Crime & Counterpoint

by Daniel, M. S.

  “Yeah, almost didn’t make it. Dad just gave me ten of his clients because he’s quote unquote scaling back, so I’m having to hire another assistant to deal with the extra load.” He looked at her. “Hey, you wouldn’t want–”

  “No,” she said firmly and then gentled. “But I’m sorry you’re so overworked.”

  “Well, it is Mitchel, Weston and Sons.” He plastered a fake smile on his handsome face and then changed topics. “So Ben and Clint are on their way from JFK now.”

  “Oh yay!” she said, happy at the prospect of seeing her fraternal twin brothers who’d been studying abroad at Oxford. “How long will they be staying?”

  “Through the holidays. And just warning you, Erik’s got a new chick with him.”

  “Great.” She hid her disapproval behind a sip.

  “Ja-ames!” Carol – really Carolina Descartes-Mitchel – materialized, sashaying her tanned Colombian figure over to them. She wore a snug, straight-cut dress-and-heels ensemble that would’ve been too fiery for Jackie O. but still had that First Lady panache. “Mi hijo,” she fawned, a mist of jasmine-scented oil accompanying her.

  “Hey, Mom,” James returned, giving her a hug.

  Carol released her eldest and took a step back, giving him a head-to-toe appraisal. “Oh, you look so tired, poor baby.” She touched his visible five o’clock shadow. “Querido, you need to shave. Shelley, take care of your brother.” She glanced at her daughter. “And fix your hair. It was better earlier, what happened?”

  Shelley tensed with inexplicable guilt in her eyes. “Yes, Mother.” Taking her 31-year-old brother by his paw, she said, “Come on, poor baby.”

  Carol gave her a hard scrutiny but let it go. Turning her perfectly-shaped head and thereby her fashionably-coiffeured dark tresses, she found another whom she wanted to flag down and trotted off in her figure-hugging dress.

  James squeezed Shelley around the shoulders. “I think you look great. Too sexy, if anything.”

  She smirked quizzically. “Coming from my brother, I’m not sure what to say to that.”

  “You say thank you.” He took her wine, drank some of it, and then handed it back to her with a tired smile. “Relax, okay? I can take care of myself.” Then, he went on his way, heading in the direction of the dining room.

  Melissa returned to Shelley, her Chanel blouse slightly off-kilter. “Okay, I’m just gonna say it. This party is killing me, and Brad is God knows where?” she dramatized, throwing her blonde head back, leaning against the creamy wall. But she was smiling, and Shelley grinned with her. Melissa looked at her old best friend. “So. When are you gonna have kids? I want to watch you run around like a crazy ass chicken.”

  Shelley chuckled. “I have to get married first,” she said, swirling the wine.

  Melissa struck a sulky pose. “It’s not like you haven’t been asked.”

  “I know.”

  Melissa leaned close and pouted like her younger sister Ashleigh, putting her hand on Shelley’s shoulder. “Come on,” she whispered enticingly. “Don’t you want a man who can make you hot all over?” She crawled her fingers in a flourish down Shelley’s bare arm.

  Shelley’s eyes rounded as her jaw dropped. “Oh my God!” She jerked away, half-laughing, half-incredulous.

  Melissa grinned proudly. “See? If I can make you blush, then you’re still a virgin at heart.” She poked the small beauty mark just above Shelley’s left breast. “And you know what that means? Perfect attorney Carter is not doing it for you.”

  Shelley shook her head, pushing Melissa’s hand away, disgruntled. “Can we talk about something else? How about your writing?”

  But Melissa caught sight of her husband talking with a drop-dead gorgeous stranger – at least from the back. He had a body that looked like it could’ve been chiseled from the Appalachian. “Who the devil is that?” But then the carved rock wall turned, and she saw his face, the cerulean eyes, the obstinate jaw. Her mouth fell open. “No way!”

  Shelley frowned in utter confusion. “What?”

  But before Melissa could answer, children suddenly swarmed the hall from some corner of the cavernous house, bringing a loud swell of crashing, reverberating sound – as only uninhibited youth running for their lives can. They came straight for Shelley. Her eyes widened.

  Under chase by the rest of the hooligans, Janine collided with Shelley’s legs, wrapping her arms around them. Shelley’s heart jumped, eyes bulging as she fought to exercise balance and keep her wine inside the glass.

  “Aunt Shelley, Aunt Shelley!” Janine screamed. “Don’t let them get me!”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie, but isn’t that part of the game?” Shelley replied.

  The boys, all under the age of nine, leered at the child, waiting for her to pick a direction and run.

  Not really afraid, Janine giggled and then with a peal of laughing screams, lurched away, circling around Shelley and taking off at a diagonal. All the boys, of course, had to follow the roundabout path and ended up pushing Shelley forward in the process.

  With a gasp, she stumbled in heels and knew with utter horror that she was going to fall flat on her face. But instead, a man caught her just in time though his intervention did not prevent her from tossing most of the wine directly onto his steel grey shirt.

  Her eyes skittered up to the face that belonged to the hard body, and immediately, her heart sank.

  Zach and Shelley disappeared into the privacy of the empty, still-warm kitchen, cutting the happy noise down and reducing it to a dull drone. Zach took off his shirt, leaving his damp black V-neck underneath. The champagne bottle he’d brought sat on one of the islands, alone and unsmiling.

  Unwilling to meet his gaze, Shelley took his wine-stained shirt from him and proceeded to use club soda to treat it. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

  He leaned his hip against the counter, hand resting on the smooth granite. “It’s not your fault. I saw what happened.”

  Trying to take deep, slow breaths, she waited for the soda to do its magic before running the portion of the shirt under the brass goose-neck faucet. The whole time she couldn’t stop thinking how much the stain looked like blood.

  While she worked, Zach let his gaze roam around the substantial kitchen. “I forgot you were going to be here,” he stated in a deep monotone. “I wouldn’t have come if–”

  “If what, Zach?” she asked sharply though she still didn’t look at him. “I haven’t heard from you in over two weeks.” Her voice crescendoed, and her hands scrubbed harder at the cloth beneath the white gush. “You left me to deal with everything myself. Where have you been?”

  “Following you every night,” he answered, controlled and working to sound unfeeling.

  Her hands stilled, her face paled, but then color seeped into her cheeks. She glared at him.

  His brows furrowed. “What?”

  She appeared flustered as she shut off the tap. “How could you do that without telling me?” She clutched the shirt, feeling as if she would fray.

  “Hey, I’m going out of my way for you,” he seethed. “If you don’t want me to make sure you’re okay then fine, I won’t. I’ve got plenty of better things to do.”

  “Great!” she spat. “Go do them then!”

  Her bitterness rankled. On the shallow end of his patience, he grabbed her slender upper arms. “You don’t seem to understand what kind of situation you’re in.”

  “I understand perfectly, Zach. You’ve made it crystal clear,” she retorted, his hands burning her.

  His anger crescendoed even as the softness of her skin registered and her sensuous mouth beckoned. “You’re working for a criminal.”

  “Cervenka?” Her heartbeat quickened. “My father would never represent him if that was the case.”

  “Then you think way too much of your father,” he rumbled.

  She gasped, angry enough to strike him. But at that moment, female voices crescendoed outside the door. Impulsively, Zach lowered his head and dou
sed her ire with an impromptu kiss. It wasn’t until after he tasted her thoroughly, felt his slumbering passion ignite, that he realized he’d made a huge mistake.

  26

  Zach broke away from her lips, but the damage was done. That fallible organ in his chest had doubled its trip meter. He gazed into Shelley’s velvety eyes and felt a profound throbbing in every sutured hole in his body.

  “I was coming to offer my services,” a British alto said, chambering nicely in the grand kitchen. “But clearly you two don’t need assistance.”

  Zach’s head came around as his hands fell away from Shelley. Simultaneously, she withdrew, stepping back. Together, they found his grandmother, Carrie, Ashleigh, and Melissa standing in a firing squad row. All except Abigail wore girlish grins and fawning expressions, eyes sparkling with that ‘oh, it’s so romantic’ look.

  Shelley regained her composure and affixed a nonchalant smile to her freshly-kissed mouth. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Weston, but I got it out,” she said, holding up the wet shirt for all to see.

  “And I suppose Zachary was just expressing his appreciation,” Abigail said, smiling pleasantly enough though there was a certain cunning in her gaze.

  “Right,” he said wryly as if all was fine. “She spills wine on me, and I end up thanking her.”

  “As you should, dear,” Abigail said, “Now how is it that Shelley gets a kiss, and I haven’t even gotten a hug yet?”

  Zach’s countenance drooped. He lumbered over to her, penitent – “Sorry, Grandma” – and draped his arms around her frame. She barely reached his meaty shoulder, but it was clear from the way he hugged her that she provided him with strength.

  Shelley turned away from them, hiding the confusion and preponderance of emotions. She slipped away to the back of the kitchen as the women began fussing over Zach.

  After Abigail released her precious grandson, Melissa extended her arms to give him a hug. “Zach! It’s been forever! Where’ve you been hiding?”

  “Manhattan,” he replied. “I’ve had a lot on my plate.”

  “Yes,” Abigail said. “So much so he hasn’t the time for fun and games. Or,” she added with a pointed look at Zach, “extracurricular activities. Hm?”

  Ashleigh and Carrie glanced at each other and giggled.

  Zach frowned.

  Melissa stifled a grin and rubbed Zach’s muscle-hard bicep sympathetically. “Well, we’re rarely up here anyway except for the occasional holiday. Anyway, it was my daughter who pushed Shelley. I’m sorry about that.”

  “It’s no problem.”

  Carrie, overflowing with sudden excitement, squeezed her grandmother. Abigail chuckled.

  Zach slung them a questioning look. “What?”

  “It’s just I told you I knew what’d make you happy,” Carrie said with a smug smile.

  “And I’ve never seen Shelley look like that,” Ashleigh threw in. “Not even with –”

  “Okay, let’s go,” Melissa said, interrupting. Leading the pack of lionesses away, she threw Zach a direction over her shoulder before she exited: “The laundry room is back that way. Down the stairs.”

  Perplexed, Zach wondered why she would tell him that until he glanced behind him.

  Shelley was gone. And so was his shirt.

  He trudged all the way to the back of the kitchen, opened one of three doors, and descended a set of stairs to the partial basement area.

  The plain face and complete lack of décor which greeted him at the bottom stood in stark contrast to the rest of the mansion. The flooring was not marble, there were no lush, French paintings or priceless antiquities, no Grecian columns or cream stucco.

  Dart board on one wall, an old pool table against another, a couple of worn-out couches, flat-screen TV, and an old double-door fridge. In fact, it looked very much like the basement of the house in which he’d grown up where he’d spent countless hours escaping from the world.

  He felt a sense of déjà vu as he proceeded across the shaggy carpet. Unlike neighbor kids who went down into their basement to play video games or watch TV, he’d gone to his basement to escape. Practicing martial arts or throwing punches at a bag his grandfather had forced his dad into installing. Consistently, he’d wake up before the sun and go downstairs to work-out. Kept him sane… for a while anyway.

  He heard recognizable whirring and, following a path through the L-shaped sofas, came to an open doorway. Pausing in the threshold, he found what he’d expected. Washer, dryer, laundry baskets, supplies, etc.

  But the temptingly-tanned brunette poised atop a crimson appliance perusing an issue of Car magazine, of all things, was completely out of place. The slit in her dress exposed crossed legs – shapely, toned legs against a backdrop of black chiffon and the washing machine’s shiny, red metal. She didn’t notice his shadow darkening the doorway, head bowed over the reading material, back straight, hair swept to the side, cascading over her right breast in fluid waves.

  She was all curves and beveled edges. If Whirlpool ever decided to advertise for the male audience, this one spread ought to do well, he thought sardonically. Tendons tightened as fingers crawled down the back of his neck – under his skin. The sensation triggered a response, raising his hackles as if he had just entered a critical zone instead of a lavender-scented laundry room with only a defenseless girl.

  Like a deer in the meadow who just sensed danger on approach, her head lifted. Surprise glittered in her gold-dusted ovals.

  Swallowing the lead which had inexplicably cumulated in his throat, he said, “Are you really into cars or was Vogue just not available?”

  An urbane glare slid into place as his insulting tone registered. “I’m into hypercars,” she clarified with tender bite. Slapping the publication shut, she uncrossed her legs and slid off the washer gracefully.

  His brows lifted as he stalked towards her; his sniper’s gaze acquired a suffusion of dark tones. “So I take it my Z4’s not really your thing.”

  A clear look of sophisticated disdain hurtled his way.

  He stared at her in unblinking challenge. Seconds passed. “May I see?” he finally asked, extending his hand.

  His low voice had its usual, unnerving affect, which when combined with the force of his general personage caused a torrid swirling inside her body. Suppressing the urge to flee, she passed him the magazine and then went to check on his shirt, tossing in the dryer.

  Examining the glossy picture, he murmured under the noise, “I’m sorry about the kiss.”

  She bent down to pop open the door to the dryer. The whirring ceased, leaving a hollow resonance in the air. “If you’re going to apologize for something,” she snapped, withdrawing the hot article inside, “I’d rather it not be that.”

  “Then what?” He smacked the magazine onto the washer.

  She spun to him, hair twirling around her shoulders. “I was doing just fine until you came along.”

  His brows drew tight. “Is that so? Miss High Society entertaining at a steakhouse. I didn’t get you fired, you quit. I’m not the one who made you work at the club. You got into that mess all on your own. And I told you to wait in that room.” He grabbed his shirt from her, shrugged on the warm material, and started fastening the buttons while he continued ranting. “And you know what? I was doing just fine before you too. I’m still on probation while having this constant threat looming over my head –”

  Her face paled, flush receding from her cheeks. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Forget it! I don’t have to explain myself to some spoiled princess!”

  Her chest heaved with ire. “Well, at least I’m not some boorish thug who goes around picking fights because he can’t accept the fact that he’s washed up!”

  The darkness in him thundered. “You think you know so much, don’t you?”

  “Enough to know that you’re a terrible grandson.”

  He swelled with rage, teeth gnashing. “You have no right to say that.”

  “I’ve been there
for her the last eight years. I played for your grandfather’s funeral!”

  “What do you want from me?! I couldn’t attend because I was laid up two thousand fucking miles away!”

  Her eyes filled with angry tears. “You have no idea how badly it hurt her that you didn’t go.”

  “Congratulations,” he mocked coldly. “You’re a saint. I’ll just go shoot myself right now.”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “You gonna stop me?” Taking her waist, he yanked her flush against him.

  “Let go!”

  He smothered her staunch protest with a soul-singeing kiss which accelerated from zero to sixty in well under 1.6 seconds. His moisture mingled with hers, turning hot as he ravaged her lips. Passion seared them both and made them forget the world at large. A heady, deeply-gripping ride that took her breath away and dissolved the ground beneath her feet.

  Her hands went around his neck, and his pressed into her back. The curled ends of her soft hair caressed his forearms as he held her. However, feeling the rapid beating of her heart, she hit the brakes, breaking suction.

  She turned her face. “Please stop,” she begged, though her weak contralto failed to hold any authority whatsoever. Her hands pushed against his chest, but he didn’t budge.

  He simply moved his mouth to the column of her neck, digging his fingers into her hair, running them through her tantalizing curls. His breath bathed her skin, and shivers rushed down her spine as he kissed her again, softer this time, feeding his anger and lustful desire and weakening her resolve. But his hands started demanding more of her body, and she couldn’t.

  She gave his chest a hard shove, and not braced for it, he staggered backwards. Unable to speak, she glared at him. He kept his distance, to his credit. Upset, she fled through a door that led directly outside, thereby escaping him altogether.

  In the aftermath, he exhaled, realizing how stupid he’d just been, allowing her to make him feel this way. Telling himself she was nothing to him, he finished tucking in the tails of his shirt as he exited the laundry room.