Fast & Loose

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  This time, Cole gazed at her in indulgence. “Do you now?”

  She lifted her chin defiantly. “Yes. I do. It’s very interactive. I get e-mail every day from someone telling me how great it is and how much they enjoyed visiting it.”

  “Every day?” he asked with clearly feigned admiration.

  “Well, almost every day,” she qualified with clear reluctance. Then, when Cole only continued to study her with skepticism, she amended, “Okay, twice I got that kind of e-mail. My point is, you’re not the only one who’s stalkable in this town, pal.”

  In response, Cole only continued to study her in silence.

  Her response to his response was the expulsion of an irritable sigh. Then she said, “The first time we ran into each other, it was scheduled.”

  Really not looking good for the stalker thing, Cole thought. “Come again?” he said.

  “Eddie told me to drop off my keys at five o’clock Friday because that’s when you would be arriving to pick them up.”

  “And he told you who I was?”

  “No,” she replied in a way that told him she thought he was nuts for thinking that. “Eddie’s client list is confidential. In fact, I thought the other guy who was there when you and I were there was the one renting my house. It was why I wasn’t worried about renting out my house. He seemed like a nice man.”

  “Oh, and I didn’t?”

  “Of course not.”

  His eyebrows shot up in surprise at that. “Excuse me?”

  “You knocked me down,” she reminded him. “And you kept calling me sweetheart.”

  He had? He couldn’t remember that.

  “I hate guys who do that,” she added.

  She did? He’d try to remember that. But all he said was, “What about that time at the Ambassador Bar? Was that scheduled, too?”

  “Hey, Einstein, I was there before you that night,” she told him.

  That was right, he recalled now. She had been seated at the far side of the bar when he came in.

  “I’m there a lot, waiting for Bree to finish her shift. So that was your fault we ran into each other that night. You were invading my turf.”

  Oh.

  “Just like you’re invading my turf now,” she added.

  “Oh, no,” he immediately objected. “This is my turf until next Sunday. It’s bought and paid for. I don’t care if this is your house. You’re the invader here, not me. So tell me, Ms…. Flannery, was it?”

  She nodded but said nothing.

  “Tell me then, Ms. Flannery. Why did you break into your house-slash-my turf?”

  She sighed with much annoyance, though whether it was for him or for herself, Cole couldn’t have said. “Because when I found out it was you staying here, I wanted to make sure you hadn’t trashed the place.”

  Cole told himself he should be most concerned about the fact that, in spite of her friend’s keeping his client list confidential, she’d still found out he was staying here. If she could find that out, what was to keep any number of other women—women he’d just as soon not see—from finding out, too? But really, what concerned him most was the fact that she thought he had it in him to trash a place like this. Any place, really. But especially a place like hers that was warm and welcoming and offered solace and serenity to a man who had a lifestyle like his, a lifestyle that contained neither of those things. He knew King Cole’s reputation wasn’t sterling, but neither had he thought it was tarnished to the point where people could think him so crass and careless.

  “I’m no neat freak,” he agreed, “but I’m not a slob, either. And I sure as hell wouldn’t trash a place. Especially one as nice as yours.”

  That seemed to mollify her some. “You think it’s nice?”

  “I think it’s great,” he said sincerely. “I like how you use color.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s a very inviting space.”

  “That’s nice of you to say that.”

  It occurred to him that they had just slipped from stalker/stalkee accusations into an interview from HGTV rather effortlessly, but decided not to dwell on why. It was enough that the pinched, uneasy look had been erased from her face, and that she was talking to him now the way people did who were making each other’s acquaintance for the first time. And he decided not to dwell, too, on why that made him feel better.

  “And you have great taste in art, too,” he told her, because…Well, just because, that was why. And it was a damned good reason.

  She actually blushed at that. “Some of it’s mine.”

  “The glass, right?” he said, already having figured that out.

  She nodded. “And some of the paintings, as well.”

  “No kidding?” he asked, genuinely impressed.

  “Glass is definitely my first love,” she said, “but oil on canvas is my second favorite medium. And I love sketching, too.”

  “Really. You know, I don’t know anything about art, but I know what I like, and—”

  She laughed at that, halting his words. Not that she sounded scornful or anything. She just had a really nice laugh.

  “What?” he asked.

  “That’s such a cliché, you know.” She deepened her voice in a fair mimic of his as she continued, “‘I don’t know anything about art, but I know what I like.’” She went back to her regular voice as she added, “That’s what people say when they’re trying to impress someone but don’t have a clue what the art means.”

  And her point was? He shook the thought off. “Anyway, I like your house and I wouldn’t wreck it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Cole?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Would you let me up now?”

  Only then did he realize he was still sitting astride her in her hallway, holding her arms over her head. Strangely, though, instead of immediately releasing her, which was what any decent guy would do, he discovered he kind of wanted to keep her there for a while longer.

  He was so going to hell.

  His hesitation must have made her think he still didn’t believe her, because she added, “Look, if you let me up, I’ll prove to you that I’m Lulu Flannery and that this is my house.”

  Although he was still reluctant to let go of her—and that reluctance, he had to admit, had nothing to do with any potential mistrust of her intentions—he released her wrists and levered himself off of her. She immediately wrapped her left hand around her right wrist and rubbed it gently, then mimicked the gesture with the opposite hand. Something chilly and unpleasant nicked his insides at seeing it.

  “I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he said.

  Her reply was what seemed like an unconcerned shake of her head, but whether that meant she was saying that it was okay, it was nothing, or that he hadn’t hurt her, or that she was blowing off his apology altogether, he wasn’t sure.

  “I left my purse out in the car,” she said as she scrambled up from the floor, “so I don’t have my driver’s license on me.”

  He started to tell her that it was okay, that he believed her, but she hurried on before he had a chance, chattering as she pushed past him and she made her way toward the door at the end of the hall.

  “But I have some things upstairs in my bedroom that will prove I’m telling the truth.”

  She was halfway up the stairs and rounding the landing before she finished talking, so Cole gave up and followed her. She strode easily into the room, which made him forget, again, that he needed to duck or else he’d bump his head on the ceiling, again, which he did, again. When he muttered a ripe oath at having done so, again, she spun around to look at him. When she saw him rubbing his forehead, she must have realized what had happened, again, and she bit back a smile.

  “Guess it’s not exactly built to your specifications, is it?” she asked.

  “Usually I remember to duck,” he lied.

  “Mm,” she said, the sound telling him nothing of what she might be thinking.
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  He was about to say something else, but she chose that moment to drop to her knees by the side of the bed and pull up the spread, then lean forward even more to look for something underneath it. Cole’s mouth went dry at the sight, because her T-shirt rode up and her already low-riding jeans rode lower, giving him an incredible glimpse of twin dimples at the base of her spine and the top of her rump. He’d noticed that first day what a nice ass she had. Seeing her in this position…

  Well, it wasn’t just the reaffirmation of what a nice ass she had going through his head just then. Her position just brought forth all kinds of intriguing possibilities. Starting with how much he wanted to flick the tip of his tongue against each of those dimples, then trace the line of her spine upward, pushing her shirt higher as he went, until he could—

  “Here it is,” she said, scattering what had promised to be a really nice little fantasy. Too nice, he thought, when he realized his brain wasn’t the only organ her position had stimulated.

  He gave his head a good shake, as if that might physically dislodge the errant—and none too appropriate—thoughts from his mind, and tried to focus on what Lulu was doing instead. She withdrew a flat metal box with a combination lock on it that she proceeded to twist first right, then left, then right again. With a final click of the dial, she folded the lid back to reveal a stack of manila folders inside. She dug down to the bottom of them and pulled out a passport, which she then handed to Cole.

  “Proof of my identity,” she said.

  He opened it to find the requisite lousy photograph, but it was good enough that it resembled her perfectly. He flipped a page to read her personal information and found that her name was indeed Lulu Flannery and that she did indeed live at this address. Then he flipped some more pages and noticed a few other things.

  “It’s expired,” he said.

  “It still proves I’m who I say I am.”

  “There are no stamps in it,” he pointed out.

  In response to that, she covered the short distance between them on her knees and snatched it out of his hand. “I just never got around to using it, that’s all,” she said. Then she kneed her way back to the metal box and dropped it inside, slamming the lid shut and giving the combination a good spin.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” she told him. “Everything in here is just personal fluff. There’s nothing valuable or anything.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of intruding,” he replied. Since, hey, he’d found way more interesting stuff on her computer than he’d ever find in that box.

  Then another thought hit him. The journal. It was Lulu’s journal he’d been reading all this time? All that passionate rambling and all those erotic fantasies…They’d been Lulu’s? The woman he’d once dubbed Craggedy Ann was the same woman who’d written about making love on the Tilt-a-Whirl at the Kentucky State Fair? The woman who’d blushed at the merest contact of her body with his was the same woman who’d written about petting herself to multiple orgasms while listening to Barry White’s “Love’s Theme”? Parts one and two? The woman who wore Birkenstocks and blue jeans was the same woman whose lingerie drawer was filled with lacy confections in dreamy colors, some of them seeming too small to even cover what they were supposed to cover? That was Lulu? Lulu?

  Lulu?

  Holy cow.

  He watched as she bent over again to push the box back under the bed, trying to jibe the flesh-and-blood Lulu with his fantasy Delilah. There was no way. There was just no way the two women could be the same person. He’d never seen Lulu in anything but jeans, T-shirts, and ugly shoes. No way was she the owner of the rich colors and textures hanging in the closet, and no way was there pale lace or dark silk under such practical, no-frills clothes. She’d been uptight about something every time he encountered her. No way could she write about sensual and sexual pleasures with such a massive lack of inhibition.

  Everything in this house pointed to someone who was vivacious, effervescent, and unreserved. Someone who enjoyed every moment of life and never sweated the small stuff. Someone who raced headlong into whatever came her way and relished it. Not…

  Not Lulu.

  “Look, I’m sorry I bothered you,” she said as she pushed herself up from the floor and rose to standing.

  Cole studied her for a long time in silence, taking in her face, her clothes, her posture, herself, looking for something—anything—that might hint at the fun-loving, self-indulgent hedonist who called this house home. But all he saw was a wholesome, responsible, serious-minded woman. A woman who could never in a million years be his Delilah.

  The realization of that hit him harder than he would have thought it would. It was almost as if something inside of him that had been full and content a moment ago was suddenly empty and alone. As if someone who’d become very special to him was now lost to him forever. As if he’d finally met a woman who could distract him in a way that he liked, a woman with whom he could share a part of himself he’d never shared, a woman with whom he might possibly even fall in lo…

  Well. It just felt like he’d lost something wonderful, that was all.

  He was struggling to find something to say that would ease the awkward moment that had risen between them when Lulu lifted her hand to the back of her head and ruffled her hair, a gesture clearly born of nervousness from his silent study of her. And that was when Cole saw it. Riding just above the waistband of her low-slung jeans, to the left of the button—her left, not his—where her shirt rode up when she lifted her hand.

  A tattoo.

  Small, but still noticeable. A Chinese character he recognized from a framed ink sketch that was hanging in her kitchen. The symbol for chaos. The caption under the print had been something from the I Ching. Something about chaos being where dreams are born. And how before there could be something brilliant, there must first be chaos.

  Lulu Flannery, wholesome, responsible, serious woman had a tattoo on her torso of chaos. And from that chaos, Cole realized, something brilliant and dreamy truly was born. A woman who decorated her body with something more permanent than a Sharpie must be capable of decorating its trappings and its environment in excessive ways, too. This was Lulu’s home. It was her bedroom. Her dresser drawer. Her lingerie. And it was her computer and her journal he had been reading, too. Delilah was in there. She must be buried deeply for Lulu to be able to hide her so well, but Delilah was inside her. Somewhere.

  All Cole had to do was figure out how to set her free.

  “Ummm,” Lulu began again when he said nothing in response to her statement.

  But what was he supposed to say? Other than, Would you mind lifting your shirt again so I could see your tattoo?

  “I guess I should get going,” she added uncomfortably.

  She took a few cautious steps forward, then one to the side, then a few more that carried her past him in as wide an arc as she could manage in the small room. And with every step she took, Cole told himself to say something that would keep her from leaving. But his brain was too full of questions and riddles and puzzle pieces to be able to get any of them out of his mouth. He watched in strange detachment as Lulu lifted a hand in farewell, registered, somehow, the distant sound of her voice as she bid him good-bye, saw her retreating shape disappear through the bedroom door. Then he heard the scuff of her shoes as she went down the stairs, and then the creaking of the floor as she strode through the kitchen, and finally the latch of the back door as it closed behind her.

  That last sound finally snapped him out of the stupor into which he had fallen. He raced down the stairs and into the kitchen, yanked open the back door, and nearly stumbled down the back steps in his effort to reach the street. But the street was empty when he got to it. He looked left, then right. Stepped left, then right. Stopped and listened for the sound of a car motor. But where he’d been able to register every tiny sound a few moments ago, suddenly Cole could hear nothing. Nothing but a voice at the very back of his brain telling him he might have just blown the best chance he ev
er had.

  No, he immediately told himself. He really did know her name now. And he knew how to find her again. Even better, he knew what kind of woman she really was, even if she didn’t know that herself. Best of all, he had a plan for helping her find that woman. All he had to do was locate Lulu Flannery. And then, when he found Lulu, he could start looking for Delilah, too.

  Thirteen

  THE NURSING HOME BREE’S MOTHER HAD CHOSEN for herself when she still had the presence of mind to do so was the best Rosie Calhoun had been able to afford. It was pretty no-frills, but it was clean, and the nursing staff were as attentive and caring as they could be for people who were underpaid and overworked. One of the nurse’s aides had gone to high school with Bree, and she relied on her former classmate to report anything that might cause concern. After nine months in the place, though, Rosie Calhoun was reasonably happy.

  Of course, after nine months in the place, Rosie Calhoun’s already meager savings were about half what they used to be. At this rate, in less than a year, Bree was going to have to find another home for her mother. One that cost a lot less and was a lot more no-frills. One that had a staff even more overworked and underpaid. One where Bree didn’t know a soul who could keep an eye on her mom when she couldn’t be here. And at that point, her mom was going to need even more care and attention than she required now.

  Bree waved to a handful of patients and staff she recognized as she strode down the no-frills corridor toward her mother’s no-frills room. Sundays were actually pretty lively at the home, but most visitors came during the day, not just past dinnertime, like Bree, since she’d worked the day shift at the bar. Whoever had decorated the place had strived for a spa atmosphere with the pale green walls and faux marble flooring, but Bree wasn’t fooled. She doubted the inmates were, either. At least until they hit stage four or five. When she walked under an air vent, she was grateful for the denim jacket she’d pulled on over her jeans and purple T-shirt. Old, infirm people must stay unusually warm for the place to keep the AC turned down so low. Or maybe it was the overworked, underpaid staff who preferred the thermostat set at subarctic.