by Bird, Peggy
“Oh, Sam, that’s … ah-h-h,” she breathed out in a ragged gasp.
He unzipped and eased her pants over her hips until they pooled on the floor then he lifted her out of them, picked her up and sat on the bed with her on his lap.
“Now you,” he said and put her hands on the first button of his shirt. When she had finished, he gently put her on the bed, stood up, pulled his shirt out of his jeans, unbuttoned the cuffs and stripped it off, his eyes holding hers the whole time. His boots and socks went next. He pulled a condom out of his wallet, put it on the bedside table and shed his jeans and boxer briefs.
He joined her in bed but when he began to slip off the scrap of lace she wore as panties, she stopped him.
“Do you always carry a condom in your wallet?”
He smiled and brushed a curl back from her cheek. “Not since I was a teenager.”
“So has that been there for twenty years or did you bring it from Portland today?”
“Neither.” The smile moved up to grin.
“Neither? Then, what? Come on, Sam. You’re busted now. Give it up.”
“The expression on your face today, in the gallery, when you first saw me. It was how I’ve always wanted you to look when you saw me. When you hugged me and looked up for me to kiss you, I thought, I wanted to think … anyway, when I walked past a drugstore on the way back to my hotel … ”
“You figured you should be prepared in case you got lucky tonight.”
He looked more serious now as he gently kissed her. “No, not like that. Not with you. I wanted to think that maybe you were telling me that the night in Portland was the beginning, not the end.”
“Oh, God, I hope so,” she said as she pulled him to her for a kiss that was neither gentle nor soft. As the kiss deepened, his hands began to wander to breast, to waist, to hips and thighs. Then his mouth found her breast, his tongue circled her nipples, first one, then the other. His hands brought her skin alive, brought fire and light to every cell in her body.
Separating her legs with his, he moved his hand to her sex. As his fingers slid into her on a flood of arousal, he circled her clitoris with his thumb. Gasping out his name, rocking against his hand, she rode to the edge of climax then over.
She closed her eyes, coming down from the incredible high he’d given her. But he was not finished. He came back to her mouth and their lips touched, their tongues explored and danced. Somehow, sometime, she wasn’t sure when or how, he’d sheathed himself and now was slowly entering her, easing his way into her core. But she didn’t want slow and easy. She wanted all of him. Now.
She wrapped her legs around him and thrust her hips at him, calling out his name, rocking hard against him, meeting him thrust for thrust, bringing them both to orgasm.
Afterward, she clung to him, her head in his shoulder. When she finally looked up at him, he said, “You asked if I missed you. I can’t remember a longer four months. And do I care if you come back to Portland? Only about as much as I care that I wake up in the morning. That answer your questions?”
Chapter Three
The following month
The first time Sam had seen Amanda’s studio, he’d gone there on police business, to talk to her about Tom Webster’s possible illegal activities. Nothing about the day had been what he expected.
Starting with her studio. Outside, the building looked like a World War II Quonset hut. Inside it was more industrial than artsy. Boiler room-level heat radiated from three furnaces, the “glory holes” where the two glass blowers who shared the studio with Amanda melted the glass they used. Opposite the furnaces was a bank of kilns used both by the glass blowers and Amanda. She used them to fuse and shape her kiln-formed glass. Her studio mates used them for a controlled cool-down of their blown-glass pieces.
Across the back of the building, where Amanda worked, were deep slots constructed of plywood where she stored her glass: table-top size sheets in a multitude of colors: ruby red and royal purple, citrus shades of lemon and orange, the greens of spring and Oz, and all the blues of the sea, the sky and Paul Newman’s eyes. Above the sheet glass were clear jars full of various sizes of colored granules along with tubes of something looking like multi-hued spaghetti. Frit and stringer, Amanda called them.
And Amanda — the beautiful young artist he remembered from the gallery where he’d first met her had greeted him dressed like she was ready to do construction. Her curls had been pulled back from her face, held in place by some kind of clips. She’d worn no make-up and a heavy, long-sleeved T-shirt. Her jeans had been splattered with something pink and her shoes looked heavy enough to survive hiking the Himalayas.
Nothing had changed from a year ago. Amanda was even dressed the same today.
“How come you get stuck with all Amanda’s packing and unpacking, Sam?” Leo Wilson, one of the glass blowers — and one of the friends who’d helped Amanda pack before her move to Seattle — asked as Sam made his way to the back of the building. “We have to do it. She’s our landlord. You’re a volunteer.” The semi-smirk on his face was evidence that he knew exactly why Sam kept volunteering.
“Big fan of glass art. Glad to have another talented artist back in town.”
“That explains this time … ” Leo began.
Amanda cut him off. “Leo, unless you want a rent increase, you better leave the help alone.” She reached up and kissed Sam on the cheek. “Thanks for doing this. I really appreciate it. I apologize for my mouthy studio mate.”
Surprised — and pleased — that she’d been so possessive, Sam circled her waist with an arm. “No problem. I want to make sure you’re good and settled so you don’t run off again. I hear there are good glass schools in North Carolina and New York.”
“Don’t forget Rhode Island, Australia, England and Italy,” she said with a raised eyebrow and a half-smile.
“Christ, I better get you moved back in ASAP so you’re not tempted. What can I do?”
Two hours later, the boxes she’d had shipped back from Seattle were unpacked, the contents put into their correct places, as were the dozens of sheets of glass Amanda had purchased from Bullseye Glass the day before. She was just about to take Sam out for coffee when his pager went off.
“Sorry, baby,” he said when he got off the phone. “I was supposed to have the afternoon off but … ” He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe dinner tonight? About seven? Your place?”
“You’re on.” She kissed him again, this time on the mouth. “And thank you again. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“I don’t intend to let you find out,” he said.
Ten minutes later, Amanda got a phone call that pulled her, too, out of the studio.
• • •
“Just because she’s gotten decent reviews for that show in Seattle and sold a few pieces of glass, she thinks she’s some kind of star,” Eubie Kane said. “She’s not; she’s a thief. And she’s avoiding me because she’s afraid I know.”
A tall, slender man in his mid-twenties, Kane paced in front of the checkout counter at the Bullseye Resource Center, the retail store for the glass manufacturer. As he walked back and forth, his voice grew louder with each sentence, powered by wind milling arms and a rising tide of indignation. Clad in worn overalls and a dingy T-shirt, he looked more like a panhandler at a freeway exit than the artist he was. “But now that I know what she’s been doing, she’s going to have to … ”
“Eubie,” manager Felicia Hamilton interrupted, “keep your voice down. I called her. She was unpacking her studio and forgot she promised to meet you. Why didn’t you just go over there in the first place?”
“I wanted to meet her here.” Kane shifted his backpack as if it contained a great weight and continued pacing, much to the amusement of the other artists there to purchase glass for their projects and the students who’d been d
rawn in from the classroom space adjacent to the retail area by his loud voice.
“If I let her, she’d always have some damned excuse about being busy.” Kane swung the backpack off his shoulder, sideswiping a pyramid of jars full of granulated glass, causing it to teeter, like a near miss in some carnival game. Ricocheting from that almost-disaster, he banged into the cart of a woman waiting to pay for her supplies, sending ten large sheets of glass tipping forward. A half-dozen people rushed to save the glass from crashing.
The manager motioned to Robin Jordan, the instructor whose class had become part of the audience, to get other customer carts piled with glass out of Kane’s orbit. “She has been busy. She just moved back to town; she’s got a show coming up in Tacoma, commissions from her Seattle show.”
“Right. The great Amanda St. Claire, busy doing work based on my ideas. And you’re covering for her, treating her with kid gloves because she’s a good customer.”
“Oh, come on, Eubie, we treat all our artists with kid gloves,” Felicia said in a cajoling tone. “We treat you with kid gloves, don’t we?”
“Yeah, sure.” His scornful expression showed what he thought of that statement. “She gets special treatment, even uses your big kiln when no one else can.”
“I don’t think Amanda’s ever asked but the answer for her would be the same as for anyone else. We only rent out the small kilns.”
“That’s bullshit. A guy who knows one of your staff told me she does.”
“Give me your source and I’ll get this straightened out. Amanda has never … ”
“I’ve never what, Felicia?” Amanda asked, coming in the door.
“Used our big kilns,” Felicia said. “Eubie says we let you use them.”
“Nope, never. Except for class projects the time I was a guest teacher. When I need a kiln bigger than the ones in my studio, I rent Kent Simon’s Skutt. Is that what you wanted? You should have told me. I can ask Kent to contact you.”
“That’s not it and you know it.” Kane pulled a magazine out of his backpack, opened it to a dog-eared page and thrust it in her face. “Did you think I wouldn’t see this?”
Amanda immediately recognized the piece about her work. “I hoped a lot of people would see that article.”
His forefinger rat-a-tat-tapped a beat on the page. “That piece of glass on the top left is a direct rip-off of my work. You saw my layered blocks on weather moods in the Glass Art Society exhibit two years ago and you duplicated them with different names.”
“That’s from a series I did about five years ago, before the Glass Art Society exhibit.”
“You’re lying. That’s my idea you stole.” He spit the word at her. “People have been commenting on it. You’ve built your career on my back. So you’ll have to compensate me or I’m going to sue you. I came here to warn you.” Turning abruptly, he stomped out the front door.
The students who’d been watching the performance ebbed back toward the classroom, avoiding eye contact with Amanda. Customers carefully examined the coding labels on the sheets of glass as though they’d never seen them before.
Felicia finally broke the silence. “Well, that little meeting worked out nicely, don’t you think?” she said with a wry smile, her blue eyes sparkling behind her Ben Franklin glasses.
“What bug crawled inside him?” Amanda asked.
“Not sure what it is but I’m pretty sure I know where it is,” Felicia said. “Only thing I can’t figure out is why. He can be whiny but he’s usually not obnoxious. Have you heard about this before? I haven’t.”
“This is the first for me, too. I’ve met him once or twice. Saw his work at the Glass Art Society and at The Fairchild.” Amanda shook her head. “He’s on a tear for some reason. This is all I need.” The sound of customers moving around caught her attention. She saw that people were still avoiding her and shook her head again. “Sorry, not your problem. Apologies all around. If you hear any more about this, call me please?”
Returning to her studio, Amanda tried to get back to work but she couldn’t concentrate. She decided to run errands hoping retail therapy might help.
The shopping list for her studio wasn’t long but, preoccupied with Eubie Kane’s accusations, she couldn’t focus, passing by the items she wanted in the office supply store two or three times before picking them up. She did notice a young man with longish dark hair who seemed to be in every aisle she was, making her uneasy. He reminded her of Eubie Kane and she didn’t need to be reminded of him.
She blitzed New Seasons Market for studio snacks and something for dinner with Sam. Then she dropped in at the bank. In both places, she saw a man who looked a lot like the guy from the office supply store. Or else she was imagining Eubie Kane look-alikes behind every rock.
Back at the studio, she parked directly in front of the door. She was closing up the back of her SUV when a beat-up Toyota hatchback parked a few spaces behind her. She swore it was the same car she’d seen at the coffee shop where she’d stopped for a latte and it gave her the creeps.
Running through the big roll-up door that was, as usual, open to ventilate the heat from the glory holes, she called to her studio mates to go with her to check it out. But when they got there, the car was empty. They hung around waiting for the driver’s return but after about five minutes, when no one showed, they went back into the building.
*
It was hidden behind old rhododendron bushes somewhere along the back of the house. Not exactly a precise set of directions but he’d figured it couldn’t be too hard. However, what he found when he got in the backyard wasn’t so simple. A confusion of greenery had grown together in a living wall that blocked access to the foundation.
When he tried to force his way behind the shrubs, thorns snagged his shirt, scratched his hands and face. Overgrown rose bushes were intermingled with broad- leafed shrubs covered in green buds. The shrubs must have been ten feet tall. To squeeze behind them he had to break off branches and tear at the leaves.
But there it was. Finally. The hardware was old, easy to jimmy. He got the door open and went into the basement. A phone rang upstairs and a dog barked. The security system was still working, it seemed.
Not long after he went out the side yard gate to his car, the blond from her studio pulled into the driveway, went into her house and was back out in less than ten minutes.
As soon as the car disappeared around the corner, the observer started his engine. If he did this a few more times, she’d have the motion sensor taken off that door and he could get in at his leisure. He congratulated himself that this phase of his plan, recovering the reward he was due, was coming along.
And so was the part about settling the score for what she’d done. He was sure he’d scared her following her around. He smiled. That was only the beginning.
Chapter Four
“I met with her,” Eubie Kane said, “and I really made her sweat.” He was having coffee at a café a couple blocks away from the scene of his confrontation with Amanda. With him was a man who could have been his brother — tall, dark-haired, young, although more muscular than the slender artist. “And you should have seen the reaction I got from everyone in Bullseye. That was inspired. I’m glad I took your advice.”
“Dude. You’re rocking it.” His companion put up his hand for a fist bump.
“And I’m going to tell Liz Fairchild about my other opportunity, too, like you suggested.”
“That only leaves Bullseye.”
“I’m not sure I can get what I want from them. They’re different.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I’m sure we can come up with a plan.”
• • •
Amanda finally felt at home. After days of moving furniture back to the way she liked it and unpacking boxes, her books were in the built-in bookcases, her favorite leather couches were ar
ranged around the stone fireplace, the Persian rug and low table were centered between them.
In the resettled dining room, she’d set the table for dinner. All she needed was Sam. He said he’d be there at seven but had called to say he’d be late. He offered to bring take-out. She’d turned him down, saying she wanted to cook a meal in her own home. She didn’t add “cook a meal for you” but she thought he might have figured it out.
He arrived with a six-pack of beer and a bottle of her favorite pinot gris. As he rummaged around in a kitchen cabinet for a wineglass, he asked, “Did you get the rest of your studio settled?”
Amanda busied herself with the chicken breasts she was broiling, not sure how to answer him. She must have taken too long because when she straightened up from poking around in the oven, he was staring at her as if trying to figure out why she hadn’t said anything. “Well, I guess you can say I’m settled, but … ”
“What’s the ‘but,’ baby? You look worried.”
“God, Sam. All I seem to do is dump my problems on you. I hate it. Doesn’t it bother you?”
“What’s going on?” He had his cop face on now. Sadly, she knew it all too well.
After another long pause, she gave him the highlights of her confrontation with Eubie Kane that afternoon at Bullseye. She ended by saying, “I can’t afford another scandal. Not after last year. My career would be buried forever. It makes me wonder if I should have stayed in Seattle after all.” She was sure she had tears in her eyes and not from the heat of the oven. “Is threatening me like that against some law or another?”
“First of all, don’t let this asshole send you running back to Seattle. Second, Kane’s talking about a civil suit. That’s not against the law. Unfortunately. Talk to an attorney. He — she — can help you. Do you know a good corporate-type attorney?”
“I guess I could call the man who helped me set up my business.”
“Do it. First thing Monday.” He handed her a glass of wine. “And don’t let Kane spoil your homecoming.”