“You look more beautiful every time I see you.”
A shadow detached itself from the wall beside the window. Green eyes glinted as it moved closer, the outline of a man becoming clearer and more solid. He was here. Her man. After all these years. Even death couldn’t keep them apart.
They embraced, and their lips met. They kissed hungrily, passionately. No talking was needed. What was there to say? She held his face in her hands. That face she knew so well. That face that would be forever young; forever hers and hers alone. His hands ran through her hair, now no longer in a bun. He caressed her neck. He kissed her her cheeks, her forehead and her lips. He moved down to kiss her neck, now the smooth neck of a twenty-five year old.
They fell together onto the bed.
*
Hours later they in bed. She rarely slept when she was here; and it wasn’t because of the sex. There was plenty of that, to be sure. But just to lie with him and talk; sometimes that was the best part. He asked questions upon questions; about Kat, the grandkids, her house, everything she had been up to since last year. He couldn’t hear enough. And she loved to share her life with him.
As dawn approached , he held her close and gazed into her eyes. He was starting to fade as night gave way to morning. This was the hardest part.
“You’ll be back?”
She kissed him. “Of course, my darling. Same time, next year.”
4
What the hell happened in vegas!
A Pauline Sokol romantic short story
Lori Avocato
I turned around 360 degrees in the lobby of Vegas’ Excelsior Hotel and thought it was superb in design and decor, admiring the high-end beauty built back in 1960 by Louis “The Lip” LaFica (I didn’t even want to go there!). Marble, gold, every kind of expensive material there was on Earth had been used. Not that I was an expert on expensive. Nope, not me. I struggled for every dollar I earned in a job I hated. But looking at all this beauty didn’t hurt my eyes at all, so I kept on gawking like a guy in Victoria’s Secret shop. Oh… my… god. I looked from the front desk to the lobby center to the doorway, all of which amazed me more. And then, I froze in place when I noticed… him. Not even the magnificence of the place could rival what my glare caught at that moment.
Jagger.
No last name that I was aware of. Just Jagger.
In his full glory. Well, maybe not full glory, but definitely full “hotness.” Tall, always wearing black, Jagger, now wearing faded jeans (rather snug, gulp), camel-colored suede sports jacket and a white shirt. Spotless, I’m sure, white shirt. Dark glasses, not needed in the brilliant lobby, but no doubt adding to the attraction and sensuality walking toward me.
And right past me.
Ready to yell out, “What the hell?” I realized this fantasy-land hotel was not Hope Valley, Connecticut where I’d come from. Most of my medical insurance fraud cases were in and around that New England area. But today, Fabio Scarpello, my sleazy boss, had managed to send me to dreamland.
Las Vegas.
Apparently with Jagger.
Thank you, Saint Theresa.
I said that speedy little thanks to my favorite saint. Being Catholic, living with a “Catholic School Induced Conscience,” I had to give praise where it was due. And, looking at hottie Jagger’s butt while he stood at the registration desk (no doubt making all the female clerks, okay, in Vegas maybe even the male clerks swoon), St. Theresa was due my gratitude. Jagger and I had done well on all our cases, in the beginning mostly due to his experience, but I had come a long way if I had to say so myself. Being a nurse, I had good instincts, and it turned out I even surprised myself on some cases.
Probably surprised Jagger too, although he’d never admit it.
And, I’d gotten pretty damn street-smart in the process. Coming from a good Polish Catholic family, it took some time to grow in this field, but due to financial need (never, I repeat, never co-sign a loan for a “friend”), and the help of my dear roommates/now legal spouses Miles and Goldie, I began doing damn well with this medical insurance fraud stuff. Miles was a nurse too, darling friend, and when I burned out of the field of nursing he found me investigative work with Fabio. Goldie, ex-Army Intel, was my “mentor” in the beginning as he, too, worked for Fabio. But Goldie also taught me how to dress and do my makeup. He was as chic as they came, as sophisticated as a royal, and as fashion savvy as Coco Chanel, who Goldie once told me had said, “In order to be irreplaceable, one must always be different.” And, since Goldie usually looked more like Donatella Versace than her late brother Gianni, he followed Chanel’s advice to a “T.”
I hurried toward the front desk to make sure cheap Fabio hadn’t booked only one room for Jagger and me—then I slowed. Would that really be so bad?
Jagger stood leaning on the desk in the most casual, sexy pose as I approached. Damn. As usual, he always smelled delicious. Manly. But not like Irish Spring soap. Nope. Much more viscerally male. I convinced myself that he had a custom made cologne, or, anything he wore was enhanced by his male pheromones, so he always smelled delicious.
“Yes, Sir,” the poor clerk mumbled and couldn’t take her eyes off of him while she finished with, “Your room is on the seventh… no, ninth floor and has a lovely view of the Strip. Since we are pretty much centered in the middle of the Strop… Strip. We’re in the middle. Centered. Of the Strip.” Then she cleared her throat.
Poor kid.
I knew that clearing her throat wouldn’t empty the Jagger-induced sexual cobwebs from her mind. Sometimes it took me hours. Ok, days.
“Excuse me.” I tried to lean over as Jagger had been doing, but at over six feet he was much taller and my arm slid off the counter top, and I fell against him. Oops. Gulp. Yum.
“Easy, Sherlock,” he said, while still looking at the doe-eyed clerk, and with his right arm, kinda nudged me upright.
I felt my face burning. And here I thought nothing he could do would still affect me. Ha! Even I didn’t buy that one. “Pauline,” I corrected (however, in all honesty, I loved that he’d given me a nickname even if it was originally probably an insult to my lack of ability. After a time, I managed to convince myself that wasn’t true, and loved that he called me Sherlock. Often I would “guide” my thoughts about Jagger to my own liking.
The clerk handed Jagger two room keys, which he stuck in his pocket. Two?
I held the counter for support and said, “Excuse me. I’m Pauline Sokol. I need to check in too.”
While the clerk seemed to ignore me, Jagger took my arm. “You are.” He then turned and started to walk toward the elevator after picking up his carry on black leather bag. Black, of course. Not on wheels, of course.
Knowing this kind of Jagger stuff caused my mouth to drop, I shut my lips tightly, yanked on my roll-on bag and hurried behind him. That’s right. He had two keys. Nice of him to take care of registering me too. “Is my room on the same floor? With the lovely view? In the center of the Strip?” I shut up since even I thought I sounded like the poor clerk.
Jagger continued on, pressing the “Up” button on the elevator.
I inhaled his scent, the door opened, he stepped in and looked at me frozen on the spot. Being in such close quarters with him never had a good outcome. “I’ll wait for the next one.” I knew how stupid that was because the damn elevator was empty except for him.
He shrugged, reached into his pocket while he held the door open with his foot (wearing his usual black leather boots) and pulled out one of the keys.
As I reached to take it, he moved his foot, the door started to close, and I grabbed the key before it fell down the tiny crack leading to the elevator shaft.
Shaft.
Oh… my… god. Good thing I waited and didn’t get in with him.
*
I accidently pushed the button to floor seven, cursed the foolish clerk, and hit the button for nine. Luckily Jagger had given me the key with the holder, so my room number was on it. Then again, this was Ja
gger I was talking about. He could think of what to do in a split second and always be right. When the door opened, I stepped out and followed the directions on the wall and found my room, stuck the key in, pulled it out quickly and pushed down on the handle when the light turned green. So far so good. Being flustered by Jagger seemed to be subsiding quickly. I opened the door, held it with my hip, yanked my suitcase through and stopped.
“What took you so long, Sherlock?”
I should have thought, why am I not surprised? But nothing about being with Jagger, working with Jagger, or spending hours staring at Jagger, even phased me now. “Took the scenic route. This place is amazing.” I looked around the room. Lots of black, white and, well, monochromatic black and white. Interesting. I’d read up on The Excelsior Hotel before coming here, so I knew there was no particular theme or design. But this room screamed male. Male.
Jagger, now lounged out on the king-sized bed with chrome headboard, three steps to get up to it and, oh… my… god, a mirror above. How very Vegas. His shirt was undone in front—all the way down, no shoes or socks on his feet and his hair a bit tousled, but nonetheless, delicious still. I reigned back my Jagger thoughts (as those damn things never worked out well for me either like the close quarters issues) and looked around the room.
Windows overlooked the strip. The floor was some kind of white marble, I was guessing material, and the furniture expensive black and white leather. I let go of my suitcase handle and touched the top of a very comfortable looking white stuffed chair. “Butter,” I mumbled.
Jagger raised an eyebrow.
“Ok, I’m not used to such opulence. You sure Fabio only booked one room?” Great. I can’t believe I said that. I would have to be a big girl about this and try to control my Jagger-induced lust. That would not be simple. He wasn’t just easy on the eyes, but a great guy too. Each year he came to my parents’ 1960s nostalgic house for Christmas Eve and a few other times where he’d won the heart of one Stella Sokol, a.k.a Mom. And that was no easy feat. She was super straight, very Polish-traditional and had raised five kids by instilling a conscience in us along with the help of the nuns at the Catholic school we had all attended. She called him “Mr. Jagger.” Geez. But to his credit, he never corrected her. How cute was that?
Plus, I shared a joint Shih Tzu/poodle mix with Goldie and Miles. Although the poor thing only weighed in at nine pounds, Spanky was a great judge of character. And, he loved Jagger. Good enough for me.
“Take a look at this,” I heard him say, and before I could swing around, I thought, at what? He was on the bed, for crying out loud. His shirt was undone, for crying out loud and his feet naked.
I heard a shuffling sound and, although my mind wanted to wander into the “taking-off-clothing” arena, logically it sounded like paper. Sure enough. I turned to see the stereotypical manila case file folder on the bed next to him. True Fabio form: a used folder.
Right. We were here to work. I cursed cheap Fabio for only coughing up enough for one room, and walked toward the bed. “I’ll unpack later.” I picked up the file. “What do we have here?”
I think Jagger shifted toward me, but I focused on the folder.
“Chiropractor fraud.”
“Chiropractor? This is the land of casinos and shows? Who goes to a chiropractor here?”
He gave me a kinda, “read the file” look but said, “High rollers.”
“High rollers as in gamblers?”
He nodded.
“But that doesn’t sound illegal. The casino provides a massage or two to people who spend a lot of money?”
“Chiropractor. Not masseuse. Read the file, Sherlock.” With that, he was up off the bed, down the steps and headed toward the bathroom. “Order me a ribeye, rare, salad without dressing, and something for yourself. Could be a long night.” He took his suitcase with him, so I guessed he was going to change. Get comfortable.
Oh geez. Comfortable.
“Where should I go to get…” He’d closed the door. I stared at it a few minutes as if it could answer me, then realized how very small-town-America I sounded. Room service. Never in my life had I ever used expensive room service. I only hoped Fabio had given us a daily spending allowance to cover it. Deciding to investigate the room before studying the file, I found the menu, the phone, a small refrigerator stocked with snacks, liquor, beer and soft drinks. This was the Disneyland of hotels.
Room service took my order for Jagger’s steak and my alarmingly expensive burger. I unpacked so my clothes would unwrinkle and sat on a black couch which overlooked the Strip. Even in the daylight, the place sparkled. I opened the file folder and started to read. Apparently the casino provided services from this chiropractor gratis for people who spent a lot of money gambling. Still, I didn’t see what the guy was doing that was so wrong. I kept reading then felt something next to me.
Shoeless Jagger had sat down next to me. And he must have showered, because his hair was still a bit wet. Wet. He still smelled freshly delicious, and now wearing faded jeans and a black (naturally) T-shirt, he looked over my shoulder.
Help me, Saint Theresa.
How the hell could I concentrate like this? What was Fabio thinking? Maybe he did this on purpose, as he’d never been too fond of me, but I was the medical expert and our cases always were medical insurance fraud. Wait. I was being silly. Fabio had no idea about my Jagger-infatuation. Only Goldie and Miles knew. I had to be professional, so I managed to say, “I don’t see the fraud aspect yet.”
As Jagger started to say something, a doorbell rang. A doorbell? In a hotel? He got up, went to answer it, and when he stepped aside, a waiter rolled in a lovely silver cart, and the aroma of steak and my twenty-two dollar burger wafted throughout the room.
*
The meal was delicious, and watching Jagger chow down on a rare ribeye was even more appetizing. Soon, we had cleaned our plates. He rolled the cart toward the door and stuck it outside the room. He’d signed the check on it earlier, and I’m sure he’d given the guy who delivered it a good tip.
“Ok,” Jagger said, taking the file from the coffee table. “They provide this service, but somewhere along the line, the insurance company is getting hosed. We have to figure out how. Use your medical expertise.”
“Um.” I needed more to go on. “What’s this guy’s deal? Does it say what he does?”
“She.”
She? She? All I could think was: hope she is not a looker!
“So Fabio gave us some chips…”
Jagger was still talking, but I’d zoned out on the “she” part. I pulled myself together and looked at him. “Chips?” Why would Fabio give us potato… ah, gambling chips. I laughed. “Oh. I get it. Hope he doesn’t expect me to be using the damn chips.”
He looked at me as if to say, “Duh.” But he rifled through the folder while mumbling, “I got that one.”
Phew. “So what is my job then? Besides the medical part.”
Just as Jagger rearranged the folder, the doorbell rang again.
“Did you order more room service?” I got up, since he didn’t look too keen on moving, and headed to the door. “I don’t have any cash to tip—” I said, yanking the door open.
“Hello, Suga’!”
“Oh my gosh! Goldie. Goldie? What are you doing here?”
“Can I come in to explain?” He’d worn his royal blue suit with the pencil skirt, heels that matched perfect in color and had to be a gazillion inches high, and a white fur boa, even though it had to be eighty degrees outside. A curly, down to his shoulders blond wig added to chic. Still, Goldie never looked overdressed.
Jagger yelled, “Let him in, Sherlock, and close the door.”
Right. We were doing detective work, so we had to be careful no one got suspicious of us. Never knew who was lurking in a classy hotel like this in Vegas. However, six-foot Goldie in drag never looked suspicious.
“Come in,” I said, grabbing his arm and yanking him and his Louis Vuitton luggage in the d
oor, then closing it. I hugged him again. Goldie was always my “ally” in fraud cases and in love (Ok, and in Jagger fantasies). I looked at his three bags. Even for Goldie this was excessive. “Why so much luggage? How long you staying?” Was he bunking with us? Yay. Or damn.
Goldie looked at Jagger. “Hey.” Then he turned toward me. “Guess he didn’t get to tell you yet.”
Did Jagger snicker? I looked at him, since he had made some kind of noise, and in my past experiences with him, the noise was usually derogatory toward me. But not in a mean way. “What?”
Jagger got up, shook Goldie’s hand, said, “Drink?” and headed to the refrigerator.
Goldie flopped down on the white leather chaise lounge, which only added to the beauty of his outfit, matching perfectly, and said, “Champagne.” Then he flicked one size eleven heel onto the floor, followed by the other in an oh-so-ladylike style.
Oh how Goldie. “I’ll join him,” I said and snuggled up next to Goldie.
Jagger took out a bottle of Dom Perignon, which was very expensive stuff. He popped the cork, poured a lovely crystal glassful for Goldie, used the same kind of fancy glass for me and got himself a Heineken—without a glass.
I kissed Goldie’s cheek while Jagger said, “He’s here for you, Sherlock.”
Did Fabio (or more likely Jagger) think I wasn’t capable of working this case? Shoot. “Wait a damn minute. I have the medical knowledge—”
“Relax, Sherlock. You got that. We know it.” Jagger took a long swig of his beer. “That’s not what I meant.”
Goldie turned toward me with a kinda pathetic look on his face, meaning I looked pathetic, not him. “What he means is, I am here to dress you!” He laughed and said, “This is going to be so much fun! I’m gonna make you look like a star. A rich-ass star. Maybe royalty. Yes, foreign royalty! Princess Sokol!” With that, he set his champagne down on the glass and chrome coffee table and headed toward one of the Louis’, the smallest one like a makeup case. “I brought everything I need, Suga’. Makeup. Shoes. Clothes!” He unzipped one of the bags and eased out a sparkling number in black. “Magnifique!”
Romantic Times Page 6
