The Dimple of Doom (Samantha Lytton)

by Lucy Woodhull

  After I had freed one hand, I danced back from him. “Take a shower if you want. Close the door.”

  He finished taking off the cuffs. “Good morning,” he intoned sarcastically while stretching. He didn’t sound chipper. Wood chippers gave off more warmth. I held the gun on him and watched as he rubbed his arms and stood. I could almost hear his muscles creak. “How did you sleep?” he asked with a glare.

  “Perfectly well,” I lied. I’d barely slept a wink, haunted as I was by faceless dreams of being trapped in Steak on a Stick’s art vault, but hell if I would tell him that.

  “Good for you.” He strode to the bathroom and slammed the door. Angry mutterings could be heard emanating from within. I didn’t think he considered me a sack full of puppies this morning. A sack full of something else, perhaps.

  I sat down to plan at the beautiful inlaid desk. The day outside washed the hotel with sunshine and sparkle. December in California. Seventy-degree holidays were wrong, but so, so right.

  Nate reappeared presently, steaming in more ways than one. Swathed only in a towel, he seemed much recuperated from his night of captivity.

  “I have an idea,” I began. Oh, for the love of… Why wouldn’t he put on some pants?

  “I’m all ears.” Nate rubbed a second towel on his wet hair. Water meandered down his chest and disappeared below his waist. He did not don any pants. I swallowed.

  Crossing my arms, I tore my eyes away from the precarious towel. “We return the painting to Oliver. We call the cops. He gets arrested, blamed for stealing it in the first place. Your boss doesn’t get it back, but does eliminate a rival.” I would teach that sticky steak jackass to shoot at me.

  “How do we get into the building?” Nate towelled his back. Muscles rippled.

  “Is that all you have to say? I don’t know. You’re the expert in skulduggery. Go-Go-Gadget criminal.”

  He sat on the bed. The towel fell open, barely an inch. “Okay.”

  “Listen here, I—wait, what?”

  “It’s not a terrible plan, for a rookie.”

  “Good.” He looked awfully in control for a guy in a towel. I felt awfully naked despite the enormous white robe. The skin of my belly tightened, and I flushed with heat. “Show me the painting.”

  He rose and found his bag. He removed a case a bit larger than the small work of art inside it. Kneeling in front of me, he opened it. “Will you be my unlawful accomplice?” He grinned. The towel flopped back over his knee. Work of art, indeed. I ordered my mind out of the gutter.

  I pretended I wasn’t blushing and surveyed the painting. Such a pretty little thing to cause so much trouble. My lungs constricted as I wondered what horrors its original owners had seen. Exponentially worse than mine, I expected. I straightened up abruptly. “Fine. We’d better get dressed. You’d better figure out how to break us into and out of the building.” I turned to leave the room.

  Nate came up behind me and brushed my shoulders, caressing the soft terry of the robe. “Can we dispense with the gun now?” His whisper floated past my ear, fluttering the hair at my temple. I heard it in my toes. The clean scent of his golden skin washed over me. If I acquiesced to him, he’d give me whatever kind of sex I could imagine. And every kind he could, too.

  “Just—just get dressed.” I pulled away and fled into the other room, to the couch where my clothes were. I gripped the arm of the sofa. The rich plush entranced my every sense, telling me it was comforting and snuggly and safe. I was so tired the air seemed to be made of molasses. For a brief moment, I would lie down.

  * * * *

  The smell of bacon awoke me. Or maybe it was Nate, sitting beside me on the couch, drawing a gentle finger across my collarbone. He brushed inside the robe and over my shoulder. The fabric slipped open between my breasts. “Samantha, wake up. I got breakfast.” His voice was soft. His look was softer. “You really should put some clothes on.” This before he kissed me.

  In the haze of sleep, I forgot my problems with this man and kissed him back. My body came alive as a slow, curling current of electricity spread through me. Velvet, practised lips played languidly across mine. He lowered himself atop me and pulled my robe apart enough to nuzzle my cleavage. I gasped as his hand cupped around my breast through the nubby fabric. A surge of wetness shot between my legs where I pressed against him, hard in his jeans.

  He took one nipple into his mouth. “Nate.” I bucked to meet his tongue. “Nate.” Sensible thoughts beat against my skull and tried to break the sultry cocoon of lust enveloping me.

  “Yes.” His teeth grazed. I dug my nails into his bare back. A faint groan of pain spilled from him.

  “No. Nate.” My mouth said no, but my hips pushed into him. Horny hips had an agenda of their own.

  He was enough of a scoundrel to take advantage of my sleepy state, but not enough to press me after a no. His mouth pulled away from my skin, leaving an aching void.

  “Are you sure about that?” His breath still washed across my flesh.

  No. No, no, no. Oh, Jesus, I wanted him. Out loud, however, I said, “Yes.” I closed my eyes, afraid that a glance to see what colour his hazel eyes had turned in passion would undo me. With a jerk, I pulled my robe closed. “We have business. This is business. You are a bad man. I don’t sleep with bad men.”

  He nuzzled my neck.

  Most of the time. I tried not to, at least.

  “I’m not bad.” His naughty mouth nibbled at the junction of my neck and shoulder. I gripped his arms. Such tiny little kisses. How could they feel so damn amazing? “I steal things from people who can afford to lose them. I’m quite, quite good actually…under the right circumstances.”

  “Why didn’t you leave when I fell asleep?” Despite my best intentions, I turned my face to him. He’d shaved. I rubbed my cheek to his silky smooth one like a cat and kneaded his powerful shoulders.

  “I have nothing better to do this weekend.” He bit my neck. Hard. I gasped and pulled his hair. “Christ, Samantha”—his voice rasped—“you need to stop doing that kind of thing if you want me to leave you alone.”

  “You bit me.”

  He did it again. My entire body came alive with sizzling need. His erection swelled in emphasis between my legs. I finally looked at him. Green. A passion-hazed green gaze enveloped me. Oh, God. How quickly could a woman lose herself in those infernal eyes? So what if he’d ruined my life? Might as well finish the job. If an inappropriate thing was worth doing, it was worth doing as wrongly as possible. My mouth parted.

  Nate stared at my lips and licked his own. He cleared his throat. “Shall I feed you now? Since I can’t have you on the couch?”

  I wouldn’t have minded being breakfast—he had shaved after all. No! Jeez, I possessed the self-control of a…of a…something shameful without self-control.

  Only one thing could save me. It took every ounce of strength I had, but I pushed him to arm’s length and decided that if I shouldn’t have sex, I would have—“Bacon! I love bacon.”

  “I felt sure you would. Now, put on the ugly Xanadu shirt before I—” He rested against the back of the opposite side of the sofa and sighed. “Just please put it on.” With one last, libidinous glance at my cleavage, he unwound himself and moved to the table.

  I slipped into my clothes in the bedroom and returned to eat bacon. Like he knew I would.

  * * * *

  “All right, here’s the plan, toots.”

  “Your plan would sound more authoritative if you were wearing a shirt,” I muttered with a violent stab to my runny eggs.

  “Are you sure?”

  So smarmy. “Put on more clothes!”

  Nate put on more clothes.

  “All right, here’s the plan, toots.” He sat across the table from me and seemed serious, despite his repetition of the word ‘toots’. “Oliver has probably discovered the missing painting by now, so we can’t use Walt—”

  “Or use me.”

  “Or use you to get inside again. We have
to sneak in.”

  “Please tell me there is more to your plan than sneaking in. I could’ve guessed that sneaking is a part of the whole stealing scheme, and I’ve only been a criminal for a day or so. Not a criminal. An attractive, unwitting, yet deadly accessory.” I smugly toyed with the gun pushed into the front of my pants.

  “Are you done?” Nate threw a pointed glare between my legs. “Yes, there’s more to my proposal. The plan also involves lying.” Another glance at my crotch.

  “Stop. Stop that!”

  “I can’t help it. Your giant gun intimidates me.”

  “You don’t look intimidated.” My voice was muffled, what with the clenched teeth.

  “How do I look?” His eyes met mine. The heat in them gave me a first-degree sunburn.

  Maybe I should shoot him and be done with it. “Get on with the plan.”

  He gesticulated with a piece of bacon. “It’s Sunday. We’ll go in as cleaning people. Do you still have the keys to the suite and Oliver’s office?”

  “Yes, but wouldn’t the locks have been changed?”

  “Hopefully not yet. If they have, I can pick them.”

  “Lock picking? They teach you that in art history class?”

  “No—Thief Camp. Now be quiet, and I shall elaborate.” A lopsided smile ruined his attempt to be stern. He ran his hands through his still-damp hair while he chewed his bacon. It made me wonder if he’d smell like bacon later. Like I needed him to be more attractive.

  Nate elaborated, “I spent some efforts acquiring uniforms from the appropriate cleaning company in case you wouldn’t let me into Oliver’s office at the Christmas party.”

  I feigned surprise. “You mean you didn’t consider me a sure thing?”

  “Not quite.”

  I stayed silent and pursed my lips. The only thing they would agree to do was eat, so I chomped on a pancake.

  “So,” he continued, “we go to my place, get the uniforms, disguise up a little and return the painting. With good luck we can do this. With bad luck we can do five to seven.” The last of the bacon disappeared in a post-plan pop into his mouth.

  “That’s not funny.” I shifted in my seat. “Besides, you’ve kidnapped me. You do the big house, and I do the talk show circuit.”

  Without any trace of guilt he said, “Yes. It’s my fault.”

  “My participation is Stockholm Syndrome-esque at this point.”

  “Martha Stewart will make you cry on national TV.”

  “She’ll name a tart after me—you watch.”

  I appraised him over the tasteful table at the Beverly Hilton. Nate the Inscrutable stared back, eyes opaque and unreadable.

  I broke first. “To your place?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter Six

  Crime Does Pay

  Int. the set of The Martha Stewart Show—Day

  Graphic: Samantha Lytton, Daring Woman of Mystery

  Angle On: Samantha Lytton beside Martha Stewart in the kitchen. They are making strawberry tarts. Samantha’s hair looks amazingly lustrous.

  Martha Stewart: What was it like, being kidnapped by a horrible thief?

  Angle On: Jail Cam of Nate Liar-Thief sitting alone and lonely in his shittily-appointed prison cell. He plays the harmonica mournfully, and surprisingly well.

  Angle On: Samantha Lytton and her awesome hair.

  Samantha Lytton: It was terrifying. Some people think being kidnapped by a hot guy would be mostly double entendres and making out in bathrobes on the couch, but that’s not true at all.

  Martha Stewart: That would be pretty slutty. Let’s arrange the strawberry halves in a circle.

  Samantha Lytton: Well, I don’t know if it’s exactly ‘slutty’. So what if a lady is a slut? Men are constantly applauded for bedding lots of—

  Martha Stewart: It’s pretty slutty. Decent women wouldn’t do that sort of thing, right? Are you aware of what a circle is, Samantha?

  Angle On: Audience, applauding vigorously for Martha. The camera pans onto the tart, strewn with strawberries in an amoeba-esque shape. The audience boos.

  Samantha Lytton: Um, sorry. I don’t bake very much. I’m too busy being awesome!

  Sound effect: crickets.

  Samantha Lytton: Anyway, you can read about my adventure in my new book, How Samantha Lytton Defeated All Criminals Ever While Having Shiny Hair.

  Angle On: Audience, shaking their heads at Samantha.

  Graphic: Samantha Lytton, Probably Lying About Everything

  Martha Stewart: They’re right to shake their heads. This book is terrible. And I don’t think ‘shittily’ is a word. Halle Berry would never use a word like that in a book she wrote. But then again, you’re not really an actress, are you?

  Angle On: Audience, prepping tomatoes from Martha’s sustainable organic community garden to throw at Samantha. One hits the lying slut right in her hair, which is flat and listless.

  Samantha Lytton: Ow! Stop it! This is a fluff piece! You’re supposed to be on my side!

  Martha Stewart: Whatever, trash. Next up, Halle Berry will be here to promote her new book, I’m a Real Actress and Not Some Sleazy Thief’s Moll.

  I should’ve been a criminal. Acting had got me nowhere—even my imagined appearances on talk shows had led to disaster. Secretary-ing had got me even no-er-where. But Nate the thief owned a house in the balmy Hollywood hills. I rented an apartment in the Valley where the summer temperature averaged disgusting degrees Fahrenheit.

  Maybe if I slept with him he’d let me live rent-free in his beautiful two-bedroom Spanish-style bungalow? Being a kept woman was completely underrated, in my opinion. I’d work hard for my filthy, ill-gotten money. Sexily hard. Boo on responsibility and trudging to a shitty job. In my new life, I’d hold exotic salons, like some sort of bohemian, nineteenth-century courtesan. I’d invite luminaries to discuss important events of the day—Leonard Nimoy, Nichelle Nichols, Patrick Stewart…basically all the cast and crew of every Star Trek ever. Plus Carrie Fisher. I’d slurp champagne all day! I’d wear caftans! I’d—

  “What are you smiling at?” Nate asked.

  He stood in his charming foyer full of spiky potted plants, looking at me as if I’d gone bonkers. “Don’t touch anything. I’ll get the stuff together.” Nate disappeared into a room in the back.

  I wandered about and touched everything. I sought evidence. Of something. Of him. Nate’s house was small, but open—the streaming sunlight made it appear bigger. Studded burnt-sienna leather furniture mixed beautifully with the rosy wood of the coffee tables. A patio off the living room boasted cushy red and white striped outdoor furniture and a jaunty umbrella, perfect for a hard-working mistress. Gorgeous brown-tiled floors and scrubbed white walls welcomed me—a catalogue come to life, and not one of the reasonably priced ones sent to the likes of me. This was the kind of California house I’d always dreamed of owning. Except…

  Nothing was out of place. Nothing contained Nate’s name. Not a piece of mail, not a diploma, not an inscription in a book. No pictures. Everything lovely, but temporary. Transient. I shivered and ran my fingers across a glossy-wrapped hardcover novel.

  “Are you cold?”

  I whipped around, open-mouthed. “Um.” I returned the book to the shelf.

  “Um?” Nate tilted his head and frowned at the book, then at me. Then at the book, then at me. He moved the novel three centimetres back into its spot in the perfect row of brand new books.

  “Meow.”

  Nate hadn’t meowed at me. I followed the plaintive tones of feline dissatisfaction to find a tiny black cat sitting at his feet. Nate scooped the little fluff ball into his arms, stuck his face in the cat’s neck and proceeded to croon a disgusting array of loving goo-goos. The cat seemed unmoved by the display.

  I could not say the same for myself.

  My normally surly criminal friend didn’t seem to realise he’d turned into a six-year-old. “My dear Captain Taco, this is Samantha.” Don’t think
I failed to realise he introduced the cat to me and not the other way around. My ranking in the household was painfully obvious.

  Captain Taco licked his nose and yawned, settling back into the crook of Nate’s arm, belly and legs up like a sumptuous pasha. I’d never had a boyfriend squish such unbridled fondness all over me, and this cat looked bored.

  Nate set Taco on the back of the couch and pushed a bundle into my hand. “Here—it’s a uniform. Put it on over your clothes. If you want, there’s a bathroom through there.” He vanished again.

  Another meow sounded from Fur Face, clearly interrogating me about my presence in his home. His yellow-green eyes accused me of untold atrocities. “I’m puzzled about how I got here, too, C.T.,” I told him honestly, “but you are obviously the queen bee. King bee. Did you used to be Lieutenant Taco?” I laughed. He pinned a frozen stare of doom on me. “I’m not much of a cat person. Growing up, I had a dog named Jiggy. He was a mutt—scraggly-looking, dumb—I loved him, anyway. When I was fourteen…”

  The cat walked away.

  Yeah.

  I clutched the scratchy, stiff polyester Nate had given me and sought the bathroom, but found the bedroom instead. His bedroom.

  I peeked behind me to make sure he wasn’t there—and the cat wasn’t there—and crept inside. This room had a completely different vibe from the rest of the house. Smart, funny movies lined a case. Good taste exemplified by old Aykroyd, Murray and Belushi films. Several obviously reread books were stacked on an end table—the Terry Pratchett gave me a lady boner. The blue comforter scrunched squishy and cosy under my fingers. It gave off a masculine aura and smelt fresh. I sat on it, then spread out and made comforter angels. Dark, polished wood adorned the mission-style bed and dresser.

  Kandinskys stared at me from two sides. They weren’t prints. My heart thumped. Were they real? The idea that they were stolen excited me. What sort of person was I that I secretly thrilled to be in the presence of moral depravity? I decided to not investigate the answer to that question, which in and of itself was a giant ethical failing.