Randall #01 - The Best Revenge

by Anne R. Allen

  A few minutes later, Mr. Kahn hobbled in from the bedroom. He wore a dark blue bathrobe and had put a Band-Aid above his right eye.

  “Please excuse the costume,” he said. “It’s such a hassle putting pants on over the damned cast.”

  “Is that Yves St. Laurent?” she said, eyeing the robe. It looked a lot like the one Angela wore at Plantagenet’s house.

  “Beats me,” he said. “But it was a gift from somebody who cares about that sort of thing.” He looked down at her, resting on his crutches.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Kahn.” She made room for him by piling Spanish newspapers on top of the Afghanistan books. “There’s your drink. I gave you Darth Vader.” She pointed to the two glasses on the table. She looked at his bandaged eye. “Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?”

  He lifted his leg to rest the cast on the coffee table. “What I need, Ms. Randall,” he said, “is to offer you my thanks.” He studied Darth Vader with a slight frown. “And a long overdue apology. I constantly seem to be misjudging you. That was an incredibly brave thing you did tonight. You probably saved my life. That guy wasn’t just drunk. He was wired on something. I hate to think what would have happened if you hadn’t come along with your can of mace.”

  She giggled. “That was Alberto VO5.”

  He stared at her for a minute. “You went against a crazed mugger twice your size with nothing but a can of hairspray? Ms. Randall, you are an amazement.”

  “I liked ‘Camilla’ better,” she said quietly. “You called me ‘Camilla’ before. I liked that. Nobody ever calls me by my real name anymore.”

  “They all call you Randy, don’t they?”

  “Or Camellia, or Dr. Lavinia, or Cam—uh, other things.”

  “Ah, yes, Dr. Lavinia. You’re doing quite a job with that column. You have a flair for comedy. Of course, I would have preferred that you’d run it by me before you turned Living Well into a humor column, but I can’t complain about the results.”

  “Sorry. Dr. Lavinia is this voice inside me that I can’t always control. Besides, running something by you isn’t that easy. You’re kind of scary, you know.”

  “Scary? After tonight, Camilla Randall, I’m not gonna believe you’re scared of anything. Me? I was terrified. I thought it was the end when I lost that crutch.”

  Actually, he didn’t look scary just now, with that cute smile and his plastered foot and soft robe and his hair all damp and curly. The hair on his chest was damp and curly, too. Neither Plantagenet or Aldo had much chest hair. Or such nice muscles.

  With a sudden movement, he sat straight up, staring at his chest. His cast thumped on the floor.

  “What’s the matter? Have I still got blood all over me? I can’t take a real shower with this damned cast on.”

  “Oh, no.” The Jack Daniels was warming her now. “You look fine. Wonderful.” Who was it he looked like? Magnum, that private eye on TV.

  His eyes studied her, their icy blue intensifying as moments passed in silence. He seemed to be moving toward her, and for a moment, she imagined that he was about to kiss her. But instead, he laughed again and took a gulp from his glass.

  “Did you decide to get me drunk? There must be eight ounces of booze in here.”

  “But that’s what you said— ‘two cubes, no water.’”

  “I didn’t expect you to put it in a tumbler. I’m not one of your jet-set playboy pals. I’ve got to work tomorrow. In fact, there’s something I should be doing now—”

  He flipped through some typewritten pages on the table.

  “I’m sorry.” Now she felt stupid. “I’d better go—”

  “Not a chance.” He stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder. “You poured me this thing. Now you’re going to keep me company while I drink it.” He took another sip. “But I’m not sure I should try it on an empty stomach. Why don’t I stick a couple of frozen dinners in the microwave? Not exactly Votre Maison, but it’s food.” He reached for his crutches.

  “Please. Let me. I’m better at frozen dinners than I am at drinks, honestly. Stay off your poor foot.”

  He smiled and started to say something when a telephone rang. After shifting some books and a stack of Der Speigels, he unearthed a telephone.

  “You’ve found your camel? Way to go, Bob! Talk to me.”

  Camilla did not like the sound of this. She tiptoed into the kitchen and found the frozen dinners in the freezer. While they were heating, she calmed herself with several large swallows from her Chargers glass. She didn’t want to think about what Bob might be saying. She was beginning to like Mr. Kahn. He just took some getting used to—like Jack Daniels.

  ~

  A half hour later, Mr. Kahn was still on the phone and the cooling microwaved dinners were starting to develop a gelatinous sheen. He had talked to Bob twice, and somebody else in between. Now Bob must have been doing the talking, because Mr. Kahn was only saying things like “OK,” and “uh-huh.”

  She tried not to think. She filled her mind with the Winnie the Pooh nonsense verse: I think I am a camel. Maybe the dinners needed to go in the microwave for another couple of minutes. Behind another camel. She was getting hungry—and tired of pretending to be interested in books on Afghanistan. Behind another camel. She paced back and forth in the tiny kitchen, adding a little more Jack Daniels to her glass.

  Finally she heard Mr. Kahn say, “OK, Bob, we’ll go with it. I want to see copy first thing in the A.M..”

  She watched from the kitchen as he set down the phone.

  “I’m probably out of my mind,” he said. “We’re going out on a limb with this story of Bob’s.” He took a sip from his nearly untouched drink. “But the guy’s a damn good investigative reporter. He’s got me convinced.”

  She tried to keep smiling. The microwave timer beeped. “Would you like turkey or Salisbury steak?” she said.

  Luckily, he took the Salisbury steak. It had never been her favorite thing.

  “What bothers me most,” he said, clearing papers from the table to make room for the dinners, “—is I hate taking a risk over a story like Jon-Don Parker. If we can prove the man was being harassed or even set up by the Feds, great, but if we’re risking our credibility just to expose some more sensationalist garbage about that narcissistic little jerk, our readers are going to think we’ve sold out.”

  Camilla giggled, presenting him with a paper towel she had tried to fashion into a napkin.

  “A narcissistic little jerk. You’re so right. That’s what Jon-Don was. A rude, narcissistic little jerk.” She giggled again. “Why do people think he’s so interesting?”

  Mr. Kahn paused with a forkful of Salisbury steak.

  “You knew Jon-Don Parker?”

  “I…met him once, at a party. Or something.” She attacked the pool of gravy at the center of her mashed potato. Party had not been a good word choice. “Maybe a club.”

  “A New York Club? When was that? When you were seeing Mick Jagger?”

  “Mick Jagger? No. That’s all silliness. Mick and I aren’t—we have nothing in common but that awful photograph. Honestly. I dropped my purse and…”

  “I don’t give a damn about you and Mick Jagger. But I do care about you and Jon-Don Parker. You knew him? Why do you say he was rude? Could he have been depressed?”

  “Rude probably wasn’t the right word.” She wished Mr. Kahn would stop looking at her like that. “He was just kind of—inept. You know, for a guy who was supposed to be such a ladies’ man, he didn’t have much finesse.” She dug into her peas and carrots.

  “You mean he was a lousy lover.”

  She desperately tried to swallow. “No! Nothing like that. I just meant—” She avoided Mr. Kahn’s intense gaze as she searched her fuzzy brain for a comfortable lie. “His girlfriend…” she said finally. “He didn’t treat his girlfriend very well.”

  “His girlfriend, True?” He was practically shouting now. “The woman every law enforcement agency in the country has bee
n trying to find for weeks—you know her?”

  “No!” Camilla said, shouting back. “I don’t know her. I don’t know her at all. And I didn’t know Jon-Don Parker.”

  “You just said you did.”

  “I didn’t know him. Not to talk to. Let’s drop the subject, Mr. Kahn.” She reached for her glass and drained it. Her throat was burning before she realized what she had done.

  “I think I understand.” Mr. Kahn spoke in a cold, quiet voice. “You didn’t talk to him. The way you didn’t talk to that Italian Prince What’s-His-Face. Or that pretty-boy playwright that Angela’s mixed up with now. You mean that you don’t waste a lot of time on conversation with the men you have sex with?”

  Slowly, she rose to her feet. She felt dizzy as she stood, but she maintained her dignity.

  “Mr. Kahn,” she said, moving toward the desk chair where her wet coat hung. “I was wrong to say that Jon-Don was rude. Compared to you, his manners were impeccable.”

  He laughed. “Jesus! I really blew it, didn’t I? I’m sorry, Camilla. You’re right. I’ve been rude.”

  She clutched her soggy coat.

  “Here I am,” Mr. Kahn continued. “Having dinner with a beautiful debutante who’s just saved my life and all I can do is play reporter.”

  She hoped she heard nervousness in his voice.

  “Hey, do you know what my Aunt Esther used to say about me?” He put on a thick Bronx accent. “Our Jonny—what a contortionist! Always got both his feet in his mouth!”

  Mr. Kahn’s dimples were too much for her. She set down her coat.

  “I think I would have liked your Aunt Esther.”

  “Yes, I think you two might have hit it off. She was a strong woman, just like you. If I promise not to interview you any more, will you come back and finish your dinner?”

  “Only if you promise. Things never turn out well when you interview me.”

  “Promise.” He handed her the remainder of her food. “I was out of line when I interviewed you for the Guardian. My editor was punishing me for irritating some bigwigs, so he sent me out on the society beat, knowing exactly how much it would piss me off. At first I thought I could scare up some news by getting you to admit something about your father, but your watchdog was on the job, so I said some things I shouldn’t. I had no idea you hadn’t heard the rumors about your father.”

  “My watchdog?” She tried to extricate a last piece of turkey from a lump of congealed gravy.

  “The elegant Mr. Smith. You know, when I met that guy, I could have sworn he was gay. Shows you never can tell. Turns out that not only does his taste run to women, but it seems to be remarkably similar to my own.”

  “You mean because you’re both in love with Angela?” she blurted out.

  “Angela, too.” Jonathan turned his attention to his drink.

  Camilla set down her plate, unsure of what he meant.

  “Are you still in love with her—Angela?”

  “Are you still in love with Plantagenet Smith?”

  She stared at the sliver of ice melting in the brown liquid in her glass. Was what she felt for Plant love?

  “I’m not sure,” she said finally. “Not in that way.”

  “But maybe you did once and rejection hurts?”

  She sighed. “Maybe. Yes.”

  “Me too,” he said.

  For a long time, his blue eyes looked into hers, and her head swam as she tried not to think about how much she wanted him to kiss her. She wasn’t sure what she felt about him, or even if she liked him, but she was sure she’d like him better if he kissed her. She thought of all the men who had kissed her when she didn’t want them to, and felt it would be very unfair if Jonathan Kahn didn’t do it now.

  Then, almost involuntarily, she kissed him. His arms felt warm around her as he kissed her back—a lovely, long, gentle kiss.

  “Thank you for doing that,” he said when she finally pulled away. “I’ve been wanting to do it all evening, but I had to keep telling myself that I’m your employer, and fifteen years older, and all that—crap.”

  He kissed her again, this time with considerably more heat.

  She clung to him, leaning back on the couch as she returned his kiss. She felt as if she had been waiting for this kiss all her life, and that compared to this, she had never really been kissed before. She relaxed in his arms and the loveliness of the moment.

  But her head hit something. She tried to move without breaking the kiss, but her head kept landing on hard, square objects. Slowly, they started to slip from under her, and one by one, books on Afghanistan fell to the floor.

  “What the hell was that?” he said as three large volumes fell with a thump.

  “Mr. Kahn, I’m so sorry.”

  “Under the circumstances, do you think you might try calling me ‘Jonathan’?”

  “Jonathan,” she said, looking at his fascinating face, giving it the new name. His profile was gorgeous as he concentrated on the task of retrieving the books.

  Her reverie was broken when she realized his concentration was due to the fact that he couldn’t quite reach the rest of them. She sprang to help. As she jumped, the remaining books slid off the couch and onto his foot.

  “Shit!” he said.

  “Oh, Mr. Kahn, I’ve hurt you. I’m so sorry.”

  “Jonathan.”

  “Jonathan.” She picked up the books and stacked them neatly on the table. She tried a smile. “Are you OK?”

  “I’ll live.” He smiled back and brushed a strand of damp hair from her face. “But what do you say we move to the bedroom? Fewer hazards in there.”

  “The bedroom?”

  Her head swam as she tried to remember what she had said that might have suggested that she was willing to make such a drastic advancement in their relationship.

  “Do you think that would be a good idea?” she sipped more Jack Daniels as she tried to stall for time. “After all, your foot—”

  Her throat burned. Darth Vader glowered at her from the glass. She set it down, her face burning, as she realized she had drained his glass as well as her own.

  “My feet will be fine, both of them. I’m not quite as fragile as I seem.”

  He reached for his crutches. Resting on them, he offered his hand. “You may do with me what you will, my dear. But you must promise to be gentle.”

  Chapter 19—A Proposal of Marriage

  Jonathan’s deep voice shocked Camilla from sleep.

  “How’s your head?”

  She managed to open her eyes just enough to let in a little dim, gray morning light. Morning. It was morning. And Jonathan Kahn was sitting on the side of her bed.

  No. Not her bed. His bed. After she grasped this fact, two other realizations came simultaneously.

  1) Her head ached unbearably.

  2) Under the thin blanket that covered her, she was wearing very few clothes.

  Jonathan kissed her forehead. “I know how you feel,” he said with a smile. “I’ve been there myself more times than I’d like to admit. Here. This will help.”

  She managed to focus her eyes enough to see that he held two aspirin tablets in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

  She sat up slowly and carefully, keeping the blanket wrapped tightly across her breasts. She wished she could remember a little more about the night before. Could they have…? Would they have…? She looked up at Jonathan’s dimpled grin and realized there was a strong possibility they had.

  She tried to smile back and reached for the aspirin and the water. He watched her as she drank. When she had drained the glass, he leaned over and kissed her mouth. His lips were smooth, cool and tasted of Colgate. Nice.

  The blanket slipped slowly down her body.

  He pulled away.

  “Sorry. I wish we had time. You don’t know how much I wish. I hope you’re going to forgive me for being such a workaholic, but can we save that for later?”

  Cheeks burning, she pulled the blanket back up.


  “I’m running late,” he said, reaching for his crutches. “Both of us are running late.” He grinned. “I have information from a reliable source that your boss is a bear about punctuality. Your clothes are over on the chair.”

  As soon as he hobbled out of the room, she hurried to dress. But her blouse was horribly wrinkled, and as she stepped into her wool slacks, she could feel the cuffs were still wet. Her coat smelled like a wet dog. She managed to put them on and sort of fix her hair, but she had to get home and change.

  “I have to stop at my apartment and change. I can drop you at the office first, if you want.”

  “Why?” he said. “You look great. A whole lot better than I do.”

  In the fluorescent light from the kitchen, she could see a dark bruise showing around the bandage above his eye. He gave her a quick kiss.

  “You might be the prettiest hung-over lady I’ve ever seen.”

  She started to protest, but stopped herself. There was no point explaining to a man wearing a jacket that rumpled why it was impossible for her to go to work as she was.

  “Oh, come on,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid people will notice you’re wearing yesterday’s clothes and know you’ve been out all night? Let them notice. Isn’t it time you dropped the little-girl-lost game, anyway? Let the folks see your real self.” He picked up his keys. “There’s a couple of mugs of coffee in the kitchen if you want to grab them. We can drink them in the car.”

  Real self. Little girl lost. What did he mean? Did he think she was putting on some kind of act? She followed him out the door in silence, carrying the two mugs, while he made his slow descent down the redwood steps and into the parking lot where she had left the Edsel.

  It wasn’t until she’d stopped at the fourth red light that the words came out.

  “What did you mean by my ‘real self’?”

  “Hmmm?” he said with a mouth full of coffee.

  “My real self,” she said, trying to control her voice. “You said I should let people at the office see my ‘real self’. What did you mean by that?”

  “I’m sorry,” Jonathan said after a moment. “That was pretty presumptuous, wasn’t it? But you’ve got to admit that the helpless, innocent act is wearing a bit thin. All I know is that you’re one tough, hard-drinking, sexy lady.” He gave her knee a pat and pointed out the window. “Who’s stopped at a green light.”