by Lotta Smith
“I know,” she agreed. “Then again, you’ll never know if your offspring turns out to be the sporty-kind.”
“Did you know I’ve never produced an offspring?”
“Of course, but it’s a free country, and everyone’s entitled to express a fantasy or two.”
One of my eyelids started to twitch, but I tried to smile by thinking about fried chicken. Sometimes mothers could get very nosy, but I could live with that. In fact, if it were not for her support during the ‘hate Kelly’ campaign back in the UK, I wasn’t sure I’d have been able to carry on living. She once crashed a live TV show in which they were running a skit about Kelly the Vicious Bitch. In that episode, she graciously walked into the studio, saying, “Good afternoon,” and punched that very rude talk show host in the nose. Then she shouted, “Don’t call my baby a bitch!” and left. The next day, every front page of morning papers featured photos of Mom, me, and the potty-mouthed talk show host, who was sporting a big, bruised, bloody nose, which resembled a rotten, purple zucchini about to explode. The captions went like “Watch out! She’s a countess, a mum, and a boxer ready to hit your big nose!”
“You know, Mom, right now, I’m completely focused on my career, and I don’t need a new man anytime soon, okay?”
“A career? Excuse me?” She uttered the word “career” like some kind of a profanity or something. “So you make your employer’s breakfast each morning, chauffer him around, hang around him like an orbit, and you’re even living in his property. You call that a career? It sounds more like a part-time wife minus the divorce settlement and death benefits.”
“At least it pays the bills,” I pointed out.
“So, how’s Michael?” ignoring my point, she said nonchalantly. My mother, of all people, called my employer by his first name. The problem was, Archangel seemed to be fond of her. One of my current worst fear was my boss becoming my ninth faux-dad. That wouldn’t sound right, would it?
“Other than being unkind to kids, he’s well,” I told her about his attitude toward Karen, emphasizing the part where he wouldn’t make a good faux-dad for me.
“I suppose it shows that he cares very much about the girl in his own way.”
Sometimes she talks like Pollyanna.
“How can you tell that?”
“You know what? I was born and raised in Japan, which makes me an expert at interpreting other people’s thought processes through subtle things. I have a knack for that.”
“Oh really?” I rolled my eyes. I didn’t tell her Grandma Kinki was often complaining that her daughter was totally lacking the skills to reasonably interpret other people’s feelings. “As for my boss, having a low tolerance to the idea of the possibility that there’s someone practically smarter than him seems more like the case.”
“Rubbish.” Mom dismissed my opinion. “Michael is not such a petty person. On the very contrary, he’s a good-natured alpha male, and that’s one reason I like him so much.”
“An alpha male? Excuse me? He wears skirts for God’s sake!”
“So does Count Geoffrey.” Her voice was full of pride. “Did I mention he really rocks in kilts? What’s wrong with men in skirts?”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I replied, silently uttering eew… I loved her and hoped they’d embrace their happy marriage for a long while, but I wasn’t all that keen on looking at Count Geoffrey’s bare legs. If I recalled right, he’s about to hit his eighties. “Speaking of Count Geoffrey, are you aware you’re still officially and happily married to him? So maybe you don’t want to fancy over another guy who happens to wear skirts, you know?”
“Oh, Kelly!” She gave her signature throaty laughter that had captured numerous hearts belonging to rich men. “Don’t get me wrong; I like Michael, but not in a romantic way.”
“That’s good.” Quietly, I released a sigh of relief for the fact, at least for a while, he wasn’t likely to be my ninth faux-dad. Actually, Michael Archangel seemed to like my mother a lot, but she didn’t need to know that. Aside from my first faux-dad, Dr. Huey Harrison, her marriage to Count Geoffrey seemed like the happiest one. Mom’s man-hopping habit often seemed like a journey to find someone like Dr. Harrison—a renowned ophthalmologist, beloved educator, and a humanitarian. If it was not for his premature death due to a plane wreck, I supposed Mom would have stayed Mrs. Harrison.
“Besides that, I’m not his type, you know,” she said, as if she knew what kind of a women were Archangel’s type.
“Do you know about his type?” I asked.
“I believe so. It’s just a wild guess, but I have a hunch that he likes someone with a sense of humor.”
“I see.” I recalled Bitchtricia, the humorless ex-fiancée of Archangel’s. Maybe she was right. “By the way, Mom, please don’t be disappointed in case Karen doesn’t visit Scotland. When she’s able to work on her own to avoid that dreadful camp, she may not need to visit Europe,” I said, partly to change the subject from Archangel to something, anything else.
“Don’t worry, honey.” She shook off my warning. “In that case, I can always invite Karen over from a trip in Europe with an excursion to Euro Disney.”
“I’m not real sure if her mother will like your plan.”
“Of course, she’ll love my plan,” she said. “Most American women would kill to let her daughters travel with a British count and countess.”
I thought about reminding her she was an American herself, but thought better of it. In fact, the status being naturalized from Japanese to the U.S. citizenship sort of ruled her out of the ‘most American’ section, but I often felt that my mother was more American than an average American.
“So, darling, why don’t you introduce me to Karen? Perhaps this Saturday? I’ll be flying to New York City. Geoffrey and I have to attend the gala on Friday, but I suppose I can sneak out on Saturday.”
“Sorry, Mom, but I’m afraid I cannot make it to see you on that particular day. Actually, I’m flying to England on the exact day when you come to NYC.”
“You’re kidding,” she stated. After all, I was still scared of visiting any part of the United Kingdom, and she knew it.
“I wish I was. But I’m accompanying Archangel to London where he’s giving a lecture at some kind of conference.”
“Oh my goodness.” She sucked in air. “You are returning to London? What a funny twist of life!”
“More like an extreme sarcasm provided by the universe.” I sighed. “Can you believe it? I’ve been avoiding London for years, never visiting once. And all of a sudden, I’m required to go there. No way out, no questions. Just like that.”
“You went back there with the band Iron Dragon as Lady Dragon less than a year after leaving Britain as the Dragon Lady,” Mom pointed out.
“But that wasn’t really me!” I said defensively. “I was channeling into my alter ego, Lady Dragon, invented by the band. It was the mascot performing in London, not me. No, that was so not me. It doesn’t count as visiting London when your alter ego’s visiting there, does it?”
“Unlike in New York and L.A., you don’t channel into an imaginary creature in London,” she told me. “Anyway, if you’d let me know earlier, I could have arranged my itinerary to adjust to your plan.”
“No, I couldn’t. The trip to England sort of jumped in this very afternoon. Who do you think called us to arrange this travel?”
“Well, that you’re asking me this question should make it someone we know. Oh, my God, Detective Superintendent Mickelson! Did he call?”
“Yes. Now he’s a professor of criminal justice at King’s College after retiring from Scotland Yard.” I flinched, recalling the moment I heard his London accent over the phone. Former Detective Superintendent Evan Mickelson was in charge of investigating Warren’s massive fraud case. He was one of the toughest detectives to deal with, who didn’t take “I have no idea” very kindly as an answer. In the end, I was almost convinced I would be prosecuted and end up with a long i
mprisonment. So it came as a true surprise when it turned out that no charges were filed against me.
“Talk about a surprise.” She chuckled. “I bet you tried to convince Mr. Mickelson he had called a wrong number, right?”
“Oh no, Mom. I was so freaked out, I started apologizing to Mickelson for being such a bad person as to spend millions of Great Britain Pounds defrauded by Warren from greedy yet innocent people, never giving much thought about where the money came from.”
It was not a smart move. But somehow, apologizing like a fool felt good, like I’d accomplished something I had been forgetting to do for a long while.
Archangel literally had to rip the receiver from my hands. Mickelson said I’d done everything I should and could. He even promised me there would be no prosecution while visiting London, on the condition I abide to the local law.
After the conversation with Mickelson, I begged Archangel for a vacation so I didn’t need to visit England, but he insisted I come along as an assistant to… say, carry his suitcases. So I had no choice but to return to London for the first time in almost three years.
“Darling, I’m impressed.” She burst out laughing. “So, Michael and Mr. Mickelson have known each other for a long time, right?”
“Yes, so they say. Couldn’t he, I mean, Archangel mention it earlier? I made a total idiot of myself, and I cannot quite wipe out the feeling of being betrayed.”
“On the contrary—” With a throaty chuckle, Mom continued in Japanese, leaving me clueless.
“Pardon me? What did you say?” I asked in a louder voice.
“Nothing.” She grinned. Okay, I couldn’t see her expressions, but I could hear her grinning from ear to ear. Sometimes I believed she taught me very little Japanese just to drive me crazy. “Anyway, have a lovely trip and send my love to Karen and, of course, to Michael.”
Then she said, “Ciao,” and hung up.
Chapter 15
There I was, completely stuck with the same old situation.
Caught in one of those potholes scattered in my not-so-clear cognition.
As always, someone’s mischief was airing on TV, which reminded me of the Eyeball Snatcher cases.
Here was the big question: Did I kill those women? It was the stupidest question I’d ever asked myself. I should know if I killed people.
Then again, the thoughts of brutally killed women were haunting me, keeping me awake all day and all night.
With what courage and conscience left in me—if any—I had searched throughout my house and music studio for any traces of killing those women. There was nothing. No eyeballs, no blood, not even stray hairs that I was not familiar with.
It was the fifth time that I had ransacked my own place.
What the hell is going on? I asked my reflection in the mirror, who blankly looked back at me without giving an answer.
The next thing I knew, the bastard in the mirror had multiplied into a thousand. Each one smirking like an idiot in fragmented pieces of metal and glass.
My fist was numb and warm. Blood trickled down my fingers to the floor.
Where am I headed?—I had no idea.
Who am I?—Has anyone truly figured out who they are?
I chuckled at myself.
I was having a midlife crisis.
I licked my damaged fist.
It tasted like salt, iron, and desperation.
One thing was sure: I had to find Dragon Lady.
Whatever it took.
Chapter 16
The trip to London went deceptively smooth and trouble-free. Archangel’s lecture went very well. No reporter tagged along behind us, no ridiculously long queuing—including the queuing at the immigration checkpoint at Heathrow;—not even outrageously exotic food containing things like insects, human breast milk, and sheep’s testicles were served at restaurants. Apart from that, Archangel chose to wear a men’s suit in charcoal gray to fly across the pond, sans makeup, which was the first time I saw him in men’s attire. Actually, it seemed as if Archangel belonged to the city, partly because he had opted to wear men’s fashion, as if he was in disguise or some occult alter ego had suddenly surfaced.
It was our fourth day in London. So far, I had found out that I could take a stroll in the town on my own without having eggs thrown at me. No one seemed to remember me. Kelly the Bitch-slash-Dragon Lady, was long gone. Ditching Blahnik shoes and Chloé dresses, then jumping into a Zara dress and shoes from the sale shelves at Neiman Marcus—their sale shelves were the best places to buy nice things for price range of Macy’s—seemed to help me blend into the crowd. After all those years, I was officially nobody, and I liked it. Very much.
When I received an unexpected call from Mickelson asking for Archangel to assist with a new case, I was having the best food in London—a.k.a. breakfast—at the café of the hotel where we were staying. It was supposed to be a vacation day for me, but it seemed like murderers didn’t care about that even in Britain.
I paid for the unfinished breakfast, left the café, and hit the elevator up to the swimming pool on the top floor. I knew Archangel was there on the account that he had earlier texted me about his whereabouts.
When I walked to the poolside, he was in the lap pool, swimming in freestyle. He noticed me and came out of the water, and I had a seriously hard time ripping my eyes off him.
I’d never regarded Michael Archangel to be an eligible male, but believe me, with broad shoulders, Herculean chest, six-pack abs, and full of toned muscles, his body was purrrrfect. I needed a helluva lot of restraint to keep myself from drooling. In front of me stood Michael Archangel, wearing nothing other than black swim trunks. Mom was right. My employer was an alpha male, at least in the physical features department. Except I had no idea as to how she had figured out the presence of his … equipment. And frankly, I didn’t want to know.
“Hey,” he said.
For a couple of heartbeats—maybe several of them—my mind wandered off, thinking: Gosh, I want to jump his bone right now and Get a grip, Kelly. Having a crush on your employer is so awkward! It was like the moment of having an angel and a demon sitting on each of your shoulders spatting at each other. Words failed to come out of me. I was standing there like a total moron.
“Earth to Kelly.” Archangel stared down at me with a look that implied he knew what I was thinking. “Don’t tell me you’re hallucinating.” Droplets of water trickled from the knotted bun of his long hair, down to his shoulders and further to the south.
“Hallucinating? Oh no, it’s just…well, you know…looks like I zoned out a little. Maybe it’s just jetlag. Yes, it’s only jetlag. How strange! I used to fly all over the world, never having difficulties adjusting to local time, and now I’m having it for the first time. I mean, a jetlag. It’s been years since I’d last flown over the pond.” Thank God I was wearing a padded bra that worked perfectly to conceal my fully erected nipples.
A slight smile surfaced on his lips. “So what’s going on?”
I told him about the new case and suggested I follow him to the crime scene. To my astonishment, he said it was still a holiday for me, and it was completely up to me whether or not to tag along with him. So, I did exactly what a respectable, professional personal assistant with a high self-esteem would do. I thanked him and took a day off to visit a certain maximum security prison, instead of following my employer to a university hospital where he was summoned to provide insight to a sudden death of a hotshot surgeon.
Of course, I didn’t tell Archangel about my plan for the day, mainly because he didn’t ask. Also, I’d hauled my employer—now showered, dry, clothed, and no makeup—into a taxi to get to the crime scene before heading off for Her Majesty’s Prison in Belmarsh.
After sending him off in a black cab, I blew out a deep sigh.
Touching my still burning cheeks, I recalled how he looked into my face when leaving. “Kelly, are you feverish or something?” he’d asked.
“No, I’m fine. I guess I’m fine. Do
I look like feverish?” I babbled.
“Oh yeah, your cheeks are flaming red. Anyway, it’s okay as long as you don’t have slapped cheek disease. You know how the airlines hate having passengers with contagious diseases.”
I fanned myself with my hand. “You know, it’s so hot today, isn’t it?”
He raised an eyebrow. It was cold and raining. “They’ve got a nice pool; why don’t you take a dip?”
I told him I didn’t pack a swimsuit.
“What a shame.” Making a tsk-tsk sound, he said, “You could really use some cooling down in the water.”
Before I could say anything, he got into the taxi. And with a cocky grin, he said, “Take your time; enjoy the day.” And he left, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking.
In my mind, the image of Archangel’s Calvin-Klein-men’s-underwear-ads worthy body was still vivid as life. I couldn’t shake it and I still had some residual appetite to shag him—and I meant, shag as in UK meanings.
Oh, my God. I’m lusting after my boss. I shuddered at the thought. Could it get any worse? Fancying Michael Archangel was wrong on every level. Mixing up your job with romantic interests was never good. It was asking for trouble. Besides, the job security set aside, I found it ‘how low can you go’ low to lust after a guy who wears short skirts and high heels and red lipstick on a regular basis.
Seriously, I was disturbed.
Maybe Mom was right and I needed a new man. Maybe sexual deprivation was the reason I was so aroused by the mere sight of his barely-clothed body. Perhaps it was just another episode of stupid hormones messing with my head.
I sighed again, recalling the last time I had sex. It felt like a lifetime ago. Not that I’d had that much of it before that. The scariest part was my obsession with sexual thoughts was so strong and haunting, I was afraid someday my promise that I was completely fini with men was going to be blown away.
Really, I needed to get a grip.
Chapter 17
