“All right, I lied. I do get comments all the time. I can't go anywhere without someone looking at me in an inappropriate manner or whistling at me.”
“And do you like it when a man whistles at you?” he asked in a lower tone of voice.
This isn't the kind of conversation you should be having with a client, she told herself. Not able to help herself, she continued. “Sometimes. It depends on who's whistling. If it's a group of guys on a building site, I don't mind because I know it's just a bit of fun. If it's a guy on the street next to me, it's too close and I feel threatened.”
“And if I whistled at you now? How would that make you feel?”
Don't answer that; he's flirting with you. “I'd like it,” she said as her eyes rolled away in embarrassment.
“Let's see.” He looked around to make sure the door was still closed and then made a wolf whistle. “There. Did you enjoy that?”
She was ashamed to say she had. It had been months since she'd had any real attention from a man. Just before her parents had died, she had talked with Natalie about it. Natalie told her it was because she was so beautiful and most men felt intimidated by her. She remembered telling Natalie she was mad.
“It was nice. Flirty,” she answered.
“Flirty? That's an interesting word.” He was about to say more, but security arrived with the jewelry.
“There, what do you think?” she asked when the magnificent pieces were lying on the table in front of him.
“Why are you so sad?” he said, ignoring what was in front of him. He saw her look into his eyes and then down at the jewelry. The speed with which she did it implied she wanted him to concentrate on what was in front of him, not on her. “Why?” he insisted.
“My mom and dad died in a horrific car crash a few weeks ago.”
“Jesus, I'm sorry. That's awful. How are you coping?”
She admired him. Most people would have changed the subject, but he didn't. “Not very well.”
“I'm not surprised. Can you talk about it?” Tyra had once read a book about body language, and the way he was sitting said to her that he was interested in her well-being and not after a cheap disaster story.
“I don't know if I can talk about it. To be honest, I haven't really tried too much. I've mentioned things to Natalie, my best friend, and to Mr. Samuels, but really talk to someone about it, no. I haven't done that.”
“What happened?” he asked directly.
“Well, first of all, it was my fault.”
“Were you driving?” he asked logically.
“No. My father was driving. It's a long story.” She suddenly felt tired and alone. She realized she didn't want to talk about it.
“Tell me. I want to help you. How do you expect to get better if you never tell anyone about it?”
She was sick of feeling the way she did, and she desperately wanted to feel like she had before the accident, but she was afraid to let go. She was holding on to the pain because she felt she should be punished for what she had done.
She decided she would try to open up. “I moved to New York from a small town just outside the city seven months ago. I applied for and got this job. I was so happy. I got a tiny apartment in Queens and decorated it just how I liked it. Pink everywhere.” She rolled her eyes at the ceiling in a display of irony. It should have been black, she mused. “Mom was forty-two when she had me. They had tried for twenty years to have a baby, and it finally happened.”
Dima reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean tissue. Tyra dried her eyes and cleared her throat. No, I'm going to tell him, she told the voice of doubt in her head. “They were so happy with me. They weren't rich, but they worked hard to give me a good childhood. I wanted for nothing, and I felt their love, every single day. How many people can say that?”
Dima nodded and thought about his own family—the polar opposite of Tyra's. Back in the days when he'd lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Moscow, his drunken father had beaten him black and blue for the slightest misdemeanor. His mother had tried to protect him, but when she had, his father had thumped her so hard, she'd had no choice but to cower away. What his father had forgotten was that little boys had good memories, and when they grow up they became strong. The look on the old bastard’s face when Dima had throttled him still amused him.
Tyra continued. “When I left home, they were gutted. Of course, I was twenty-two and it was time. They realized that, but I could see how upset they were. What I couldn't understand was why they didn't come and visit me in my new home. I went to them most weekends, but they didn't come to me. I don't know why.”
“Maybe they were afraid?”
“Why?”