For Your Eyes Only

by Sandra Antonelli

  Alicia put her stuff on a small table in the kitchen and pulled the drapes open. Orange light from outside flooded in and glinted off the colored glass of a Tiffany lamp in a corner of the living room and the tubular polished chrome of the sofa. The couch was Art Deco and the back dropped down to make a bed. They’d had sex for the first time on that sofa-bed. Alicia remembered the plum and tan geometric print and how Byron had smoked clove cigarettes when they’d finished. He’d kissed her after he’d smoked one of those spiced Turkish things, and he’d tasted sweet, like Christmas, but a few kisses more and the tip of her tongue had started to go numb.

  Not long after that the rest of her had gone numb too.

  It was too hot in the apartment, even hotter than the foyer. She pulled off her jacket and tossed it onto a curved, black-lacquered chair. Alicia flopped onto the couch as perspiration trickled down her neck. Sprawled on the sofa, she kicked off her shoes and listened to the hum of the building’s furnace. Opening a window seemed sensible, only the strange, low purr of the heating system lulled her into immobility. The dull rumble made her think of how it felt when she’d rested her cheek against her father’s chest and listened to the steady, even thump of his heart.

  After all she’d accomplished this day, it was back to this—the flat, blank nothingness. For a moment she tried to simply breathe and search for inner calm, but it was at times like this it became obvious she hadn’t inherited as much of her father as she liked to believe. Miles Cooke had been the most patient man in the universe. Being married to her mother was evidence of that. It was unfortunate she’d learned nothing from her father’s ability to deal with chaos. Her father had always talked about being thoughtful and methodical, to think about the future. Alicia knew—and hated the fact—she was her mother’s daughter, wanting quick and easy, here and now.

  Which was exactly the way dear Mom liked her scotch.

  Alicia was sticky and as numb as her tongue used to be after kissing Byron the clove cigarette smoker. She stripped off her top and mopped her sweaty face with it before flopping sideways across the couch in her bra. She peeled off her jeans and dropped them on the floor. Cheek pressed against the futon cushion, she listened again to the thrum of furnace that was so like the beat of her father’s heart.

  Her hands were filthy, black smeared, but she didn’t care. Alicia lifted her wrist and bit the flesh below her thumb. When that wasn’t enough to stir up any sensation, she dragged her fingernails along the inside of her left arm, scraping a jagged line of welts, pinpricks of blood rising to the surface.

  Satisfied, she closed her eyes and sighed.

  Agent Heston’s face was flushed. Barefoot, she smelled of wildflowers, the kind that used to grow along Route 33 between Nelsonville and Athens. The sight and scent of her drew Mitchell to summer evenings in Ohio, back when he was growing up. Decorum said he should keep his eyes firmly fixed on his colleague’s, but he couldn’t help himself. In an instant, his mind engaged in sense-memories of his teenage summertime, his professionalism snap-frozen by the ice-cold wind that blasted up the open stairwell behind him.

  He took her in, all of her, from the pink polish on her toes, the open neck of her robe, to the wispy, drying white hair she’d tucked behind her ears, ears that invited nibbling. She was a year or two younger than he was, but Mitchell would have sworn Willa was seventeen.

  “Did I forget something, Tom?”

  It took a second for it to register that Agent Heston was talking to him. Mitchell scratched the back of his neck and squeezed his eyelids shut for a second. Hell, he was acting more and more like Adams every day.

  Yes, Agent Heston was attractive. He’d noticed. He’d been noticing, and he’d probably go on noticing … and staring at her and sniffing her wildflower perfume, just like Adams had when she’d come into the operations office yesterday.

  God help him, but he was a man, and it was perfectly natural to perceive these things because she was a perfectly natural un-Botoxed, silicon-free woman who—if given the chance—he’d nail to a mattress, or carpet or kitchen counter top.

  “Tom, are you all right?”

  “Sorry,” he said, stepping into the apartment as he blinked a few times. “The wind’s blown shit in my eyes,” and you’ve blown my mind. “I know I should have called, but,” he waved the papers in his hand, “there’re some interesting things on Chandra the kid and I found. I thought you’d wan—”

  She took his elbow and turned him slightly to face the open kitchen. “Tom, this is my neighbor, Detective Tilbrook.”

  Mitchell watched a man about his height and weight close up a pizza box. “Hey,” the guy said.

  He handed the sheaf of papers to Willa—Agent Heston. Mitchell left his overcoat on, which obscured the shoulder harness and service weapon he wore beneath his suit jacket. Any detective worth his salt would be able to spot the outline of a handgun through a blazer. Mitchell approached the man, hand extended. “Thomas Mitchell.”

  “John,” the cop said as they shook hands. “Detective Tilbrook is my stage name.”

  The ‘Detective Tilbrook is my stage name’ sounded a little effete, but Mitchell got the distinct impression he’d intruded on something, and it raised his hackles—which was wrong on so many levels. Mitchell had always prided himself on his ability to be professional, and ogling Agent Heston—for a third time in as many days—was unethical and undisciplined.

  This idiocy had to stop. Now.

  Cognitively, he knew he was just having a reaction to a woman he found attractive. He’d been around plenty of women who got his motor running, and he’d be around plenty more. Just because he happened to find this particular woman appealing at the moment didn’t mean he had to act on any sort of impulse.

  Mitchell looked at his colleague again. If given the chance…

  Maybe this was his chance. Maybe chance was something you made yourself, not something you waited for. Maybe he had to… What the hell was he doing? This was bad. Thinking like this was called ‘fraternization’, and that sort of thing was frowned upon within the FBI, but Christ, he was a man and—

  “You a physics doc like she is?” the cop asked.

  “Look at items nine through fourteen,” Mitchell said. As she started reading, he turned his attention to the slightly taller man. “No. I’m a consultant for Department of Defense, John.”

  John nodded. “I’ve always wondered about consultants. It’s such a catch-all term that means everything and nothing.”

  Ignoring the snarky undertone of Tilbrook’s comment, Mitchell made himself at home, taking a glass from the cupboard to the right of the sink, filling it with water and dropping in ice—ice he’d made—from the freezer. He looked from the detective to Willa and back to the cop again. Neighbor my ass.

  A second later, he dragged out one of the stools at the kitchen counter bar and made himself comfortable.

  The cop collected mail and the DVDs on the countertop, setting it out of the way. “So, do you enjoy consulting at the Lab?” he said.

  Mitchell shrugged. “It keeps me busy.”

  A cell phone on the countertop jangled and hummed. Mitchell watched Willa snatch it up to check the screen. After a frown, she tossed the cell on top of a fat manila folder and returned to reading the Chandra documents. She even read pretty. Yeah, if given the chance…

  John had pegged the man as government law enforcement the second after noticing the well concealed weapon beneath his overcoat. The handgun didn’t concern John. He watched Thomas Mitchell’s eyes cut to Queenie for a third time. For some odd reason, and it could have been the fact his testosterone levels were at an ultra-high state, John’s brain—the part that functioned at that basic animal response stage, the part that millions of years ago would have had him sniff the air—reacted to something more incongruous.

  It was obvious the ‘consultant’ was having a similar reaction.

  Boy howdy, John wanted to laugh. Mitchell was good-looking in a dark, Robert Redford way
women swooned over. He was probably used to being the sun which an entire planet populated by females revolved. It was a real shame the well dressed Robert Redford-esque bastard had no idea that Queenie had said, not ten minutes ago, that she was interested in someone else, someone who lived in the townhouse across the street, someone who’d already kissed her and was going to kiss her again—as soon as this pitiable, handsome fool left.

  A split second after John recognized the smell of loser hanging heavy in the air, he realized he might be wrong. Queenie had been leaning against the counter, but her head rose from the papers she’d been reading. She pulled off a pair of tortoiseshell-framed reading glasses he hadn’t seen her put on and she smiled.

  She smiled at Mitchell.

  She smiled so broadly, she looked ready to leap into the guy’s arms and cover him with kisses.

  Which made John want to leap across the counter and rip out the man’s aorta.

  The reaction placed him in the middle of the territorial-possessive gladiator arena, but so what. He’d waited too long for a woman like Queenie to come along. A rival was not going to happen. This guy was not competition. This neat, overcoat-wearing, handgun packing, jerk-off was not getting there first. She’s mine, mine, mine rolled through his body.

  “Sorry about talking shop, John,” Queenie touched his arm. “This is important.”

  “I imagine it is,” John said, trying to come up with a way to arrest Mitchell because, annoyingly, ‘challenger for a woman’s affection’ wasn’t exactly legal probable cause.

  Willa had barely contained a squeal when she’d read the information Agent Mitchell had given her. A buoyant rush of adrenaline had added a kick to the thrill John had dialed up, and she was impressed with herself. Not only had she squelched a girly cry, she’d managed to not leap into the air and dance around when she’d read the information that was going to, for a while anyway, direct attention away from Dominic. “Can I keep this?” she asked the agent, voice steady.

  Agent Mitchell swished water in his mouth before he swallowed. “They’re your copies.”

  “Is there more?” she asked casually.

  “There’s a whole garage full of more Adams and I found yesterday, but I thought it best to check a few details before I told you.” Agent Mitchell said and crunched an ice cube.

  “This is very nice work.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Thank Jared for me, will you?”

  “He’ll like that you’re pleased. His tail will probably wag.”

  John had moved around to the other side of the counter. Willa watched him reach for one of the red Netflix envelopes. He glanced at ice-chewing Agent Mitchell and then looked at her, his eyes sparking like a downed power line.

  Never in her life had she thought electrocution would be a pleasant thing to experience, but she couldn’t wait to find out how it would be to touch the bare skin of a man who was an actual live wire. Sakes a’mighty, she would have sworn her hair was standing on end, strands poking out above her head like the crown of the Statue of Liberty simply because she stood a few feet away from him and all that power. Her skin sizzled and popped beneath her robe, and she felt the paper begin to crumple in her hands. Any second the documents would burst into flame. … Stop it. Stop it, Willa. Stop it.

  Dear God, as much as she wanted to, she had to refrain from getting naked with John until this mess was sorted. Dominic was her priority. Dominic had to come before she did … scratch that. Dominic’s safety had to … be ensured before her sex life was re-activated. Papers rustling loudly, she swallowed and dragged her focus onto Mitchell. “Did you and Jared just finish up the audit now, Tom?”

  “Yeah. You’re good to go,” Agent Mitchell said. “Hey, do you mind? It’s been a long day, and I’m starving. Can I bum a slice of pizza?”

  “Help yourself. Okay, John?”

  John shrugged. His eyes traveled from the hem of her robe, pausing at her breasts before settling on her mouth.

  Despite the stained lavender waffle-weave covering her, Willa felt instantly naked. A hot ripple vibrated up her spine. “Would you excuse me? I’m getting a little cold,” she said backing away from the two men, turning in the direction of the stairs, hurrying to the loft.

  John slid the pizza box across the counter. “Here,” he said, “why don’t you take it with you.”

  Mitchell snorted as he lifted the lid. “Cheers,” he said as he bit into a semi-warm slice.

  “I suppose you’d like another glass of water?”

  “That’d be great, John, thanks.” Mitchell shoved the glass forward. “So you’re a cop?”

  John refilled the glass with ice and water and set it back on the counter. This was the guy he’d seen with Queenie outside the records division at the station, where new Lab employees went for background checks and fingerprinting. “Yep, and you’re a not a DoD consultant. Consultants don’t carry concealed weapons like that Glock you’re wearing so well.”

  “You’ve got a good eye.”

  “Why didn’t you just say you’re a DoD Auditor?”

  Mitchell shrugged. “DoD agents work across a wide spectrum of programs to ensure compliance with the law. Nuclear enterprise at the Lab, old or new, is always a security issue. You tell people you’re an Auditor and they think it’s all about money. You say consultant and…” He bit into crust. “You really Willa’s neighbor?”

  “I live on the other side of the street.”

  “That’s … convenient.”

  “Yes, I guess it is.”

  “You known her long?”

  “Just a few days. You?”

  “We go back a few years.” Mitchell picked up another piece of pizza, folding it in half before he shoved it in his mouth.

  John nodded, crossing his arms. “The pizza cost me twelve ninety-five. You want to pay for half?”

  “Are you serious?” Mitchell asked, despite his mouth being full of pizza.

  “Nah,” John shrugged, “I’m just being a smartass to your clueless dickwad.”

  Mitchell’s dark eyebrows rose. “Excuse me. Dickwad?”

  “Look, I don’t care about the pizza, but you’re sort of crashing my date. And I don’t appreciate it.”

  “You’re on a date?”

  “Yeah.”

  Mitchell snorted again and leaned forward, squinting with one eye. “Date. Uh-huh. Are you sure you didn’t just drop by?”

  “What, you mean like you did?”

  “This is a professional courtesy. I had information I knew she’d need before her work could progress.”

  “Isn’t it a professional courtesy to call first?”

  The curved pizza crust Mitchell held in his fingers looked a lot like a gnawed-on bone. It gave a certain pre-historic quality to his expression, as did the rather Neanderthal gleam in his darkened eyes. “I’m supposed to believe you cal—”

  Dong ding.

  Upstairs, Willa jerked on a pair of grey yoga pants at the sound of the doorbell. She turned to look at the wind-up clock beside the bed. The round face read five-thirty-something. It had been past seven when John had arrived. Obviously she’d neglected to wind the clock after the alarm went off this morning. Swearing, she reached for the black, long-sleeved tee on the bed. Dollars to doughnuts it was Agent Adams, feeling left out of the fun. She hollered, dragging the tee over her head, “Can one of you boys get that?”

  Back downstairs, Agent Mitchell made it to the door before the cop had the chance to move from behind the breakfast bar. When he opened the door, a blast of wind slapped his face and a loud voice boxed his ears.

  “Two years of this goddamn thing, Willa!” Dominic stormed over the threshold, his mood as cold as the nighttime breeze that blew into the apartment in his wake. “And Lesley’s got a—” his mouth snapped shut when he realized who held the door open.

  “Hello,” Agent Mitchell said.

  “Aw, shit. Don’t you guys ever stop working?”

  “All hail the Mighty Colossus
!” John said, laughing. He hoisted himself onto the countertop that divided the kitchen from the open living area. “Lesley said Sean’s put you into one hell of a pissy mood. I guess you’re still stuck there, huh? Whoa, Mitchell, shut the door, you’re letting out all the heat!”

  “JT?” Dominic looked from his friend to the FBI Agent who’d visited his store earlier in the week. “Are you in… What th—”

  “Dominic!” Willa squealed. As soon as she reached the bottom of the stairs, just like she had the other night, she threw herself against him, wrapping her arms around his neck, dragging him down and digging her nails into his skin, whispering into his ear, “They know nothing. You’re here to invite me to dinner at your house Saturday. Now smile.”

  After he pounded on her back—as if he were attempting to dislodge a chicken bone stuck in her airway—Dominic did smile, and left his heavy, heavy arm draped across her shoulder. “Sorry to come unannounced. I would have called, but…”

  “Because you have nice manners and know to call first,” John muttered.

  “…something seems to be wrong with the cell number you gave me, Willa.”

  “Sorry about that,” she said. “Dominic, this is Agent Tom Mitchell. He’s an old friend of Miles and the DoD liaison for my special project.”

  “Uh-huh. Hi. Anyhow, I wanted to invite you to dinner. At my house. Saturday night.”

  John smiled and gave Mitchell a sidelong glance. “I think you mean my house, Dominic, unless you’ve fixed your broken stove.”

  “Yeah, right. Dead stove. Speaking of the dead, is that your beat-up VW parked in the carport downstairs, Willa?” Dominic yanked her closer to his side and squeezed her into a gentle headlock. “Willa-Willa-Willa,” he said, rubbing her skull with his knuckles. “Yeah. At your house then, JT. Let’s make it a big dinner party. You want to come… Mitchell, was it?”

  He’d come inside wearing a short-sleeved blue polo shirt and no coat. Willa bit into the fleshy part of Dominic’s arm. Hard. He let go and she stood up to push the hair out of her face. Scalp smarting, she looked at Agent Mitchell and cut her eyes to the door, indicating he should leave. He took the cue, rising off the barstool, heading for the only way out.