by Kaylea Cross
Or nothing at all. She blushed.
Libby wobbled on her new three-inch heels, and then took a step back. It didn’t help. Her heart was rattling around like a runaway freight train inside her ribcage. The force of its thumping threatened to knock her onto her rear.
“You look pretty amazing,” he whispered.
Libby was so glad they had found this deep blue satin gown with the plunging neckline. She wore pearls.
Coop did what he always did. He coolly reached forward and placed his long fingers and palm against the small of her back, and held her so she wouldn’t fall.
Then he smiled that crooked half smile that exposed the one dimple on his left cheek.
“You’re beautiful.” he said.
Kiss me. Shut up and kiss me. Her well-developed common sense dribbled to the floor. “I’d forgotten how handsome you were. And wow, look at you in that suit.” What was it she wanted to say?
Cooper released her without drawing her toward him. He raised his right hand and brushed her right cheekbone with the backs of his fingers, his warm thumb smoothing over her lips. “I could never forget you,” he whispered.
It was all the invitation she needed. She pressed herself against his torso, flipping her arms up, holding hands with herself behind his neck. “I hope you never have to.”
Cooper frowned just before she bridged the gap between them, planting a kiss onto lips that she coaxed open. He softened, melded into the heat of her body, and brought both arms around the back of her waist. He drew her against his prominent arousal.
“Ahem.” Libby heard her father’s throat clearing a few feet behind. When she turned, he was staring at the two of them without expression. Cooper quickly dropped his arms to his sides. But his long thigh was pressed against hers. The electricity between them gave her courage. She wound an arm around the back of Coop’s jacket. Her palm pressed against his shoulders, rubbing. She heard him gasp with a little intake of air.
She was going to die until she could get this man naked and kissing every square inch of her again.
Carla Brownlee bustled to the entryway. She was dressed in a form-fitting black low-cut sheath and silver wrap they’d chosen together this afternoon. Her silver eye shadow shimmered in tandem with her new multiple-karat diamond teardrop earrings that Libby’s father had given her. Libby realized that on anyone else the huge earrings would look like too much cheap bling. On her mother, they matched her personality perfectly.
The four of them went downstairs, through the lobby, and out to the valet parking attendant who waited beside the Brownlees’ S600 black Mercedes sedan. Libby and Cooper took the rear seat, and Dr. Brownlee drove towards the ballroom gala. Libby flipped on the heated seats in the rear and watched as Cooper realized what she’d done. She pressed the toggle for gentle rolling seat vibration. It drew a chuckle from the big SEAL.
“How many quarters do you have to use to get it to do this?” he said with a grin.
Libby leaned over, planted a soft kiss on his lips. “Oh, it’ll cost you.”
Cooper squeezed her hand and adjusted himself on the groaning leather seat.
Libby noticed her father staring her down in the rear view mirror with a scowl. “Just try to concentrate on the crowd, Coop. I know my daughter is distractingly beautiful, but you wouldn’t be here with us tonight if I didn’t need those well-trained eyes and ears.”
“And instincts,” Carla added. She smiled at her husband. Libby noted the beautiful profile of the strongest woman she’d ever known. Her parents were a match for each other, in every way.
Dr. Brownlee nodded in deference to his wife and returned her a polite smile.
“Sir,” Coop began, “You can rest assured, I will be on high alert. I think this is the perfect cover. You just need to be yourself. Let the perp come to you. If he’s here, I’ve got you covered.” Coop was all business.
Libby’s father winced, one eye reduced to a small slit as he cocked his head. “I doubt he’ll be there. Too many people around. These types usually do their creepy things at night, in secret, when they can plan with their little devious minds.”
“So he’ll hide in plain sight, then,” Coop answered.
“Perhaps. But I think not.”
“The guy who wants to kill you usually tries to make hard eye contact with you first, sir. Just remember that.”
“Jesus, Coop. I have eye contact with most the people I talk to. I’d say this guy will be shifty. He won’t look at me.”
“I disagree. He’s going to want to see your fear. He lives for it. If he just wanted to kill you, he’d do it and get it over with. Move on. He wants to terrorize you first.”
Carla began to unravel in the front seat. Her earrings began to flutter wildly. Cooper leaned over and patted her shoulder. “Sorry, ma’am.”
This made Dr. Brownlee quiet and pensive. They rode the rest of the way to the dinner in silence.
Cooper sat back, slightly leaning against Libby in the rear seat. He was watching his thumb rubbing over the tops of Libby’s knuckles. Libby couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight of their fingers entwined. With each gentle massage, she felt her anxiety and tension dissipate. She wished she and Cooper were heading off to a candlelit private dinner, not a banquet with a hundred other couples.
When they arrived, Cooper was out and around the car the second Dr. Brownlee stopped. He first opened Carla’s door and helped her out. Carla was blushing as she thanked him and then waited for her husband.
Coop opened Libby’s door next and extended his palm inside, holding onto her firmly and drawing her close. He tucked her at his side while he closed the car door and brought them beside her mom.
Dr. Brownlee stopped at a registration table and picked up a plastic name badge with several ribbons attached to the bottom side. He clipped Carla’s nametag to the neckline of her dress, gave her a peck on the cheek and handed Coop and Libby their plastic badges.
Inside the banquet hall a band was playing at one end of the long room. Round tables were arranged along the edge of a small dance floor in front of a dais with one long table holding court over all. They were shown to their seats at the head table, Dr. Brownlee being placed at the center near a podium. Her father waved to a few people in the lower audience whom he recognized. Cooper looked over several couples dancing, and led Libby to join them.
The tempo was fast, but Libby and Coop danced slow. She noticed he didn’t seem to follow any rhythm. True to her ballroom lessons, she followed his lead and enjoyed the thrill of his hard torso pressed against her body. She wondered what it would feel like to dance with him in his full dress whites. In his arms, she felt like she could almost fly. He maneuvered her around the floor with no effort at all. His movements were panther-like, smooth and fluid. As they turned he surveyed the room, always able to maintain a partial view of Dr. and Mrs. Brownlee and anyone who came up to them.
Libby watched her mom and dad up on the dais. They seemed to be having a serious conversation, with her mom doing most of the talking. Her dad was nodding his head, while looking down at the crowd below, giving an occasional wave.
Libby recognized several faces in the crowd. People were munching on stuffed mushrooms and canapés presented on silver trays. Most drank wine. Within a few minutes Libby watched her father make his way, stopping at several tables and shaking hands along the way, to the bar to get his first drink. She was apprehensive what this would bode for the evening.
“Libby, you need to help me a little,” Cooper whispered, not taking his eyes off Dr. Brownlee’s trajectory.
“Sure. What do you want me to do?”
“Just tell me if something’s out of whack. Something that doesn’t make sense, okay?”
“You were trained for this?”
“Yes. Six months on an intelligence deployment. They taught me to mind read.”
Libby looked up at him and saw Coop grinning. She’d completely fallen for his little joke and loved him for it.
“Not quite, but it’s profiling. Israelis do it much better than we do,” he added. They continued to dance, although the music had stopped. A slow tune began.
“You mean I’m supposed to look for socks that don’t match or if someone is packing something bulky around their middle?” she wondered.
“Very funny. I’d say look for someone who is way too interested in your dad, or your mom.” He suddenly stopped. No smile. He looked directly into her face. “Or you.”
Did he see the little jolt of panic she felt inside?
Probably. Though he didn’t say it, she realized he considered her more of a target than her dad.
“Nothing’s going to happen to you or your family, Libby. You can trust me on that.”
Libby wanted the answer to a question that had been bothering her.
“Cooper, are you carrying a gun?”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that question. What do you think?”
“I’m guessing you are.”
“It’s only in case of an emergency.”
Libby was looking down at her shoes when Cooper grabbed one of her hands and led her over towards Dr. Brownlee at the bar. Two men in tuxedos were in a heated conversation. She recognized them as colleagues of her father’s. Cooper was interested and nudged her to within earshot.
“You can’t just take them out of the home without knowing where they’ll go. Foster care isn’t always the answer,” one man scoffed.
“I don’t have time to interview all the potential homes. That’s not my job,” the other answered.
“Maybe His Highness could donate some of his considerable salary to bankroll another part-time position. It’s the least he could do. He’s getting all the awards and plaques. That way he could earn them.”
Libby saw the other man’s eyes grow wide as her father positioned himself behind the man who just spoke.
“I gather I didn’t have your vote, then, Charlie.” Dr. Brownlee said to the back of the man’s head. Charlie jumped, turned and mustered a brittle smile.
“Austin, it wasn’t what you think,” he gushed.
“Just tell me, Charlie. Is it the plaque you object to, or my considerable salary?” Libby could see Charlie was trying to think of something to say. “A salary that most doctors right out of college would turn down. Or, are you thinking of my private practice?” Her father frowned, and then continued, “And how the hell do you know how much money I make working for the Foundation?”
Brownlee appeared to leave the pause long and awkward on purpose. Then he gathered himself, and poured out the charm in a smooth voice thick as honey. “We have to trust the system. Way from perfect, but it’s all we have. You’re right, for once. We do need more caseworkers, not admin or doctors. You can ask our contributors. Everyone’s spread thin these days with all the budget cuts.”
Brownlee tossed back his drink and turned to the bar for another while his two colleagues fidgeted. “Not so much ice this time,” Brownlee whispered to the bartender as a co-conspirator.
Libby noticed the bartender roll his eyes, dropping two cubes into a fresh glass and filling it with Dr. Brownlee’s choice of Scotch.
“Sir.” He held the drink out, with military bearing. Brownlee grabbed it without saying a word and turn back to his guests.
Libby saw her dad finally notice her and raise his glass in salute. After taking a long sip, he addressed his friends. “Gus and Charlie, I want to introduce you to my daughter, Libby.”
The two men looked like they wanted to be anywhere but at Brownlee’s side, being introduced to his daughter. Libby had a hard time taking her eyes off the drink in her father’s hand. It was nearly gone already.
She leaned in, “Dad—”
“Libby,” her dad interrupted, “Dr. Statler and Dr. Shane.” He pointed to them one at a time. “I went to school with Charlie at Stanford.”
“Nice to meet you.” She shook their hands. “This is my friend, Calvin Cooper.”
“Austin, you can be glad she takes after Carla,” Dr. Shane said. Everyone laughed.
“Pleasure, Libby,” Dr. Statler said as he bowed and left with Dr. Shane to go find their seats.
“We should sit down too, Dad,” Libby said as she locked elbows and pulled him toward the stage. She could hear Cooper’s footsteps following closely behind.
Half the room had seated themselves and were being served. As they stepped up on the dais, Carla was talking to a white-jacketed server who was pouring white wine. He bent over her with lavish gestures and laid her white cloth napkin across her lap, but his fingers lingered. Carla giggled. She was blushing.
“Are you through?” Dr. Brownlee boomed, addressing the waiter. It caused a momentary pause in the conversations below. Libby’s father sat down, bumping the short black-vested server, and apologized a little too loudly.
Dr. Brownlee leaned forward toward Coop, who was already seated next to Libby, at the doctor’s left. “Probably not the type of dinner you’re used to, son.”
Libby could feel Cooper flinch. She squeezed his hand, which had buried itself close to her thigh on her padded chair.
“You’re right.” Coop leveled a sharp glare at Dr. Brownlee. “Had to borrow the shoes, sir, and they hurt like hell.” He dropped his eyes to Libby’s lips and she could feel him soften.
Brownlee shrugged and dove into his Waldorf salad.
Cooper ate everything put before him, including the basket of bread after everyone else passed on it. He struck up a conversation with an older gentleman on his left Libby recognized as Dr. Fredrick Dolan, a former partner of her father’s. She presumed that perhaps Dr. Dolan was going to introduce her father and present his award.
Libby’s dad whispered to her, “Brownie, tell that sailor of yours he’d better be careful or he’ll get a bill in the morning.”
“I’m sure Cooper can take good care of himself,” she answered.
“How many psychiatrists do you think he’s used to talking to?”
Libby looked at Cooper’s thick neck and shoulders, the back of his head and chuckled in response, “I’m going to guess none.”
“I rest my case, then,” her dad said.
The dishes were cleared. Coffee was brought out, along with thin slices of chocolate torte. The lights dimmed and the crowd settled back into their seats for the presentation honoring her father. The gentle tinkling of silverware and coffee cups was a comforting background to the low rumble of polite conversation.
Dr. Dolan stood up, walked past Libby and lightly traced his fingers over her shoulders, which made her jump. Then he slapped her dad on the back as he made his way to the podium. A water glass and spoon was in his left hand. He pinged the glass and the sound was repeated throughout the room until all were focused on the stage.
“Welcome to the annual Lavender House Jewel of the Bay awards banquet.” The crowd was still. A photographer’s flash blinded everyone at the head table momentarily.
“We’ve prepared a short slide show presentation, a little departure from our usual menu of boring speeches. And Austin,” he leaned toward Dr. Brownlee as he tilted his head and winked, “if you don’t like the pictures, you’ll have to take it up with your wife.”
The room erupted in titters.
Carla looked at Dr. Brownlee, smiled and shrugged.
Libby could hear her dad ask, “What the hell did you do?”
Libby felt Cooper’s rigid attention. He had dropped her hand and had his left hand swinging free at his other side. He jerked as a white screen was lowered behind them. Just before it stopped unrolling, she saw him dip his head and search behind it before the back of the stage was obscured. Recorded music filled the room, at first blaring, then adjusted down. She recognized some of her father’s favorites: Credence Clearwater and the Grateful Dead.
The entire head table turned to watch the screen behind them. Pictures flashed of a handsome young dark-haired man with the distinctive jawline and lanky frame she knew so well. He
r mother looked just as beautiful as she was now, in a peasant blouse with hand embroidery, her shiny brown hair reaching all the way to her waist. There was a picture of her dad with Libby as a toddler, while he smoked a pipe in his study. Libby bounced on his knee and waved at the picture taker, presumably her mother. There were pictures of Libby and her brother, Neil, at the beach with their parents. In every photo, Austin was either smoking a pipe or had his nose in a book. His face seldom bore a smile, as if the picture-taking were somehow painful for him.
There was a yellowed photo of her father and Dr. Dolan in front of a bungalow with a sign out front Psychotherapy Associates. She remembered playing as a preschooler on the wooden floor of that older post-war building, and recalled the white and black octagon-tiled bathroom. Libby remembered the bathroom windows had wavy glass with thin wires embedded in them.
Dr. Dolan leaned forward and spoke to her father. “Should never have sold that place. We’d have made a fortune, Austin.”
Her dad was staring off into a dark corner, biting his lip absent-mindedly.
One picture took Libby’s breath away. It was of the six of them. Libby’s father and mother with a teenage Libby and Neil. Next to them stood a childless couple, Dr. Dolan and his wife. They were childless because their daughter had committed suicide the summer before. Jennifer had been in Libby’s class and the two girls had been friends. A year later, Mrs. Dolan herself had a heart attack and died. It was an odd addition to the happy biography of the man they were honoring tonight. Jennifer had been one of Dr. Brownlee’s patients.
“What’s wrong, Libby?” Coop whispered in her ear.
“I’ll tell you later,” she murmured. She noticed her dad was looking at his lap.
Several more pictures followed, including one of the costumes her parents had worn to a Halloween party at the Lavender house. Dr. Brownlee was dressed as a very pregnant woman and her mother was dressed as the physician in a white lab coat. Making the picture more humorous was the fact that Dr. Brownlee was drinking a pink cocktail and looked like he’d had several already.
