by Lori Avocato
She looked as if my just standing there annoyed her, and now that I had a question that needed answering she was even more pissed. Geez. Folks around here were very complicated.
Maybe that’s what money did to people.
Me, I wouldn’t know.
“Okay, Gold, I’m going to give you a little sedative that will ease your anxiety.” I lifted the IV tubing, wiped the rubber stopper part with an alcohol pad and stuck the needle in.
“Shouldn’t I count or something?”
Miles and I chuckled. “Sure. Count if you want, but this may not knock you out, merely relax you.” I pushed the medication in slowly.
Within a few minutes Goldie snored like a sailor, Miles was watching The View, and I sat by the window praying to Saint Theresa that all would go well for Goldie.
Even from the second floor I could see Lydia walk past the window, and right on her heels was…Olivia Wheaton-Chandler. Although I could see they were talking-make that arguing-I couldn’t read lips. However, Lydia looked furious.
My heart thudded.
The last person I’d seen arguing with Olivia was Ian, who promptly ended up dead a few hours later.
Yikes!
I added a quick prayer for Lydia as the door opened. An orderly said, “We’re ready for Mr. Perlman,” and the day began.
Tears were shed (mine). Goldie snored. And I insisted that Miles be allowed to walk to the O.R. with us.
When we got to the double doors of the surgical suite, we nudged Goldie awake, kissed him on the lips and turned to hug each other. “He’s going to do spectacular, Miles. Spectacular.”
He sniffled and nodded as they wheeled Goldie in. Not that I was happy Ian had been killed, but I was glad he wouldn’t be there to snoop on Goldie’s surgery. Sounded way too perverted.
When I let go of Miles, a hand touched my shoulder. Half expecting Jagger to be standing there, I spun around ready for a friendly hug.
“I’ll take good care of him, Pauline,” Neal said.
My heart did a little dance, which was a hell of a lot more fun than the earlier thudding experience. “I know you will. Thanks,” I muttered, and then introduced him to Miles.
“That’s perfect. We’ll have a wonderful time tonight. Goldie will be in good hands and we’ll…make the rounds of the town.”
Well, damn, didn’t that just make my day?
“He looks like a sleeping angel,” Miles said as he tucked the duvet under Goldie, who snored away with his nose covered in bandages and packed like a traveler’s suitcase-only with surgical cotton packing.
I nodded. “At least he’s comfortable. I couldn’t stand to see him in pain, and I know neither could you.”
Miles wiped his finger across Goldie’s forehead. “No.”
Gold had to go to surgery sans drag, and without his wig, makeup and fantastic smile, he looked so very different, yet so very familiar. I almost suffered a maternal moment. Almost.
Miles turned toward me. “Don’t you need to go get ready for your big hot date? He’ll be fine.”
“I know he will and my date is not a date nor is it hot. It’s just a friend showing me around town.”
Miles looked me in the eye. “Pauline dear, straight guys do not want to be friends with chicks.”
I knew he was right but out of principle smacked him on the arm. “Okay. I’m off. I’ll have my cell on if you need me, but I know you are capable of caring for him.”
“Go.”
I nodded, leaned over and kissed Goldie on the forehead. “You did great, Gold. Just great.”
He muttered something, and I smiled at Miles before heading out the door.
If I thought I changed my outfits a lot to not embarrass myself in front of Jagger, the pile of clothing (every stitch that I’d brought with me including my pink scrubs) lay on the floor at my feet. Naked feet that went with my body. What the hell was I going to wear?
And was I really trying to impress Dr. Neal?
Jeans. I should just wear jeans and clean underwear without worrying about matching colors. The clean part came from-who else?-Stella Sokol. You know the drill. Clean underwear in case you got into an accident. I smiled to myself, missed my family a bit and decided I needn’t make such a big deal about what to wear. After all it was merely a tour of Newport-with a swanky, sexy, hot doctor.
I flopped onto the bed.
“You about ready for dinner, Sherlock?”
For a second I thought I’d dozed off and was dreaming. Then I looked to see that I had on nothing and, knowing Jagger, he probably could see through the wood door.
I flew up from the bed, grabbed the closest things I could-my jogging shorts and tee-stuck them on and walked toward the door.
When I opened it, Jagger looked at me. Was that a grin?
“What? Do I have spinach in my teeth or something?” I held the door and leaned against it, not inviting him in. Hopefully he couldn’t see the pile of my belongings on the floor-because then there’d be questions with embarrassing, I was sure, answers.
He leaned closer. “Or something.”
I pushed at his chest so he wouldn’t come in. “You’re not making any sense.”
He gave me the once-over. After my toes uncurled, I allowed myself to be ticked. Guys.
“Men don’t have to make sense, Sherlock.”
There was a grin. Jagger was in some kind of mood!
I actually laughed. “True. Look, about dinner-”
“There’s a great local place I want to go to. Portuguese. You up for Portuguese?”
I almost said Sure, but instead my sanity returned and I said, “No.”
“Okay. You pick.” He tried to step inside, all the while looking at my outfit.
Maybe the colors didn’t match, but there was no need for him to stare like that. Men in all black were not exactly fashionadas. Sexy as hell, yep. “What I meant was, I’m not picking anything and stop assuming I’m going out to eat with you every night. I have a life.”
I’d never noticed any hint of being taken aback in Jagger, but right now there was a teeny, tiny hint in his eyes. Jagger was surprised that I was busy.
Good!
He moved closer.
I stepped back.
Wrong move. Before I knew it he was in my room, noticing the pile of clothing and about to say something.
I waved my hands in the air. “Don’t even ask. I’m busy. Reorganizing.” I tried to turn him to push him toward the door, but he didn’t budge. Not that that surprised me.
“Busy?”
I let out a long sigh. “Okay, Jagger. As if you didn’t know, I have a date. Yes. A date with Dr. Neal Forsyth, Goldie’s surgeon.”
“And you’ve gone through your entire wardrobe several times and came up with red shorts and a purple tee.”
It wasn’t a question, but I started to explain, but only managed to dig myself deeper. “I’m going to be late. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He did turn, and over his shoulder said, “You might want to rethink the underwear issue.”
When the door shut, I yanked off my clothes.
No wonder he was staring.
Oh…my…God.
I’d settled on black slacks, a white top (thanks to Lydia today) and as much silver jewelry as I’d brought with me. When I stepped back from the bathroom mirror, I pronounced myself done. Goldie’s past makeup techniques had made a world of difference for my looks. Very natural. I loved it.
It was then I realized I hadn’t had any makeup on when Jagger’d “surprised” me.
I sighed and thought, So what is new?
The announcer on the radio said it was nearly seven. I decided this small room was nowhere for Neal to come get me so I hurried to get my wallet, cell phone and a tissue, stuck them in my pockets and went outside my room to go downstairs.
Jagger’s door was open. He sat with his legs up on a cushioned ottoman and looked directly at me over his sailing magazine.
Then he gave me a thumb
s-up.
I flew down the stairs in delight until I got to the bottom. A thumbs-up to go out on a date with someone else? What nerve!
“I hope old Samuel haunts you tonight,” I mumbled.
The front door swung open. I half expected Neal to be standing there but would have actually been surprised that he would shove the door so. Instead…there was no one.
Yikes.
In my head I offered an apology to Sam, telling him to do what the heck he pleased even if it meant hanging all my clothes back up. Before I could shiver at the thought, Neal, in fact, did appear, looking very suave and handsome in navy slacks, an off-white silken shirt, and I’m sure very expensive sunglasses.
We looked like two flight attendants.
“Hey,” I said. “How’s Goldie?”
He put his hand on the small of my back to guide me down the porch stairs and said, “Perfect. He’s a perfect patient. Doing all that he is supposed to do.”
“No bleeding?” I couldn’t help myself. Once a nurse, always a nurse. Damn it.
He chuckled. “None. Normal swelling. Normal temp. Normal vitals, Nurse Sokol. Your patient is recovering nicely and Miles is only inches away.”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
He leaned over, kissed my cheek and whispered, “No thanks needed.”
When I went to step into Neal’s black Porsche, I noticed the curtains in the upstairs room, Jagger’s room, move.
Hm. Samuel or Jagger?
“So this is the church where the Kennedys got married,” Neal said as we pulled in the parking lot of the unpretentious St. Mary’s Roman Catholic Church on the corner not too far from the center of town.
Neal held the door as I walked in. “Oh, my,” I whispered. “You can almost feel their presence and picture them walking down the aisle.” I stepped inside the seats and knelt down.
Neal joined me.
When I bent my head to say a quick prayer for Goldie, I noticed Neal doing the same. Hm. Nice guy. Good looking. And spiritual?
Stella Sokol would be stuffing almonds in lacy fabric for bridal shower table favors if she knew this.
Truthfully, even I was impressed with the doc.
We did a little walking tour around Bowen’s Wharf, which was filled with shops and eateries-and also where I’d shared a meal with Jagger last night.
Damn.
Wish those reminders didn’t pop up at such inopportune times. Neal was the perfect gentleman. Actually he reminded me a lot of Nick the freelance investigator, whom I’d dated a bit. And Neal certainly knew his way around this swanky town. He gave me a bit of culture along the tour.
“Slavery was actually very popular in this seaport,” he said, sipping a glass of very expensive wine once we’d stopped for a drink.
Good thing because the brick and cobblestone walks were getting to my feet. What on earth made me wear heels?
“Wow. Slavery. Huh? Stuff like that really fascinates me.” I sipped on my wine, which Neal had insisted I get instead of beer. Not that I minded, but I wondered if Neal was the possessive male type. At first glance I’d have said no. But there were little hints.
However, after a self-imposed dating drought, a wee bit of possessiveness felt nice. Someone cared. Someone had taken the time to take me out. Yes!
We finished up, walked toward the marina section and back to Neal’s car.
“We’ll take Ocean Drive out past Fort Adams State Park. I’ll show you Hammersmith Farm too.” He again guided me by placing a hand on the small of my back.
I sighed.
“Isn’t that where Jackie Kennedy grew up?”
“And the Kennedys’ reception was there.” He opened the door, I got in, and after I’d buckled up, he shut the door. How cute.
The drive was beautiful, especially when we got halfway out and the ocean popped into view. Neal continued his tour with all the local folklore then stuck on a Sting CD and paid attention to the road.
For a few seconds I thought I’d doze off in sheer relaxation.
Then I realized why I was there. Not there in Neal’s car on a “tour” but there in Newport on a case. I looked at him from the corner of my eye and forced myself to say, “I see a new receptionist has been found to replace Ian.”
Neal’s hands tightened on the leather steering wheel.
Damn. It had to be painful for all the employees at Highcliff to accept that one of them had been murdered.
With his eyes straight ahead he said, “Lydia won’t last long.”
He knew her. He knew her? “Why do you say that?” I thought the question would force his hand and he’d have to say how he knew her.
“Spoiled rich kids don’t have work ethics, Pauline.”
Yikes. Was he generalizing about them or did he really know Lydia personally?
Sixteen
Neal took every turn of the winding Ocean Drive with expert precision. One would assume, or at least hope, that a surgeon would have pretty damn good control over a car, and this doc certainly did.
Along both sides of the road now were gigantic mansions or Tudor homes or quaint-looking cottages the size of skyscrapers. The place really was for the rich and famous.
Before I knew it, the sign said Bellevue Avenue. We’d made a gigantic circle on this tour. Then again, the section for the rich and famous really wasn’t that large although it bordered the ocean on one side. There wasn’t much more to this town other than small, mostly one-way streets with houses from the 1700s and 1800s. I actually preferred them to the mansions. They were so colorful and so New England.
“Hungry?” Neal asked.
I was famished and figured he’d heard my stomach growl a few times over darling Sting, but thought better than to mention that. “I could eat.”
“Perfect.” He took a right off of Bellevue Avenue. The residential section sure didn’t look like a place where a restaurant would be located, but I figured Neal knew best-until he turned into a drive with a gigantic PRIVATE sign guarding the entry and wrought-iron gates that were shut until he poked a button on the dashboard.
“I’m guessing you’ve been here before.”
He chuckled. “A few times.”
No other explanation, but when an imposing Tudor structure came into view, I guessed this was home sweet home for the doc.
And the family crest of FORSYTH hanging from the gates was a bit daunting and impressive.
Oh…my…God.
Was I out of my league or what?
“You should have been a tour guide instead of a doctor,” I teased as Neal showed me around his “place.”
Despite the size (at least thirty rooms, although I couldn’t make it around the place to count), it felt warm and cozy, until a butler appeared and offered to get us drinks. For a gal from Hope Valley, having a butler, no matter how nice he was, did not say cozy.
My mouth wouldn’t work so Neal ordered us each another glass of wine. Not being a connoisseur, I had no idea of even the color, but figured it wasn’t going to be Sangria.
The butler-Pierre, who else?-excused himself while Neal ushered me into a tiny little room off the foyer.
Suddenly it was my favorite room in the house-although he hadn’t shown me the upstairs…yet. Yikes.
Mahogany paneling covered the walls, which had built-in bookshelves filled with what I guessed were first editions. A small section near a stained-glass window had some current paperbacks so I figured at least Doc Neal wasn’t some eccentric. There was a flat screen television in the center with mahogany doors, which I guessed covered it to show proper Newport good taste.
Neal guided me to the burgundy leather couch, and when I sat, I thought I’d fallen onto a cloud. I ran my hand along the arm and had never felt such buttery soft leather in my life.
Having a fraud case in a place like this was actually fun.
Neal refilled my glass despite my protests-well, fake protests. I didn’t want him to think I was some lush, but expensive wine was delicious. Okay. Okay. I could
n’t help but take advantage of the freebie.
He sat next to me on the couch and smiled. “Wait a minute.” He leaned forward, brushed the hair off my forehead and said, “That look. Worry.”
“Worry? No-”
He waved his hand at me and said, “Hang on.”
I sipped at my drink while he took out his cell phone and made a call. Trying not to eavesdrop, I started to hum and looked out the window.
“Ms. Wisherd, how’s Mr. Perlman doing?”
I swung around and held my breath.
Neal winked at me, causing a whoosh of air to blow out of my mouth. Then he smiled and all was right with the world. “Okay, Jackie, let me know if he needs anything that’s not ordered.”
When he hung up, I leaned forward, grabbed him by the shoulders and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you,” came out in a rather hoarse, sexy tone.
Guess Neal noticed, since he leaned closer, took my face in his hands and kissed me. Gently. Softly. And on the lips.
And here I thought the wine had given me an internal glow.
Yikes.
After several more kisses Neal eased back. “Nice,” he whispered.
All I could manage was a nod of agreement. How pathetic was I? Actually, this guy was perfect for me to take my mind off my case for a few moments and recharge my “female” batteries. Neal the Igniter. I chuckled.
“What? What’s so funny, Pauline?”
I sipped my wine. “Nothing. This is delicious.”
“Speaking of delicious, let me check on dinner.” He stood, planted a kiss on my cheek, and walked out the door.
Who knows how long I sat there, touching my cheek. I sure didn’t until I noticed the black, obviously expensive briefcase on the floor near the couch.
Don’t even think about it, Pauline.
I was on a job though.
Everything and everyone needed to be checked out.
Slowly I leaned over, to see it slightly open. A sign from above. I took my glass of wine, sipped, then started to put it down when I sipped it again-and then polished it off.
Accidentally, my foot reached out about three yards away and bumped into the briefcase.
