He moved aside. As the woman brushed by, he got an impression of delicate features set off by black hair tipped in purple. On Prego Prego, she would have been taken for a strega, a witch who told fortunes.
A drunken couple weaving toward the door shoved into the woman. When she stumbled, Barry caught her arm to steady her.
The fabric of her blouse felt slinky against his hand. Its indefinable colors shimmered in the shifting light, and its low V-neck gave him an unexpected view of soft, uplifted orbs.
Embarrassed, he released her. Not quickly enough to keep her from noticing where he’d been looking, apparently, because the woman bristled at him.
“Having fun?” she demanded. A lull in the music made her voice carry.
“Not yet. I just got here,” Barry said.
Holding her ground against jostling passersby, the woman scrutinized him with narrowed eyes. “How’d you get by the guard in front? I mean, a white suit! You look like a refugee from some safari movie.”
Barry had been surprised to find a man posted in front of the club rejecting anyone who wasn’t dressed bizarrely enough. He hadn’t expected to pass muster, although surely he was due some points for the stubborn wrinkles in his only casual suit. “I told him I was wearing a faux-fur loincloth underneath.”
“Are you?” the woman asked.
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.” Barry stopped, surprised at himself for flirting. This wild-haired woman with the low-cut, bare-midriff blouse was as far from his style as a female could get, regardless of the heat she aroused in his midsection. “Forget I said that.”
The noise that passed for music resumed its ear-shattering shriek. The woman drifted into the throng, vanishing from sight almost instantly.
Barry felt a moment’s disappointment. She might not be his type, but he would have enjoyed a little more interaction.
After two years of celibacy, he was obviously far too vulnerable, Barry thought. Best to forget her.
To his left, he spotted a bar constructed of raw-looking wood, and headed toward it through drifts of sawdust. Come to think of it, once he disregarded the high-tech gizmos that passed for decor, the entire club resembled a warehouse that had been converted hastily into a nightspot.
What kind of sources did Andrew rely on? Barry couldn’t picture his conservative cousin hanging out in a place like this, that was for sure.
He found a stool and tried to catch the attention of the bartender, who was waiting on customers at the other end. In addition to a hefty admission price, the Slash/Off! required a two-drink minimum, which he’d paid for in advance. Barry decided to make one of them nonalcoholic, since he was driving.
People streamed past him. For his taste, the women were by turns too offbeat, too hard-faced, too gaunt. In comparison, the strega had been downright conservative.
Jet lag was catching up to him, he realized. Maybe he should forget about the drinks and go home.
“Tough week?” asked the man sitting next to him. Mercifully, the rock music wasn’t as loud in this corner, so he could make out the fellow’s words.
“Long flight,” Barry said.
“It doesn’t help that airline service is so lousy.” The man had a thin face with a scraggly growth around the chin. His expression was friendly, though. “Hi, I’m Will.” He extended his hand.
Barry started to say his name, then thought better of it. Although the guy seemed harmless, he didn’t want to give out too much information.
“Hank,” he said, shaking Will’s hand. Hank had been his nickname in sixth grade, derived from his middle name Hancock. He’d used it because there were two other boys named Barry in the class.
“Save my seat, Hank.” Will went to join the knot of people around the bartender. A few minutes later, he returned with two glasses of white wine. “It’s the best I could do. The guy had them already poured.”
Barry handed over one of his drink receipts. “Thanks.”
“No big deal.” Will stuffed the piece of paper into his shirt pocket. “How’d you hear about this place, anyway?”
“Through a friend.” He took a sip of the wine. It was odd-tasting stuff, even by Prego Prego standards. “Why?”
“With that white suit, I figured you don’t live around here.” The man watched him so intently that Barry began to feel uncomfortable.
He’d been ill at ease when he arrived on Prego Prego, too, especially the night a monkey swiped his undershorts and paraded around town in them. Since the bright gold-and-black shorts had “Go, Bruins!” printed on them, there’d been no question about whom they belonged to.
Barry had never felt in any danger on the island, though. He did now, although he couldn’t figure out why. His temples hurt, probably from jet lag. His vision was getting foggy, too.
Another sip of wine might clear his head. Barry was lifting the glass when a slender feminine arm reached past him and knocked it away, spilling wine across the counter.
“Hey!” Blearily, he peered at his attacker. It was the woman with black-and-purple hair.
“You idiot!” she said. “You stand out like a sore thumb in that white suit. Don’t you know your drink is probably drugged?”
“No, it’s not. He…” Barry looked around for Will. “Where’d he go?”
“Back into the hole he crawled out of, I hope,” the lady said. “I saw him carrying two glasses and it made me suspicious. Women don’t accept drinks from guys at places like this because they spike them.”
The room was spinning, not unpleasantly. “How can you spike a drink that’s already alcoholic?”
“Boy, are you naive. Where’d you come from, anyway?” she asked. “Outer Mongolia?”
“More or less.” Barry realized he couldn’t pronounce Prego Prego in his current condition without spitting. “Why would he spike my drink?”
“You’d have awakened in an alley, if you were lucky enough to wake up at all,” the woman said. “Minus your wallet and your keys. Your car would be gone and when you got home, so would the contents of your apartment.”
Barry felt utterly stupid. Not to mention stupefied. “Nobody warned me.”
“I just did,” the woman said. “Did you come with somebody? You must not have drunk much, because you’re still conscious, but I don’t think you should drive.”
“Can’t drive,” Barry agreed. For some reason, he found himself willing to go along with anything she suggested. It must be an effect of the drug.
“You could drive me home,” he said.
“I guess I could. I came with my roommate, so I have to find her and tell her.” Without hesitation, the woman clambered up a stool and onto the bar, where she stood peering into the maelstrom of dancers.
At this angle, Barry noticed that square-heeled open sandals supported her delicate feet, with the toenails painted midnight blue and studded with ruby-red stones. The shapely length of her legs extended up to the short wrap skirt.
In his present condition, he found blue-and-red toenails utterly fascinating, not to mention the long slender legs and short skirt.
“Anything you can’t see from down there?” the woman asked. “I’d hate for you to miss anything.”
“You’re pretty,” Barry said dreamily.
The woman climbed down. “You’re smashed.”
“Feeling no pain,” he agreed.
“You definitely need help. My name’s Chelsea, by the way,” she said. “I don’t see Starshine anywhere.”
“Let’s go outside and I’ll show you,” Barry said.
“Starshine is my roommate.” Amusement tugged at her lips. “You really are far gone. I barely rescued you in time.”
“I like being rescued.” She had lovely eyes, he thought, purple with black flecks to match her hair or, at least, in this light that was the color they appeared.
“You didn’t tell me your name.” Chelsea scrambled to the floor and took his arm.
“Uh…” He thought it started with a B, but h
is lips were too rubbery to pronounce it. “Hank.”
“Come on, Hank.” She guided him to his feet. Barry discovered that his knees had gone soft. It was an interesting sensation.
In a dreamlike state, he passed through the crowd and out into the crisp night. On the way, he bumped into the guard, who took a long, angry look at his suit. “Hey, bud! You were supposed to strip down to your loincloth.”
Barry struggled to marshal the mental resources and verbal agility that had placed him third in his class at medical school. “Huh?” was the best he could do.
“You have your nerve!” Chelsea told the hulking guard. “My client was drugged, right here in this poor pretense for an establishment. You tell your boss he’ll be hearing from my firm.” Before the man could reply, she hauled Barry out of the building.
“You’re a lawyer?” he asked, intrigued, as he wobbled alongside her across the sprawling parking lot. Around it rose the stark rectangular shapes of warehouses.
“No. I didn’t want Mr. Jockstrap Mentality to get the idea he was entitled to strip you himself,” she said. “Where’d you park?”
“I’m not sure.”
It took a while to locate the sports car. Then Barry was fumbling in the glove compartment for his address when Chelsea pointed out that they had to head for her place, not his. “Since it’s your car, I’d have no way of getting home. You can sleep on my floor and drive to your place tomorrow.”
“Whatever,” he said.
“Nice wheels, by the way,” said Chelsea, and started the engine. She backed up so quickly that Barry left his stomach in the parking space.
Off they shot into the night. Dazedly, he reflected that he was entrusting his life to a strange woman who drove too fast and had a roommate named Starshine.
He just hoped she didn’t keep goats in her apartment.
2
AS SHE DROVE, Chelsea tried to figure out what on earth had possessed her to pick up Mr. White Suit.
With a name like Hank, he probably hailed from some corn-fed Midwestern town. On second thought, she could swear she’d detected a trace of a Texas twang in his speech, and he had the deep tan a man might get riding the range.
She hadn’t even had time to dance after paying that steep admission charge. It didn’t make sense for her to leave so early, especially not with some small-town guy from Texas.
On the other hand, the man was like a stray animal who’d been kicked and was too dumb to know it. He needed help. That was Chelsea’s problem: She couldn’t resist a creature in need.
Besides, Hank was cute. As she edged off the 101 Freeway north of downtown Los Angeles, she sneaked a glance at his profile. More than cute. Beneath the pathetic suit, he had a build on him.
For an instant, she flashed on a similarity to someone she knew. It must be the broad shoulders. But who…?
The thought slid away as she recalled Hank’s remark about wearing a loincloth. Dollars to doughnuts he’d made it up. Still, she’d like to see him strike a seminude Tarzan pose, preferably in the vicinity of her bedroom.
Instantly, Chelsea rejected the idea. In the hard-won experience of her younger days, men fell into one of two categories after getting a woman into bed. Either they couldn’t run out the door fast enough, or they believed they owned her.
Then there were guys like her former fiancé…but she didn’t care to think about him.
Hank the puppy dog could sleep it off on her lumpy couch. In the morning, she would launch him into the wilds of L.A. looking little the worse for wear, since he could hardly cram any more wrinkles into his suit.
She wished he wasn’t regarding her with such an engaging smile. Or that he hadn’t displayed an unexpected sense of humor. If she didn’t watch out, she might start to like him.
Chelsea parked the sports car on the street in front of her place. As she emerged, she heard salsa music blaring from across the way. It bounced off the steep rises atop which sat a row of run-down cottages, mostly converted into apartments.
After a minute, she realized that Hank wasn’t getting out. “You okay?”
“My knees are hollow.” He didn’t act upset about it. “I’ll spend the night in the car.”
Although Chelsea had no obligation to take care of him, she hated to leave a country yokel unaided, especially when he wasn’t in full possession of his senses. Look at how much trouble he’d landed in already.
“I’ll help you inside.” She came around and opened his door. “You have to stand up.”
“This car’s really low, isn’t it?” He gazed at her from beneath a displaced lock of shaggy hair. Chelsea had forgotten how touchable a man’s hair could look when it wasn’t hardened with ten layers of gel.
“You should be used to the height,” she noted. “It’s your car.”
“Just leased it,” he mumbled, and swung his legs out. He hauled himself upright, using the car roof for support.
He looked taller now that they were alone. Not unduly tall, though. Since she was only five foot three, Chelsea appreciated not having to stare at a man’s navel.
She locked the vehicle. “Here’s your keys.”
“Put them in my pocket, please.” He stared upward into the night sky.
She dropped them into a pouch in his white jacket. The man radiated heat.
“You can’t see the stars,” he said.
“What?” Chelsea tilted her head. “Yes, you can.” It was a clear night with a three-quarter moon.
“Not many, and they’re faint,” he said. “What happened to them?”
“You really are from the backwoods,” Chelsea said. “It’s called light pollution. We’re near downtown Los Angeles. See the skyscrapers over there?” She indicated the brightly illuminated structures a mile or so to the east.
“Gee,” he said.
“Come on, fuzz-brain. Let’s get you inside.” She caught his arm. “Think you can climb those steps?”
Hank squinted at the long rise to the house. Chelsea had to admit it was quite a hike, especially since it required an additional effort to get to her second-story unit. “Sure,” he said. “Did I ever tell you I once climbed a volcano?”
“I guess you left that out of your life story.” With Hank leaning lightly against her shoulder, she began mounting the steps. “I didn’t know they had volcanoes in Iowa.”
“I’m not from Iowa.” His thigh brushed hers. Feminine awareness arrowed into her.
“I meant Texas.” She was breathing hard. From the climb, no doubt.
“How did you know I’m from Texas?”
“It’s written all over you.” For the first time, Chelsea understood why some of her friends thought cowboys were sexy. She could picture Hank riding a horse and swinging a lasso, preferably while wearing nothing but a faux-fur thong.
Grimly, she banished the image. Sweaty men on horses weren’t her style.
They barely made it to her apartment entrance without collapsing. Trying to keep Hank from tumbling off the exterior landing, Chelsea wiggled her key in the lock and scraped the door open.
A flick of the switch revealed the shambles that she called home. Formerly a large attic, it featured a sloping roof over a large room subdivided by flimsy walls.
Above the thrift-store furnishings in the main room hung tattered shreds of black-and-orange crepe paper. A large fake web in one corner sported a dusty black spider the size of a plate, while plastic skulls dangled over the kitchenette.
“You are a strega,” Hank said.
“A stray what?”
“Strega. Witch. Fortune-teller.” His voice had a happy lilt. The man was totally zonked.
“The decorations are left over from Halloween,” Chelsea said. “Starshine and her boyfriend had a party and they never got around to cleaning up.”
“Halloween was months ago.”
“They broke up the next day and she went into a decline. She’s just getting over him.”
Starshine and—what was her new boyfriend’s
name? Wiley?—hadn’t cleaned up their dinner dishes tonight, either, Chelsea noticed as they wandered into the kitchenette. Wearily, she tossed their paper plates in the trash and cleared away a pan full of congealed baked beans.
“She takes advantage of you.” For being smashed, Hank was rather observant.
“She’s a nice person,” Chelsea said. “Besides, I’m used to disorder. I thrive on it. Usually.”
She didn’t want to concede that his comment had hit close to home. Starshine still hadn’t paid her share of this month’s rent, which Chelsea had had to advance.
She expected Hank to slump onto the couch and fall into a doze. Instead, he prowled around examining her possessions. “You have a lot of books.” He indicated a long row on the floor, propped at each end by a cinder block.
“I can’t resist buying them. One of these days I’m going to get caught up on my reading,” she said.
Hank dropped to his knees and selected a volume to examine. Seeing him handle one of her books sent a warm shimmer fleeting across Chelsea’s skin, as if he were touching her.
She hadn’t gotten close to a man in the year and a half since her engagement broke off. Hadn’t wanted to, either.
Yet tonight, her defenses were tumbling in the presence of this sweet, lost soul. They dropped far enough for her to recognize, as he slanted a grin at her, that a powerful masculine presence had slipped into her apartment in the guise of a helpless puppy.
She ought to throw him out, Chelsea told herself. The tingling that spread into her muscles was pleasant, though. Besides, what harm could he do in his condition?
“My eyes don’t seem to focus very well.” Putting the book back, he straightened. “Can I fix you something to eat? I’m hungry.”
The way he stared at her with his mouth slightly open, he did look hungry. But not for food.
“I grabbed a bite after work,” Chelsea said.
“Only a bite?” He regarded her slim midsection, exposed by the cropped blouse. “You don’t eat much, do you?”
“It seems like a waste of time.” This discussion was arousing her appetite—more than one kind.
The Doc's Double Delivery & Down-Home Diva Page 2
