Stella, Get Your Man

by Nancy Bartholomew

  I snatched the phone from her, listened to a muttered diatribe in Italian, and ducked into the kitchen pantry where I could attempt to hear.

  “This is Stella Valocchi, may I help you?”

  The answering voice on the other end of the line was female and muffled, intentionally muffled, I thought.

  “Yes, I need to make an appointment, as soon as possible. Is Mr. Carpenter available?”

  It was starting to steam me, the way everyone was assuming that Jake ran the business, rescued damsels in distress and took a bullet to save my hide, when in fact, the reverse was true. What had he been telling people?

  “Actually,” I said, “he’s a little under the weather, so he’s not taking any appointments today. However, you’re in luck. I’m Stella Valocchi. I own the agency and Jake works for me. I’ve had a cancellation in today’s schedule and could work you in around four o’clock. Is that soon enough?”

  There was a brief hesitation on the other end of the line. “I suppose,” she said, sounding just like a whiny kid who had to settle for vegetables instead of candy. “But I really wanted Jake.”

  I sighed. “Take a number,” I muttered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, ‘Do you know where the office is? Four Wallace Avenue, second floor?’”

  “I’m sure I can find it,” she snapped.

  “I’m sure we’ll be able to handle your case without any difficulty. Trust me.”

  “Oh, all right!” she said, and hung up.

  I looked over and saw the others hanging on my every word. “Of course, you do know that we charge a thousand dollars a day, plus expenses?” I asked the empty line.

  Nina’s eyes widened into saucers.

  “And we will need a week’s deposit in advance.”

  The line began to hum.

  “Fine then, I’ll see you at four.”

  I hung up and turned back to the assembled group at the kitchen table. “Now, what was this about a mission statement?”

  Chapter 3

  Just once I’d like to have a plan go my way. Just one time. Was that too much to ask? I stood in what had been my bedroom, clutching my towel and clean clothes to my chest, watching as Jake rolled off the bed, fully dressed, and proceeded to search for his shoes. He should have been fast asleep.

  “She asked for me. I’m going.”

  I adjusted my towel turban, tightened my hold on the jeans that were wrapped around my underwear and bra, and gave him the no-shit-I-mean-business stare.

  “You are mortally wounded, remember?” I said. “That’s how you scammed your way into Aunt Lucy’s house and my bed, isn’t it? You’ve been gut shot. You need my aunt to tend to your every need. You can’t go see clients in the office. I’ll handle it and you can hear about the job later.”

  Jake found his lizard-skin boots, pulled them on slowly and gave me a look of his own. I was working on becoming immune to the way he looked at me, but so far I found myself weak-kneed every time.

  “What’s the matter, Stella? Afraid I’ll be tougher than you? Afraid you can’t keep up?”

  He stood and took two steps toward me.

  “Be careful. Remember, you’re wounded.”

  Jake smiled. “Funny, it hardly hurts at all.” He reached me, his hands reaching to grip the sides of my arms.

  “Jake, you’re out of your mind on pain medicine. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  I felt my grip go weak on the clothes I held in front of me and clutched tighter to keep my towel wrapped securely around my body. He stepped closer, towering over me, his breath hot on the side of my neck.

  “Why, Stella, you’re not afraid of me, are you?”

  “I’m not scared of you, Jake.” My voice cracked into a squeak that told him I was lying, only believe me, I wasn’t really afraid of him, just a little…apprehensive maybe? I actually had come in only because I’d forgotten to bring a change of clothes into the bathroom. If I’d known he was awake, I would have asked my aunt to get them.

  Jake ran the index finger of his right hand down the side of my face, the work-roughened skin exciting every nerve ending as it moved.

  “I think you’re scared, Stella,” he whispered, cupping my chin with the crook of his finger. “I think you’re very scared.”

  He bent his head toward me. My stomach pitched and his lips met mine. Finally.

  The clothes hit the floor. The towel followed. I heard his foot kick the door shut behind us as I pressed into him. The rough fabric of his denim shirt brushed across the tips of my nipples and they hardened, begging for his touch.

  Jake sighed. His tongue searched my mouth and mine answered him. In an entire lifetime of fantasizing, nothing could have matched the reality of Jake Carpenter’s kiss.

  The turban holding my damp hair slid to the floor. Jake’s fingers raked my scalp, pulling my head back to better meet his inquisitive lips. He stroked the back of my neck in one long fluid movement that seemed to pulse with energy and heat. How long had I waited for this?

  Since high school? Since the day he’d run off, too scared to elope, leaving the mousy little nerd to explain all to her aunt and uncle? Had I still been secretly waiting for him when I ran off to reinvent myself? Because I know I’d been waiting for this moment ever since my return to tiny Glenn Ford, Pennsylvania. But did I really want Jake, or did I just want him to want me so I could be the one to walk away?

  His fingers slipped down my back, circled my waist and moved up toward my breasts. His hot mouth bruised my lips as I answered him with a passion I didn’t know myself capable of feeling. I felt him harden against me and knew I had Jake Carpenter in the palm of my hand. I could finally pay him back for every moment of agony he’d put me through eleven long years ago.

  So why then didn’t I break it off and leave him there, wanting me and never being able to have me? Why was I lingering when I owed the son of a bitch a good and final payback? I mean, it wasn’t as if he was really my type, now, was he?

  Jake’s thumb and forefinger found my left nipple, squeezed softly, and then pinched harder as I moaned and my knees went weak.

  Okay. What was the better revenge, really? To leave him all worked up, or to get my needs met and leave him wanting?

  Oh, definitely the latter. I mean, after sleeping in the cold, dank basement on Uncle Benny’s couch, didn’t I deserve a little satisfaction?

  I felt his left hand moving down my side, felt him guiding us toward the bed, and knew I was going for all I could get before I rolled away and said, “There, that’s what you get for jilting me and humiliating me in high school!”

  We half fell backward onto the bed and Jake only winced once as he rolled onto his left side and shifted to find a comfortable position. Once he’d settled in, his hands began to explore every tender, responsive inch of my body. When his fingers slipped between my legs, I stopped breathing. Oh, yes, this was definitely the good part. Oh, please hurry, I begged silently.

  I grabbed the waistband of his jeans and fumbled with the button. Might as well do some exploring of my own, I figured.

  “I’m not hurting you, am I?” I whispered.

  I felt the button give, tugged at the zipper, and was rewarded with a gasp from Jake as my fingers found smooth, hardened skin.

  Jake rose up onto one elbow and stared into my eyes. His fingers moved closer and closer and if he didn’t touch me soon I was going to have to beg. Without a word, he read my mind, and I felt his fingers plunge deep inside me.

  Oh, yes, I was going to enjoy this. I was going to…

  “Stella! You in there?” Nina banged on the door. “Hey! We need to leave! It’s almost three-thirty. Isn’t she coming at four?” More banging.

  I jumped off the bed, snatched my towel off the floor and wrapped it tightly around my torso. What in the hell had I been thinking?

  “Yeah,” I called. “I’m coming!”

  “Does Jake need anything before we go?” she asked.

  I looke
d at the man lying on my bed. He’d fallen back against the pillows, eyes shut, his facial expression the perfect picture of frustration. Revenge was sweet, but so unfulfilling!

  I struggled into my clothes, danced around the floor on one leg as I pulled my almost too-tight jeans up and quickly zipped them.

  “No, he doesn’t need a thing,” I called to her.

  Jake opened one eye and frowned. I stood, topless, at the end of the bed and let him suffer as I slowly, very slowly, pulled on my bra and fastened it.

  “He’s not in pain, is he?” Nina asked. “Aunt Lucy says he can have another pain pill now.”

  I looked at the bulge in Jake’s pants and smiled. “He may be a little uncomfortable,” I said, “but he’ll manage. He’s a tough guy.”

  I smirked, pulled my black turtleneck sweater on over my head and turned to open the door.

  “Wait,” he gasped, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “I’m coming.”

  I looked at his crotch, then at his darkened eyes. “No, you most certainly are not,” I answered.

  I opened the door and Nina half fell into the tiny bedroom. She took one look at me, glanced over my shoulder at Jake and started laughing.

  “You didn’t… I mean, you weren’t…” She gasped.

  “No!” we both answered.

  Nina’s grin broadened. “Oh, man, wait until I tell Spike!”

  I glowered at her, sure that behind me, Jake was doing the same. “Nina, let’s just get going, all right?”

  Nina looked miffed. “Well, don’t take it out on me!” she huffed. “I’m not the one who said she’d be at the office in an hour!”

  She spun on her heel and headed down the steps, leaving me to dash off after her. When Jake didn’t follow us, I was both relieved and disappointed. He needed to stay home. After all, a gunshot wound was nothing to fool around with, even if it had been superficial.

  I raced Nina to my Camaro, slid behind the wheel, cranked the engine and looked at my watch. Ten minutes. We’d make it with five to spare, even with it being rush hour. Of course, rush hour in Glenn Ford meant a four-minute commute across town instead of the usual two.

  “What’s that red light mean?” Nina asked, breaking her pout.

  I looked at the instrument panel.

  “Damn! We need oil.”

  Nina sighed. “Oh, that’s nothing! One time I drove my car with the oil light on for two weeks.”

  I looked over at my pink-haired cousin. “And then?”

  “Oh, well, it died forever, but that wasn’t because of the oil light. The engine block froze.”

  “Nina,” I said, rolling my eyes mentally, “that’s what happens if you don’t get oil!”

  Nina stared at me. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I started down the driveway. “No. We have to stop.”

  “But we’ll be late. You told her four and she’s paying a thousand dollars a day.”

  “She’ll wait.”

  “This is so totally why you need a mission statement,” she muttered.

  I failed to see the connection between stopping to put oil in my car and a corporate mission statement, but I kept my mouth shut. I drove to Sheeler’s Garage, ran inside to grab two quarts of oil, and figured at most, we’d be five minutes late.

  That was before Joey Smack’s representatives, in the form of a long, black sedan with dark, tinted windows saw fit to stop by Sheeler’s and give me a personal season’s greeting from their boss, aka Santa Claus, aka The Man Voted Most Pissed Off About Having His Sled Repo’ed.

  I had the hood popped and was about to insert the funnel, when the car rolled to a stop beside us. The right-side passenger window slowly slid down, just far enough for an arm and a hand to emerge. The arm was wearing a charcoal-gray suit jacket and a light blue cotton shirt with cuff links. The hand was holding a gun.

  “Merry Christmas!” the arm’s owner called, and started shooting.

  Nina screamed and ducked down in her seat. I hopped behind the car, wedged between the pumps and the Camaro and wished like hell I’d worn a holster instead of leaving the Glock wedged down beneath the driver’s seat.

  The bullets hit the right front tire, the right rear tire and the back window, before the driver of the sedan hit the accelerator and tore off out of the lot.

  I heard the squeal of tires and cautiously popped my head up over the open hood and watched the getaway.

  “Nina, you all right?” I called.

  Nina slowly rose up from the front passenger-side floorboards and gave me a nasty look.

  “We could’ve been killed!” she stormed. “Don’t you take precautions? Why didn’t you shoot them?”

  “My gun was in the car,” I said.

  Nina nodded an I-told-you-so nod. “See? No planning. No mission statement. That’s how you wind up in situations like this. You need to be prepared!”

  “I’m sorry, honey,” I said, realizing how scared she was.

  Nina shook her head. “It’s not just that they shot at us,” she said softly. “I’m used to that by now, I mean, ever since you started chasing bad guys and all, but we could’ve been better prepared, Stella, that’s all.”

  Of course, that wasn’t all. Nina was right, as usual. I hadn’t been prepared. I hadn’t figured Joey Smack would go so far, but he had and we hadn’t been ready.

  “You ladies okay?” The shaken garage attendant popped his head out of the door. “I called the cops, they’re on the way.”

  Needless to say, we were late for the client meeting.

  We pulled into the parking lot at 4:20 p.m. Nina practically flew out of the car in her rush to unlock the front door and open up the office. “Office” is a euphemistic term here. Our temporary quarters were over a print shop in what had been a long-vacant apartment in major need of renovation and cosmetic improvement.

  When Nina slid her key into the door leading to the steps up to the second floor, she turned, her eyes widening.

  “It’s not locked,” she whispered. “I think somebody’s up there!”

  I walked back to the car, stuck my hand through the now-missing back window and pulled my Glock out from its resting place beneath my seat.

  “Wait here,” I told her. “I’ll go check.”

  “But what if he shoots you?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Well, you could start by calling 911. If I’m dead, bury me in my jeans. I don’t see the sense in getting all dressed up and uncomfortable just to be buried.”

  “Stella!”

  “Okay, okay! Just call 911 if you hear gunshots, and stay out of the way!”

  I handed her my cell phone, gently pushed open the front door and started up the stairs. I kept the gun low by my side, careful to step on the outside edges of the old stairs, and slowly moved toward the second-floor office.

  I hated coming in this way. Approaching a possible bad situation from the ground floor was potential cop suicide and I knew it. If someone heard me, if they were waiting for me, I was a sitting duck.

  I crawled the steps, flattened against the wall, and reached the landing. So far, so good. I paused, listening, and was rewarded with the sound of muffled voices, male and female, coming from the upstairs office.

  You’d think burglars would be quieter. I snuck up three more steps, my head rising just above the hall floor. I peeked around. Nothing. I trained my gun on every possible hiding place and still saw no sign of illegal entry or Joey Smack’s people. As I listened, I heard the impossible.

  Jake Carpenter’s unmistakable rumble echoed out into the hallway. He laughed and I knew for certain he was inside. When a woman’s high-pitched giggle erupted, I knew the score. Jake had beaten us to the punch. He was sitting in my office, in my high-backed desk chair, talking to our client as if I didn’t exist. Damn him!

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped, spinning around to face Nina, who’d managed to sneak up the steps behind me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I thought
I told you to wait!” I whispered loudly.

  Nina grinned and brandished the Camaro’s tire iron. “Yeah,” she replied, “you did, but now I’m armed. I can help.”

  Nina cocked her head and listened intently for a moment. “Besides,” she said, brushing past me, “it’s only Jake anyhow.”

  Leaving me to follow in her wake, Nina sailed through the office waiting room and on into the inner sanctum where Jake held court with our new client.

  “Maybe we do need a mission statement,” I muttered. “Maybe a few people need to know who’s in charge around here.”

  I stiffened my shoulders and walked behind Nina into the office. The new client sat with her back to me. She was so unconcerned with our arrival that she didn’t even turn to look over her shoulder as Nina made her entrance.

  For some unknown reason this was all about Jake. I knew that much from our brief telephone conversation. She probably assumed, wrongly, that since he was the man, he would handle her investigative matter better than any mere girl. I sighed inwardly, funny how some women were like that.

  Jake finally broke his contact with our new client and looked up.

  “Well,” he said, smiling, “finally. We were beginning to wonder about you.”

  He rose and indicated the woman sitting across from him. “Stella Valocchi, may I introduce you to Mia Lange?”

  Our new client stood and for the first time I got a good look at her. A few inches shorter than my five-eight, closely cropped straight black hair, black leather jacket, short skirt, black stockings, high heels. Dressed to impress, or rather, dressed to seduce. Deep, dark eyes, small, perfect mouth, but the pout said she was not a happy woman.

  I noticed something else about her, too. When she turned to me the light went out of her eyes, but when she looked at Jake she lit up like a Christmas tree. She was as phony as they came and I disliked her instantly.

  I extended my hand and smiled, figuring two could play this game. “I’m sorry we’re late. We got held up.”

  Her grip on my hand was like iron and she squeezed hard. I figured she wanted to see me wince, so I squeezed back. Was that the merest flicker of pain I saw cross her marble features? I smiled a little wider. Nina broke the moment.