She beamed. “You bet. Half the nurse station is hanging over the counter for a better look.”
“It was him, Mel, Adriano! I’m sure of it. He came to see how I was.”
“What?” She whirled on the spot, took a step toward the door, clearly torn. “Oh maaan! I could’ve touched him I was so close!”
“Go!” Archer waved her off. “Quickly!”
Mel took off like a missile. A grinning, five-foot-two, PDA-wielding missile.
Man…Adriano! In his hospital room? How the hell had he known where to find Archer? The guy was seriously connected.
“…you have another friend,” Adriano had said. “But this one might require a bit of finesse to win back,sì?”
Archer swallowed the lump and willed it back in his chest. He’d pushed Joan away for her own good. For the good of everyone involved. So he wouldn’t have to see the disgust on her face when he told her, so she wouldn’t have to see the heartbreak in his. His Loser Quotient was just off the scale.
Mel returned not even five minutes later. Archer was still trying to pick his slippers off the goddamn floor. She looked as though someone had canceled Christmas. And Easter. And Halloween too. Or any other form of happy festivity.
“I got this but lost him when he gunned it,” she said, showing him the tiny screen. A seven-second video of the man in the pink T-shirt hurriedly getting into a silver car played in a continuous loop. Nice ass too.
Eurotrash.
“Did you get a license plate?”
Mel shook her head. “He drove away too fast. But it was a rental, that I know.”
“Then it must have been him.”
“Why?”
“Only an Italian would gun it in a hospital parking lot and manage not to kill anyone.”
She let out one vicious curse that had Archer staring in shock at his long-time friend.
“Whoa, Mel. Take it easy, okay? It might not have been him.” But when he relayed the short conversation that had gone on before Adriano—if it’d been him—had left, Mel was literally jumping up and down in frustration.
After watching the short video a few times, she pocketed her PDA. “I’ll drive you home, okay?”
“Then you’ll spend the next two weeks on the computer at work.”
She didn’t reply, only picked his slippers off the floor and crammed them in the overnight bag she’d brought. He recognized the look well. Mel was on a mission.
When she started as if a bee had stung her and frantically patted at her pocket, Archer had to put a hand to his chest to keep from keeling over. The girl moved like a squirrel, all twitchy and erratic.
“Oh. My. God,” she breathed when she flicked it open and thumbed the keypad. “It’s for you.”
If she’d had an encounter with a supreme life form, she wouldn’t have looked more subdued and awed as she passed the slick little cell phone his way. Archer took it, knowing in his gut who it was. A text message glowed silver against the aqua screen.
Dear Archer,
It was a pleasure to work with you. I wish you the best of luck in your future. Always stay a Gentleman to the Ladies in your life. Cherish the one you love. You never know when it will be taken away from you.
Arrivederci.
AdL
P.S. Cavalli looks very good on you.
“Holy shit…”
Mel took her phone back, rubbed her thumb over the screen as if it were her most prized possession. “It was him.”
Archer agreed with a nod. “Seriously connected.”
As she drove him home and after she’d left, Archer was still replaying his conversation with Adriano and his subsequent text message. He’d decided the man must have lost someone dear to him, a woman undoubtedly. But what stood out against the rest was when he’d said, “Go after her or let her come to you if she chooses to. If you do not, you will take that regret to your grave.”
He would, wouldn’t he?
It’d been—what?—a week since he’d seen Joan, or watched her knock something or cause some other kind of havoc. And he missed it so much, the klutziness, the oopses, the ready smile.
You will take that regret to your grave.
Archer sat on the sofa, put his hand on the remote out of habit but didn’t do anything with it. He’d seen what taking regrets to one’s grave looked like. His eyes turned to his favorite picture displayed on a bookshelf near the window. His mom and dad and him in the center, all three of them smiling wide. His father’s smile had never been the same after his wife died. Because of him. Archer’s eyes filled and he had to look away. He couldn’t help blaming him, even if deep down, he knew his father hadn’t wanted to lose his beloved wife, his high-school sweetheart. Yet despite all the teasing, he’d never once smoked outside the house or tried to curb his habit. When his mom had been diagnosed, then his father had quit. Ha. Too little too late. And he’d taken that regret to his grave. Along with Archer’s reproach.
Archer stood suddenly. A bit too much so soon since he had to clutch the backrest for a few seconds to keep from sinking back down. He wasn’t going to take this regret to his grave.
Maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing he’d ever done, driving in his condition, and pulling up in front of the police station. But he had nowhere else to go. He didn’t know where Joan lived. He hadn’t even asked. What a jerk!
Those were the highest, steepest, bitchiest stairs he’d ever climbed and when he reached the top, he was wheezing and sweating and wanted to kick something. Even a puppy.
Okay, maybe not a puppy.
A garbage can though. That’d make him feel better.
“Can I help you, sir?” a male cop asked from behind a long gleaming counter, eyes narrowed at Archer. Not at all like the TV series. No colorful prostitutes, no overflowing filing cabinets. The station resembled a bank.
“Constable Blair? Do you know where her office is?”
After a few seconds, the man brightened. “Oh yeah, Constable Blair. She’s on leave, I think. But I could go get her partner. You’re Mr.…?”
“George Archer.”
“Take a seat over there. I’ll go see if she can come down.”
Archer sat on the first of a row of black vinyl chairs. Man, his chest hurt. He wanted to peek under the bandages but didn’t really want to see the horrible scar. Well, he did want to see but—
“Ah ben, crisse,” a woman snarled, coming down the stairs on one side of the airy foyer. Plants rustled when the human hurricane marched past them. “You have some guts, man, I’ll give you that. What the fuck do you want?”
He stood, if only to preserve his shredded dignity. But to see Joan again, he’d walk around in a Hawaiian shirt. “I want to talk to her.”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll give you bastard her address, eh? Chantal is nice like that.” Her accent made the last words sound like “Shann-tahl iz nice like dat”.
“Look—”
“No, man, you look. I don’t know what you did to her or what you said, but if you didn’t look half-past dead already, I’d kick your ass across town, okay? Crisse de chien. She’s on leave, taking a break, and you get your ass out of here.”
A fucking dog? Ouch. The woman had a way with words. Not that it didn’t apply to his case.
After a satisfied tug on the sleeve of her white dress shirt, she turned to leave, mumbling under her breath.
“Wait, Chantal, attends.”
There must have been something in his tone that stopped the five-foot-ten fury for she stopped, turned to him with her eyes narrowed to slits. “Speak fast.”
“Not that I owe you anything but—”
“Time’s up, sorry—”
“Jesus fucking Christ! Would you shut the hell up and wait?! I love Joan, okay! I love her. That son of a bitch might as well have finished the job because I sure as hell don’t feel alive without her. There’s a hole.” He jabbed his index finger in his chest and nearly collapsed from the pain. “And she fits right in it.”
Chantal crossed her
arms. “And?”
“And?” Archer huffed. “That should be enough. The rest, I’ll say to her.”
“Not if you can’t find her…”
He felt himself deflating like a balloon. “Don’t make me beg, Chantal,” he snarled under his breath, casting a quick look at the cop behind the counter. “I would.”
She opened her mouth as if to say something, snapped it shut. She must have changed her mind and instead reached to her belt for the cell phone there. She indicated the chair with an imperious index finger. That woman had kids.
While Archer sat—he needed to anyway, so there—she thumbed a number, waited with her narrowed gaze on him.
“Salut, it’s me. Yeah, not bad. You?” A short silence then Chantal nodded. “He’s here. Yeah, here at work. I know, I told him. He wants to talk to you.”
Do it for Joan, he kept chanting in his head. You’re doing it for Joan.
Chantal waited, nodded. “Okay, bye.”
After snapping her phone shut, she came to sit by his side. The perfect creases in her dark blue pants barely flattened. “She’s a better woman than me, Joan. I wouldn’t have been so nice. She said she’ll talk to you tonight.”
Archer would have preferred to go talk to her now.
What,George? Afraid to lose your nerve?
He nodded. “Merci, Chantal.”
She shook her head, mumbled, “Les maudits anglais.”
“Those damn English.” Well, it was better than being called a “fucking dog”.
So Archer went back home, took a shower with a plastic grocery bag stuck to his chest—sexy—pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms and then spent the afternoon dozing on the couch, absentmindedly clicking at the remote. Mel called to see how he was. He didn’t tell her he desperately wanted to hang up in case Joan called. He had his pride. Some anyway. Then supper came and went. At eight thirty, Archer had convinced himself Joan wouldn’t call. He couldn’t blame her. Maybe it was a woman thing, getting back at him for what he’d done. Or maybe she’d honestly considered calling him then changed her mind. He so would’ve loved hearing her voice again, even if she undoubtedly would’ve been busy yelling at him and calling him names—all justified. It was close to ten when it dawned on him he’d lost her for good. He went to bed, fought with the pillows, punched a few for good measure. Sleep eluded him.
So he heard it clearly when it started.
Archer lifted his head off the pillow so he could hear better. A deep thumping sound, rhythmic.
“What the hell?” He checked the alarm clock. Eleven forty-six.
None of his neighbors were young enough to play music so loud so late. He padded to the kitchen and opened the door, only to realize it came from his studio.
“Shit.”
Because he’d had his fill of knives for a while, Archer grabbed the flashlight from the “everything drawer”, tapped it in his other palm to get the balance just right—no way he’d be judoing anybody in his condition—and padded out of the house and around the thick rhododendron bushes, which gave off their too-strong scent. Another thing he would’ve changed to the house, but he didn’t have the heart to rip them out, not after his mom had spent years caring for the monstrous things. He was more a tulip kind of guy. Nice for two weeks then they die. Quick and easy.
Someone will be in a world of hurt.
He was in no goddamn mood to fuck around. Yeah, maybe taking out some of the hurt on someone else would help. A thief would be perfect.
Squeezing the flashlight hard, he crept closer to the studio door. Here the music was louder. And he could easily recognize the plaintive electric guitar and haunting female singer.
It must have played on a continuous loop too for the song should’ve ended but didn’t and started again.
“Give me a reason to be, ee…a woman,” sang the female artist.
Joan’s song. No one should be allowed to play it any longer. Archer’s heart constricted. Goddamn it hurt. A tear rolled down his cheek.
That’s Joan’s song. My woman’s song.
The prick had chosen the wrong soundtrack for his little stunt. Despite the pain in his chest, Archer shouldered the door, sent it clattering against the wall. Shock nearly floored him. He had to lean against the wall for support when he saw who’d broken into his studio at eleven forty-six at night.
* * * * *
Chantal’s call had created a scree of goose bumps down her back and legs. Joan had felt torn between excitement and anger and confusion and hope and…argh.
What could he want to tell her now? Repeat his letter verbatim? She’d read it, surely Mel had told him that. She’d read the damn letter and had spent the week forcing herself not to stay home and mope around in her worn tracksuits and T-shirts. She’d eaten out with Chantal and her family, had watched a few rentals, gone shopping. The food had been bad, the movies boring and nothing had fit properly. Everything sucked. Dammit.
So Archer wanting to talk to her felt as though she’d waited for it, when in fact she hadn’t.
Right?
Because that’d be very, very loserish. Big time.
She’d caught herself wanting to talk to him too, if only to hear his voice or watch his mouth—that wicked, wicked mouth—do that thing with the phantom mint. So she’d made a shotgun decision, the kind that unfailingly landed her in trouble or hurt. Or both. She’d go to him. She’d put on her “costume” one last time. Her swan song.
She wasn’t ready to let Archer come into her house, her last refuge from the pain he’d inflicted—and goddamn, it hurt for real—and had decided instead to go to his place. She had to know. She’d go nuts otherwise, always wondering. Despite his claim, had she only been one of the metaphorical notches on his pole? The time they’d spent together, had it only been a contract for him? Was she only worth thirty thousand dollars to George B. Archer, escort, trainer and the man she’d come to love? There had to be more to it than just the contract. She had to know. Tonight. If it ended, then being in the place where everything had begun felt right somehow.
And if it turned out to be only the beginning…
Do. Not. Hope.
But now that she stood in his studio waiting for him to show up—she’d broken into his place no less, because as Murphy would have it, she’d forgotten about the key in the brass mailbox until it was too late—Joan didn’t know how she’d react. Give him a piece of her mind from across the place? Let him come, talk as civilized people would? As long as she didn’t start bawling, it’d be tolerable. Thinking about Archer made her want to lay down with a box of tissues and sappy movies.
Loser.
So she focused on her routine, the one thing they’d created together. The two of them. His gift to her if nothing else. Joan kept her eyes half closed as she watched herself twirl around the pole, the pennies catching the faint light from the brass garden torchière lamps Archer had in the backyard. It barely gave enough light for her to see her outline in the mirror. With the sort of thing she’d done, using her police know-how to break into a guy’s house and the fact she was wearing a Turkish dancer’s costume, she didn’t need unforgiving light to force herself to meet her own, guilt-ridden gaze.
When the door burst open, Joan nearly lost her grip on the pole, coming this close to repeating the awfully embarrassing tumble of her first day with Archer.
How stunning he was!
Yet he looked like shit. Not that he’d let himself go and wore bad clothes or anything. Those dark pants and his black hair tousled just so reminded her yet again how gorgeous Archer was. In and out of his clothes. But his face, his eyes…the pain was easy to see there.
Should that have given her some measure of satisfaction? He’d made her suffer and so should suffer in turn. Right? That should’ve gratified her to some degree. It didn’t.
He stood in the embrasure, a flashlight in his hand—clearly as a weapon and not a source of light—his expression under the garden lights a mix of shock, dismay and confusion. He only
wore dark plaid pajama bottoms hanging on his hips. A thick square bandage had been stuck over his left pectoral with gauze wrapped around his chest. The knife had come so close. A couple of inches lower…
Despite the loud music, she heard her name.
“Joan?”
No one said it quite the way he did.
“Don’t say anything.” She pointed to the chair she’d set by the “master pole”.
Obviously too shocked to speak, Archer slowly made his way to the chair and lowered himself onto it, a cringe that broke her heart twisting his features when his butt connected. He’d put his life at risk for her. It wasn’t something she’d forget. No matter that he’d lied about his other life or what happened tonight. If anything happened.
The song entered into her favorite part, the wail of the electric guitar filled the awkward silence between Archer and her. She was glad for it. She couldn’t speak. His gaze never left her when she grabbed the pole, walked around it once, twice, thrice, one foot in front of the other and not with her regular “square” walk but so her hips would sway from one side to the other. Following the beat. The song began again—she’d put it in a continuous loop—and Joan took position behind it, grabbed the pole nice and low, both hands together. Left then right, she rolled her hips, her shoulders.
Archer’s mouth opened. He didn’t say anything.
She had to learn if it’d only been a contract for him, if she’d only been one of many. Ordinary. Nothing special. His eyes wouldn’t lie. She’d know. She had to know.
With one of those bursts of speed Archer had lauded so much, she seized the pole one-handed, sprang down fast and hard, bounced her butt once on her heels then snapped back standing so she could follow through with a rapid series of pivoting steps. When the bass really ripped into the song, Joan’s heart began to beat at least twice as fast. She wanted this to work. She wanted him.
After the burst of speed came the slow portion, during which she was supposed to put her back to the pole and slowly slide down the length of it until she crouched with her knees no more than shoulders’ width. Archer had said wider and it offered too much to the audience, narrower and it pinned her as an amateur. But for this audience, Joan went all the way down, literally sat on her heels and spread her knees as wide as she could so he’d get a full frontal view. She’d never felt so powerful and feminine and wanted as when he leaned forward in his chair. Despite the light, she saw it. He was doing the thing with his mouth. Joan wanted to smile in triumph. She’d pinned him.
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