Live a Little!

by Nancy Warren

  “Why did you do it?” she wailed to her own reflection as she dragged the brush through another snarl. But she knew. She was staging an adolescent rebellion fifteen years too late.

  She was exactly what her parents had wanted her to be—except for her unmarried state. “You’ll be left on the shelf, dear, if you leave it much longer,” her mother used to predict. It had made her feel like stale peanut butter. As if Cynthia could magically make men find a mousy, old-fashioned girl attractive.

  Surprisingly enough, Walter did. Or maybe it was a case of one stale-dated jar of peanut butter gravitating to another. He wasn’t much to look at, but he was male, and single, and a doctor. Her mother was delighted, and Cynthia hoped she might at last experience some of the physical pleasures she’d read about at night in secret.

  Sex with Walter was like a Pap test, only not as much fun.

  She wondered if his being a gynecologist was the problem: he got the two mixed up.

  They’d been engaged for six years. It salved her conscience, and her mother’s. Not that she’d ever spent an entire night at Walter’s, of course, but the unexplained hours didn’t have to be explained.

  Cynthia hadn’t imagined how lonely she’d feel when her mother died. Or that within the year this jumpy kind of panic would set in, as though her youth was slipping through her fingers. She’d imagined her life in bright colors, not this uniform gray. There had to be something wild and unpredictable she could do. She decided to start in the bedroom. In private.

  Nowhere in her fantasy had she imagined having to be rescued by an FBI agent.

  She hadn’t been this mortified since sixth grade, when Daniel Prewitt asked her, in front of the whole class, if she wanted a stiffy, and she’d thought he’d asked her if she wanted a Slurpee and said yes.

  Face it. You were born to be a boring accountant married to Dr. Dull. Her career as a femme fatale was definitely over.

  Her makeup looked garish in the mirror, and she remembered in horror that she’d rouged her nipples like the magazine suggested. She hoped to heaven FBI Agent Wheeler hadn’t noticed.

  She remembered the way that cold, hard gaze had just flicked over her without any hint of emotion. Her naked body hadn’t kindled the fires of lust in him any more than it had in Walter.

  She could have spray painted the Stars and Stripes across her chest and it wouldn’t have raised his flagpole.

  Being found handcuffed naked to a bed by a strange man was bad enough. To be in that predicament and leave him unmoved… No, wait a minute. She remembered the flicker of humor that had flashed in his eyes when he found out it wasn’t a criminal act but a sex thing. He hadn’t been unmoved at all. He’d been amused.

  Her naked body struck him as funny.

  She wanted to die.

  But first she had to get rid of the FBI.

  He was sitting in the living room. Her living room. Completely at odds with the antique furniture and her mother’s collection of Hummel figurines.

  “Sit down,” he commanded. There was no sign of the gun, but just knowing he had it on him somewhere gave her a fluttery feeling in her stomach.

  She sat.

  Polite as always, she remembered to thank him. “Thank you for…” She cleared her throat. “Releasing me.”

  He gazed at her for a long moment. “What’s going on?” he finally asked.

  “I beg your pardon?” Could this day get any worse?

  “I don’t have time to play games. Whose house is this?”

  “Mine.”

  He snorted. “Look, honey, I sent the cops home. You’re a hooker who makes house calls. Fine with me. I’m not the vice squad. I just want to clarify the situation before I escort you out the door.”

  Her mouth dropped open and the first ray of sunlight brightened the worst day of her life.

  “You think I’m a prostitute?” He believed men would pay to have sex with her?

  He sent her the kind of look she imagined an FBI guy would give a hooker. She might even have played along with the idea except for the part where he was planning to lock her out of her own house. “I’m not—”

  “Save it. Where’s the john?”

  “Down the hall to your left,” she answered primly.

  He chuckled. “You’re good, you know that? If I hadn’t given up the wild stuff…” His gaze wandered her body lazily, and she had her second pleasant shock of the day. Back when he used to be wild, he might have paid to have sex with her. “Where’s the guy?”

  Belatedly she realized he had used the term “john” as in paying customer, not bathroom. “He was called away. To deliver a baby, I imagine.”

  “What?”

  “Walter’s an OB-GYN. I’m assuming he had to attend a birth. This really is my house.”

  He shot her a skeptical glance. “And you can prove this?”

  “The lady next door knew my voice.”

  “She’s half-deaf. She heard a woman’s voice. You’ll have to do better than that.”

  With a sigh, Cynthia said, “I’ll get my driver’s license.”

  She strode to the bedroom to get her purse, and he dogged her footsteps. “Do you mind?” she asked in annoyance.

  “Don’t want you hijacking the family silver.”

  With an irritated huff, she grabbed her black leather purse and fished out her driver’s license. “There.”

  He glanced down at it. “This isn’t you.”

  “Of course it is.”

  He took the plastic folder from her hands and looked more carefully—at her, then at the photograph on her license. “You should get that picture updated,” he said.

  The photo was less than a year old. It was the Raunch version of her that was different. And once you took Walter Plinkney’s admittedly disappointing reaction out of the equation, she quite liked the Raunch version. It made a dangerous, gun-toting FBI agent talk about sex and her in the same breath.

  At that moment she vowed to keep some part of her Raunch look. Not the rouged nipples, probably, but, well, part of it.

  “Hold out your hands.”

  “This is my house. Stop ordering me around.” She stuck her hands behind her back. Once she got the remnants of the handcuffs removed, no man was going to touch her hands for a very long time.

  He plucked a pair of keys out of his pocket and dangled them in front of her. “I found them in the candy dish.”

  With a relieved sigh, she gave him her hands.

  Swiftly, he unlocked first one cuff, then the other. While he worked, he asked, “If you’re not a hooker, what do you do? For a job, I mean,” he amended hastily.

  Well, it was nice while it lasted, she thought. “I’m an accountant.” She watched him from under her lashes, waiting for his eyes to glaze over in boredom.

  Instead, she got a curious reaction. He blinked slowly and stared at her, hard. “You’re putting me on.”

  “I’m serious. No one lies about being in accounting.”

  “An accountant. That’s fantastic!”

  No one, but no one, got excited about accounting except for one reason. Her mind fogged over with depression. “Don’t tell me, you have a thorny tax problem you’d like me to solve?”

  “No, not at all. Let’s sit down. Why don’t you tell me about yourself.”

  “You can’t be serious.” She pulled the terry robe tighter around herself, and was reminded she had nothing on underneath but mint-green cotton panties.

  “I guess I should have introduced myself properly.” He shot her a killer grin, one that completely transformed him from scary law enforcer to incredibly attractive man. “I’m Jake Wheeler. I just moved into the neighborhood.”

  “Cynthia Baxter.” She shook his hand automatically, while cold dread filled her. “Did you say you were a neighbor?” He’d seen her naked; now he was going to say “hi” over the fence? She’d bump into him on garbage day and at the Fourth of July neighborhood barbecue.

  She felt like she needed to stick her head
between her legs to stop from fainting with horror.

  2

  CYNTHIA BAXTER was the answer to his prayers. A sexual wildcat with a head for numbers.

  Jake wanted to stand up and cheer. Making himself slow down, he vowed to check her out thoroughly, but he had a feeling Mrs. Lawrence and her daisy-watering dog had done him a huge favor when they’d recruited him to help one of his new neighbors.

  He was getting absolutely nowhere on the Oceanic investigation. No chance of getting an agent inside; Neville Percivald was too smart and too careful.

  In spite of his sissy-boy name, old Neville had a fondness for wild women. It was the only exploitable weakness Jake’s relentless research had uncovered. Percivald had been followed to a couple of underground clubs that catered to the leather and whips set. If Jake could trust her, and get her inside Oceanic, Ms. Baxter might just be able to find the evidence he needed to launch a full investigation.

  Jake had a hunch Neville and Cynthia would go together like leather and studs.

  “Where do you work?”

  “A cement company.”

  “Really?” He led the way back into her living room, away from the distracting scent of heavy perfume and the sight of that bed, which reminded him of her trim little body naked and ready… He cleared his throat. “How long have you worked there?”

  “Nine years. Do you have to fill out a report on me or something?”

  “No,” he reassured her, “I’m just being neighborly.”

  Cynthia Baxter wasn’t a cop or an agent. She’d worked at the same job for almost a decade, as an accountant. And they just happened to be short one accountant at Oceanic Import-Export. Cynthia was perfect; not only was she qualified for the job, but, if his hunch was correct, she’d check out cleaner than the laundry waving on Mrs. Lawrence’s line.

  And to debrief her after work each night, all he had to do was jump a couple of fences.

  “How long have you worked at the FBI?” She sounded like a society hostess, but he heard the snotty undertone. She wouldn’t intimidate easily. Good.

  “Twelve years. Guess we’re both heading for a gold watch, huh?” If she really loved her job at the cement company, they might be able to work something out, but the fewer people who knew anything about his plan, the better. And it was a good plan. He was getting a feeling he’d finally caught a break.

  If Cynthia landed the job at Oceanic, she’d be his own personal Mata Hari, working there by day and passing on what she heard to her new neighbor. It was so perfect he wanted to kiss her red, red hooker lips.

  They were full and pouty under the not-so-subtle makeup job. If more accountants looked like her, no red-blooded male would ever get behind on his year-end tax return. Neville Percivald certainly wouldn’t.

  Excitement churned in Jake’s gut. “May I call you Cynthia?”

  She stared down at the driver’s license still in her hand, then jerked her head up. “You can call me Cyn! Cyn’s my name and sin’s my game.”

  He chuckled softly. It just got better and better. If he hadn’t sworn off her kind of woman, he could go for her himself. Something about the way her trashy looks were so at odds with the innocent expression in her wide-spaced, green eyes…

  A devastating combination, all right. But, Jake reminded himself firmly, Neville Percivald was the one who was going to end up tied in knots over her.

  Not him.

  CYNTHIA ENTERED the swooshing glass door of Très Chic! feeling like a bag lady at a Parisian catwalk. Her bemused gaze caught leather, lots of leather, faux animal prints, patterned boots and clothing she couldn’t even identify.

  She was chewing on her thumb, ready to bolt, when a young woman strode up. Her jet-black hair had a dramatic white streak in the bangs and she wore skintight leather pants with a cowboy kind of fringe on the bottom, a slinky orange top and what looked like go-go boots. “Can I help you?” she asked in a tone that suggested Cynthia was way beyond help.

  She took a deep breath. “Yes. Yes you can.” She glanced helplessly down at her tweed suit and sensible pumps and stated the obvious. “I need a miracle.”

  “You looking to update your image?” The girl appeared doubtful she could pull it off. “Looks like whatever catalog you shop from’s out-of-date.” The girl glanced past her out the window, doubtfully. “You might try—”

  “I’ve been living in Moscow.”

  “Huh?”

  The girl had been going to throw her out of Très Chic!, and Cynthia would never have the nerve to come in here again. It was now or never. Desperation lent her ingenuity. “In Russia?” She shrugged. “I’ve been living there for the last ten years, as a—as a secretary in the American embassy.” She gestured to her suit. “This was all I could get, and I had to trade three cartons of Marlboroughs just for the skirt.”

  “Shoulda hung on to the smokes,” the girl muttered.

  “I missed the American fashion—uh—scene so much!” Cynthia gushed. “In Moscow, they think Prada is a car!” She laughed at her own joke, gaily.

  The girl gazed at her blankly.

  “You know, like Lada?” She imagined Muscovites were ten times as fashionable as she, but her ploy seemed to be working. The girl had stopped gazing down the street, looking for another store to pawn her off on.

  “That’s tough. I’ve seen those fur hats on TV, and they’re like…” She grimaced. “So, how do you want to look?”

  Cynthia took a deep breath. “Sexy.”

  The girl chuckled and eyed her more carefully before nodding slowly. “Sexy’s my specialty. Come on.”

  Two hours and a whole lot of bags later, Cynthia’s credit card carried a hefty balance and she owned leather, faux animal skin, boots, bags, costume jewelry. The works.

  She was still wearing the last outfit she’d tried on, a tight paisley skirt and a little white cotton shirt that looked to her like underwear. On her feet were chunky black shoes.

  “You look awesome,” the girl assured her.

  “Would you do me a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Pass me that garbage can.” Cynthia thrust the two-piece tweed suit and the color coordinated blouse in the wastepaper basket and dusted off her hands briskly, as though she could trash all her dowdiness at once. “Thanks, I needed that. After I’m gone will you take that out and donate it to charity?”

  The girl laughed. “You got it. Come in anytime for advice. You look great, you know? Once you get your hair cut—”

  “Hair cut?”

  “I just assumed…um, I’m sure they cut hair real good in Moscow, it’s just that here, styles have changed a bit in the last ten years.”

  Cynthia put a hand to her chin-length bob. “Oh, of course.”

  “I know a great stylist. Michael. He’s a genius with hair.” She dug out a dog-eared card for a place called Ecstasy. “Put yourself in Michael’s hands. He’s the best. And…” The girl paused, looking anxious. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but if you’re going for the complete new look…?”

  “Oh, I am.”

  “Those glasses just scream eighties.”

  “The glasses, of course. Thank you. Um, anything else?”

  She shook her head. “You make sure and come back when you’re all done. I bet I won’t even recognize you myself.”

  Since Cynthia was a big believer in never putting off till tomorrow what you could do today, she immediately went home and made appointments, with her eye doctor and, after a good talking-to about taking risks, with Michael at Ecstasy. She just hoped she didn’t come out of the salon with black-and-white hair. She wanted to look different, but not like Cruella DeVil.

  Michael turned out to be a flamboyant trivia buff with a passion for tropical fish. After putting herself in his hands, Cynthia forgot to watch what he was doing as she tried to keep up with his conversation.

  “My God, what did those Russians do to you?” he gasped, as he turned her this way and that in the mirror. “This is enough to
restart the Cold War!”

  She grinned weakly.

  After she’d been shampooed and returned to his chair, Michael picked up a pair of scissors and started snipping. “Julia says you used to live in Moscow.”

  Cynthia made a noncommittal noise.

  “You know, ten years in Russia has probably faded your hair color. I’m sure it wasn’t always this mousy.”

  “No,” she agreed with a straight face. “It used to be much nicer.”

  “I’ll give it a rinse. Kind of mahogany with a touch of burgundy in it. How does that sound?”

  Anything that wasn’t in zebra tones sounded good to her.

  When at last he was done, she could barely believe it. Her hair was wild, young. It had spiky bits, but an overall softness. “I love it!” she cried.

  The stylist nodded. “I went with Sex-and-the-City hip, not I’m-an-MTV-music-awards-presenter hip. I think it works.”

  “I think so, too.” She giggled happily, tugging at a mahogany-with-a-touch-of-burgundy spiky bit. “I definitely think so.”

  “Got a hot date tonight?”

  She had a date with Walter, but as to the heat level… She forced herself to be optimistic. She’d surprised him with the magazine; maybe she should have updated her appearance first.

  “I don’t know. But I hope so.”

  “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE to your hair?” Walter’s eyes bugged out when she opened the door to him.

  Her smile faded slowly. “Don’t you like it?”

  “It’s red. It’s too young for you. It’s—it’s…” Although he couldn’t seem to find the words, the horrified expression on his face sent a clear message.

  She turned away, stalked into the living room and began rearranging the Hummel figures, putting Fishing Boy beside Choir Girl instead of beside Hiking Boy where he belonged. Let anarchy reign, she decided. Better still, she should pack the little pottery figurines away in a box and redecorate—entirely in animal prints and edgy avant-garde sculptures.

  But the Hummels had been her mother’s, and Cynthia was sentimental. With a sigh, she put Fishing Boy back beside Hiking Boy and snapped on a lamp.

  All her life, except when she’d been away at college, Cynthia had lived in this house—first as a child, then after her mother was widowed. Maybe she just needed a change.