Live a Little!

by Nancy Warren

  His body belonged inside hers just as they belonged together. Her breath shuddered in on a gasp of amazement as moisture pooled in her eyes.

  She loved him.

  She couldn’t tell him. The feeling was as fragile as it was new and unexpected, so she held the words inside her, but let her feelings out through every other method of expression. With each touch, each lift of her hips to meet his thrusts, with each kiss of her lips to his, each sigh and breath, she told him. I love you.

  His eyes were dark and serious, their expression unreadable. But there was no teasing in them, none of the joking game-playing of earlier. Did he feel it, too? The knowledge that they were meant to be together? Was all the love in this room coming from her, or was some of it his?

  She didn’t know and feared breaking the spell by speaking, so she held her peace and loved him with every part of her. She heard the slick slap of sweat-dewed flesh, his husky sighs as her blood began to pound louder and louder in her ears. She clung to his straining arms to anchor her to the earth.

  Then, nothing could hold her. She was flying free, glowing with the moon, singing with the planets. In the distance she heard him cry out, then he collapsed on top of her. I love you, she mouthed silently.

  It was 4:00 a.m. by the luminous dial of his clock when he woke her.

  “Whaa…?”

  “I want you home before it gets light.”

  “Worried Oceanic’s spying on me?” she mumbled when she finally got her eyes to stay open.

  “No. I’m worried the neighbors are spying on me.”

  She chuckled tiredly. “Course they are. But don’t worry, you’re not as big an attraction as Meals on Wheels.”

  “Do me a favor. Cancel dinner.”

  “I don’t get Meals on Wheels.”

  “Your date with Percivald. Cancel it.”

  “Don’t you want me to wear a wire?”

  “You failed the test.”

  Even though he was joking about the test, she knew he wouldn’t let her wear any kind of recording device on her date. She felt unreasonably hurt. He wouldn’t let her do the simplest thing to try and crack this case. “Why did you bother recruiting me in the first place?” she grumbled.

  “To get you into bed.”

  “Oh.” She felt so pleased she decided to forget about the wire. She didn’t need fancy FBI equipment, she had an old tape recorder of her dad’s; maybe she could stick that in her purse.

  “Are you going to cancel?” His voice sounded stern.

  Her chin lifted. She loved him, but she wasn’t about to let him push her around. “We volunteers can do what we want on our own time.”

  “Humor me.”

  She thought about it for a moment while she dragged on clothes. “Why?”

  “Assume I’m jealous.”

  Then he kissed her gaping lips and hustled her out into the predawn blackness. She knew he wouldn’t let her talk in case the KGB were hiding behind the garbage cans, so she had time on the short walk to ponder his last statement. He’d said it in a half-joking kind of way, but…what if he really was jealous?

  Just because nothing like that had ever happened in her whole life didn’t mean it wasn’t possible. Did it?

  “IS SHE FROM MOSCOW, too?” Michael whispered in despair when Cyn ushered Agnes into the salon Saturday morning.

  She nodded conspiratorially. “Yes, she is. But don’t mention it. She’s very sensitive. Especially about her appearance. She’s going to ask for something boring and mousy, and if you’re any kind of a patriot, you won’t listen to her. She’s had a long stint undercover.”

  “You mean she was a—”

  She held a finger to her lips in warning. “Shh. It’s classified. All I can tell you is that for her next assignment she has to seduce a top British diplomat.”

  “Honey, I’m not a miracle worker.”

  “Yes, Michael.” She smiled secretly as she recalled how her new look had changed her life. “You are.”

  He heaved a sigh and then led Agnes to his station. He began fluffing gray hair through his fingers, an expression of helpless resignation on his face.

  “Perhaps just a trim.” Agnes piped up in her timid way, her doe eyes darting nervously to her cloud of gray hair being pouffed this way and that.

  But neither Michael nor Cyn were listening. Cyn watched, holding her breath, as the expression on Michael’s face changed from hopeless to excited. “The hair is wonderful. I’m seeing blond. I’m seeing an older Ingrid Bergman.”

  “You are?”

  He didn’t answer, just narrowed his eyes and shifted and twisted the hair while he watched it in the mirror.

  Agnes seemed too petrified to speak.

  “We’ll keep most of the length.” He patted Agnes’s shoulder reassuringly, then gestured to the shampoo girl. “But trust me, when I’m done you won’t recognize yourself.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Agnes moaned, and followed meekly behind the girl with electric blue hair.

  “And for you, madame?” Michael ushered Cyn into the chair.

  “I really do just need a trim.”

  “How’s the color working?”

  “I love it.”

  “It’s too tame for you. How about we add just a touch of platinum?”

  “Maybe next time. Mostly I want you to concentrate on Agnes today.”

  He shot her a slightly panicked look. “Are there many more of you?”

  She smiled at him reassuringly. “No. This should be it.”

  SHE’D EXPECTED TO SEE an improvement in Agnes’s appearance, but she was flabbergasted when, at the end of three hours, she returned for her friend. “Your hair, it’s…it’s beautiful.”

  Agnes had all the wonder of Cinderella after the fairy godmother had waved her magic wand. She couldn’t stop staring at herself in the mirror, turning this way and that. Her hair, now a soft gold, was pulled back in a chic bun, and the makeup artist had done wonders, bringing out the blue in her eyes, putting some color in her cheeks and adding lipstick to her mouth.

  “I can barely believe it!” Agnes’s voice was hushed, for once in wonder rather than bashfulness.

  “Now all we need is to get you some new clothes and a few, um, other things, and you’ll be all set for your date tonight.”

  “Really, it’s not a date.”

  “Maybe it isn’t now. Just wait till tonight. I have a feeling the current lady friend he’ll be talking about will be you.”

  While Agnes had been coiffed and made up, Cyn had dashed to the clothing store where she’d started her makeover. There she got some advice on where to take a fifty-something woman in need of a new look.

  She bundled a still-stunned Agnes into her car and drove them to an upscale women’s wear shop. Agnes stalled on the doorstep. “Oh, I don’t know. It looks awfully expensive in there.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but what do you spend your money on?”

  “Well, my cat is a fussy eater…” Agnes glanced up and obviously realized that wasn’t going to cut it. “I support several charities…and, um…”

  “You save most of it, don’t you?”

  Almost ashamed, Agnes nodded. “My nephew and his family will inherit a nice sum when I die.”

  “What are you, fifty-five?”

  “Fifty-two.”

  “Your nephew will have to wait. You’ve got a lot of living to do.” Cyn fixed Agnes with a fierce eye. “Starting right now. Come on.”

  It wasn’t hard at all, once Agnes caught the spirit of the adventure. They emerged giggling like teenage girls, six bags between them, and a saleswoman practically bowing them out of the shop.

  “How do you feel?” Cynthia asked.

  “Stunned. Excited.”

  “Brave?”

  “Brave enough for anything.”

  “All right. I’m Cyn the Bold. I hereby rename you Agnes the Brave.”

  “Good.”

  She refused to tell Agnes where they were going
, thinking she’d need her newfound bravery to enter a store where the autumn window display included a blowup doll reclining on a pile of autumn leaves. As Cyn pulled into a parking spot out front, a customer was just leaving, with quite a bag of goodies.

  A customer she recognized.

  What was Neville Percivald doing in a sex shop? Here she’d thought he was quiet and sweet, a little on the creepy side, but harmless. How harmless could he be if he was buying a sackful of sex goodies on Saturday morning when she had a date with him Saturday night?

  “Are you all right, Cynthia? You’re making an awfully funny noise,” Agnes stated.

  “I’m fine,” she gasped. “Fine. I just had a great idea. We’re both seeing Percivald men tonight. Why don’t we double-date?”

  “Double-date? But—”

  “It’ll be fun. After your appearance knocks him out, I’ll make sure Mr. Percivald knows you have an active private life.”

  “But I don’t!”

  “You will. I know we’re going to La Parisienne for dinner, because Neville asked me if I liked it. All you have to do is tell his stepfather how much you’d like to go there. Our double date will be a surprise.”

  “Well…I would feel more comfortable if you were there. I feel so odd with my hair like this and my new clothes.” Agnes paused. “But will he think I’m being presumptuous?”

  “Of course he won’t. You’re the one who lives here full-time. You ought to know which restaurants are good.”

  “I only wish I did.”

  “Trust me on this one. Please?” As much as Cynthia wanted to support Agnes, she also felt more comfortable in a foursome. If they were in a group, she’d make darn sure that Mr. Percivald junior kept his hands—and his sex toys—to himself.

  11

  CYN SWEPT INTO the chic restaurant on the arm of Neville Percivald. Fingers crossed, she glanced around and was relieved to see that Agnes hadn’t let her down. There she was, in a cozy corner with Mr. Percivald senior.

  A glance under her lashes showed Neville’s face reddening as he took an instinctive step back toward the door. But not quickly enough for the tuxedoed maître’d, who bustled forward with an ingratiating smile. “Ah, Mr. Percivald, such a pleasure.” His heavy French accent made music of the three syllables of Neville’s last name, and brought his stepfather’s head up.

  “My boy!” the older man boomed. “What a surprise. Come and join us.”

  Neville’s face darkened even more as every head in the intimate restaurant turned his way. “Bloody man should have been the town crier. Sorry about this.”

  “It’s all right, really,” Cynthia murmured. He had no idea how all right it was. He’d shown up in a limo, telling her he didn’t want to drink and drive, but in reality she got the feeling he didn’t want his hands or eyes otherwise occupied when he had her in a small, private space.

  With overt courtesy, he’d fixed her shawl around her shoulders, copping a discreet feel as he did so. Then he grabbed her seat belt before she got to it and practically made full body contact while snapping it home. If this wasn’t a top secret FBI mission, she would have belted him with her purse, hefty with the weight of her father’s old tape recorder.

  But since this was a night for snooping, she’d giggled and batted his hands away as coyly as she knew how.

  With barely hidden annoyance, Neville agreed that he’d be delighted to join his stepdad on a double date. As Cyn followed the mître d’ to the table, she heard Neville muttering behind her, and snatches came through loud and clear: “Belongs in a Brighton carny…old fart…ruined everything…sod off…”

  She bit the inside of her lip to stop herself from smirking, then smiled with real pleasure as Neville’s stepfather rose and kissed her cheek, insisting she sit beside him, which put her across the table from her date, who was now stuck beside Agnes.

  Neville was so busy being put out that he hadn’t even noticed Agnes’s new look. His stepdad certainly had, though. He kept staring at her with an expression of confusion and disappointment on his face, as though she’d let him down somehow.

  What was that all about? The woman knocked herself out to look terrific, and he was disappointed?

  If Cyn had ever in her life thought she understood men, she now knew she’d been completely wrong. Even though she was a woman who’d spent her life totally baffled by the opposite sex, she still found his behavior odd.

  And the pitiful look Agnes sent her way just about broke her heart. Cynthia had tried to help and it appeared she’d only made things worse.

  An awkward silence fell over the table, broken by the waiter taking predinner cocktail orders. Both Agnes and her date were already sipping martinis. Neville asked for the same, and even though she wasn’t much of a drinker and had never tried a martini, Cyn asked for one, as well. She was too busy trying to work out what was going on between George Percivald and Agnes to worry about drink orders.

  She’d talked it over with Jake, and he was certain George Percivald had run a clean, honest business. The drug rumors had started after his stepson took the helm. It would be so nice for Agnes to get her heart’s desire, and there might come a day very soon when George would want her support. It couldn’t be much fun to discover your stepson was a criminal.

  When Cynthia’s cocktail arrived, it looked awfully sophisticated, chilly and clear as a diamond, with a bright green olive on a fancy silver stick. Then she sipped the sophisticated drink and wondered if Neville had found out about her and slipped poison into it. The martini burned in her throat and brought tears to her eyes. Grabbing her water glass, she took a huge gulp and tried to get her breath back.

  “They’re a little dry,” Mr. Percivald said.

  Dry? The thing was pure liquid alcohol. Blech. “I should have had it shaken, not stirred,” she joked weakly.

  Agnes didn’t seem to be having any trouble; she was deeply into her second martini, drawing sad little patterns in the glass with her olive. George was keeping pace.

  Neville downed his in a swallow and motioned for another round. Cynthia felt as if she were sharing a table with three escapees from the Betty Ford Clinic.

  But it gave her an idea. Tough investigators drank their investigatees under the table all the time in the movies. If she could figure out a way to pretend to keep pace, while ditching her disgusting drinks, she could pry all kinds of information out of Neville.

  Plus, she had to remember Plan B, which was to bolster Agnes’s image in front of her “old friend.”

  Since her companions were a long way from blotto, she decided to proceed with Plan B. “I hear a lot of movie stars come to this place when they’re in town,” she began brightly. “Which reminds me, Agnes. Did I tell you that Michael told me you look like Ingrid Bergman in Cactus Flower? I think maybe he has a crush on you.”

  “Michael from today?” She wasn’t surprised Agnes wanted clarification. Michael was happily cohabitating with a male stripper.

  “He sure likes your new look.” That part at least was true.

  “Hmm,” said Mr. P., and took a gulp of martini.

  “Hmm-mmm,” added Agnes, and took a sip of her own.

  Cynthia couldn’t stand it. How could the man not notice? And Agnes was in love with him. This was her best chance at making him really see her. “Don’t you think Agnes looks beautiful, Mr. Percivald?”

  “I think she looked fine before,” he said grimly, then forced a smile. “And you must call me George, my dear.” He put a hand to Cynthia’s knee and gave it a squeeze.

  Oh, she was so mad she could spit. He was flirting with her while his date just sat there miserable and getting plastered.

  Agnes raised her head, two bright spots of color on her cheeks. “He likes his little tootsies to look beautiful. Old Agnes he just wants plain and dull. Like an old couch with broken springs.”

  “Now, Agnes, that’s not—”

  “Did he bring you flowers?” Agnes interrupted, staring at Cyn owlishly and jerking h
er thumb in Neville’s direction.

  “Yes. A dozen white roses.”

  “I got a teapot. See what I mean? Roses for the tootsie, a teapot for the old couch.”

  “Agnes—” George gazed at her empty glass in alarm “—I think you’ve had enough—”

  “You’re darn right I’ve had enough. I am a woman. I have a woman’s needs. And you,” she finished grandly, “are an old patoot.”

  You go, girl. Cyn felt a bit like a female Dr. Frankenstein. Even though George Percivald was staring at Agnes as if she were some horrible creation, Cyn knew she was witnessing the birth of Agnes the woman. At last. She might find that her hopeless infatuation with George was just that: hopeless. Just as Cyn had found Walter was not the man for her. But she’d be stronger for the knowledge, and able to start looking around for a real man. The right man.

  A man like Jake.

  With a pang, Cynthia knew that Jake was the right man for her. And face it, her own infatuation was just as hopeless. The FBI agent was just passing time, playing sex games with her. As soon as the Oceanic investigation was closed, he’d be on his way to another assignment and another…tootsie.

  She waited for Agnes to rise and sweep majestically out of the restaurant; in fact, it felt as though all three of them were waiting. But Agnes hadn’t progressed that far yet on her journey to female empowerment. She just dropped her head on her hand and ate her olive.

  “I brought you a teapot from the new line of Chintzware I picked up this trip,” George said feebly, a baffled expression creasing his forehead.

  “Do you take teapots to your tootsies?” Agnes demanded.

  He rubbed his silver mustache. “No, I—wait just a minute. I don’t have any tootsies.”

  “Hah.” Agnes straightened and assumed a hearty British accent. “Hannah’s simply become too clingy, Agnes. I don’t know what to do. She’s talking about children. At my age!” George Percivald’s face deepened in hue, and Cyn had to stifle a giggle. Where had Agnes been hiding her talent for mimicry? She sounded just like him. “And as for Sarah, oh my dear, the girl’s insatiable. She’s wearing me out.”