You Sang to Me

by Beverly Jenkins

  “Looks that way.”

  Eve never ceased to be amazed by her cousin’s audacity, and today was no exception. “I’m going to kill you, you know that, right?”

  Shelly simply smiled.

  After the party had ended and the family had cleared off the table and moved everything back inside, people began to say their goodbyes. Since she’d arrived in Detroit a few days before, Eve had been staying at a hotel downtown because her aunt and uncle’s house had been turned into a boardinghouse with so many out-of-town family guests. The room that had once belonged to her and Shelly now held five air mattresses, with four of the younger girls sharing two twin-size beds. Most of them would be heading home tomorrow.

  “When are you going back to Chicago?” her aunt asked Eve as she and Uncle Walt walked her out to her rental car.

  “Bright and early Monday morning. Shelly talked me into going to a masquerade party tomorrow night so I’ll do that and then fly home.” Shelly had already left for the airport, having put the box with the costume in the trunk of Eve’s car. Her aunt gave her a long, loving hug.

  “Been wonderful having you home. Next time you come, stay longer.”

  Eve tightly embraced the woman she cared for like no other. Her aunt had shared her terrible grief when Ginger—Eve’s mom and Rina’s older sister—had been killed. “I will.”

  They broke their hug. “And go to the party. No excuses. You’re way too serious to be under forty. Have some fun.”

  Uncle Walt said, “Leave her alone.”

  Eve grinned and shared a strong hug with him, too. He kissed her on the forehead. “She’s a crime fighter,” he said proudly. “She’s supposed to be serious.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Walt. You understand.”

  “That’s because I used to fight crime, too.” Uncle Walt was a retired police officer. There were a slew of cops and firefighters in the Clark family. Law enforcement seemed to be in their blood.

  Her smiling aunt asked Eve, “Are you coming for Sunday dinner tomorrow?”

  “If you’re cooking, I’m eating.”

  “One o’clock.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  That said, she walked over to the car and got in. With a grin and a wave, she pulled off.

  * * *

  After Sunday dinner at her aunt’s, Eve drove back to her hotel room. Although she’d told Shelly she’d attend the party tonight, she still wasn’t sure. On the one hand, it had been a long time since she’d had any real fun, but who went to a party where you drew a number for the person you were going to spend the evening with? The ball was being given by a hotshot Hollywood producer who obviously had too much money and not enough to do with it if this was any indication.

  She looked over at the large box lying on the bed. Her costume was inside, but she hadn’t opened it yet. She placed her hands on the vanity table and stared back at her reflection in the big mirror hanging above. “Well, Clark, what’s it going to be? At least open the box.”

  What she found inside made her cover her mouth with both embarrassment and awe. She picked up the costume in sheer disbelief. The black leather garment practically slithered out of the box and announced itself as the sexiest, most jaw-dropping catsuit she’d ever seen. But it wasn’t just a catsuit. A band of soft gold lamé adorned the low-cut, V-neckline like the wings of a seagull in flight. Two odd-looking sleeves—she guessed they were sleeves—made of the same gold fabric were draped in rings from either side. A gold sash around the waist completed the outfit. Shelly hadn’t lied about its effects. Any man crossing her path was going to keel over dead. “Shelly, Shelly, Shelly? What are we going to do with you? I can’t wear this.”

  Holding the catsuit up against her body, she walked back over to the mirror. At age thirty-five, Eve had a body like seventies film icon Pam Grier, with the height and stature to represent. The catsuit would hug her frame like steam on glass.

  Despite her reservations, she loved it. Every Halloween, Eve would dress up as a female superhero. One year she’d been Wonder Woman, then Super Girl. She’d even been Shera from the old eighties cartoon and had been ecstatic after finding out that the costume had come with plastic arm guards and a sword. Even back then she’d wanted to save the world. Shelly knew her entirely too well.

  She found a pair of black leather short-heeled boots in the box that were as soft and well-made as the catsuit. There was also a black domino and a tiara-like headdress made of rigid fret-worked leather that looked like a series of stylized thunderbolts. Under the headdress was another smaller box and a folded note. Eve opened the note and read:

  All Hail Great Warrior Goddess Oya!

  Oya is the Warrior Goddess of the Yoruba people of Africa. She rules over tornadoes, wind, lightning, fire and magic. In the comics, she goes by the name of Storm and in the movies she’s played by Halle Berry. Have fun. Love, Shelly

  Eve’s amusement showed in a shake of her head. “I can’t wear this.”

  But the more she looked at the suit the more she kept saying, why not? Shelly’s assessment of her bleak life had been close to the truth. Eve’s last serious relationship had ended two years ago. He worked as an EMT for the city of Chicago and he’d resented the travel her job required, her male colleagues and her salary. Plenty of men admired her body and her looks, but she’d yet to find one secure enough to handle her strength and intelligence. Tonight would definitely be a walk on the wild side for her, but she couldn’t pass up wearing something so gorgeous. She could always go back to saving the real world in the morning.

  When she’d finished dressing, she took a look at herself in the mirror and grinned. The catsuit was sizzling. The black leather slid over her Junoesque proportions like butter. The seagull-like wingspan spread across her bustline in tandem with the golden swath around her waist set off her body like—bam! The oval-shaped sleeves that hung below her bare shoulders and the banded, low-cut neckline framed her toned biceps like two golden bracelets.

  The small box under the note held a long silver wig with bangs. She put it on, styled it so that it looked good and put on her lightning bolt tiara. With the headdress positioned just so, the long, silver hair flowed behind her like an African waterfall. No disrespect intended, but Ms. Berry, eat your heart out.

  To give herself just a touch more of the exotic, she added green contacts. In the early days of her career in law enforcement, Eve had done more undercover assignments than she cared to talk about. Because of her theater background in college, she had gone undercover disguised as everything from a crackhead to the haughty daughter of an African despot in an illegal weapons case. Her reflection told her that this might be some of her best work yet. She looked good. Damn good. She turned to check out the rear view. Not bad. She was a little wider than a decade ago, but thanks to her time in the gym, everything was still tight and where it should be.

  She was still somewhat concerned about being paired up with a stranger for the evening. But she knew that if anything stupid jumped off, she had her training and the Glock in her small evening bag to back her up. She was required to carry her weapon with her at all times, even when posing as an African goddess.

  The only thing left to do was to tie on the black velvet domino mask. It covered her eyes and was accented here and there with tiny sequins. Shelly had outdone herself. No wonder production companies were beating down her door. The girl had skills.

  According to the engraved invitation, a car would be coming to transport her to the hotel where the party was being held. Taking one last look at herself, a smiling Eve wrapped the soft black cape Shelly had also provided around her shoulders and headed for the door.

  CHAPTER 2

  The hotel’s large ballroom was decorated with black and orange streamers, elaborately carved pumpkins that were lit inside with candles and black cats. Hanging from the ceiling were animatronic witches, cackling and riding brooms as ghosts floated nearby. There were five food stations, two bars and a DJ playing 80s music. Mist from a fo
g machine rolled over the floor while the sounds of laughter and the din of conversation from the costumed guests competed with the volume of the music.

  Through the eyes of his centurion-style helmet, Leyton Palmer assessed the gorgeous women milling about. Of course, with their faces masked, it was impossible to tell what they really looked like, but he was enjoying fantasizing about the French maids, she-devils, Playboy Bunnies and the five Tina Turners he spotted in the crowd. A dark-skinned Cleopatra sauntered by and gave him a saucy wink. He toasted her with his glass of soda and let her stroll on by. He appreciated the wink, but, unlike the rest of the revelers, he was working.

  He’d had no idea he’d be attending this party until a meeting this morning with his captain. Leyton was a cop and an arson investigator, on the force fifteen years. Thanks to the tax breaks the state had been offering film companies, Michigan was fast on its way to becoming the Hollywood of the Midwest. Stars like Clint Eastwood, Drew Barrymore and Hilary Swank all had made movies in and around the city, and more projects were rumored to follow. In the meantime, the city fathers wanted to keep the big money folks safe. Having a discreet police presence at events like this helped that agenda. And with that in mind, a few gratis tickets had been distributed to the department. Leyton had drawn the short straw in his unit and now stood dressed like a Roman soldier, complete with armor, helmet and knee-high gladiator sandals. It was one of the few costumes the university theater department had that fit his six-foot-three frame. Having taken a few drama classes in high school and college, he was comfortable in the scanty armor. Apparently the women who kept strolling by him were comfortable with it as well, but he’d much rather be in his police car patrolling the streets for the fires that habitually plagued the city during Halloween.

  And then, she walked in. First you saw the hair, flowing like silver moonlight. She handed her black cape to the attendant and strode into the room. She was wearing a sexy, low-cut black catsuit with strategically placed bands of gold. The leather suit rippled sensually in rhythm with her long confident stride, and Leyton almost dropped his drink. The music stopped. Gasps were heard and men’s eyes all over the room popped from their sockets and rolled around on the floor.

  Storm.

  She had to be. He’d been devouring comic books since learning to read. With that hair and that black leather suit, she couldn’t be anyone else. Everyone stared transfixed. She paused to let them get a good look at her masked beauty, and look he did. He instinctively knew she wouldn’t be paired up with the likes of him, but just the sight of her could keep a man in erotic fantasies for weeks. Tall, the way he liked, and that body—what could he say, but, oh, my. He gauged her to be a little less than six feet tall and she obviously took good care of herself. She gave off an air of power that said she was indeed as strong as the costumed character she pretended to be.

  Still holding everyone riveted, she walked over to an unoccupied table and took a seat. The music started up again.

  For the next half hour, Leyton positioned himself so that he could keep an eye on her. He’d seen her give the room’s entrances and exits a quick but nonchalant sweep, and it piqued his curiosity, as did her equally discreet look up at the sprinkler system. He had no idea why she’d be interested in the ballroom’s layout, unless under that sexy leather she was either law enforcement or there to cause harm. In the meantime, men in everything from donkey to penguin costumes, pimps and airplane pilots flocked to her like geese to corn, but not one seemed to make it past hello. He sipped his soda and smiled.

  As she always did, Eve took a moment to check out the crowd, the entrances and exits, the locations of the overhead sprinklers and the fire extinguishers. She knew anything could jump off at a moment’s notice, and she needed to be prepared just in case. But the men who kept coming over and slyly proposing all manner of inappropriateness were getting on her last nerve. After the third indecent proposal, she decided to act like the goddess she was supposed to be and not to put up with the rude and obnoxious behavior.

  She eyed the short man standing in front of her now. He was in a Mario video game costume, of all things, and obviously didn’t know that a goddess looked poorly upon having her breasts leered at.

  “Who are you supposed to be? Storm?” Behind his mask, she could see his eyes were shiny with liquor.

  “The goddess Oya. And you are?” she asked imperiously in the African-accented voice she’d used undercover.

  “I’m Mario. How about we hook up later and I show you my magic coin.”

  “I’m sorry to hear you’re only as large as a coin. There are implants for such deficiencies you know.”

  He froze.

  She waited.

  Even with the mask on, his fury was obvious. “Bitch!”

  “You say that as if it’s something bad. Go away before I turn you into a toadstool.”

  He stormed off, tripping over a chair, which completely undermined his outraged departure.

  Scanning the crowd, she was distracted by the eyes of a man dressed as a Roman centurion. He smiled under his helmet and toasted her with his glass. She gave him a regal nod and wondered who she would have to threaten in order to get the hell out of there.

  Leyton watched her dispatch Fred Flintstone, a mail carrier and an old man dressed as Super Fly before he decided to make his approach. Stopping by the bar, he got another soda for himself and one for her, and headed in her direction. In the soft, southwest accent he’d picked up from living in Texas for a decade, he said to her, “Tribute from the empire, my lady.”

  Eve turned, and for a moment got so lost in the dark eyes gauging her from inside the brass helmet, she couldn’t form a reply.

  “I was going to offer my protection, but you seemed to be doing well on your own.”

  She took the drink he offered. He was smooth. She had to give him that, so she smiled. “It’s easy when you command lightning bolts, centurion. Sit, if it pleases you.”

  He sat, and Eve found herself intrigued. He was obviously educated and she was pleased by the role-play. Maybe the evening wasn’t going to be a waste after all. She sipped and did a quick scan of him. Six foot three, and every brown inch, hard lean muscle. Not many men could pull off a black armor-covered kilt and sandals, but his biceps and thighs looked right at home. Because of the helmet, all she could see of his face were the dark eyes, sculpted cheekbones and the strong mouth. For a woman who’d been celibate for two years, it was more than enough.

  “Personal questions are forbidden according to the hosts, so I can’t ask what a beautiful woman like you is doing in a place like this. If it meets with your approval, I’ll sit and enjoy the lady’s company.”

  She nodded her approval and smiled inside.

  For the next few minutes neither spoke. They spent the time sipping their sodas and observing the costumed crowd on the dance floor. They also kept eyeing each other and did so without much pretense.

  The music stopped, and the DJ announced, “All right, we’re going to hook you up with a partner for the evening. If you will bring the ticket you were given when you entered and put them in the hat, we’ll get started.”

  Eve considered the men who’d approached her earlier and knew no way was she going to play along. She asked the centurion. “You have your ticket?”

  He nodded.

  “May I have it please?”

  He handed it over, and she got up and walked to the DJ table.

  The DJ was dressed up like Elvis. At her approach he grinned. “Hey, Storm. Looking good. Quite an entrance you made.”

  “Thank you. I’ve chosen the centurion. What do we need to secure a room?” At least the centurion had manners.

  He appeared confused, “Well, you’re supposed to wait like everybody else.”

  “Lady Oya is not everybody else. Where are the rooms?”

  “Well, um. Hold on a minute.”

  While the crowd flowed around her to place their tickets in the blue hat for men and the pink one for wo
men, Eve waited and watched as the DJ spoke with someone wearing a gorilla suit. The gorilla finally shrugged and handed the DJ a card-shaped door pass.

  “Suite 2135.” he said when he returned. “Enjoy yourself, your majesty.”

  “Thank you.”

  She walked back to where the centurion sat waiting. She handed him the card. “Our room key—2135—unless that displeases you?”

  He stood and bowed. “I’m honored.” His gaze held hers just long enough to almost make her lose her way again, then he gestured for her to precede him.

  On the ride up in the elevator, even though he was standing a respectful distance away, Eve was very aware of his presence. The silence in the car only seemed to heighten the charged atmosphere and she wondered if she’d lost her mind. Since when did she go around picking up strange men: since putting on the catsuit and taking on the goddess persona, she thought to herself. And since she didn’t want to spend the evening with someone like that Mario guy, she added. The real Eve should be back in her hotel room watching the NBA and packing for the flight home to Chicago. Instead she was headed up to a hotel suite to spend the evening with a man she didn’t know from Adam’s cat.

  The suite they entered was spacious and luxurious. Not even the Halloween pumpkins, tons of lit candles, black cats and witches could take away from the sumptuous surroundings with cream-colored upholstery and windows that looked out over the river. She could see the night lights of the city of Windsor, Ontario, on the opposite shore. Eve made decent money working for the government, but it wasn’t enough for a suite like this one, not even for a night.

  Playing the centurion role, Leyton did his best to maintain his cool. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel threatened or uncomfortable. Watching her in the candlelit silence as she stood looking out at the river, he wondered again who she might be? Her regal bearing and African-accented voice were both on point. Was she an actress? Working girl? She didn’t seem to him to be a member of the world’s oldest profession; the way she’d dismissed the men in the ballroom proved that. In truth, he had no idea what she did in real life. But he hadn’t seen a body like hers since Tamara Dobson and Pam Grier from the old seventies blaxploitation movies his mom liked to watch. Curiosity aside, even if they spent the time doing nothing but talking, he was looking forward to what he hoped would be an enjoyable and memorable evening. As an arson investigator, though, he could do without all the candles burning everywhere. For him they were an accident waiting to happen.