by Linda Ladd
“Like it?”
“Are you frickin’ kidding me?”
“Then take off your coat and let me see you.” He unbuttoned my less-than-luxurious, weasely fur and gave my body a slow once-over. “My, you do look lovely in that outfit.”
“You ought to like it. You bought it.”
Black nodded. “Ah, yes, I remember that day well. Last summer, I believe it was, when I took you sightseeing in my favorite Louisiana swamp and you beat up this guy and then later we found our first corpse together? No wonder I’m so turned on.” He grinned and carved all those damn dimples in his cheeks. His gaze dipped to my hooking togs again. “And the fishnet stockings and skunk fur are definitely eye-catching.”
He slipped his arms around my waist and pulled me tightly against him. He was as warm as I was cold. “You’re earlier than usual, only two hours late tonight.”
“Sorry, couldn’t be helped. A missing person came in.”
“You’re ice cold. Go change into something warm. I brought in dinner, and it’s still warm.”
“Chef Pierre from the hotel, huh?”
“I don’t cook except on special occasions.”
“This seems pretty special to me.”
“You bet it is. It’s been almost five months since you frisked and handcuffed me the first time. Tonight can be our first-time-you-arrested-me anniversary.”
“It’s still a bit extravagant, even for such a momentous occasion.” So what if I’ve grown to using bigger words since I met Black.
“There’s more.” Black handed me a long silver remote.
“This controls everything. The hot tub, the TV, garage door, alarm system, computer, Internet access, fireplace.”
“You got me an alarm system?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m an armed officer of the law.”
“With lots of enemies.”
True, a plethora of them. See, what I mean about the big words. I looked around. “What? No unfolding bed and dimmed lights like Doris Day did for Rock Hudson in Pillow Talk?” Black and I had watched that old movie late the other night on the 13-inch TV in my bedroom loft. He’d asked me if I had any binoculars so he could see the screen.
“That’s where I got the idea to put a new bed upstairs. I’ll unfold it myself. Ditto with the lights.”
“You got me a new bed?
“I got us a new bed, yes.”
“King-size, right?”
“California king-size. I can’t sleep in that barracks cot you call a bed. Not without a killer backache in the morning. Where’d you get that thing anyway? A garage sale at a monastery?”
“Black, I really appreciate this, I really do, but you’ve gotta quit getting me expensive gifts. It’s making me feel funny.”
“This is the only big thing I’ve ever given you, and it’s an early Christmas present, but okay, fine. If it makes you uncomfortable, this’ll be it. No more gifts.”
That’s Black for you. Using all his fancy degrees in psychology, never arguing with me, just killing me with kindness.
Black said, “Let’s eat, I’m starving. And tell me about your day. You know, how many men you enticed into sin with that hot body of yours and then threw into jail, stuff like that.”
“Let me get changed, then I’ll tell you about all my new boyfriends now languishing behind bars.”
Upstairs, I found a huge bed that took up most of the loft. It was covered with a luxurious gold satin comforter that looked soft enough to sink to the floor in. I suspected there were black silk sheets underneath. Black liked gold-and-black decor, almost to the point of absurdity, but he had those silk sheets on the bed at his place and they felt like heaven so I wasn’t going to argue that point.
I took a quick shower, washed my hair, dressed in Levi’s and a black sweater, not cashmere but Wal-Mart chenille, just so we’d be the Olsen twins, then I actually combed my short blond hair and brushed my teeth with orange-flavored Crest. Black’s influence, I guess, but I drew the line at lipstick. I am not a makeup kind of woman. I stood at the top of the stairs looking down at my new huge, glassed-in front room and couldn’t believe it was mine. When I reached the bottom of the steps, Black handed me a glass of white wine. I wished it was a bottle of Coors as I followed him to a new teak dining table with four matching swivel chairs upholstered in brick-red Ultrasuede. I do love swivel chairs. I do love brick-red Ultrasuede.
“You gotta stop doing this kind of stuff for me. I’m serious now, Black. This isn’t your way of putting a brand on me, is it?”
“I’m not the type to brand things.” He sounded miffed.
“What about all your monogrammed shirts and cufflinks? And what about the big brass B on the gates outside all your houses?”
“Well, that’s different.”
“We’ve talked about this before, you know. Let’s just take things slow, get to know each other, don’t redecorate each other’s homes, et cetera.”
“You don’t like it?”
“Of course, I like it. Who wouldn’t? But it seems sort of much for the length of time we’ve been dating. Sort of extravagant, I guess.” Sort of?
“I’ve been spending more time waiting around here for you than I have at home, so I added a few amenities. What’s the harm in that? It’s a Christmas present, nothing more, nothing less. Tell me about your missing-person case.”
He was good at changing the subject on purpose, too, but I didn’t mind. The truth was, I was delighted with the improvements on my shabby little A-frame, which now resembled Elizabeth Taylor’s Swiss chalet. Maybe it’s in Gstaad, too. Maybe she and Black are neighbors and borrow cups of sugar and stuff like that. But the book I bought for him still seems plenty crappy, even if it was a full-price hardback. I was going to have to find something else to put with it. Maybe some stocking stuffers. Maybe a deodorizer pine tree to hang on the rearview mirror of one of his Mercedes.
Black said, “Who’s your missing person?”
“His name is Simon Classon, and he works out at the Dome of the Cave Academy for the Gifted. Ever heard of it?”
“Yes. I’m on the advisory board there.”
That captured my attention. “No way.”
Black rocked back in his chair. “Yeah, for about four years. I know Rich Johnstone a little. He’s the director. It’s a charitable tax deduction.”
I watched him retrieve two dinners in white carryout boxes from the new microwave oven that I hadn’t noticed until then. But Black didn’t do carryout from McDonald’s or Wendy’s, like us regular folk. His came from his very own four-star restaurant, Five Cedars. “Caesar salad and coconut shrimp, and caramel cheesecake for dessert. Sound good?”
Suddenly my stomach remembered that I hadn’t fed it all day. It complained with a good rendition of a runaway freight train. “Coconut shrimp’s my favorite. And I kill for cheesecake.” I picked up my fork with not a little relish and watering of the mouth. “You know this Simon guy, by any chance?”
“Nope. What’s he do at the academy?”
“He’s the chief angelologist and suspected resident dealer of campus drugs.”
He stopped eating and stared at me. He has the bluest eyes this side of Sweden. Not just blue, but rich and deep and azure. They looked real warm and cuddly right now, but I’ve also seen them when they looked icy enough to freeze me to my chair. That was back last summer when I was accusing him of murdering people, but I haven’t been accusing him of anything much lately. No, lately we’ve been pretty much hitting the hot-and-heavy-affair description. Told you that I LIKE him.
Black tore me off a hunk of crusty French bread and dropped it on my plate. My manners were beginning to rub off on him, I guess. “Angelologist?”
“That’s right. He teaches classes about angels and seraphim. And he’s got a website, too, where he sells angelgrams to the unwary among us.”
“Yeah, who doesn’t nowadays?”
“Sell angelgrams or have a website?” Black ignored my wit and
forked up a bite of shrimp. I followed his lead and found it fantastic. I dug into my gourmet food without further ado. I preferred fast food, but gourmet wasn’t so bad in a pinch.
Black was enjoying his fare, too. He always waited to dine with me, no matter how late I showed up. Secretly, I thought that was pretty cool of him. Most men I knew put their stomachs first. Bud and Harve, for instance.
“Yeah, and guess what else we found? A stash of coke under his kitchen cabinet hidden in a bunch of cobwebs.”
“If he’s a dealer, I guess you suspect foul play?”
I nodded. “There was blood spatter in his foyer, and it looks like an angel doorstop was the assault weapon. Shaggy’s got it now. We’ll know more tomorrow. He’s comparing a hair he found on the doorstop to some in Classon’s hairbrush.”
Black said, “How about calling up the website and checking it out?”
“I’d love to. I was planning to go over to your place later and use your computer.”
“See. I knew you could use this stuff. It’ll help you with your cases and keep me from getting bored while I wait for you to drag in hours late every night.”
“Alas, the penalty one pays for dating a cop.”
“Ah, but the positives far outweigh the negatives. I’ll show you all the benefits of a California king-size bed later.”
“Looking forward to it, but again I say, you’ve overdone it this time.”
Black ignored me. He pretty much ignored anything we disagree on. If we didn’t argue about it, it didn’t exist. He is a famous forensic psychiatrist, did I mention that? Writes books, and everything. He helped me on my last case, once I finally proved to myself he wasn’t the serial killer I was after. Truth is, he can be pretty helpful sometimes. Like now.
At the touch of a button, the television came on. It was one of those flat kinds that hang on the wall, I forget what you call them. Plasma, maybe? Never checked them out because I never expected to be dating a moneybags. He had placed it over my new fieldstone fireplace. I guess it looked better there than a moose head. He showed me how to connect to the Internet provider and asked me the name of Classon’s website.
“callupanangel.com.”
“Cute.” A minute later Classon’s picture bloomed up on the opening page surrounded by a border of flying angels hoisting flaming swords. He was an attractive man but his features were a little too effeminate for him to be called handsome. It was hard for me to guess how old he was; he looked anywhere between thirty and fifty. He definitely had on eyeliner and lipstick and his hair was dyed Ronald McDonald red and cut in a shoulder-length bob. He had on the black half-glasses I’d found on his bed. He had a nice smile. I didn’t detect any wings or glowing halos or diaphanous white robes about his person.
“You sure this guy’s a man?”
I knew he was thinking about last summer, but I didn’t want to think about that case right now, not so close to bedtime, a.k.a. nightmareville.
“His neighbor intimated that he might be a girly man.”
“I’d say she’s right on.”
“Yeah. This is stacking up to be a weird case.”
Black said, “Want to order an angelgram? It’s a steal at eighty bucks. I’ll put it in your stocking.”
“I would if he was around to call up his angel buddies. What does it say about his background?”
Black moved the cursor and clicked on a small box that said “Bio.” The screen flashed, and he read aloud. “Simon Classon was born in South Africa, the only child of a husband /wife missionary team. Came back and grew up here in Missouri.” We skimmed the screen together and found that both of his parents were dead. No siblings. No other family. Classon was alone in this world. “Went to school at the University of Missouri–Columbia. Got a master’s degree there in comparative religions.”
“Wonder where he learned to talk to the angels? He’s got archangels on speed dial, you know.”
“I’m in the mood to talk to some angels myself,” Black said, switching off the set and giving me a look I’ve come to know rather well. “What do you want to try out first? Our new hot tub or our new bed? You choose. Either one’s okay by me.”
“Hot tub,” I said. “It’ll relax us, and all that.”
“Yeah, and all that.” Black smiled and jerked his sweater off over his head. I took a moment and admired his six-foot-three-inch physique of hard-packed muscles and tanned skin. I smiled and pulled my sweater off over my head. He grinned and admired my big ugly meat-cleaver scar. A sort of tit-for-tat kind of thing.
The hot tub turned out to be hot and bubbly and romantic with the smell of vanilla and the feel of warm, slick skin. The California king-size bed turned out to be big and soft and comfortable, and after some very slow and pleasurable lovemaking, I fell asleep snuggled in Black’s arms, wrapped in those silky black sheets he insists upon. What can I say, the guy’s not too bad to hang around with.
FIVE
I was pretty much dead to the world when the phone chirped at five a.m. the next morning. I rolled out of Black’s arms and onto my side, slightly disoriented by the sheer magnitude of the bed. I rolled some more and reached the opposite shore. I snatched up my cell phone and said a groggy hello but the phone kept up with the parakeet tweets.
“That’s mine,” Black mumbled, reaching for one of the three private cell phones he toted around, black, gold, and red, no less. Indeed, the two of us had an abundance of phones and phone numbers. I’d come to learn, however, that a call like this on Black’s red cellular usually meant an emergency. It’s the number he’d given to me, and to his family in Louisiana, who, I had learned the hard way, had a few Mafia connections, but, hey, some godfathers have okay brothers, too. I sat up on my side of the bed, and then rose, shivered, and pulled on my old red fleece robe, and walked to the wrought-iron wall edging my bedroom loft.
Like Oprah over Lake Michigan, I gazed down upon my new and huge front room with its wall of decorative, arched windows and beheld a world cloaked in pristine white, everything in the world outside frosty and glazed, and covered by a good foot or more of snow. The lake looked inky and frigid and deep, and somehow sinister in the stark black-and-white tableau.
Then again, it was a beautiful sight to behold the first thing in the morning, the proverbial winter wonderland, and my initial irk at Black’s remodeling efforts was fading fast. In fact, I felt a certain amount of glee welling inside me. I picked up the upstairs all-purpose remote—yes, Black had provided two of the state-of-the-art clickers, so I’d never have to run downstairs to change the plasma’s channel, I guess. I pushed the button for the fireplace and below, gas logs burst into roaring flames. I smiled and felt like Paris Hilton. All I needed was a little dog that looked like a rat and wore Versace.
Black was still listening to the person at the other end. I knew the matter was ultraserious when he said, in that slight, incriminating tone of annoyance he did so well, “And you are telling me that nobody there is capable of dealing with this?”
I’d heard that tone a couple of times myself, even though we were still in the honeymoon stage of our relationship and he knew better than to condescend to me too openly. I suspected the employee at the other end was doing some fairly fast dancing to soften Black’s aforementioned show of ire. Then Black said, resigned but still overtly peeved, “All right. Order the Lear fueled and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I watched him flip the cell phone shut. He turned and faced me. His hair was mussed, a small strand actually sticking up in front, which I can tell you didn’t happen often, not with Black’s wont for celebrity barbers. I found it endearing and wished I had a Polaroid camera to prove he had an imperfect moment now and again. Like everybody else, he had human hair that got messed up when he slept on it. I had begun to wonder. Like Bud, he looked perfect most of the time. I resisted the urge to smooth it down. I also resisted the urge to dive back into bed with him for some more lively amorous gymnastics. Guess mussed hair turns me on.
&
nbsp; Instead, I returned his serious expression and said, “Good morning. Or is it?”
“It’s not.” He stood up, splayed his fingers, and ran them back through all that thick black hair, thus fixing the mussed problem, so I admired his great physique some more while he pulled on an expensive black flannel robe. He’d brought me one like it, too, but I preferred trusty Old Red. “I’ve got to go to Paris. An emergency with a patient.”
“Paris? You mean, like in France?” I wasn’t expecting that. Who gets a call to go off to Paris at five o’clock in the morning? Name one person, other than Colin Powell or Condoleezza Rice, maybe.
“Yeah. Paris, the one in France.” Black walked around the giant bed, which took some time, sat down, and pulled me onto his lap. He squeezed me close, and I put my arms around his neck with my cheek against his hair. “Come with me, Claire. We’ll spend Christmas together in Paris. I’d love to show you the city.” When I didn’t snatch that bait right off the hook, he got more creative with the incentive package. “How about midnight mass at Notre Dame Cathedral, and then Christmas brunch at the Jules Verne on the Eiffel Tower?”
That Black. He gives new meaning to jet-setting, champagne wishes, and caviar dreams. I, on the other hand, went Ford Explorer–setting and had five-percent-beer dreams, or just plain nightmares. I attempted to explain my reluctance. “I can’t just take off on the spur of the moment, Black. You know that. This new missing-person case just came up, and besides, it doesn’t sound like much fun spending Christmas alone in some ritzy French hotel doing nothing while you take care of patients.”
“I’ve got an apartment off the Champs Elysées that you’d find very comfortable.”
But of course he did, silly me. “Oh, yeah. I guess you’ve got apartments all over the world just in case, don’t you?” The remark sounded sarcastic, yes, and I wondered why it had come out that way. Black donned his benign look of annoyed indulgence, as he tended to do when I nixed his plans or needled him a bit, but he remained steadfastly patient. Not many in the world of Nicholas Black ever even attempted to thwart his wishes, but he was getting used to my backbone, I guess.
