Rose Quartz

by Sandra Cox

  “Dammit, Bella.”

  “It’s no big deal, sugar.” She tried to pull back her hand but he wouldn’t let go.

  “The hell it’s not. Got any iodine?”

  She sighed, causing her magnificent breasts to rise and fall. “No, but I’ve got some antibiotic cream in the bathroom.”

  He stood back and motioned with his hand. “After you.”

  “You’re a stubborn man, Hank McHenry.”

  “I could say the same about you.”

  “Hmm,” was all she said as she walked out of the kitchen, the cat at her heels.

  He followed her to the bathroom, trying to ignore the sway of her hips.

  She sat down on the stool and pointed toward the medicine cabinet.

  His gaze swept the bathroom, a pretty little room as feminine as its owner. Pristine white walls had apricot and yellow rosebuds painted on them. Fluffy large apricot towels hung on a dainty rack.

  He opened the drawer, scanned the cabinet and pulled out a tube of ointment. “Do you have a washcloth you don’t mind getting a bit bloodied?”

  She pointed toward a wicker basket overflowing with pastel washcloths and towels.

  He picked one up at random and ran it under warm water. “Push up that sleeve, would you?” She complied and he gently washed her arm.

  His head bent over her, he dabbed gently.

  “You’re a good man, Hank McHenry,” she said quietly.

  Her warm breath tickled his ear and sped up his heart rate.

  The dabbing became a gentle stroking. “What kind of men are you used to, Bella?”

  “Hard-edged, hungry men, sugar.”

  For just a moment, his grip on her warm skin tightened. As the cat growled, his tail swishing, he forced himself to let go.

  Picking up the tube of antibiotic ointment, he squirted it liberally on his fingers then gently rubbed it on her shoulder and arm.

  He turned his head. Her lush lips were a breath away, moist and beckoning. She looked at him from heavy lids, her eyes as mysterious and deep as the ocean. He leaned closer.

  The buzzer sounded loud and insistent from the foyer.

  He drew back, willing his fingers not to tremble.

  Unhurried, she stood up and pushed down her sleeve. “Thank you.” She headed for the foyer, her carriage as graceful and regal as a queen’s. The cat shadowed her like a witch’s familiar.

  He waited a moment, fighting for control. He stared in the mirror. The man looking back at him was raw-boned and weathered with a head full of red hair turning gray. He planted his hands on the cool marble sink, leaned his head against the mirror and closed his eyes. What are you doing, McHenry? She is so out of your league.

  “Hey, sugar, pizza’s here,” Bella called from the living room.

  Pushing against the sink with his hands, he straightened, grabbed his ale and walked down the hall and into the living room. The hot spicy scents of meats, cheese and tomato sauce assailed him. He only hoped he didn’t start drooling.

  He paused in the doorway, frowning. “Did George buzz through the delivery boy?”

  Bella shook her head. “He pays whoever brings the deliveries, brings it up himself and I reimburse him.”

  Hank nodded, relaxing. “Good plan.” He went to the couch and sat down, sinking into it, tired beyond belief. “Now how about some of that pizza?” He reached into the warm cardboard carton.

  Holding it in her hand, Bella nibbled on a piece, tossing bits of melted cheese to Puss–Puss, while Hank inhaled the rest.

  They chatted for a little while about Maureen, Jack, the horses and the wedding then Bella left and came back with bedding. “If you get up, I’ll make the couch up for you.”

  “Just set it down, Bella. I’m capable of making my own bed.”

  She looked at him for a moment then shrugged elegant shoulders. “Whatever you say, shug.” She turned and headed upstairs, the cat trotting at her heels.

  He watched her for a moment. When he heard the upstairs door close, he pulled out his cell phone.

  * * * * *

  Like a caged tiger, Victor paced the confines of his cell. Morelly’s man had failed. From the description it had to be Hank McHenry who’d beaten the shit out of Morelly’s hired help. Something was going to have to be done about McHenry. He was all that stood between himself and the amulet.

  Chapter Four

  When Bella got up the next morning Hank was gone. The soft white bedding was still folded neatly where she’d left it. “I don’t believe this,” she muttered.

  Puss–Puss meowed his agreement.

  She sank down on the couch, weak-kneed, as a thought struck her. Surely he hadn’t gone after Johnny Morelly? Yes, that is exactly what he would do. She tapped her fingers against her thighs. But how could he leave without his truck? Hadn’t the police brought him home?

  Puss–Puss jumped up on the couch. Bella reached over and patted him absently then leaned back against the cushions. She picked her cell phone up and punched in Hank’s number and got a recording. “This is Hank McHenry. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

  She scowled. “Where are you, handsome?” Clicking the phone shut, she tossed it on the couch.

  Still groggy, she shook her head to clear it. “I need coffee.” Pushing herself off the couch, she walked to the kitchen, fixed coffee and opened a can of turkey cat food for Puss–Puss. The cat loved turkey. It didn’t matter if it was from a can or the deli.

  The fog surrounding her brain dissipated as she sipped her coffee. Walking back to the living room, she stared out the window at the street below. Cars zipped by and pedestrians hurried along the sidewalk. All appeared normal.

  She set down her cup and began to pace. With each step she could feel her blood pressure rise along with her temper. How dare he worry her like this? Did that Yankee have any idea of who he was dealing with? Morelly would tear him to pieces.

  She touched the amulet. As she walked by the coffee table, she noticed Officer Gordon’s card lying beside the phone. She picked up the card and circled it back and forth between her fingers. She sat down and picked up the phone. She was going to look pretty foolish if the cowboy’d just gone out for bagels. But lord knows it wouldn’t be the first time.

  She punched in the numbers and waited. “Officer Gordon, this is Isabella Tremaine.”

  “Ms. Tremaine, I was just going to call you.”

  A feeling of unease crept over her. “You were?”

  “Yes. I need to speak to Mr. McHenry.”

  A hard knot formed in the pit of her stomach. “Why?”

  “Someone broke into Johnny Morelly’s home early this morning.”

  I’m going to kill him. “And what does that have to do with Mr. McHenry?”

  “He called not too long after I left and asked if someone from the department could return his truck. Let me add that’s not normally on our duty roster but we did it.”

  She put on her best honeyed drawl, “I’m sorry, Officer, but I still don’t understand why that ole Yankee asking for his truck has anything to do with Morelly’s house being broken into. Seems like a reasonable request to me.” And may the gods strike me dead for that whopper.

  “Because he asked several times last night where Morelly lived. Do the math,” he said acidly.

  Hank, you idiot.

  Officer Gordon immediately apologized. “I’m sorry, Ms. Tremaine, it’s just been a very strange shift. Stranger than usual, I might add. Morelly calling the police about a break-in. What’s next, cats and dogs raining from the sky?”

  “That’s all right, Officer,” she soothed. “Is your shift about over?”

  “It should have been over an hour ago,” he sighed. “May I speak to Mr. McHenry, ma’am?”

  “He went out for bagels,” she improvised. “He should be back any minute. I’ll have him call you.”

  “I’d appreciate it, Ms. Tremaine.” He clicked off.

  Her toe tapping, her lips pursed, she dialed Ha
nk’s number. Once again she got the answering machine. “I just talked to the police, sugar. Get your Yankee ass back here and do it now.” She started to click off then thought of something. “And bring some bagels, there’s a shop two blocks south.” She ended the call and tossed the phone on the couch, muttering, “Damn macho Yankee. Who does he think he is anyway?”

  Puss–Puss sat on the arm of the couch watching her, his tail wrapped around his white silky body.

  She jutted her jaw and addressed the cat. “I’m going to paint, I am not going to get upset over a situation I have no control over. I am normally a calm woman. What is it about the man that shoots my blood pressure straight through the roof? I’ve been courted by princes and politicians. Why am I letting that damn Wisconsin cowboy get under my skin?” She paced back and forth across the living room.

  Puss–Puss gave her a disdainful look, hoisted his leg and began to groom his immaculate fur.

  Mindful of her white carpet, she picked up her coffee cup and headed up the stairs to her studio. Her lip curled as she studied the painting of Hank. She was half tempted to give in to a childish impulse to paint a green mustache on his rugged features. “Oh, what the hell.” She did and felt much better. Now she could get down to the business of painting. Once it dried she’d paint over it.

  After she got the mustache out of her system she started in on his long jawline and the lean texture of his cheekbone. The silvered-copper hair was wavy and thick. Drops of perspiration stood out on his forehead. His plaid shirt was open showing a ribbed tee shirt. His legs encased in faded denims were caught in mid-stride. He held the bridle of a bay tossing her head up.

  Bella lost all track of time. She always did when she painted. Stepping back, she studied it and almost groaned aloud at the mustache. It was one of the finest pieces she’d ever done. And she’d painted it from memory. How amazing. The noonday sun beat down hard and hot on both man and horse. Wolf, Maureen’s wolf mix, sat at the door of the barn, watching.

  “If you were shooting for St. Pat’s day, it’s over,” a dry voice said behind her.

  She clutched her heart as she whirled around, a fine spray of blue flying through the air from her brush.

  “God, you scared me. How’d you get in? No one’s allowed to see my paintings ‘til they’re finished.”

  Hank stood leaning against the doorjamb, his ankles crossed.

  For the first time she took a good look at him and blinked, tamping down hard on the urge to go all hysterical and fuss over him. Instead she looked him up and down, her expression detached, her voice cool. “I should have left off the green mustache and just added a rainbow of colors to your face. It would have been more accurate. Morelly do that?”

  Hank snorted in disgust. “Never saw the man, just left a message with his goons.”

  “How many goons?”

  “Four. When they decided to call for reinforcements, I delivered my message and left.”

  She crossed her arms, holding her paintbrush like a wand. “And were they in any shape to deliver the message?”

  He shifted as if his shoulder pained him. “I managed to wake one up enough to hear me.”

  “And what was the message?”

  His expression intense, his voice low, he said, “If anyone messes with you again I’ll come back and finish what I started. And next time it’ll be Morelly.”

  She felt lightheaded as blood and heat traveled to her face then drained to her feet, leaving her cold and clammy. “Well, now, sugar, that’s got quite a dramatic ring to it but I’m not sure Atlanta’s crime boss is going to be very appreciative of your theatrical recitation.”

  He pulled away from the doorframe. “And if you’d been in my position, how would you have handled it?”

  She could feel her tight skin crawling over her tense muscles as she walked toward him, heat sparking behind her eyes. She stopped in front of him.

  He winced as she poked him hard in the center of the chest with the end of her paintbrush punctuating each word. “What I wouldn’t have done, sugar, is invite the man to cut me into little pieces and sprinkle them around the city.”

  He lightly pushed aside the paintbrush and rubbed his chest. “Are you worried about me…sugar?”

  “Maureen would kill me if something happened to you,” she muttered before turning her back on him and walking to her worktable where she dipped her paintbrush in a glass jar of pungent-smelling paint cleaner.

  Two long strides placed him in front of the painting. Hank stuck his hands in his back pockets and rocked on his heels as he studied it. Finally he said, “Even with the green mustache, it’s an amazing work of art.” He glanced at the amulet sitting on her old wooden paint bench. He made a rueful sound. “It’s a good thing you don’t wear that when you paint.”

  “Oh?”

  “Michelangelo’s works would be taken out of museums and raffled off at flea markets.”

  “That’s sacrilege.” Her tight features relaxed. She looked him up and down. “Is anything broken?”

  “Bruised a rib or two but that’s about it. By the way, I left the bagels downstairs in the kitchen.”

  The corners of her mouth turned up. It was hard to stay mad at a man who brought you bagels, even if she had practically threatened him to get them.

  “Why don’t you get cleaned up then call Officer Gordon? He’s looking for you. Do you need a change of clothes?” She scrubbed her hands.

  He stiffened. “I brought my clothes in from the truck. If you store other men’s clothing here don’t ever offer them to me again.” He turned and stomped past her.

  “Sugar,” Bella said, an edge to her voice.

  He stopped, his shoulders stiff and straight.

  “I was going to have a young man who runs errands for me pick some clothes up at the local department store for you.”

  He turned, a wave of red flooding his already colorful face. “I meant no disrespect.”

  “Didn’t you now?” she asked, flexing her fingers like a cat.

  “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business but I won’t wear clothes that belong to your lovers.” He lifted his jaw and jutted his chin.

  Her eyes narrowed and she asked in a low, silky voice, “And how many lovers do you think I’ve got, sugar?”

  His lips thinned. “If that torrid embrace I saw the other night was anything to go by, I’d say at least one.”

  “The bathroom is down the hall to the right. Help yourself to the towels.” She clenched and unclenched her fists, valiantly fighting the urge to heave her paint rags at him. “And don’t forget to call Officer Gordon,” she called after his retreating figure.

  He held up a hand in acknowledgement and kept walking.

  Muttering, she paced the room. “I should have painted your whole face green and your hands as well.” A thought brought her up short. She unclenched her jaw and grinned. Could the tough guy be jealous? “Well, well, Mr. Hank McHenry, maybe green would be an appropriate color for you after all.”

  She cleaned her paintbrush then headed downstairs for some fresh coffee, her good humor restored. Just as she entered the kitchen the buzzer sounded. She spun around and headed for the foyer. Pressing the button, she placed her mouth close to the call box. “Yes, Bobby.”

  “Mr. Privette’s here to see you, Ms. Bella.”

  Shit. “Now really isn’t a good time, Jeffrey.”

  “Bella, I need to see you, it’s important.”

  Even through the call box his voice sounded insistent. “Great, just what I need, a reenactment of the War Between the States,” she muttered.

  “What did you say?” Jeffrey’s metallic voice echoed through the speaker.

  “I said if you must, come on up.”

  There was a pause as if he was digesting her response then his voice reverberated through the foyer, “I’m on my way.”

  She needed fortification and headed for the kitchen for coffee and a bagel. Puss–Puss sat on a little table she’d purchased specifica
lly for him, staring at his empty food dish as if convinced if he looked at it long enough food would appear.

  “I wonder if I should put you in the bedroom.” She gave him an absent stroke then shook her head. “If there’s bloodletting, it probably won’t come from you.”

  She walked to the counter and opened the bagels. The wonderful yeasty smell of pastries rose from the bag. “This is ridiculous. I’ve been in social situations that involve two macho males before and felt perfectly at ease. Of course, one of them has never been a wild card Yankee though.” Opening her mouth, she chomped down on a cinnamon and raisin bagel just as the doorbell rang.

  She poured a fresh cup of coffee into a hot pink china cup and carried it with her. The minute she opened the door Jeffrey rushed toward her, arms extended. “Darling, I just heard what happened. Are you all right?”

  Shoving the mug at him, Bella replied, “I’m perfectly all right, thank you.”

  As if on cue, Hank walked in. He wore clean faded jeans and a short-sleeved plaid shirt. Polished, handsome and younger, looking like a GQ ad, Jeffrey paled in comparison. Hank was all male, no pretense, no apology.

  Bella felt like she’d just swallowed sunshine as her heart surged with pleasure. It was the most amazing thing. Just looking at him made her burst with pride. Inherent honesty was stamped on his chiseled features, his level gaze direct.

  “And is this the man responsible for saving your life?”

  The two men eyed each other. Bella’s gaze slid from one man to the other. She’d seen friendlier looks on rival gang members. They were sizing each other up like two predatory animals. It wouldn’t surprise her if they started circling each other.

  Ignoring the tension between them, she made the introductions. “Jeffrey Privette,” she motioned with her hand toward Hank, “Hank McHenry.”

  Holding the delicate hot pink cup gingerly with one hand, he stuck out the other. “I’m in your debt.”

  Hank clasped it.

  Bella watched, half fearing a macho male-gripping contest but Hank shook the lawyer’s hand then dropped it.