Ryan's Hand Read Online Free

see…” He spoke softly, and she could tell from the almost imperceptible flick of the blue eyes over her worn coat that he understood the nature of her embarrassment. “Well, in that case, you must let me take you home.”
    “Oh, no, I couldn’t!”
    “My name is Ryan Langston,” the tall young man said calmly. “I am an attorney practicing here in Boston, and I assure you you’re far safer with me than waiting for a bus or a taxi on a street corner.” He reached inside a breast pocket for a narrow, tan wallet. Cara saw some kind of gold insignia discreetly embossed on one corner. He extracted a card and handed it to her. “I think there’s enough light for you to read that I am who I say I am. You must let me take you home.”
    Cara glanced at the card. It wasn’t necessary since she knew who he was. “Yes, I see that. You are kind to trouble with me. I’ll get my bag.”
    The next day Cara had shared a ride to the library with a colleague. As she arrived at the parking lot, her mouth had dropped open when she saw that the flat tire on her Volkswagen had been replaced with a new one. Opening the trunk, she found that the old tire had been mended and beside it lay a new jack.
    “Mr. Langston, you were kind to bother with my car,” Cara said when she got a line through to him at the law firm. “I will mail you a check first thing in the morning for the items you purchased.” She spoke confidently, thinking of several pieces of sterling still to sell.
    Ryan did not reply immediately. Presently he asked, “Miss Martin, you’re a native Bostonian, aren’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Would you be willing to trade your time as a tour guide for the money you feel you owe me?”
    “I beg your pardon, Mr. Langston?”
    “I would like to see Boston through the eyes of a proper Bostonian, Miss Martin.” Cara wondered if he were laughing at her. Proper Bostonian, indeed! But he continued, “I’ve been here a number of years now, but I’ve yet to see the city the way I want to see it. From the short time I spoke with you last night, I could tell that you have a thorough knowledge of the nooks and crannies of the area, the kind of thing you don’t read about in tour books.”
    Cara hesitated. He wanted to see her. The tour-guide business was a line, fed to her with subtle good humor, if she had been any judge of the young Texan. And suddenly she wanted to see him. It had been so long since she had enjoyed the company of someone like Ryan Langston.
    “It seems to me, Mr. Langston,” Cara replied, “that you are making a poor trade. However, I would enjoy showing Boston to you, and I dislike debts. When shall we begin?”
    He had surprised her by saying, “This evening, Miss Martin, if you have no objection. I’ll pick you up at your apartment at six o’clock.”
    Ryan had allowed her a brief moment to refuse, then wished her good morning and hung up. That evening at six, the Ferrari swung into the drive before her private entrance. Still in business suit and overcoat, Ryan looked at her casual slacks and sweater and remarked that he’d like to go home first so that he might change. “Tell me where we’re going,” he said, “so that I can dress for it.”
    They were going for an evening of chowder and cards with an old sea captain friend of her late grandfather’s. “He’s a widower,” Cara enlightened Ryan in the living room of his town house. “You’ll like him. He can remember when the people of Boston depended upon the sea for a living.” While Ryan dressed, she wandered admiringly around the beautiful room, resisting the urge to try the baby grand piano that filled a corner of it.
    At the end of the evening when Ryan brought her to her door, they shook hands and agreed to meet again on Sunday. This time, Cara told him, he must allow her to prepare a meal for him as a small token of gratitude for the car.
    After their next meeting they fell into the habit of seeing each other regularly on