Read Online The Proposition by Judith Ivory - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Judith Ivory
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a knowing cluck with his tongue, then grinned gleefully, a man smiling at a good joke. "Wasn't pinchin' none, if that was what you be thinkin'. It just shook me, see, a little—"
"Put it down."
He put it on the desk, though he frowned, doing a very good imitation of a man unfairly called to account. He repeated, "Wasn't pinchin' none. See, I have this dream sometimes—"
"I'm not interested in your dreams of easy liquor, Mr. Tremore. You may not enter this room, unless you do so in my company."
He grinned again. "Well," he said. "Then come in, Miss Bollash."
When she only stood there scowling at him from the hallway, he came toward her.
Lord, with his mouth shut, he even moved right. Lithe, graceful, a male who was physically confident of himself, in the full flush of bold health—and probably used to smiling at women who stood in a dim hall in the middle of the night.
"You be a right fine sight in that, Miss Bollash."
She looked down. Her dressing gown was unsashed on her night-shift. She quickly pulled the gown around her. Not because there was anything here to make a man misbehave, but for pride's sake, so neither one of them had to admit there wasn't.
He stopped at the doorway, her in the hall, him in the room. "Do your mates call you Edwina?" he asked. "Ain't you got a sweet name?"
She stiffened, frightened somehow. "I don't have any 'mates,' Mr. Tremore, and Miss Bollash sounds respectful—sweet enough to my ears."
He screwed up his mouth, making his mustache slant sideways—it looked more fashionable for its coiffing but no less rough, bristly.
"Winnie," he said suddenly.
She jumped.
He put his hands on either side of the doorjamb, arms spread, elbows bent, and contemplated her for a few moments. Then he repeated, "Winnie. That be it. That be what you call an Edwina, right?" He smiled because she admitted, either by her frown or her jump the moment before, that she identified with the name, a name she hadn't heard in ages. "Ah." He nodded. "Much nicer. Soft. Dear-like, you know?"
The way he said it… His tone gave rise to a kind of confusion. Embarrassment somehow. Fright again. His expression invited her to smile back at him, but she couldn't have if she'd wanted to. And she didn't; she certainly didn't want to, she thought. He was playing her for a fool, trying to distract her from the fact that he'd been stealing liquor, which, of course, she had to put a stop to.
She said, "No, Winnie is not nice. When I was little, my cousins used to neigh like a horse when they said it. They used to call me Wi-i-i-n-n-ie." She whinnied for him as she said her name. Then she wished she hadn't.
Because he winced, reacting to the pain of it. His concern made her look away. She heard him say, "Well, you bloody well fooled 'em, Miss Bollash. 'Cause you be a beaut, if ever I seen one."
She glanced at him—as harsh a glare as she could muster—then contradicted his malarkey. "Mr. Tremore, I am a gangly, plain woman with speckled skin, who wears glasses on a nose that looks like an eagle's. I'm taller than any man I know." In a moment of confusion, she had to rethink that statement. "Except you." She went on with forced patience, "But I'm an honest woman, a smart woman. And I don't hold truck with a lot of lying falderal from some Cockney-Cornish womanizer who thinks he can talk his way out of being caught red-handed in the liquor shelf. If you wish to drink, you may go to the public house on the corner of the next block. Sit in the pub, drink till your heart's content, then come back when you are sober."
Goodness, she couldn't remember telling anyone off like that. Of course, she couldn't remember anyone trying to flatter her so dishonestly. The injustice of it made her angry. Surely there was something else she did right, something he could praise, without dragging her odd looks into the matter.
His face remained focused on her, furrowed with curiosity and consternation. He shook his head. "I didn't take a
"Put it down."
He put it on the desk, though he frowned, doing a very good imitation of a man unfairly called to account. He repeated, "Wasn't pinchin' none. See, I have this dream sometimes—"
"I'm not interested in your dreams of easy liquor, Mr. Tremore. You may not enter this room, unless you do so in my company."
He grinned again. "Well," he said. "Then come in, Miss Bollash."
When she only stood there scowling at him from the hallway, he came toward her.
Lord, with his mouth shut, he even moved right. Lithe, graceful, a male who was physically confident of himself, in the full flush of bold health—and probably used to smiling at women who stood in a dim hall in the middle of the night.
"You be a right fine sight in that, Miss Bollash."
She looked down. Her dressing gown was unsashed on her night-shift. She quickly pulled the gown around her. Not because there was anything here to make a man misbehave, but for pride's sake, so neither one of them had to admit there wasn't.
He stopped at the doorway, her in the hall, him in the room. "Do your mates call you Edwina?" he asked. "Ain't you got a sweet name?"
She stiffened, frightened somehow. "I don't have any 'mates,' Mr. Tremore, and Miss Bollash sounds respectful—sweet enough to my ears."
He screwed up his mouth, making his mustache slant sideways—it looked more fashionable for its coiffing but no less rough, bristly.
"Winnie," he said suddenly.
She jumped.
He put his hands on either side of the doorjamb, arms spread, elbows bent, and contemplated her for a few moments. Then he repeated, "Winnie. That be it. That be what you call an Edwina, right?" He smiled because she admitted, either by her frown or her jump the moment before, that she identified with the name, a name she hadn't heard in ages. "Ah." He nodded. "Much nicer. Soft. Dear-like, you know?"
The way he said it… His tone gave rise to a kind of confusion. Embarrassment somehow. Fright again. His expression invited her to smile back at him, but she couldn't have if she'd wanted to. And she didn't; she certainly didn't want to, she thought. He was playing her for a fool, trying to distract her from the fact that he'd been stealing liquor, which, of course, she had to put a stop to.
She said, "No, Winnie is not nice. When I was little, my cousins used to neigh like a horse when they said it. They used to call me Wi-i-i-n-n-ie." She whinnied for him as she said her name. Then she wished she hadn't.
Because he winced, reacting to the pain of it. His concern made her look away. She heard him say, "Well, you bloody well fooled 'em, Miss Bollash. 'Cause you be a beaut, if ever I seen one."
She glanced at him—as harsh a glare as she could muster—then contradicted his malarkey. "Mr. Tremore, I am a gangly, plain woman with speckled skin, who wears glasses on a nose that looks like an eagle's. I'm taller than any man I know." In a moment of confusion, she had to rethink that statement. "Except you." She went on with forced patience, "But I'm an honest woman, a smart woman. And I don't hold truck with a lot of lying falderal from some Cockney-Cornish womanizer who thinks he can talk his way out of being caught red-handed in the liquor shelf. If you wish to drink, you may go to the public house on the corner of the next block. Sit in the pub, drink till your heart's content, then come back when you are sober."
Goodness, she couldn't remember telling anyone off like that. Of course, she couldn't remember anyone trying to flatter her so dishonestly. The injustice of it made her angry. Surely there was something else she did right, something he could praise, without dragging her odd looks into the matter.
His face remained focused on her, furrowed with curiosity and consternation. He shook his head. "I didn't take a
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