Bedroom Eyes

by Hailey North

  “And raisins?”

  “No raisins.” She wrinkled her nose. Her mother had sprinkled raisins on Penelope’s morning oatmeal, telling her they made good brain food. Her mother had been so set on Penelope’s success, Penelope sometimes thought it was a miracle she’d turned out as well as she had. Most kids, she reflected every so often, would have revolted completely.

  “Raisins equal sadness?” Mrs. Merlin spoke softly.

  Surprised, Penelope nodded. “You’re very perceptive. But I suppose you know that.”

  Mrs. Merlin laughed, a tinkly sound that brought to mind chimes shifting in the breeze. “Oh, I work hard at what I do. For my grandmother, you see, these skills came so easily.” She sighed and sat down on the edge of the napkin holder. “But I have to practice, practice, practice to get things right. And even then—”

  “Don’t tell me,” Penelope said. “Things somehow still get all mixed up.”

  Mrs. Merlin cupped her chin in her hand. “As soon as you make that oatmeal, we need to talk about how you’re going to help me out of this little miscombobulation.”

  Penelope started to deny any intention to help. But one more look at the determined creature and Penelope knew Mrs. Merlin would brook no protest. And the sooner Mrs. Merlin sprang back to her full size, the sooner she’d be out of Penelope’s once-orderly existence.

  Even though Olano hadn’t said anything, what if he started mulling over the sight of a six-inch-high woman under Penelope’s bed? He’d been a cop. No doubt it was in his nature to investigate things that didn’t quite add up.

  Penelope set some water to boil and found the oatmeal, tucked well back behind bottles of olive oil, balsamic and tarragon vinegars, and her treasured saffron and summer savory.

  Mrs. Merlin had taken to muttering to herself again. Penelope smiled despite her misgivings about helping her with the spell it would take to release her. Messing about with magick was totally foreign ground to her. Add to that her firsthand knowledge of Mrs. Merlin’s last unsuccessful spell, and Penelope’s common sense couldn’t help but warn her away. Why, anything might go wrong.

  She found a bowl for the oatmeal and a salad plate for herself, then shook some oatmeal into the boiling water and thought about how she’d longed for her life to change for the better.

  She’d endured all those years in school with her nose to the grindstone to live out her mother’s dreams for her. Now, released by her mother’s death, she was free to shape her own dreams.

  When the legal recruiter had first contacted her in Chicago, spinning stories of a plum job in an old-line New Orleans law firm, Penelope’s silent reaction had been, I can’t do that. She couldn’t leave a firm where she stood in line for partnership at a record-breaking early age. She couldn’t move to a new city, especially not to the South, where she’d never before stepped foot.

  Penelope stirred the oatmeal and smiled.

  She had done it.

  So why turn her back on a little adventure now?

  Chapter 7

  Sighting the fiery orange ticket on his windshield, the infamous calling card of New Orleans’ meter maids, Tony swore under his breath, knowing he was far more infuriated by the idea of Hinson holed up alone with Penelope than he was with the “no parking—loading zone” ticket. It also irritated him that he’d had to leave his car around the corner where he had no view of the building entrance.

  Tony paused with one hand on the handle of his car door. With the other he crumpled the ticket. He had friends who would deal with the ticket.

  Hinson he’d have to handle himself.

  He opened the door of his car, tossed the offending orange paper into the backseat, then paused.

  “Forget it,” he said aloud. “Get in and let Ms. Penelope Sue Fields take care of her own problems.” He’d face off with Hinson later, one on one.

  He did as he told himself, then reached into the pocket of his T-shirt for his sunglasses. His finger touched a cold round object. He pulled it out along with his glasses, rolling the gold ball of an earring between his fingers.

  His fingers warmed, and for a fleeting moment Tony thought he could sense heat from the small piece of jewelry. Then he forced a laugh at the fanciful idea.

  The earring had fallen off when he’d kept Penelope from cracking her head on the sidewalk. He’d nabbed it as it had slipped from her ear and had then forgotten about it, though he had intended to return it to her the first time he’d gone to her apartment.

  First time? Tony narrowed his eyes, pocketed the earring, and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. “First time” implied he was thinking of going back.

  “Forget it,” he said again. Then louder, “Forget her.”

  He studied his hands, noticing as any trained observer would the white rims of his knuckles, the fingers tensed much more than the situation called for on the surface.

  He’d take the earring back and then he’d leave her alone.

  You’re not her type anyway. Tony laughed at the idea of a woman like Penelope Fields giving him a second glance. Since the first night he’d spotted her with Hinson, he’d used his professional skills and tools to learn more about her than most men knew after a dozen dates with a woman.

  Grew up poor.

  Well, they had that in common.

  Good student.

  Forget that. Tony had managed to graduate from high school because the teachers didn’t want to see his face there when school started the next fall. Not that he wasn’t smart, but school bored him and he hated following rules.

  Not so Ms. Fields, who’d done college and law school at Northwestern in only six years, then capped it off with an advanced degree in taxation from New York University, her only foray away from Chicago prior to her move to New Orleans.

  Tony had joined the Army. There he’d met his match in his CO, a tyrant with a heart of gold who’d bullied Tony into college. Colonel Pridy attended Tony’s commencement. That was the first day Tony had ever earned a smile from the old guy.

  He wondered who’d attended Penelope’s numerous graduations.

  Other than her mother.

  Tony frowned and jammed his key into the ignition. Instead of starting the engine, he sat and thought of how lonely it must have been growing up the only child of a single parent.

  None of Tony’s sleuthing had indicated either the identity of or the presence of a father in her life.

  Maybe that accounted for her prissiness. He’d bet she’d never played rough and tumble, never gone fishing with her dad or shot baskets with him.

  No wonder she hung out with Hinson. The only things a guy like Hinson fished for were compliments.

  Hinson.

  Tony ripped the key free of the ignition. Why was he trying to fool himself? Penelope could be in trouble—Hinson couldn’t have been pleased to see a man he regarded as a troublemaking fool standing smack-dab in the kitchen of his current love interest. And knowing Hinson, he’d take out his displeasure on that very same love interest.

  Hinson’s reputation with women gave Tony plenty of concern. Tony remembered one woman who’d staggered into the Second District station in his early days as a patrolman. She claimed to have been beaten by Hinson, but after a few hours in the station, she’d dropped the charges. At the time, Tony hadn’t understood the powers at work behind the scenes, but he’d learned quickly when he started to nose about.

  He hated men who preyed on women.

  “Shit!” Still, going back to check on her didn’t mean a thing. He’d do the same for any stranger on the street.

  Yeah, sure, any stranger with silky brown hair and a pair of blue eyes so large you could drown in them.

  Cursing under his breath, he jumped from the car and bumped straight into a meter maid. Without a word, she slapped another ticket into his hands.

  “Not a bad bowl of oatmeal,” Mrs. Merlin said, patting her lips with the paper napkin Penelope had cut in fourths.

  “Thanks.” Penelope smiled. Food h
ad tempered Mrs. Merlin’s tongue. “You manage pretty well with that spoon.”

  “Life consists of a series of adjustments to an ever-changing reality.” Mrs. Merlin ran a finger down the handle of the miniature silver coffee spoon Penelope had dug out for her to use.

  “That’s an interesting definition.”

  An impish smile lit Mrs. Merlin’s face. “Oh, the interesting part is how we choose to make those adjustments!”

  Penelope nodded, thinking of the fantasies that sprang so readily to her mind. In a way, that’s how she dealt with life, rather than trying to change her external reality. Her smile faded into a frown.

  “Oh, don’t go all muddy on me,” Mrs. Merlin pleaded, as she licked a last drop of oatmeal off the small spoon, then sat staring at Penelope’s salad. “I need all your energies free-flowing while we discuss how to undo this spell.”

  Before Penelope could respond, the intercom buzzer rang.

  “Oh, no!” Penelope glanced across the room in dismay. “Surely David hasn’t come back.”

  “Don’t you have any other friends?”

  “I’ve only lived here since February,” Penelope said, noting how cross she was sounding once more. “And I arrived after Mardi Gras.”

  “Oh, that.” Mrs. Merlin waved a hand, then used a finger to swipe clean the ramekin Penelope had served the oatmeal in. “As far as I’m concerned, Mardi Gras gets far too much press, and I’ve lived here all my life. Too much drunkenness and not enough genuine joy.”

  The buzzer barked once, then twice.

  “So why is it so famous, then?” Penelope almost added Mrs. Know-It-All to her question, but good manners won out.

  “For the same reason McDonald’s sells billions of burgers.” Mrs. Merlin gave her a so-there look and Penelope could only shake her head.

  The buzzer started in, a long, insistent droning noise impossible to ignore.

  “Oh, all right!” Penelope stalked to the box on the wall and snapped down the talk button. “Who is it and what do you want?”

  A chuckle floated to her ears.

  Penelope stiffened. “Is this a joke?”

  “Put Hinson on,” came the muffled response.

  Who would be looking for David at her place? Penelope frowned, feeling as if a private part of her life had been opened to public display. “He’s not here. Who is this?”

  No answer.

  Penelope waited; then, as no further communication came, she shrugged and walked back to the table. Mrs. Merlin was now filching Caesar salad dressing off Penelope’s plate with one small finger.

  When Penelope caught her, Mrs. Merlin merely grinned and said, “You do have a way with food. Why don’t you do the world a favor and leave the law library for the kitchen?”

  “I can’t believe you said that!” Penelope dropped into her chair and stared at this creature, who, though turning her life topsy turvy, had also brought with her an insight into the world that excited Penelope.

  And frightened her, too.

  Stimulating a sense of adventure was one thing, but in one day Penelope had shoplifted, watched two men draw guns inside her apartment, and put out a fire!

  She shook her head slowly, then gathered the dishes. “I’m a very good lawyer,” she said.

  “No doubt.” Mrs. Merlin wiped her fingers on her piece of napkin. “Finger bowl?”

  Penelope set the dishes in the sink, filled another ramekin with water, and carried it to the table. Mrs. Merlin dipped her fingers into the water, swirling them about in a dainty manner that seemed to contrast oddly with her wild hair and loudly colored caftan. It was almost like watching Phyllis Diller give an etiquette lesson.

  At that thought, Penelope smiled broadly.

  “Much better,” Mrs. Merlin said, nodding toward her. “You can be the best lawyer in the world and not be happy. Why I know of a banker, quite accomplished and successful, who worked her way up in the ranks of management, yet in her heart lived an artist. And you know when she truly claimed her life?”

  Penelope shook her head, even though she thought she knew the answer.

  “That’s right, my dear. After she retired and began creating watercolors and acrylics and stained glass. Then she blossomed.”

  Mrs. Merlin dried each of her fingers on the edge of the placemat where she sat. “She did good things in both phases of her life, but she did better for herself when she followed her heart.”

  Penelope blinked. She thought of the half-developed cookbook hidden in her briefcase, of all the recipes she longed to try. She thought of her visions of the Best New Chef ceremony.

  “I’ve been offered a partnership in the firm here,” she said slowly. “It’s been a goal of mine for a long time.”

  Mrs. Merlin had removed her spectacles and dipped them in her finger bowl. Waving them about, she said, “Congratulations.”

  “Doesn’t it sound good?”

  Mrs. Merlin shrugged. “Good is as good does.”

  Penelope wrinkled her forehead, trying to parse that particular statement. She wasn’t one of those lawyers who hated being a lawyer, she was glad she was good at what she did, but sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder what else she might also be good at.

  The intercom buzzer blared.

  “Maybe you have more friends than you thought.”

  Penelope shot a glance intended to wither the tiny wit, but Mrs. Merlin paid her no notice. She was drying her glasses on the hem of her caftan. Penelope noticed for the first time that her houseguest wore an intricate silver chain around one ankle. Walking to answer the buzzer, Penelope wished she’d had the nerve to buy one. She found the look exotic and daring and so very unlike Penelope Sue Fields.

  Thinking she just might buy one for herself, Penelope said “Yes?” into the speaker, this time in a much sweeter voice.

  “Olano,” came the reply.

  She held her breath. What did he want? Why had he come back? Because he wanted to see her? Because he couldn’t help himself? Penelope pictured him drawn to her, unable to resist the temptation of returning for one more glance, one more kiss.

  Then she looked at her crumpled blouse, her wrinkled slacks, her hair swirling around her shoulders in an out-of-control mass. Yeah, right.

  She sighed and said, “What do you want?”

  “Let me come up and I’ll tell you.”

  Penelope shot a glance at Mrs. Merlin, who was listening openly. “Let him in,” said her miniature mentor.

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the man is a pain in the ass. He’s dangerous, and uppity and annoying and. . . and . . . incredibly sexy!”

  Peering over the top of her glasses, Mrs. Merlin said, “Any other reasons?”

  “Look at me. I’m a mess! And I’m tired and cranky. Plus I’ve got at least three hours of work I need to do tonight.”

  “Live a little. It’s Saturday night. I’ll entertain your friend while you go shower and slip into something more. . .” Mrs. Merlin tipped her head to the side and studied Penelope, “feminine, something more yielding.”

  Penelope rolled her eyes. “And what’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  Her only answer was a faint “Phifil!” so Penelope turned back to the intercom.

  And shrieked.

  Three floors below, the shriek shot out the intercom and Tony grinned. Ms. Starched had just realized she’d had the speaker on during her entire conversation.

  He laughed, even though he figured she’d never let him in now. But fortunately, a pleasant-looking couple dressed for a night on the town came out the front door and politely held it open for him.

  Ah, security buildings. But as he’d first rung the bell and asked for Hinson and gotten a negative response, Tony figured Penelope was safe for the moment.

  That knowledge didn’t deter him from making his return visit, though. Crossing the entryway of the elegantly restored warehouse, he found himself wondering what Penelope paid in rent. The building did ha
ve a sort of impersonal beauty, but Tony wouldn’t for a minute have traded his own uptown shotgun that he’d inherited from his grandparents for the fashionable address, covered parking, and rooftop swimming pool.

  Even if he could have afforded it.

  Thinking of his bank account, he grimaced and loped up the stairs two at a time. Who would most women choose? Hinson in his thousand-dollar suits or Tony in his khaki shorts?

  He took the last three steps in one bound then stopped abruptly when he saw a brunette babe clad in a black miniskirt sashay out of the doorway next to Penelope’s apartment. She surveyed Tony with an appraising eye and Tony returned the look, short enough to catch her interest and long enough to confirm her breasts had to be plastic.

  “New neighbor?” she asked in a voice that matched her tits.

  “Just visiting,” Tony said, throwing in a shake of his head and a touch of regret in his voice for good measure, even though his heart wasn’t in the game.

  “Mmmm,” she said, and touched the comer of her lips with a dart of her tongue.

  What the heck. He might as well give her a thrill. Sauntering closer, he said, “Maybe next time I’m in town . . .”

  She swept her lashes across her upper cheeks, then let them flutter, a gesture that, rather than entrancing Tony, brought to mind the birds downed by his cat Bruno before the cat died of old age.

  After her dramatic pause, she sighed and said, “Sure, handsome.” She trailed a fingernail across his cheek. “Brenda in 39B.”

  Then she turned and took her time gliding down the hall toward the elevator. He watched her progress, wondering why women like Brenda had ever interested him.

  Knowing exactly what type of woman intrigued him now, Tony turned to Penelope’s door, only to hear it slam shut.

  “Doing good, Tony-O. Real good,” he muttered, wondering whether Penelope would open up again.

  “Of all the impossible, egotistical masculine—” Penelope held the palms of her hands against her cheeks. She felt as if she’d been slapped.

  Slapped back into reality.

  That would teach her to fantasize about men like Tony Olano. Bedroom eyes indeed! He’d practically had his tongue down the throat of that trollop from next door.