Chapter 7
* * *
The electric blue dress mocked her, Ellie was sure of it. She hooked the clothes hanger over top of her closet door and swore she heard the dress whisper, "You are a fake and a fraud, Eleanor Severance!"
"Shut up," she muttered at it. She eyed the wig lying in a puddle of crimson on her white down comforter. The color of the wig reminded her of the blood on Jeremy’s face. A wave of nausea washed over her.
Nerves. That was it. Pre-date jitters. Two hours to go, and she was halfway tempted to call it off. The only problem was she didn’t have Kurt Orin’s telephone number. There was no way to back out of the date, even if she wanted to.
Note to self—get his telephone number.
Ellie sighed, adjusted her glasses, and looked over the clothing fanned out on the bed next to the wig. Black silk panties and bra set, satin slip, sheer nylons, black pumps with two inch heels. The panties and bra were simple and unadorned, but beautifully cut.
They were from Sweden and a gift from her mother who constantly lectured her, "A lady always looks like a lady from the skin up. Even if you are the only person who sees your undergarments, at least you know you are dressing like a lady."
Ellie felt that this school of thought was similar to those people who believed wearing clean underwear was important in case you were ever in a bus accident and the paramedics had to cut your clothes off in front of a crowd of gawking strangers.
The doorbell rang. Probably Susan arriving for the big makeover, part two.
Ellie yanked on her terrycloth robe and bounded downstairs, pausing to pet Hades on the way. He padded up to her room to ensconce himself in his favorite perch near the window.
She checked the peephole before she opened the door, then thanked her lucky stars she’d remembered to do so. A strange man in a navy sports coat stood on her doorstep. He was hunched over, trying to shield himself from the gusts of wind that threatened to blow his thick, dark brown hair in all directions. He looked straight at the keyhole and Ellie saw a muscular man, thirtyish with slightly wind burned cheeks. He had a bright red clipboard tucked under his left arm and a pen in the hand that reached out and pressed her doorbell again.
She tightened the belt on her robe and made sure the chain was latched across the door before she opened the door a crack and peeked out.
"Yes? Can I help you?"
Midnight blue eyes appraised her face. The man offered a wide, cheerful smile and nodded. "Yes, ma’am. I’m here from the local government office. It’s about these two condominiums." He tapped his clipboard with his pen. "Are you Ms. Bernadette McFee?"
Ellie shook her head. "No, I’m not. She lives in the other condo, right there." She stuck one finger out the door and pointed next door.
The man’s brow furrowed. "So…you’re the…tenant?" He made a slow, careful mark on his clipboard.
She nodded. Odd behavior. Almost as if she were being interrogated.
He made another notation, then frowned. "I don’t seem to have anyone down on my list as being the current tenant at this residence. And your name is?"
"Severance, Eleanor Severance." The frigid gusts of wind were picking up, and each flurry sent a draft through the door that went right up her robe and gave her goosebumps.
"And no one else lives here with you?" He craned his neck and peered over her shoulder. "Are you sure?" His expression plainly questioned her story.
Cold and pressed for time, her patience snapped. Did the Grand Inquisitor think she was running a flophouse or something? "I live here by myself," she pushed out through clenched teeth.
The man took a step back and closed his pen with a click of his thumb. "Perhaps I could come in and ask you some more questions?"
"Do I look crazy?" she snapped. "Go away before I call the cops."
He opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off by shutting the door in his face.
"Idiot." Ellie twisted the lock with a firm click. "Go bother my annoying landlady. You two deserve each other."
A flash of white on the carpeting caught her eye. In her haste to answer the ringer, she hadn’t noticed the two letters lying on the floor underneath the mail slot in the door. One was definitely her credit card bill, but the other looked like a personal letter. Ellie scooped up them up and tossed the bill on the oak sideboard. The other letter deserved closer scrutiny.
The sky outside was becoming dark enough she needed to turn on the floor lamp in order to read the handwriting on the front of the thick white envelope. It was postmarked Santa Barbara and Ellie frowned. She didn’t know anyone living up there. Using her thumb, she tore open the envelope, then pulled out the heavy card with its tissue covering.
You are invited to the joyous union of Paris Michele Fallon and Allan Thomas Kennes…
The words leapt out at her. Ellie didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or curse. Allan was getting married. He wanted her to come as a guest. Laughter came out a bitter, choking sound. She sank to the couch in a boneless heap, feeling the tissue covering the engraved invitation crumple beneath her clenched fingers.
A guest at her old boyfriend’s wedding. After nine years, he had tracked her down and sent her an invitation, just like he threatened he would. She had been packing her personal items into her suitcases and moving out of his apartment at the time he made that vow.
"Fine. You just run away, Eleanor. One day I’ll show you what you’re missing. You could have had a real life with me, but I guess you feel that wearing G.I. Joe costumes and carrying a rifle is more important than being Mrs. Allan Kennes."
She never regretted moving out of his apartment, only the months wasted living with him. Allan’s idea of domestic bliss had been Ellie doing all of the housework and cooking while trying to hold down two part-time jobs. At the time she thought it was love, but it wasn’t. It was just Allan playing house and complaining Ellie didn’t know how to please a man in bed. His bitter tirades about her inexperience and lack of sexual technique, combined with the grinding workload, became too much to bear.
One spring day, with her father’s help, she’d packed her few belongings and moved out. The next week, she quit her jobs and paid a visit to her local Marine recruiter. Allan never tried to contact her. Until now.
She hurled the envelope and its contents into the fireplace. It caught on the unlit log and lay there, a reminder of past failures, dreams unrealized, and old ambitions that soured with time.
No more. Tonight would be different. Old inhibitions would not hold her back. The attraction between her and Kurt was too strong to refute, and if the moment was right, she wouldn’t deny him.
The phone rang beside her, but she let it ring a second time before she picked it up with a quiet, "Yes?"
"It’s me," Susan’s voice was low and fast. "Something’s come up. I can’t help you get ready tonight. You’re on your own. I’m sorry."
Before Ellie could protest or demand more of an explanation, Susan disconnected. She called Susan’s home number, then her work number, but no one answered at either location. She’d bet a hundred bucks that something was a date. How could she get ready on her own?
Another disaster. And in less than one hour until Kurt was supposed to arrive!
Ellie scrambled upstairs and slapped on her club makeup. Her hands shook and she made several mistakes with her eye liner. Each error meant having to scrub the makeup off and reapply it again with care. Finally, her gray eyes were lined and dusted with glittering smoky eye shadow. Feeling more confident now, she gelled and pinned her mass of hair tightly to her scalp then settled the crimson wig into place. It looked genuine. Susan had said it was made of real hair. Ellie hated it.
The electric blue dress slid over her head with a whisper. Lucky for her, there was no zipper. She adjusted the wig one more time, slipped on her heels, and looked at herself in the bedroom mirror. Ellie was gone; the seductive stranger was back. A final shadowing of charcoal eye liner to accentuate her stormy eyes, a touch of matte r
ed lipstick, and she was ready. Or almost ready.
Reluctantly, she removed her glasses and squinted at herself in the mirror. The dress fit and the makeup seemed fine. It would have to do. As long as she kept him from pulling on the wig, he probably wouldn’t guess that it wasn’t real. Probably.
The doorbell rang.
"He’s here, he’s here," she caroled to Hades, who lounged on his pillow, watching the tossing trees create wild shadows upon the windowpane.
After all the horrible things that had happened today, she hoped this date would be the start of a very special evening. Dinner, dancing, perhaps some romancing… She smiled at her own enthusiasm.
The doorbell rang again.
The lights flickered off.
On.
Out.
Ellie groaned in the blackness of the power outage. It was going to be a special evening, after all.
* * *
The doorbell cut off in mid-ring and the porch light flicked out. Kurt looked around, squinting against the bursts of wind mixed with fine grains of sand. The one street lamp was off and none of the houses on the cul-de-sac showed any lights either.
Power outage. The only activity on the darkened street was the sound of a car’s engine turning over. Two oval headlights blinked on. With a purr, the little sports car pulled out of its spot across the street, drove to the corner, and turned out of sight.
The door behind him opened and he turned. Ellie stood in the doorway, backlit by candlelight, her face in shadows. He was struck anew by the lush curves and lines of her body, hinted at by the clinging material of her dress.
Kurt tried to gather his scattered wits as she stood there waiting patiently. Mentally, he fought to slip into Kurt Orin mode—confident, smooth, soothing. In reality, his heart was pounding like he’d just run a three-minute mile and his breathing had quickened. He squared his shoulders, determined to make the operation work, no matter what his traitorous body said.
"I swear I didn’t plan this storm," he began with what he hoped was a disarming grin. "This isn’t some attempt at trying to welch out on our date." He squinted at her face, trying to see her reaction. It was so damn dark, he could barely see a thing.
"Come in and get out of the storm." A thread of laughter laced her voice. "Can I take your coat?"
He stepped into the entryway and looked around as she shut the door behind him. Living room to the left with staircase leading upstairs directly ahead. The stub of a candle flickered inside a stained glass votive jar resting on an end table. He remembered there were other doorways leading off of the living room and that she had mentioned her bedroom being upstairs.
Kurt realized Ellie had been speaking to him, and he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. "I’m sorry, I was wool gathering. Could you repeat that, please?"
Ellie laughed. "I said I’m sorry it’s so dark in here. I only could find one candle. I think my next door neighbor borrowed the rest for her earthquake supply kit. Would you like to have a seat, if you can find the couch?"
"She sounds unpleasant." He sank into soft creaking leather. "Leaving you without emergency supplies like that."
"You don’t know the half of it." Ellie shook her head and sat on the adjacent armchair. "Anyway, I don’t think there’s any point in going out for dinner if the power’s out throughout the valley. The restaurants won’t accept any new customers without power. Most kitchens run on electricity instead of gas."
Kurt nodded, then realized she probably couldn’t see him and answered, "You’re right. How about we have a candlelight supper right here? Instead of canceling our date, we can light a fire, pour some wine. Just enjoy each other’s company. No worries about bad service or poor cooking. If the power does come back on, we can always slip out and grab a bite to eat. What do you say?"
Ellie hesitated. Kurt silently urged her to agree. He had to have access to this house. He had to get the evidence NCIS needed.
"If you don’t mind something simple like sandwiches and wine, I guess we can have our date right here." She stood. "Can I get you a glass of merlot? I think I also have soda and maybe mineral water."
"Wine would be fine, thanks."
"The fire is all ready to go. And, unless Bernadette took them, matches are on the mantle in the pewter mug. Would you please get it started?"
Ellie left the room and headed, presumably, to the kitchen. Kurt looked around the room, trying to reconcile what he had glimpsed briefly in the bright lamplight Thursday evening with tonight’s dim, candlelit shadows.
Bookshelves lined the room, packed with books, some neatly shelved, others stacked in precarious piles. There was the overstuffed leather sofa and armchair set, angled around the fireplace with a coffee table, end table and several floor lamps. An Oriental rug in shades of red and orange in front of the fireplace. There was no television. No radio or computer. It was very odd, indeed, but he supposed even blackmailers could be literate. She probably kept her electronics upstairs. He’d check later.
The walls had two pictures, one that looked like a numbered Picasso serigraph at the foot of the staircase above a polished oak sideboard and the other, a still life depicting a wooden bowl filled with water-beaded lemons above the fireplace.
The remaining wall was taken up by the big bay window that looked out into the front yard. The padded window seat beneath had a few red and green throw pillows at one end and a fuzzy cat basket on the other. The window’s beige drapes were mostly closed, but he could just make out the vague movement of bushes being tossed back and forth by the wind.
Kurt shifted his jaw left, then right. The spirit gum attaching his beard itched something fierce, and he was dying to scratch. He hated wearing facial hair, but since it was a part of the Kurt Orin disguise, he had no choice. Likewise, the dark brown contacts were awkward, but necessary. Living within three hours of Los Angeles gave him access to just about any type of movie makeup or prop he wanted, and usually he reveled in the deception, the game.
Tonight, he had an uneasy feeling it was going to be a difficult task. As long as he kept her from pulling on his beard, or worse yet his hairpiece, he’d probably be okay. Probably.
Kurt moved in front of the fireplace, wondering at the room. Usually, a person’s house gave insight into their minds, their thoughts and personal feelings. This room didn’t suggest a criminal. On the contrary, it was comfortable and cozy, the type of room he would enjoy relaxing in. It didn’t make any sense.
Glasses clinked from the kitchen and the pop of a cork being pulled brought his attention back to the job at hand—start the fire. He found long matches in the tall mug, and bent down to the small, open fireplace. There was a shimmer of white on the top of the neatly stacked logs. An envelope of some sort. He could almost read the address and the inscription. Kurt reached forward to snag it out of the fireplace.
"You can leave that there." Ellie’s voice made him jump. "It’s part of the kindling." Her voice was tight, a little angry, and strangely familiar. But he couldn’t quite place the resemblance. He shoved that thought to the back of his mind to be examined later.
"Fine by me." Kurt released the envelope and lit the kindling beneath the logs. A small whoosh and the flames were soon crackling merrily.
He pivoted on his heels. Ellie stood just beyond his reach. In the limited light of the fireplace, he could now see she was wearing a bright blue dress that clung to her hips and lifted her breasts into a deep cleavage. From his angle, he saw the pointed thrust of her nipples against the material. The sight riveted his gaze.
A hot surge of desire torched through his body. He wanted her. It didn’t matter that she was a wanton thing. At that moment he wanted her as badly as he had ever wanted any woman in his life, and it frightened him.
She looked down at him, her long hair cascading around her jaw line, shadowing her face. She held two full wine glasses, but she hesitated, her body caressed by dancing shadows.
Kurt took one of the merlots from her unresisting hand, put
it to his lips, and emptied the glass, never taking his gaze off her body.
Still squatting, he reached out and ran a hand up the taut curve of her calf and along the side of her silken leg until he reached the bottom of her hemline. Ellie seemed frozen in place, unable to break away from his touch. The flickering flames painted streaks of orange, gold, and red across her legs and arms, an elemental tattoo.
Driven by mad impatience, Kurt took both of her wrists, and gently pulled her down to kneel in front of him on the thick Oriental rug. Her hands trembled as she pulled away to set the wine glass on the nearby coffee table, then she twisted back to face him with languid grace. The hesitation he had felt within her a few moments before had been replaced with something else. Eagerness perhaps, or determination.
"What now?" she whispered.
He caressed one soft cheek, feeling the heavy strands of hair slide coolly over his wrist. He tried to slide his fingers behind her ear and cup her head, but she stayed his wrist with her hand. Then moved it down to her breast instead. An acceptable alternative.
Kurt leaned forward and cupped her breasts, feeling their soft weight and noting to his surprise and pleasure that they were real. Beautiful, firm globes that quivered under his touch as he caressed them through the soft fabric. Using his thumbs, he stroked upward, his touch feather-light, and reached the proud nipples that had drawn his gaze minutes before. They stood out like small nubbins, rock hard and straining at her bodice. He rolled the pads of his thumbs over them, feeling her arch toward his touch as she gasped with pleasure.
She was so responsive, so eager. Her body was made for a man’s attention. He felt his own body react to her indrawn breath as his groin tightened and his pants suddenly felt confining. With a muttered expletive, Kurt slipped his hands around Ellie’s back and pulled her against his chest. With one hand, he slid the sheer hemline of her dress up around her waist, trailing his fingers up her silken leg, past the top of her thigh-high nylons, and over the soft material of her panties.
JUDGING ELLIE Page 9
