The Girl With Aquamarine Eyes

by Shelley Madden

  “Where’s the coin?” He asked.

  Bonita pulled it from her smock and handed it to him. Before he could drop it into his shirt pocket, Heaven caught sight of it. She once again leaned over the bed and became ill.

  “Heaven, what is wrong?” Harmon rose from the chair and moved toward her.

  Bice gazed at Bonita. “You can go now. Please ask Thornton to send up broth for Heaven instead. Next, get someone to clean up the mess on the floor in here.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Bonita scurried out the door as quickly as she’d entered.

  Bice sighed. He was tired. Damn tired, even though he had just woken. The big house was spinning around him, sucking him into an dizzying orbit of confusion. His yearning for a meal gnawed at him like six-dozen termites.

  He shuddered at the thought. He would not become the Philly Monster again. Not for Harmon’s sake, or Heaven’s. They needed him.

  As badly as he needed a drink, he would resist. As badly as he wished Heaven had never set foot across the threshold, it was Harmon’s decision, not his. There was no choice but to accept it.

  He couldn’t let them down. They had no one else. Nor did he.

  * * *

  Chapter Eleven

  Bice and Harmon limped down the long hall in unison.

  Bice propped the musician against his shoulder, attempting to steady him. The singer suddenly felt frail and lifeless. His once charismatic demeanor had apparently washed away in the blood-stained tides the night before. He’d said little since the pair bolted down the stairs to find out the latest misadventure Heaven had gotten herself into.

  “Take it easy for awhile.” Bice instructed his employer, easing him onto his bed. “Your dinner will be up soon.” He leaned over him, and adjusted the pillow. As if on queue and as fate would have it, the coin rolled from his front pocket and plopped onto Harmon’s chest.

  Before he could exhale, Harmon picked it up and gazed at it. The musician simply stared at the token, his face remaining expressionless. He finally let it fall and gazed at his assistant.

  Bice could say nothing. At least the musician was safely in bed, if he passed out he wouldn’t hit the floor. He was growing tired of plucking the high-strung man from his precarious positions after he fainted.

  “Why is her picture on the backside of the coin?” Harmon wheezed. “What in the hell is she? Who is she?”

  “We discussed this last night. Whatever she is, whoever she is, we will have to accept it and support her.”

  Harmon sat up, his eyes ablaze with an all too familiar fury. “Don’t blow it off, Bice. Her picture is on the back of a damned coin, it’s on the back of an entire can of damned golden coins and I want to know why!”

  For once, Bice found himself at a loss for words. He had no explanation. He couldn’t sugar-coat the facts. An exact replica of Heaven’s stunning face was in fact carved with utmost care on the flip side of each token. It could be no one else.

  He picked the coin up once more. Her golden curls blew in the wind, frozen in time within the painstaking etching. Her aquamarine eyes seemed to glow with eternal life from within.

  He fought a sudden urge to throw open the highboy drawer, grab the coins and bolt to the sea with them. He’d toss them into the churning waves where they belonged. Where they’d surely lie until the end of time.

  Harmon groaned. “They must have fallen from the boat.”

  “What boat?”

  “Seven years ago. The day I found her and her dead parents. Their boat was wrecked on the cliff line.” He turned toward the window and gazed at the churning sea. “The coins apparently were in the boat. They had to be. Lying unseen so many years after the boat capsized. Buried beneath the sands, all but forgotten by time.”

  “They must be some sort of clue to who she is.” Bice sighed. “The problem is, I’m not sure I want to know.”

  Their conversation came to a halt as Thornton entered the room. He peered around momentarily, checking for anything amiss and carefully pushed the dinner cart through.

  Without a word, he sat a tray near Harmon’s bed, carefully placing a covered platter of food on it. “Will their be anything else, Mr. Steele?”

  “No, thank you.” Harmon eyed the tray hungrily, and lifted the silver cover from the plate. A sweeping wave of disbelief crossed his eyes. His mouth hung open, as he gasped at what lie beneath the cover.

  “What is wrong?” Bice leapt to the bedside and gazed at the meal.

  “It’s tomato soup. Is this some kind of joke? I cut my foot on the beach, leave a bloody mess in the kitchen, nearly die and this is what I’m served? Bloody tomato soup as if to remind me of my near-fatal ordeal?”

  Bice laughed. “Apparently, your dinner got mixed-up with Heaven’s. Sit tight, I’ll take it to her and bring yours back.”

  He wheeled the cart out the door and limped away without a backward glance. He’d put his hunger on hold much too long.

  He swung Heaven’s door open and smiled at the girl who lay quietly on her bed, gazing out the window. Maybe, he too would gaze out the window, deep in thought, once he finally sank his teeth into Bonita’s fine meal.

  “Hey girl, Thornton got your dinners mixed-up. You’ve got Harmon’s, here’s yours.” He wheeled the cart to her side of the bed. “ After you eat, let’s go for a walk in the gardens. A slow walk. Thanks to you, my toes are not well. But we need to get you out of here for awhile. We will talk.”

  Heaven gazed at the man. The same man whom not long ago called her a freak when she unexpectedly walked into Harmon’s study. Though she knew he’d slept all day, he still looked bone tired. His dark hair hung listlessly down his drooping shoulders. She didn’t know why he cared if she ate or not. She didn’t know why he wanted to talk.

  She did know his head would be smashed like a watermelon fallen from a farm truck, if she’d not stopped his rapid descent on the staircase. She didn’t know why she’d stopped his fall, only that she did. Something deep down had beckoned her to save him.

  An ache in her very soul, a hole in her existence had propelled her forward to his aid. Maybe, one day he’d do great things. She doubted it though. She sighed, and gazed at the covered platter.

  “All right, sounds good enough.” She muttered as she lifted the lid. “What the hell is this?”

  “Tomato soup, and bite your tongue, child.”

  “Is this some kind of joke? You almost died on the staircase. Your head nearly wound up the same color of this soup. “

  Bice gazed at Heaven. A thousand wings thundered in the distance. The termites were coming. No, he wouldn’t let them. It was the hunger pains thundering in his head. His belly yawned and groaned, demanding to be quenched. No, it was the termites.

  This time they were eating him inside-out, and they started in his belly. A cold frothy ale down the hatch would certainly drown them. If there were too many bugs, he’d drink a six pack. Maybe even a case.

  But no, the Philly Monster was long gone. He’d fought the battle for this long, and he would win again. He wondered if Bonita thought he had a fine ass. “Heaven, eat the blasted soup. I’ll be back for you in thirty minutes.”

  He shoved the correct cart out the door, making sure to slam it. He stomped on his one good foot down the hall toward Harmon’s room.

  * * *

  After arriving back in his suite, Bice rolled his cart to the window and took a chair beside it. The TV droned somewhere behind him, but he wasn’t interested. He peeled his sock off, tossed it across the room and gazed at his toes.

  They were angry red and swollen, as he expected. He wiggled and flexed them, only to cry out in pain. There’d be no walk on the beach tonight. He had no choice but to wait until morning, and try to pump Heaven for information about the origin of the golden coins.

  He’d had enough for now. As a matter of fact, he’d had too much. His battle was hard fought, and he planned to reign supreme over the Philly Monster.

  To hell with it, let the termites dine.
He picked up the phone and called the kitchen. He knew he was a looser. He knew some things never changed. Apparently, he was one of those things. “Thornton, have Bonita bring me up a six pack of the finest beer in the house. Right away.”

  He slammed down the phone and shoved it out of the way. Gently, almost hesitatingly, he eased the metal cover from his meal. A sigh of relief escaped him.

  A fresh batch of fried chicken was painstakingly arranged on the plate before him. Next to it, sat one of the largest baked potatoes he’d ever laid eyes upon, patiently waiting for him to consume it. A tossed salad and a peach cobbler topped off the incredible meal. He smiled in contentment and happily indulged in the meal of a lifetime.

  He glanced up at the knock on the door. “Come in.”

  Bonita arrived carrying the most beautiful silver and hopefully unbreakable bucket he’d ever laid eyes on. Fleur-de-lis graced its gilded rim. The frosted necks of half-dozen amber bottles of fine ale peeked over the top. He smiled as he realized that very soon, his foot pain would be but a faded memory.

  “Thanks, Bonita.” He smiled and waved her away.

  He gazed at the amber bottles. Without a second thought, he grabbed one and took a long, refreshing drink. Moments later his meal was gone. He stared at the empty plate, barely remembering eating. He finished the beer and wiped the foam from his mouth.

  He rubbed his quenched belly, and stretched. Yes indeed, his foot pain was about to be a thing of the past. He carefully studied the remaining fine imported ales. To hell with a walk on the beach trying to sort things out with the freakish teenager. To hell with it all.

  He gingerly cradled the silver bucket, and slowly limped to his bed. He pulled off his opposite shoe, skidding it across the floor. He eased back on the bed and propped his aching foot on a pillow. The lure of the glittering bucket called to him.

  One at a time, he pulled each frosty bottle from their container and carefully placed them around his throbbing toes and on each side of his foot. He eased back on the bed and smiled in pure bliss. He hadn’t felt this good in years.

  Tonight, the termites would go hungry.

  * * *

  Heaven had waited as long as she could wait.

  She’d paced from wall to wall in her suite for an hour. She sighed, twirled on her heel once more and stomped to the opposite wall for what seemed the hundredth time.

  Her patience was gone. As a matter of fact, it was long gone. Bice had obviously forgotten their walk on the beach. She’d planned on using this chance to talk to him about taking her to visit Dreams, or perhaps bringing her best friend to the estate for a visit.

  Finally, she quietly padded down the hall to his room and pressed her ear to the thick mahogany door. A TV droned from within; the garbled words faded and whirled and went airborne before she could clarify what he might be watching. Ever so gently, she eased the door open and peeked in.

  Bice was fast asleep. An empty plate sat near the window seat, a lone shoe laid nearby.

  Near him, sat a lovely silver bucket. His foot was propped up on a large pillow. His toes were obviously red and swollen. She gasped as she realized she must have done more damage stomping his foot than she’d intended.

  She peered closely at his foot. It was surrounded by several brown colored bottles. The condensation from them had soaked the pillow, and some of their labels were sliding off. One was firmly adhered to the side of his foot. She jumped as a loud snore suddenly erupted from him. He smacked his lips and groaned.

  She sighed, shaking her head in disbelief. Apparently the man had gone mad. She knew she wouldn’t be around to say anything about his strange behavior to Harmon in the morning. She could only hope the fainting baboon had sense enough to buy his assistant one of those fancy doctors who worked on people’s heads.

  She quietly closed the door, and trotted toward the staircase.

  The night was hers.

  * * *

  Harmon opened his eyes and squinted at the bedside clock.

  Sleeping at night wasn’t typical of him. He knew he must force himself to get up, and finish the lyrics he’d been working on so long. The ones that were ruined in his study downstairs. If he tried, maybe, just maybe, he could sort some of the words out. Enough to at least get a start on trying to piece his song back together.

  He sat up and gently swung his bandaged foot over the side of the bed. He flexed his toes and wriggled his ankle in a circle. The pain was almost gone. He gingerly eased himself to an upright position, and placed a small amount of pressure on his injured heel.

  “Mr. Steel?” A voice from behind him called out.

  He whirled around at the sound. A vivacious blonde nurse complete in a neatly pressed uniform and matching hat, was walking through the doorway carrying a small medical bag. “Who are you?”

  “I’m nurse Browning. Please go back to bed, I was bringing in a change of bandages for you.” She guided him back to the bed, fluffed his blankets and laid his foot neatly on the pillow.

  “Look.” He muttered. “It’s a simple cut. I don’t need a damn nurse.”

  She leaned over him and delicately pulled the sheet to his chest. He found himself gazing at the nicest set of bosoms he’d seen in a very, very long time. Her green eyes bore straight through him.

  “Mr. Bice hired me to keep an eye on you. It’s only for a day or two.” She gently lifted his foot, and before he could argue began removing the worn bandages.

  He watched in awe the slight jiggle of her enormous mounds as she worked on him. He determinedly fought the temptation to touch one. Maybe she wouldn’t notice if he copped a quick feel. He felt his face suddenly flush crimson, as her soft hand caressed his wounded foot.

  She carefully bandaged it and gently rubbed his ankle. Her fingertips were spun gold, they were the strings on a harp, gently coaxing music from his prickling skin.

  She smiled at him. “There you go. Now, I’ve got to check Mr. Bice. I hear he too, suffered an injury.”

  She stood in the doorway, gazing at him with filmy and serene eyes. Eyes that beckoned him to her bosom.

  He met her gaze. He knew that come-hither look well. The lobes of his ears burned hot with sudden desire, as his skin prickled to life with intense yearning. A call he had not fulfilled since Heaven had come to the estate erupted like a volcano in his chest.

  The roar of an elephant, deep in the jungle, reverberated within his spinning mind. A primitive howl surged forth, a battle cry which he had long ago swept from his thoughts.

  He fought the urge to tear his shirt open and pound his chest.

  He knew he could have her, right here in this very spot. Her emerald eyes burned sultry desire for him. She knew who he was, and she stood in the doorway, making sure he knew she wanted him.

  When her phone rang the day before, she’d been in complete disbelief she’d be nursing Harmon Steele. Her eyes softly spoke her knowledge of him, and his fame. His thighs quivered with excitement as he realized she knew who he was.

  But alas, he had been in this very situation too many times. He must resist. He knew he could never, ever sleep with a fan. It was his fate, and it was sure to backfire.

  The women he’d slept with while on tour had inevitably fallen in love with him, clinging to him frantically each time he boarded his jet for the next city. They’d begged him to take them along, to make them his.

  He’d been forced repeatedly to leave them standing in their misery, as the winds of time eventually blew them into his past. Another heart broken. Another faded lyric in his endless book of sorrowful ballads. His own wicked game. A game he always lost. There was no glory for him anymore in one night stands.

  He’d finally vowed to no longer do this to any woman. Tears would cease to fall at the steps of his jet, lying in wait to evaporate in the plane’s burning passion at take-off.

  Women he’d left behind were scattered across the country, across the world. Petals of dried roses left in his wake, to succumb within the yellowed pages of ti
me. There was no glory in a heart broken for a simple act of lust.

  Because, he was who he was. A musician who sang his lonely heart out to millions of fans as they screamed and pounded the stage at his sweaty feet. Because he could not choose to take a woman back to the hotel for a one night stand, without suffering the repercussions of an idyllic evening likened to that of a fairytale. No more women would be left behind drowning in sorrow.

  When the time was right, he’d settle down with one woman. It wouldn’t be a jump-in-the sack-thing. It would be the old fashioned way. The way his mom and dad had dated.

  He sighed in resignation, and reached for the pitcher of fresh ice water on his bedside table. He knew of only one cure. A cure this vivacious nurse certainly didn’t have in her medical bag of tricks. He would once and for all do the right thing. He’d make Bice and maybe even Heaven proud.

  He gazed once more at the sultry blonde as she beckoned him with her sizzling eyes.

  The pitcher in his hand trembled as he studied her. He bit his tongue nearly in two watching her hand slip slowly down her side and brush her thigh. It clung to her already too-short uniform, slowly working the material upward. Her tongue snaked out and she licked her bottom lip. Perfect white teeth flashed behind lips of stained crimson.

  He held his breath, watching her watch him.

  He could stand it no longer. The pitcher shook precariously above him, threatening to drown out his selfish desires once and for all. Water dripped from it as he fought to control his trembling hand. Tiny droplets splattered across the linen sheets. He gasped as he watched each of them become silvery faces of the many women he loved, and so suddenly, left behind.

  He clenched his teeth and braced himself. Finally, he released his grip on the pitcher. He squeezed his eyes shut against the inevitable.

  The water burst from it in a crescendo of silver spray, and completely doused him. This time he would win. He’d stop the demon of lust before it ignited. Which in fact, it already had.