busy in the back, smatterings of English and Italian could be heard, bakers appearing occasionally as the middle-aged woman and a younger assistant served customers.

Reed could hear a truck engine cranking through the open door to the alleyway behind the store. There was a sudden clang of metal, followed by a male voice shouting in Italian. The bakery went silent for a brief moment, then the customers laughed a little. Reed didn’t understand the language, but it didn’t take much to get the gist.

The older woman marched away from the counter, through the kitchen hallway, sticking her head out the open door and shouting at the man.

Reed thought he could figure that one out, too.

The man shouted back, and she gestured with her hand, scowling as she returned to the counter. The last of the current customers took their paper bags and moved out onto the sidewalk, leaving the bakery empty.

“Engine trouble?” Reed asked the woman, wiping his hands on a paper napkin as he came to his feet.

At first, he thought he was going to get an earful himself.

“The delivery truck is ancient,” she offered rather grudgingly.

Reed gestured to his empty plate, giving her a friendly smile. “That was fantastic.” It was easily the best pastry he’d ever tasted. Same went for the coffee—it’d been strong but flavorful.

She nodded an acknowledgment of his compliment, but still didn’t smile in return. The younger woman, however, gave him a broad, slightly flirtatious grin.

Then another bang reverberated through the alley, and both women jumped. It was followed by a deafening clatter and clang, and another string of colorful swearwords.

Reed moved swiftly and reflexively around the glass display case, down the short hallway, past the heat and bustle of the kitchen, past stacks of boxes, buckets and bins, and out the back door.

The alley was narrow and dusty. Stained, soot-covered brick walls rose up on either side. The awful noise was coming from the engine of a five-fifty panel truck, with Gianni Bakery written on the side in chipping blue paint, that blocked the alley.

A balding man sat in the driver’s seat with the door propped open.

“Shut it down!” Reed called, making a slashing motion across his throat.

The man shot him a glare.

“Shut it down,” Reed repeated, striding forward. “You’ve dropped a valve.”

“Always takes her a few minutes to warm up,” the man responded with confidence.

Reed reached in and turned the key to Off.

“What the—”

“It’s dropped a valve,” Reed repeated. “If you keep it running, you’ll blow a connecting rod.”

“You a mechanic?” the man asked.

“Rancher,” said Reed, stepping back. “But I’ve worked on plenty of diesels in my time. Some older than this.”