by Heidi Rice
TS
Zelda squinted at the neat, black script on the Post-it note stuck to the table next to the bed, inches from her nose. Clearly Ty Sullivan had not wanted to risk her missing his little missive… Or the hefty hint that he expected her to be well and truly gone by the time he returned. Or the even heftier hint that he thought her completely incapable of making even the most basic arrangements without a string of condescending instructions from him.
Holding the sheet up to her breasts, she slid her feet off the narrow bunk which also doubled as a couch. And sniffed the delicious scent of fresh caffeine in the air. Spotting the coffee pot nestled in the corner of the small kitchenette behind an empty carton of Pop Tarts, she circumnavigated the law books stacked ’round the table to get to it. Finding no clean mugs in the cabinet, she washed out one of the dirty mugs soaking in the sink, then nuked the black coffee in the microwave after deducing that the crumbs, which coated the inside of the machine, were fairly harmless. With the sheet draped around her, she cradled the coffee in her hands and propped her butt on the countertop to survey the compact living area of the barge in the daylight.
The space wasn’t huge, but it would have looked a lot more spacious if it weren’t for the mountains of crap everywhere. An explosion of paperwork covered all the available flat surfaces while dirty dishes doused with cold soapy water were piled high in the sink. As if someone had been on the verge of actually washing up only to be interrupted by a zombie apocalypse.
The wet room that doubled as a bathroom was small and muggy and smelled disconcertingly of Ty’s cologne and pine-forest scented shampoo—which she borrowed to wash her hair. The bedroom at the back of the barge—which had an unmade double bed taking up most of the space—looked like even more of a bombsite than the living area. Clothes draped an easy chair and lay in mounds on the small amount of available floor space, having been dumped everywhere but the basket in the corner—which remained defiantly empty. Either Ty Sullivan was a terrible shot, or he had simply not bothered to put anything away. Ever.
She raided his wardrobe for something to replace her stained Versace gown. Amid the stacks of clean shirts and underwear in their laundry paper, she finally located a secret cache of newly purchased white Fruit of the Loom shirts still in their plastic wrapping. The large V-neck cotton tee hung down to mid-thigh and made a rather snazzy mini-dress once she had belted it with one of his silk ties.
After digging for twenty minutes, she failed to find a hair dryer or anything resembling a hair brush, so she had to settle for attacking the tangles in her damp hair with the tiny comb she’d found in the bathroom—because the man obviously had a religious objection to conditioner. Cursing the unruly and uncooperative bird’s nest of blond tangles, she glared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Her hair had become a symbol of everything she had come to hate about her life and her modeling career. When she was first sober it had been important to her to keep her job. Because she had needed at least some semblance of stability and continuity, and she had wanted to prove she could still function in the environment in which she had once floundered so spectacularly.
Confident in her sobriety now, she didn’t need to validate herself and her decisions anymore. She had earned more than enough money in the past five years to give herself time and space to find a new career that would finally fulfill the burning need inside her to do something useful with her life.
Selling hair care products didn’t quite cover that.
But she wished now she hadn’t been quite so rash and euphoric last night after speaking to her agent for the last time.
The decision not to step out of the limo when it had arrived at the red carpet event—and she’d seen the barrage of flashbulbs firing at the actress who had stepped onto the carpet ahead of her—had felt justified at the time. Now it felt reckless and immature. She’d made a commitment to attend the event that she should have followed through on. The decision to tell the limo driver to keep on going and take the expressway out of Manhattan and into Brooklyn was considerably more idiotic, because it would be construed in the press as another sign of her wild behavior. And be accompanied by the usual heated speculation about whether she was back to her wicked ways.
Well, she wasn’t. But she had no desire to face the furor just yet.
If she could stay in Brooklyn, incognito on Ty Sullivan’s house barge, where no one would find her, over the Labor Day Weekend, the headlines would have time to die down. She would have to do a press conference once the news got out that she’d ditched Fantasy shampoo’s generous new contract offer. But their PR people were still chasing her agent—and no way would Bob tell them she had let him go, because she was the only big client he had. So she had a few weeks grace before the story hit the headlines.
She dumped the comb into Ty’s minimalist grooming supplies, conceding defeat as it resolutely refused to make any inroads into the thatch of tangles. Another good reason why deciding to take that midnight swim had not been her brightest idea to date.
She knotted her hair like a hunk of rope and headed into the living space to find her purse.
Ty was going to be less than pleased to find her still here when he got back. His note had been fairly clear on that score. So she’d have to try a lot harder to schmooze him than she had last night. Surely the man could not be as schmooze proof as he appeared. She glanced around the messy house barge. Maybe there was a way she could get into his good books while he was out fighting the good fight for the people of the Marlboro Projects.
He thought she was a princess, a high-maintenance lush who couldn’t and wouldn’t do for herself. What better way to prove him wrong than to give the barge the spring clean it so desperately needed? Especially as she planned to live here too for a few days and ever since she’d been sober she’d become a bit manic about keeping her living space meticulously clean.
From the stack of pizza boxes and takeout cartons stacked on top of his kitchen bin, which she shoveled into a black plastic bag, he also didn’t eat much other than junk food. She’d go to the market, there had to be one around here. She happened to be an excellent cook, because she’d taken classes while finding other things to do instead of partying all night. And if there was a way to schmooze the unschmoozeable Mr. Ty Sullivan maybe it was through his stomach.
Leaving the barge, she dumped her first sack of rubbish into the dumpsters by the security gate and headed out of the marina.
First things first. Her phone was dead. She needed to get it charged so she could call her AA sponsor. Walking out on her modeling career was a decision she’d already discussed in depth with Amelie, but she needed to tell her about last night’s escapades. Her sobriety always had to be her first concern and she wanted to be sure that the midnight swim wasn’t in any way a sign of her losing control. It hadn’t felt that way at the time—it had felt like a statement of purpose and empowerment, of joy and freedom from the things that had shackled her for too long. But still, she’d be happier once she had Amelie’s input.
Then she needed to track down her nearest meeting. If she was going to be in Brooklyn for a few days, she needed to find one nearby. And then she would get to the market. She could leave off calling Seb until she returned to the Masoleum. If he was true to his usual form, he’d be unlikely to even notice that she’d gone missing.
But after leaving the marina and crossing the parking lot onto Knapp St., she spotted the red and white spiral of a barbershop on the opposite corner of the junction. She crossed over to the shop and surveyed the massive beehive on her head making her reflection in the window look like Quasimodo.
She strolled into the shop. A chubby man sat in one of the chairs, his face swaddled in a hot towel as the barber cleaned an old-fashioned straight-blade razor.
“Good morning, kochanie, are you lost?” The thin white-haired barber smiled at her, as he wrapped the razor carefully in a cloth.
“Not if you do haircuts here.” She smiled back wh
en his paternal gaze took in the mess on her head.
“I do only men’s haircuts. Maybe you try the ladies stylist in Cherry Hill?”
“No need.” She climbed into the chair next to his customer who was peering at her from the depths of the hot towel with as much curiosity now as the barber. “No styling necessary. Just chop it all off.”
His bushy grey eyebrows launched up to his receding hairline. “Are you sure?” He untied her hair and ran his fingers through the knotted strands as best he could, arranging it across her shoulders and letting it fall down her back.
The heavy weight felt cloying, not unlike the last few years of her career as a supermodel. Cloying and vain and vacuous.
“It is very beautiful,” he murmured, stroking the hair between his fingers as if testing the texture.
No it isn’t. It’s a burden.
A burden she no longer needed. Or wanted. Her hair was the last of the remnants from her old life. She wanted it gone now she was finally ready to make a new start. Not just as a sober person. But as a person who had purpose beyond the pursuit of vanity and fame and money. This was part of the old her. A part she hadn’t been able to lose straightaway, but one she was more than ready to lose now.
Plus she couldn’t think of a better way to stop herself getting recognized than to lose the one thing that had become such an important part of her brand.
“I’m positive.” She smiled at his reflection, already feeling lighter inside. “Hack away.”
Chapter Four
‡
Ty grappled one-handed with the knot on his tie as he closed the marina’s security gate. The sun scoured the worn uneven boards as he made his way down the rickety gangplank to the boat dock. Sweat slicked his brow as he tugged off the tie and shoved it into the pocket of the suit jacket slung over his arm. His stride corrected itself naturally to the rocking as he walked past the haphazard row of barges moored to the dock, the soft thunks as they jostled together matching the gentle thud of his footsteps. This was what he loved about living on the barge. The peaceful oasis in the middle of Brooklyn. But right now he was ready to crash headlong into bed.
Damn, this had been the longest day ever. He’d barely been able to keep his eyes open during his last case. Luckily, the plea on behalf of a group of small businesses facing the foreclosure of their loft in Red Hook had been straightforward, because he’d done his homework. But he needed to sleep for ten hours straight now.
He sent up a small prayer of thanks for the long weekend. He needed the break.
He waved at Mr. Genero as he passed the retired traffic cop’s barge. The old guy was sipping a beer on his deck with his fishing line over the bow like he did regular as clockwork every Friday evening at six o’clock—even though to the best of Ty’s knowledge he’d never caught a thing.
“Hey, Mr. G. Getting a jump on the Labor Day weekend? Maybe you’ll get lucky and catch something this evening?”
“That’s the general idea, sonny.” The guy lifted his can of Bud in a familiar salute, and Ty cracked a smile in return. He was thirty-two, a qualified attorney with three years’ experience working for the Legal Aid Society, and the oldest of five grown children, but he’d always be sonny to Mr. G.
“Although, even if I catch a fifty-pound tuna, I’m not gonna get as lucky as you this evening.” Mr. G’s genial smile took on a saucy tilt. “Caught yourself one hell of a looker this time out. If I was forty years younger I’d fight you for that sweet girl myself.”
A looker? Sweet girl? Who the hell?
And then it dawned on him. The heat which had been lying dormant most of the day seared his insides at the vision of just who had been sleeping naked in his barge when he’d left that morning.
Obviously the old guy had spotted Zelda leaving. The pulse of heat was quickly tempered by the tug of regret. Which he ignored. The last thing he needed or wanted was some high maintenance princess messing with his weekend of R and R.
“If you were forty years younger, you’d beat me to her for sure,” he shouted back, enjoying the old guy’s chuckle if not the annoying heat in his crotch which refused to die.
Perhaps he should see about getting some real sex over the next couple of days. Because all the fantasy sex he was having wasn’t exactly taking the edge off. But even as the thought occurred to him, he remembered Shelly giving him a roasting for forgetting to call and knew he couldn’t hit on her again. He’d tried real hard not to mislead Shelly, and told her straight out he wasn’t looking for anything too heavy. But when he slept with a woman, he owed her respect. His mom had drummed that into him and his brothers as a kid. So calling Shelly again felt wrong.
He only had room for one passion in his life at the moment. And that was the law and what he could do with it to help the most vulnerable members of his society. Getting laid would have to wait until he had enough downtime in his schedule to date properly and start the search for his Miss Right, a woman who would have the same background and priorities and ambitions and unshakeable work ethic as he did.
He gave a weary sigh—but given his current workload, he’d be unlikely to find enough downtime in his schedule to hit on Miss Right until his fiftieth birthday. No wonder he’d gotten a little sidetracked by Zelda and her spectacular rack.
He swung open the low gate on the house barge’s front deck and stopped, disconcerted by the sight of the two deck chairs he’d had stashed in the back, now out and proud and furnished with plump pillows. Where had those girly cushion covers come from? And what had happened to the mound of beer cans he’d been saving to take to the recycling? Or the used battery that doubled as a footrest?
Then he turned to the barge’s sliding glass doors, and the sunshine glinting off the glass nearly blinded him. He did a double take, to make sure he hadn’t walked onto the wrong barge. But no, this was his boat, the sign with his name and the slip number to the right of the door confirmed that.
He frowned. Why the heck was the brass nameplate gleaming like a brand new penny, too?
He scrapped his hair back from his brow. And wrenched open the door which wheeled across so fast it cracked against the wall. Hang on, why didn’t it stick anymore?
Okay, what the hell was going on here? Had he been visited by the Neat & Tidy Fairy?
Before he could answer that puzzling question, he got sidetracked by the bright, airy, well-ordered living space and the scent of furniture polish which nearly asphyxiated him.
What the ever-loving fuck has happened to my stuff?
The desk which usually overflowed with case reports and law tomes was cleared of all debris, the polished laminate matching the manic sparkle of the stainless steel appliances in the small kitchenette. The checkerboard pattern on the tiled floor gave him another start, winking at him like the centerpiece for a floor polish commercial. He blinked, confused, until he realized the reason the pattern looked unfamiliar was because he hadn’t seen it in months.
The scent of fresh herbs and citrus fruits accompanied the clean smell of air-freshener and polish, drew his gaze to the array of cold cuts and fancy salads laid out enticingly on the low table by the bunk Zelda had been occupying that morning. Damn, his whole place looked like it had been dressed for the cover of House Beautiful magazine.
Had he entered an alternative reality? Dropped through a wormhole in time like Doctor Who?
A rich, smoky, soulful voice singing a recent R and B track at half-speed floated through the uber-clean and un-dusty air from the far end of the barge. Then the woman he’d been trying real hard to erase from his consciousness stepped into the living space from the bedroom.
She halted in the doorway, her arms full of neatly folded bed linen, and the slow seductive rendition cut off abruptly.
Holy shit.
Zelda Madison was still here.
Or at least he thought it was Zelda Madison. How could it be an apparition– with the heat loosening the muscles in his abdomen at an alarming rate? But even though she had Zelda’s
height and elegance, those striking midnight blue eyes and mile long legs, the short white sundress she wore barely covering her butt looked a lot like one of his new Fruit of the Looms, instead of the fancy designer couture from last night.
And she was bald as a baby.
‘Hello, you’re home a bit earlier than I expected.’ The crisp upper-crust accent sliced through the fog of shock and sent a surge of temper through his tired limbs to combine with the unwanted shot of heat.
“Where’s all my stuff?” His gaze lifted to her hair, which he realized now wasn’t completely gone but sat in short, sassy waves cropped close to her head, framing that remarkable face and turning her cheekbones into a work of art. “And what the fuck happened to your hair?”
*
Zelda touched her fingertips to the short curls, reminding herself, and not for the first time that day, that her hair was now as short as a boy’s. Or rather one of Jakub Pawel’s regular customers. The first sight of her new hair cut had shocked her a little, so it was probably no surprise that Mr. Grumpy was staring at her as if she’d grown an extra head.
But even so, did he have to look quite so ruggedly handsome in his creased shirt and suit trousers with that fierce scowl on his face?
Apparently Ty Sullivan’s demeanor hadn’t improved a bit from last night. If anything it had gotten worse. And all her efforts at schmoozing him by spending the better part of six hours sifting through, clearing out and/or filing away his precious stuff had not had the desired effect.
She took a deep breath to contain the urge to tell him where he could sling his crappy attitude. She needed him on her side if she was going to get him to agree to let her camp out here for the next three days.
She let her hand drop from her hair. Refusing to be intimidated by the glare of disapproval as she placed the sheets in the cupboard by the bathroom door. One thing she was not going to be was defensive. “I had it cut by Mr. Pawel at the barber’s shop on Knapp St. I think he did an excellent job.”