by Celia Mulder
Only Lucille wasn’t supposed to feel guilt. She didn’t do guilt. Still, her gut, the instinct she didn’t listen to because of its stupid self-righteousness, piped up. It reminded her that she’d been waiting for something like this for years; eight years, to be exact. It reminded her of the resentment she’d held toward Simon when he’d left her his business, his mortgage, his mountain of problems. The young girl who’d wanted to experience something besides the dark underbelly of humanity but who’d had to accept her life for what it was. She dealt in that dark underbelly. She handled other people’s problems, other people’s ill-conceived adventures, other people’s lives.
Her gut told her that an opportunity had just been thrown at her head and she’d blocked it. This was her chance, her adventure. It had everything she loved—scandal, secrets, and hot men.
Her car stopped at a red light, her blinker ticking, counting the seconds as the door of her call to adventure closed. Brett and Michel would be flying around in the Polce private jet, hunting down the bad guys. They would find Sylvia, tackle her kidnappers, get to the bottom of her murder attempts, and save the day. They would do it all without Lucille. They would get the credit and the glory, and she would manipulate the press so no one knew the whole story.
Then there was her life ahead. The empty house that was never home. The endless parties where no one knew who she was. James was the only person she’d consider calling a friend, and he worked for her. She had no friends, no family she knew how to contact, no home. Pathetic didn’t begin to cover it.
Lucille’s anger won out over despair. No. There was no way those men were leaving without her. No way she was going to subject herself to a future of loneliness and meaningless sex. Well, perhaps the meaningless sex. But she wanted friends, goddammit. She wanted parties where she knew people and they knew her. She wanted to go a whole day without dealing with a self-absorbed, drug-addicted celebrity.
Lucille was only a few miles from the mansion and hadn’t met city traffic yet. She screeched her car into a dangerous, dramatic, illegal u-turn, pissing off everyone around her. Then her phone rang.
“If this is Christy-Anne,” she muttered, swiping the screen. “Lucille Anton.”
“Lucille, it’s Reina.” The model’s signature purr was gone. Instead of a contented kitten, she sounded like a short-fused bomb with less than a minute to blow.
“Hello, darling. Look, this isn’t a great moment to talk—”
“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you.” Reina cut her off, her tone shorter.
“Was that you? I’m sorry, I’ve been dealing with some time-sensitive issues that—”
“I am not in the mood to be bullshitted, Lucille. Do you know who just visited me?”
Lucille thought it best not to guess.
“A detective. A detective, Lucille! I thought he’d found out about Andreas.”
Lucille’s stomach, only a heartbeat ago full of anticipation and excitement, plummeted.
“But no. He wanted to talk about that bitch, Sylvia. He knows about my history with her and thinks that I did something to her. But I didn’t! I haven’t seen her in months.” Her voice rose, growing more desperate and hysterical.
Lucille swore.
Reina screeched, “What’s going on, Lucille?”
In her most soothing voice, Lucille said, “Reina, I promise you, Detective Adams has nothing on you.” She explained about Sylvia’s kidnapping but didn’t go into exactly how or why she was involved in the case. Even a famous supermodel didn’t get to know everything. “I made a deal with Detective Adams that he would drop the case for the next forty-eight hours. Clearly he hasn’t been keeping his end of the bargain.”
Reina was silent for a moment. Then she said, in a slightly less belligerent tone, “I can’t have the police sniffing around in my things.”
“I know, and I am on my way to clear this up right now. I promise you, he won’t find out about Andreas.” It was a promise she shouldn’t make and couldn’t keep, but one didn’t get by in the celebrity spin doctor world without lying to all of their clients, according to Simon Anton Rule #4.
“You had better.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? And we’ll talk about your new collaboration with Igmar, all right?”
“Fine.” Reina hung up.
Lucille scowled at her steering wheel and did another illegal u-turn. She wanted to smash something. The adventure was canceled, at least for her. By the time she got back to the Polce mansion, the boys would be long gone. She thought about throwing her phone out the window and running over it with the car. Then she’d leave all her responsibilities behind and skip town with a couple of nutcase artists.
How dare Matt go back on his word. Sure, she’d planned to stand him up but now it looked like she’d be showing up after all. But in no way would she be having dinner with him, the manipulative bastard.
She raced back to the city, her anger healing the sting of disappointment.
***
By the time she pulled up at the address Matt had texted her, Lucille was furious. She was more furious when she realized she was on time for their date. It would have been more satisfying if she’d made him wait for hours before showing up to eviscerate him. She sat in the car fuming, watching the minutes tick by and hoping her absence had him squirming.
They’d met the day she’d arrived at the mansion to live with Simon. Her mom’s latest husband had died under mysterious circumstances. Lucille was pretty sure her mom was innocent, but she was also the prime suspect. Having just graduated college, she’d had nowhere else to go, so she ran, broke and in debt, to live with the man who’d been raising her her whole life. Her mom hadn’t put up a fight—Lucille always went to Simon when things got bad. Lucille used to wonder why no one had bothered to ask her how she felt about the whole thing—first being sent for by her mother when she was stable enough to live in one place for longer than a few months, then back to the home she’d grown up in with Simon when it had all come crashing down. If they had asked, she’d have said she didn’t mind. Simon had been the most stable family member she’d had. Plus, he was interesting, fashion savvy, and had promised to introduce her to his business when she was old enough, though she’d been fairly certain it was something illegal.
That first day she’d showed up again at his door, wearing her cutoffs, plaid button-down, and cowboy boots, her VW Bug filled with all her belongings, Simon had opened the door, taken one look at her, and said, “Honey, you know I love you and I’m so happy you get to live with me now, but that”—he’d looked her up and down—“is not coming in the house.”
“This is what all the girls are wearing,” she’d whined back.
“Maybe in podunk Kentucky—”
“Nashville.”
“Whatever. But not here. This is Beverly Hills. Dress for it.”
“Ha ha, hilarious. What’re you gonna do? Make me change outside?”
He’d thought about it for way too long.
“Really?”
Simon had rolled his eyes and smiled. “Those boots are definitely not coming in.”
Lucille—she’d been going by Lucy at the time—had grinned and gone to grab her bags. As she’d been hauling a huge suitcase out of the car, she’d caught the heel of said boot on a hole in the asphalt and stumbled, trying to catch her bag before it fell on the ground.
“Whoa,” a voice behind her had said. It hadn’t sounded like Simon, but it was hard to tell from a “whoa.”
A hand had reached around and grabbed her arm, another hand holding onto the suitcase. She’d leaned into the hand and steadied herself, easing the wheeled bottom of the bag to the ground. Her eyes, following it down, had caught sight of a pair of black, masculine sneakers. The type of shoes Simon wouldn’t be caught dead in. They’d been attached to a pair of muscular, tanned legs, baggy running shorts, a sweat-drenched t-shirt that showed off the broad chest and defined muscles beneath it, and a pair of large, muscular arms wi
th big, warm hands. The guy had been a little taller than her and sweaty from his run. He’d had a striking, well-defined face without an excess ounce of fat anywhere. His dark hair had been floppy and fell into his eyes all the time. He’d been a twenty-two-year-old girl’s wet dream, and she’d had a crush on him right from the beginning.
Of course, her boot had still been stuck and she’d nearly fallen over again.
“Whoa,” he’d repeated, putting his hand around her arm.
She’d nearly died from the touch.
“Are you here visiting?” he’d asked, nodding at her stuff.
“Um, no. I’m moving in with my uncle.”
The guy had smiled so broadly that she’d forgotten to breathe. “Great. Welcome. I’m Matt. I just live a few...miles away.”
“Lucy,” she’d managed. In her head she’d congratulated herself for getting her name right. Staring into his blue eyes, she’d decided to make a conquest of him. He was cute, he ran, and he helped out strange girls who were unloading their cars.
It had been great for a while. Toying with him, making him want her, playing games only she knew the rules to. But Matt had thought her a wholesome girl when he met her, and he’d been determined to make her one even after he found she wasn’t. He refused to play her games and instead insisted on long talks in which he’d told her how he felt and she’d pretended to feel the same. He’d almost succeeded in taming her, as she’d come to think of it. Maybe he would have succeeded if he hadn’t gotten Simon arrested and forced her to testify against him.
The apartment building was an ugly, modernist rectangle located down the block from the police station. She buzzed and he let her up. Once inside, she stalked up the stairs, cursing her love of high-heeled boots and old buildings with rickety steps. At his door, she knocked, loudly and repeatedly, until he unlocked it. She pushed past him, waited for him to close the door, and then whipped around, eyes narrowed and hands trembling.
Matt was wearing the t-shirt she’d gotten him for his twenty-eighth birthday, the black one with the Blues Brothers on it. His hair was messy and he needed a shave. He looked like he had eight years ago, but with more gray and deeper laugh lines.
Looking at him made Lucille’s blood boil. If he’d worn that old shirt to endear himself to her, it wasn’t working.
“Hi,” he said, frowning.
“What right,” she said, speaking slowly so each of her words would cut deep, “do you have to go around interrogating people?”
Matt frowned deeper. “Every. I’m a detective.”
“Reina Winter isn’t even involved in the case.”
Matt went from confused to tense. “I beg to differ. She and Miss Stanton have a history of animosity. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t follow all possible leads.”
“We made a deal.”
“We made a deal that I wouldn’t arrest Michel Polce for forty-eight hours. Not that I wouldn’t question other potential suspects.”
“Reina Winter did not kidnap Sylvia Stanton.”
“And you know that for a fact?” Matt narrowed his eyes.
He could see into her. Through her. She knew he knew when she lied. “Yes, I do.”
“And you’re willing to testify to that?”
Those words were too much. They struck that trigger, the one that would always be there between them. Her testimony for Simon; her testimony against Matt. She gritted her teeth and pushed down her desire to punch him in his smug face. “Yes.”
Matt broke eye contact. “Fine, then I’ll leave Ms. Winter alone. Do you still like all your food to be separate from each other?”
Lucille didn’t like how this had gone. She felt more angry words bubbling up. She wanted to scream at him for ruining her chances to experience life. Again. “We aren’t done talking about this.”
Matt looked up from where he was spearing shrimp onto a plate.
“You can’t just come back into my life, screw things up, and pretend it isn’t happening.” Lucille felt angry tears prickle behind her eyes.
Matt set the plate down on the counter. “Lucy...I only came back into your life, as you call it, because I had to. Because it’s my job to investigate crime. Believe me, seeing you is as much of a shock for me as it is for you.”
“Why the fuck are you wearing that shirt?”
Matt rubbed his neck, like he did when he was embarrassed.
Realization trickled down her back like a cold stream of water. The fire that drove her there was doused in an instant. “Matt. Why are you wearing that shirt?”
He didn’t respond.
“You’ve been looking for me.”
“Sort of. Not really. I didn’t know you were still in town, until today.” Matt looked at the wall over her shoulder.
“Why?”
“Are you going to yell at me again?”
“That depends. Why?”
Matt met her glare. He looked like a little boy being forced to fess up in front of the whole class. “When I saw you today it brought up some things. I never forgot you. And I hated the way things ended between us.”
“You mean how you arrested my uncle and had me tried as an accomplice?” This was starting to feel like a bad romantic comedy, the kind she hated but always cried at anyway.
“I didn’t know they’d go after you. I was trying to get you out of there. I felt terrible when they put you on trial.”
“So you forced me into this date because you felt guilty?”
“Not exactly.”
Lucille’s annoyance was rising again. After the day she was having, she wouldn’t need an Ambien to sleep. Her emotionally wrung-out body would probably crumble the minute she closed her front door.
“Then why exactly am I here, Matt?”
He was still watching her, his face blank and guarded. Instead of an answer, he crossed the space between them, grabbed her by the hips, and kissed her. His mouth was sweet and familiar, like the taste of a favorite childhood candy. She didn’t want sweet and familiar. Sweet and familiar led to other things—to feelings, to memories, to love.
Lucille dropped her purse. She froze. She pushed him, hard. “Hang on.”
“Sorry.”
Lucille glared. If he thought this was going where she thought he thought it was going, he was right, sort of. If they had sex, he’d be more emotionally invested in it than she would be, but at the moment, in her anger, Lucille didn’t care. Matt had screwed with her. It only seemed fair she return the favor.
He was going on about something. How he shouldn’t have overstepped the boundaries and misread the moment and they could still eat their dinner as friends.
“Shut up,” Lucille demanded. Before he could protest, she kissed him, reaching her arms around his back to explore his well-defined muscles beneath the tight-fitting t-shirt.
Matt broke away and searched her face.
Even as her heart pounded from the sexual energy between them, her jaw tightened, closing off any emotional reaction.
“Lucy—”
“Matt. If you say another word, this isn’t going to happen.” If he said he still loved her, it was over. It had to be over—she wasn’t heartless. If he didn’t say it, then she could pretend this was just what she wanted it to be: a hookup with an old boyfriend who meant nothing, who, in a few hours, she’d walk away from and never look back.
Matt closed his mouth and nodded. She looked at his lips, not wanting to read the message he was screaming to her through his eyes. Weren’t cops supposed to be closed off from their emotions and married to their jobs? Why did she have to date the only one who had a good work/life balance and was in touch with his feelings?
Lucille gave Matt a push, causing him to stagger backward until he hit the front door. She stalked toward him, hoping he’d get the idea that gentle was not in play tonight. Grabbing the hem of his t-shirt, she pulled it off him. When he protested, she kissed him, biting down on his bottom lip. He got the message.
Matt grabbed her
hips, turned them both, and pushed her up against the door. She slammed against the wood with as much force as he had. Before he could pause to apologize or ask her if she was okay, she wrapped her legs around his waist and yanked his head down to her chest, where her breasts were straining against the low neckline. Judging by the insistent pressure against her thighs, her breasts weren’t the only things straining.
He nipped at her cleavage, then licked, pushing at her blouse. His right arm wrapped tighter around her, freeing the left up to ease the buttons apart, slowly, deliberately, and with all the time in the world.
Lucille groaned in frustration. At this pace I am going to fall asleep before we get to the actual sex part. She ground her hips into him, pushing toward him with straightforward intent.
Matt looked up, his face flushed with arousal, youthful in his excitement, a contrast to the premature aging of his hair. “Bedroom?” he gasped.
Lucille considered. As fun as it was to be fucked up against the door, she had far less control in this position. During their relationship, when she was younger and newer to sex, she’d been more willing to experiment, but if she wanted to get off fast, this wasn’t going to cut it.
She nodded and released her legs from around his waist. She let him take her hand and lead her down the hall to his very tidy bedroom with his very tidy department store comforter and flannel sheets. Telling him now that grown men sleeping on flannel sheets was sad would kill the mood, and at the moment, she was all about the mood. Instead, she gave him a long, hard look up and down his body and said, in a soft voice, “Strip.”
Matt stiffened. His usual easy compliance was completely gone. When he stared at her, his eyes were guarded. “Lucy. I don’t play those kinds of games anymore.”
Lucille frowned. This was not how things were supposed to go. “What kinds of games?”
“I’m not going to lie down and be some sex toy that bends to your every whim. Maybe when I was in my twenties, but now I want more.”
