Secret Combinations

by Gordon Cope

“Ooh,” said Kenyon. “And that was uncool?”

  “Are you kidding me? Falling in love with a nun, in Ireland? My father thought I was deranged; he wanted to send me off to a sanitarium.” Rain began to fall from a cloud drifting overhead. O’Neill brushed a drop from her face. “I told the lot of them to get stuffed, and I came to London.”

  They finished their wine and began walking back across the park. “Did you meet Lydia in London?”

  O’Neill nodded. “I was painting portraits on Portobello Road. Lydia liked my drawings and offered to help me out. She spoke to some people and got me an art scholarship.”

  “Were you a good artist?”

  “Fair,” replied Tanya. “That portrait of Lydia? I painted it.”

  “No way!” said Kenyon. “That’s a great portrait. How come you’re not hanging in the Tate Gallery by now?”

  O’Neill smiled. “My art professors were very kind, but London is a difficult city to make a living in as an artist. I switched to law.” It began to rain a little harder, and they began to walk faster. “Tell me about being an FBI agent,” said O’Neill. “Do you arrest spies?”

  “Sometimes. We also chase mad bombers, extortionists, and the Mafia.”

  “How about aliens?”

  “Just the ones from Earth.”

  The wind picked up, and the rain came down harder. They laughed as they ran, splashing in puddles and slipping on the wet pavement. By the time they reached O’Neill’s apartment building, they were both drenched.

  “Take off your clothes,” demanded O’Neill, as soon as they were in her flat.

  Kenyon looked up in surprise. “What, all of them?”

  O’Neill laughed. “Come on, don’t be so shy. I’ve got three brothers.”

  Kenyon went into the bathroom and stripped down to his boxer shorts. When he came out, O’Neill was in the bedroom, changing out of her wet clothes. Kenyon hung his jeans and shirt over a chair by the French doors.

  “There’s some port in the kitchen,” shouted O’Neill. “Pour us a drink.”

  Kenyon found a bottle of Ware’s Special Reserve and fished some glasses out of a cupboard. He went back to the living room and sat down on the couch below the portrait of Lydia. He tilted his glass at the picture.

  O’Neill came out of the bedroom dressed in an emerald green silk bathrobe, her hair brushed back.

  “You look lovely in that color,” said Kenyon.

  “You’re such a charmer,” said O’Neill. “Let me get you something with that port.” She went to the kitchen and dug around for a few minutes, then came back holding a platter. “You have a choice; chocolate-dipped almonds or parmesan cheese. What’s your preference?”

  “I think I’ll try the parmesan.” Kenyon took a slice of cheese and put it on a cracker. When he bit in, however, the cracker split, showering him with crumbs.

  “Oops, a bit messy,” said O’Neill. She ran her hand across Kenyon’s bare chest, brushing away the crumbs. “You should stick to the almonds.” She picked one up and placed it in her lips, sucking on the chocolate.

  O’Neill looked up and caught him watching her. “Tell me something, Jack, do you find me attractive?”

  Kenyon smiled. “Yes, I do.”

  “Why?”

  “I like the smell of your hair, and your soft skin, and your pretty smile.”

  O’Neill sat down and kissed him on his shoulder.

  “Do you like me?” asked Kenyon.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  O’Neill ran a fingernail down his chin and gazed into his dark brown eyes. “Because you care about people.”

  “I do?”

  O’Neill kissed him on the neck. “Uh-huh. I knew that from the moment I met you.”

  Kenyon tilted her head up and softly kissed her warm, full mouth. O’Neill responded, thrusting her tongue between his lips. He tasted almonds and chocolate.

  Kenyon kissed her neck, then worked his way down across the soft skin of her shoulder. She had a small butterfly tattooed on her right shoulder blade. He licked it playfully.

  O’Neill untied her robe and her breasts fell free of the silk. A silver ring ran through her nipple.

  Kenyon cupped her breast gently in his lips and kissed it until it stood erect.

  O’Neill stood up and ran to the bathroom, returning with a condom. She stood by the couch and let her robe drop to the floor. Underneath she wore a pair of black, silky briefs. She leaned forward and pulled off Kenyon’s boxer shorts, then clasped his penis in one hand, unfurling the condom over his erection.

  Kenyon, filled with desire, pulled her back onto the couch and ran his tongue along her earlobe. Goose bumps rose on her skin.

  O’Neill pushed him onto his back and climbed astride his flat stomach. She pulled the gusset of her panties to one side and slid Kenyon inside her. Arching her back, she thrust her hips against his loins, first pushing, then grinding. Rivulets of sweat ran down between her breasts to join the moisture on his belly and thighs.

  Panting, O’Neill leaned forward, and their bodies slid against one another, seeking out every sliver of skin.

  Kenyon gripped her tightly as she began to convulse, her muscles flexing in joyous spasm. She cried in his ear, an animal wail of pleasure, and Kenyon answered with a guttural moan of joy as he came.

  She gradually subsided onto him, her soft breasts pressing onto his chest. “Hold me, Jack,” she whispered. “Just hold me.”

  • • •

  Later that night, Kenyon sat on the balcony of Lydia’s home, staring out into the street below. He was alone. The dusty aroma of ozone hung in the air. When he tilted his glass up to take a sip of wine, he could still smell O’Neill’s perfume on his skin.

  The phone rang. Kenyon stood and entered through the doors leading into Lydia’s bedroom and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hey, cookie.”

  “Hey, Marge.” Kenyon could hear a baseball announcer in the background; Gonelli must be watching the Giants game. “Are the good guys winning?”

  “Those bums? Don’t get me started. What are you up to?”

  The cord on the phone was long enough for Kenyon to walk back to the balcony chair. “I’m just sitting here watching the world go by.”

  “You should get out and have some fun. Meet some nice girls.”

  “Oh, I’ve been doing that,” said Kenyon. “Anything new on the case?”

  “Yah. Dahg flew the coop.”

  Jack sat up. “What?”

  “He blew our tail. Vamoosed.”

  “What did Deaver do?”

  “Shit a brick.”

  “Is that all?” asked Kenyon.

  “What do you think? He’s bitchin’ to Washington. I should have shot the little turd when I had the chance.”

  “Don’t worry about him, Marge. I’ve just got a few loose ends to tie up, then I’ll be home and we’ll get these guys nailed.”

  “That’s my boy. Meantime, you watch your back for Dahg. This guy is ex-CIA. He could turn up anywhere.”

  “Will do, Marge.”

  Kenyon hung up and stared out into the sky. There were several flashes of lightning high in the night clouds, but no peal of thunder. Kenyon craned his neck, but try as he might, the buildings blocked his view of the approaching storm.

  Ten

  Monday July 11

  Kenyon woke up at six the next morning. His wound felt much better, and he decided it was time to test it out with a run. He got into his jogging shorts and shoes and headed to Hyde Park.

  The morning sun cut through the tall trees of the park, dappling the statues and lawns with light. There were only a few pedestrians out that early in the morning, and he felt like he had the whole place to himself. He ran slowly along the cycle path that circled the perimeter.

  By the time Kenyon got back to Lydia’s, he felt much better. The house was empty; he was used to starting the day alone, and had asked Senora Santucci to begin work later in the day. He had
a quick shower and shave, then dressed in a pair of black Levi’s and a white T-shirt. He walked around the corner and picked up a Times newspaper and a coffee at the local deli, then returned and sat on the balcony overlooking the park.

  He had just finished his coffee when the phone rang in the bedroom.

  “Hello, you,” said O’Neill.

  Kenyon smiled. “Hello, to you, too.”

  “What are you up to, today?”

  “I’m going to Lydia’s art gallery to check things out,” said Kenyon. “How about I meet you for lunch after?”

  “I would love it.”

  “Good. Your office, around one?”

  “Perfect,” said O’Neill. “Oh, and don’t forget to take the cheques I gave you. Zoë’s the assistant manager at the gallery. She’s positively desperate for them.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  Kenyon hung up the phone and went back to Lydia’s office. He found a black leather portfolio and stuffed the folder of papers O’Neill had given him into it, along with Lydia’s Filofax and gallery keys.

  He was halfway down Herringbone Gardens heading toward Cromwell Road when someone shouted, “Oi, Jack!”

  Kenyon turned. Happy Harry’s taxi was parked across the street, the cabby waving out his window. “Need a lift?”

  Kenyon walked over to the taxi. “Have you moved in, or what?”

  “It’s a great spot to take a tea break,” said Harry, drinking from a thermos.

  Kenyon climbed in, and they were soon rolling down Cromwell Road.

  Sitting in the back of the taxi, Kenyon pondered what to do with the art gallery. His first instinct was to sell it, but on the other hand, there were employees that would lose their jobs. He tapped the cabby on the shoulder. “Harry, if you inherited an art gallery, what would you do?”

  “Keep it,” said Harry. “You should see the lovely birds what show up at an opening. It’s like honey to bees, it is.”

  Kenyon laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Traffic was light, and they made good time. Harry followed Piccadilly until he reached New Bond Street, then turned up the road lined with jewelers, fashion shops, and art auctioneers.

  Kenyon watched the sidewalk. Most of the women were dressed in fine clothing. There were one or two fat Asian men escorting tall, leggy blondes in short skirts and black high heels.

  Kenyon Fine Arts was located on a side road just off New Bond Street. “I’m going to lunch with a friend,” said Kenyon, as Harry pulled up. “Can you come by and pick me up at half past noon?”

  “No probs, guv,” said Harry. “See you then.”

  The facade of the art gallery was mostly glass, trimmed with marble. An abstract oil painting sat on an easel in the large front window. Kenyon tried the front door, but it was locked. He started to fish out the set of keys, but was interrupted by a female voice over the intercom.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “My name’s Jack Kenyon. Can I come in?”

  “Just a minute!”

  Within a few seconds, a young woman opened the door. She held out her hand. “I’m Zoë Tigger,” she said. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you.” Tigger was in her early twenties, with long brunette hair, a peaches and cream complexion, and a private school accent that Kenyon suspected cost her daddy a bundle.

  “Tanya tells me you’re the real boss down here,” said Kenyon.

  Tigger laughed, a high, giggle. “She’s so sweet. More like the official dogsbody, I am.”

  Tigger relocked the door and led Kenyon into the reception area. The gallery was a modern, multi-level space with white walls, soft leather chairs, and a huge skylight. Paintings, statues, and other works of art were distributed throughout the space in an uncluttered, informal manner. The only incongruous touch was a security camera and several motion detectors installed on the walls.

  “I brought some cheques down,” said Kenyon, taking a folder out of the leather portfolio. “Tanya says you needed them.”

  “Thank you,” Tigger replied, taking the folder. “It’s been an absolute fiasco around here.” She started through the folder, but suddenly stopped. “Listen to me, what an ass.” She stepped toward Kenyon and gave him a hug. “I’m terribly sorry about Lydia. I was deeply shocked.”

  “Thanks,” Kenyon replied. “I’m learning just how much she meant to so many people.”

  Kenyon was distracted by an American woman’s voice further in the gallery. “Bruno, stop ! You’re simply outrageous!”

  Kenyon glanced up as a young man appeared from a back room. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and grey silk jacket that looked as though it had been professionally wrinkled. He had two-day’s growth of beard on his face, and his dark, curly hair spilled over his forehead.

  The man was walking arm in arm with a middle-aged woman. Her cheeks were flushed, and her bottle-blond hair was slightly askew. “These Italians are such flirts!” the woman said to Tigger, adjusting the jacket on her Dior suit. Her voice was clearly American. “Don’t you just die?”

  The receptionist smiled. “Mrs. van Pectin, I’d like you to meet the gallery owner, Mr. Jack Kenyon.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine,” she replied, extending an expensively manicured hand. “I gotta run, though, I’m meeting a viscount or something at eleven. Bruno, could you walk me out to the car?” The man escorted her out to the waiting limo, kissing her hand as she alighted.

  He quickly returned to the gallery and extended his hand to Kenyon. “How do you do?” he said in an Italian accent. “I am Bruno Ricci, the gallery manager.”

  Kenyon shook his hand. “Nice to meet you. I guess we should talk.”

  Ricci turned to the receptionist. “Zoë, take some cash from the float and go buy biscotti at Luigi’s.”

  Tigger turned and pointed toward the back. “But I picked up some delightful scones this morning . . .”

  Ricci tapped his finger once on the reception desk, hard. “Biscotti. Now.”

  Tigger jumped up and almost scurried out the door.

  Ricci turned to Kenyon, a languid smile on his lips. “A good girl, but one must be firm,” he said.

  Kenyon’s lips smiled back, but his eyes didn’t. “What is it exactly you do around here, Ricci?”

  The Italian turned on one heel, waving his hand. “Everything,” he replied. “Without me, this is nothing.”

  “You’re too modest.”

  Ricci pointed out to the street. “You saw that woman? She knows nothing of art. But when she comes to me, I tell her, Madam, you are exquisite, you are divine.” Ricci walked over to an abstract watercolor landscape on the wall, a rich pattern of greens, blues, and reds flowing like clouds across the canvas. “I tell her, when you stand beside this masterpiece, it is like the moon to the sun.”

  Kenyon walked over and read the sticker beneath the artwork. The painting was a work by a German artist, Emil Nolde, and priced at two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. “She bought this?”

  “She will.” Ricci motioned toward the interior of the shop. “Come with me.”

  Kenyon followed the manager through the gallery. There were perhaps a dozen works on display, ranging from late 19th century to contemporary abstracts. Kenyon recognized several of the artist’s names, including Renoir, Cezanne, and Warhol. Even to his untrained eye, it was obviously a very tasteful and sophisticated selection.

  They entered a glass-fronted office in the rear of the gallery. Ricci sat down behind a modern, bare desk and propped his feet up on the surface. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and lit one with a silver lighter, motioning Kenyon to take a seat in a comfortable leather chair.

  Ricci squinted at Kenyon through the curl of smoke. “You know, this industry is full of predators, my friend.”

  “Oh?” replied Kenyon. “How so?”

  Ricci tapped beside his eye. “You sit in America, you cannot see the sharks. They will eat you alive.”

  “What do you suggest
I do?”

  Ricci put his feet down and leaned over the desk. “You sell the gallery to me. I make you a good offer.”

  Kenyon shrugged, unimpressed. “I’ll consider it.”

  Ricci waved his hand. “You have one week.”

  Kenyon was about to reply when he heard the front door slam. “Biscotti’s here!” Tigger called.

  Both men rose and walked down toward the gallery. “By the way,” said Ricci. “Lydia changed the locks last week, but she forgot to order keys for me. Can you do it?”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Kenyon. “Just get me the name of the locksmith.”

  They reached the front reception desk, where Tigger had placed their lattes and biscotti. Kenyon picked up one of the long biscuits and dunked it in his coffee, softening the hard biscuit.

  Ricci was about to do the same, when he glanced at the desk. “When did this come?” he asked, picking up an envelope addressed to him.

  Tigger cringed. “Mr. Kenyon brought it just now, Bruno.”

  Ricci ripped the envelope open. “And you did not tell me?”

  “I was going to, but you told me to get . . .”

  “Silly cow.” Ricci held the check up. “I will deal with you later.” He turned and headed to the door. Before leaving, he glanced up and down the street, then hurried across the sidewalk to a Porsche Boxster and roared off down the street.

  Hell would get a hockey team before he sold this gallery to Ricci, Kenyon thought to himself. He turned to the receptionist, who was sitting behind her desk staring down at the biscotti. “Hey,” he said. “How about a fifty-cent tour of this place?”

  Tigger lifted her chin and smiled. “I’d be delighted.”

  She arose from her desk and gestured around the gallery. “This used to be a dingy old store, but Lydia had it redone. Isn’t it brilliant?”

  Kenyon agreed, and they moved back through the gallery toward a side hallway. “You can make a cup of tea in the copy room here,” said Tigger. “That big steel door leads down to the storage basement.”

  “Where’s Lydia’s office?”

  “In there.” The receptionist pointed to a locked wooden door. Kenyon dug out his set of keys and fumbled around until Tigger reached over and found the right one. He thanked her and opened the door.