“I know why you were there too.”
“You do?” Her rebellious gaze shot to his. She was certain he could see her pulse beating in the vein in her neck, the sound echoing in her ear like thunder.
Chet set the menu back in place and waited for the waitress to finish pouring their coffee before he continued. “You’re curious about the same thing as me.”
“Which is?”
He smiled without humor, “I don’t know if you have enough courage or honesty to admit it so I’ll say it. We’re both trying to figure out if what happened between us was real.”
Monica had entertained a whole spectrum of possibilities of what had happened when Chet had kissed her. She blamed him, then herself, and eventually her upbringing. Having lived a sheltered, protected life hadn’t prepared her for the sensual magnetism she experienced at his touch.
“I certainly don’t have any intention of allowing you to kiss me again,” she told him, the words ringing with disdain. It was important he understood this right now.
“Not to worry, I’m not exactly thrilled with the prospect myself. I’m curious, and you have to admit you are too, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Frankly, I can’t figure out what it is about you that intrigues me so much.”
“I . . . I was wondering the same thing myself. You won’t leave me alone either.”
Their sandwiches arrived and Chet tore into his as if he hadn’t eaten in a week. Monica glared at him and pointedly reached for her napkin and spread it evenly across her lap. Bowing her head, she murmured a simple prayer of thanksgiving. When she’d finished, she lifted half the sandwich from her plate, holding it daintily in both hands. Chet had started on the second half of his before she’d taken the first bite.
When he finished, Chet reached inside his pocket and brought out a small spiral pad. He flipped through several pages until he found what he was looking for.
“Your father’s name is Lloyd Fischer, the Reverend Lloyd Fischer. You’re an only child and your mother died when you were in your teens. Currently the church employs you as a full-time secretary. You play the piano on Sunday mornings and teach a Sunday school class. Your two best friends are married and live in another state. It’s said that you miss them dearly and write often.”
Monica was so shocked it took an effort for her to disguise her distress. “How . . . how do you know all that?”
Chet grinned suspiciously. “I have my ways. I’m a private investigator, remember? Don’t tell me you didn’t find out what you could about me.”
“I most certainly did not.” She snapped her mouth closed before she added to the lie. She had looked up his name in the business directory and noted the address. His office was close to the Westlake Mall on First Avenue in a dingy part of town. The mission was situated on the same street and she’d mentally calculated which building was his. She’d looked his name up in the white pages as well and learned that his apartment was in the same building.
“So,” he said, pushing the empty plate aside and reaching for his coffee. “Do you have any suggestions?”
“For what?” She wasn’t sure where he was leading, but she had no intention of continuing with this farce. Having lunch with him was about as far as she intended to go.
“Figuring out what’s going on between us,” he said loudly as if she were hard of hearing.
“Keep your voice down,” she pleaded.
“The thing is,” Chet continued, “I’m not sure I like you. You annoy the hell out of me and at the same time I can’t help thinking you could be a real woman if you’d let yourself go a little bit.”
Monica jerked her shoulders back and scowled at him. “You haven’t exactly endeared yourself to me either, Mr. Costello. You’re everything I don’t want in a man.”
Instead of insulting him, her words appeared to do just the opposite. He grinned as if she’d stroked his ego with compliments. “Ain’t it a bitch?”
Her head snapped back at the use of vulgarity. “Kindly watch your language.”
His grin was cocky in the extreme. “You want me so much you’re practically frothing at the mouth.”
Monica’s hands were shaking so badly she could barely open her purse zipper. She removed her wallet and carefully extracted a ten-dollar bill, which she set next to her plate.
“I don’t believe there’s anything more for us to say,” she said crisply.
Chet held up his hand. “Don’t be so hasty. We’ve got several matters to discuss.”
Monica slipped out of the booth and dramatically tossed her purse strap over her shoulder. “I won’t say it’s been a pleasure,” she said, taking her gloves from her coat pockets. “Good-bye, Mr. Costello.”
She heard him swear and winced at his words as she walked away. His hurried footsteps sounded behind her before she left the store and reached the sidewalk.
“All right, I apologize,” Chet murmured impatiently, “I shouldn’t have said that.”
The man was full of surprises. She certainly hadn’t counted on him making amends any more than she’d expected him to chase after her. Monica wasn’t sure how to react, or what she should do. She was more comfortable believing him to be a hopeless Neanderthal. His sincerity went against the assumptions she’d made about him.
“You want to go for a walk?” Chet asked before she had time to sort through her feelings. “It’ll be a test of our control to see how long we can go without finding something to argue about.”
“Where do you suggest we walk?” Monica asked, as if that were her only concern. She looked up at him and found his deep, blue eyes intently studying her.
“The waterfront’s as good a place as any. There’re always lots of things going on down there.”
“All right.” Her words were little more than wisps of sound. She hurriedly looked away because she found his gaze mesmerizing and buried her hands in her pockets. Chet followed suit, his own hands waist deep in the pockets of his beige coat.
“You seem to know a lot about me,” she said as a means of opening the conversation, “it only seems fair for you to tell me something about yourself.” She wasn’t sure, but this sounded like a good place for them to start. Her only concern was in knowing exactly what they were starting. She didn’t know if she could be friends with this man, and anything else was impossible.
“I’m thirty-three and have never been married,” Chet said, cutting into her thoughts.
“Why not?”
“You’re twenty-five and I didn’t ask you that,” he barked, then seemed to regret his tart remark. “I never found a woman who’d be willing to put up with me.”
Monica smiled to herself. “I guess you could say the same thing about me. I don’t seem to communicate very well with men. I thought I did, but I was wrong.”
“That sounds like you’re speaking from experience. I take it someone’s hurt you.”
She shook her head. “We’re talking about you, remember?”
He frowned as if he found the subject boring and was much more interested in her. “What do you want to know about me?”
She shrugged, not knowing what to say. “Where’d you go to school, that sort of thing, and how you got into the detective business.”
“All right,” he said, releasing a beleaguered sigh. He seemed eager to get this part over so he could learn what he wanted to know about her. “I graduated from the University of Washington with a degree in criminology and took a job with the local police force. After a few years I decided I’d rather strike out on my own.”
Monica speculated that there was a great deal missing in this story, but she didn’t feel she should pressure him for details, not when she was unwilling to supply the missing pieces of her own story.
“Did you enjoy police work?”
“Yes and no. When I was shot—”
“You were shot?” Moni
ca couldn’t hide her alarm. She studied him for any evidence of permanent injury, and her heart raced at a furious pace.
“It was little more than a flesh wound, nothing to worry about physically, at any rate.” He hesitated as if he’d said more than he intended, more than he wanted her to know.
“What do you mean?” she probed, not willing to drop the subject.
“Nothing. We’ll leave it at that, all right?” The way he said it told her she wouldn’t get any more information out of him. Knowing that he’d been physically injured had a curious effect on Monica. A strange sick feeling attacked her. Knowing he’d suffered terrible pain greatly distressed her.
They reached the waterfront, the day was cold and gray, and the angry sky reflected on the waters of Puget Sound. The sidewalks were crowded with the heavy tourist and Christmas traffic.
“What made you decide to become a private investigator?” she asked as they stood at the end of the pier. The wind buffeted her and she turned her back on its force. Chet, however, leaned against the rough wood railing, his hands clenched.
Chet glanced her way. “You aren’t going to like the answer to this one.”
“I asked the question, didn’t I?” His attitude irked her.
“All right, since you asked, I’ll tell you. A shapely blonde with loose morals and legs that reached all the way to her neck—”
“You’re right,” Monica cut him off, “I don’t want to hear the rest.”
“That’s what I thought.”
They strolled back to the sidewalk and turned into a small shop that specialized in seashells, tacky souvenirs, and gaudy jewelry. Curious, Monica moved to a crowded aisle, no particular destination in mind. She found a paper Japanese fan with a brightly painted dragon and spread it open, fluttering it in front of her face.
Chet grinned and she lowered the fan. Slowly the amusement drained from his eyes and darkened to a shade as deep and dark as a moonless night. His sudden enmity unnerved her and she quickly snapped the fan closed and returned it to the table, wondering what she’d done that had displeased him so.
His hand stopped her. “You’re beautiful when you choose to be,” he said.
His words confused her as much as his look.
She turned hurriedly up another aisle and paused at a rack of necklaces. Taking one, she slid the chain against the palm of her hand until she reached the pendant. A mustard seed was framed in a glass teardrop. The scripture verse about faith the size of a mustard seed leaped into her mind.
“Faith is an amazing thing,” Chet surprised her by saying.
That he’d know the verse shocked her. “You’ve read the Bible.”
He made a gallant effort not to laugh and failed. “I’m not a heathen, Monica, even if I’ve been known to frequent seedy bars and sleep with immoral women.”
“I see.” Embarrassed now by his honesty and her assumptions, she started to leave the shop. To her surprise, Chet took the necklace from her hand and carried it to the front of the store.
“What do you believe in?” she asked as they waited to make the purchase.
“Do I need to believe in anything?”
She could tell that the question made him uncomfortable. “Everyone has a belief system, whether he acknowledges it or not.” She sounded far more versed in the subject than she was. Her own had been so clearly defined for her from the time she was a child.
He didn’t answer her for a long, silent moment. “I believe life’s a bitch,” he said as he paid for the necklace.
Monica bristled, but then she’d asked and he’d told her.
He moved behind her and put the necklace around her neck. The glass teardrop felt cool against her skin. “Thank you,” she whispered, touched that he’d bought it for her.
“Don’t make a big deal out of a few bucks,” he said as if he regretted the purchase.
When they came out of the store, Monica was surprised to find that it was snowing. She couldn’t remember the weatherman mentioning snow. The fat flakes came down fast and furious and had already covered the sidewalk.
“I’d better hurry to the bus stop,” she said, anxious to get home before the weather made it impossible. She was already an hour later than she said she’d be.
By the time they’d climbed the steep hill to the bus stop, Monica was breathless. It seemed that everyone in town had decided to head for home at the same time. Within minutes it became clear she was in for a long wait.
“You go on,” she urged Chet. “I’ll be fine.” But he refused to leave her and after waiting a half hour, Chet shook his head.
“This is ridiculous,” he said, “I’ll drive you home myself.”
“But it’s snowing, and the road conditions might make that impossible.”
“We’ll wait out the craziness and once everything settles down I’ll get my car out of the parking garage.”
He didn’t leave room for her to argue, and she doubted he would have listened if she had. Chet steered her toward the exit and reached for her hand when it looked as if they might be separated in the crowd.
“Where are we going?” she asked while they were making their way down the street. The conditions were blizzardlike. They were bent nearly in half as they walked against the brunt of the storm.
Chet didn’t bother to answer until they entered a redbrick building. In the foyer, he stamped the snow from his shoes and led the way to the elevator.
“Where are we?” she asked, obediently following him.
“My building, and before you get that outraged virgin look I promise I won’t so much as touch you.”
“I’d better call my father or else he’ll worry.” Monica sincerely doubted that he’d ever dated a woman who needed to check in with her family. She was pleased she couldn’t read his thoughts.
“No problem,” Chet said. At his floor, he took her down a narrow, dark hallway. His office had his name painted on a milky white door. Chet inserted the key and opened it for her, letting her precede him.
The first thing Monica noticed was the calendar with a naked blond woman sprawled out on a blanket of black velvet. The year 1963 was printed in bold letters down the side. His desk looked as if it had weathered a war on the losing side. It was scarred and battered and so cluttered it was impossible to see any part of the surface. His chair came straight out of the 1920s. A row of antique slot machines lined one wall.
Chet made his way around her and Monica realized she’d been blocking the doorway. “This is my office,” he explained.
“Your calendar’s for the wrong year,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.
He laughed. “Only a woman would notice that.” He walked over to the other door and opened it. “Home, sweet home,” he said, gesturing for her to go before him.
Monica was just getting accustomed to the disarray in his office. She held her breath as she stepped into his living quarters, preparing herself for the worst.
She hesitated in the doorway. “It’s not so bad,” she said, then realized she’d verbalized the thought. There appeared to be some order to his studio apartment, compared to the chaos of his office.
Dishes were washed and stacked on the drainboard and the only food on the counter was a bowl with three overripe bananas. The sofa was a large overstuffed one with a stack of laundry—she couldn’t tell if it was clean or dirty—piled in one corner.
“The phone’s by the television,” Chet said. “I’ll make us some coffee.”
“All right,” she said, taking several tentative steps into the room and reaching for the phone. Her father answered on the second ring.
“I got caught in the snow,” she explained.
“I don’t understand why you didn’t leave with the others.” Her father was rarely angry, but he was close to being so now. “Just how do you propose to get home?”
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p; “I’m an adult, Dad, I can take care of myself. Stop worrying. I’ll call again if I run into any problems.” Rather than get into discourse that required explanations, she quickly ended the conversation. When she’d finished, Chet brought her a steaming mug of coffee.
“It’s instant,” he said, and with one sweeping motion of his hand, he cleared the surface of the sofa.
Monica sat close to the edge of the cushions, cradling the mug with both hands, her back straight, her knees together. Rarely had she felt more out of place. She’d never been alone with a man in an apartment before and her sensibilities were badly shaken. Chet had promised to be a gentleman, and to her dismay she was sadly disappointed by his assurance.
“Relax,” Chet said, sounding irritated. “You look like you’re waiting for me to pounce on you. I said I wouldn’t touch you.”
She decided to ignore the comment. “Do you have any idea of how much snow is forecast?” she asked, looking for a means of light conversation. She wished now that she’d stayed and waited for a bus. No matter how tardy the transportation it would have saved them both this awkwardness.
“Sweetheart, the weatherman didn’t know about this. You don’t honestly expect me to figure it out, do you?”
She didn’t like the way he said sweetheart. He made the term of affection sound like an insult. “I’d rather you didn’t call me that.”
“What?”
“Sweetheart.”
“Why not?”
“Listen here, honeybunch,” she murmured sarcastically, “I’m not your sweetheart or anything else.”
“I didn’t say you were. Let’s just forget it, all right?” He stalked over to the sink and dumped what was left of his coffee. “I’ll see about getting you home now.”
One look out the window told her the snow hadn’t let up in the least; if anything, it was coming down heavier. Chet wanted to be rid of her and she was just as eager to go. She didn’t know what she was doing with a man who hung a picture of a naked woman in his office. She was out of her element and eager to get back where she belonged.
A Season of Angels Page 11
