AT THE midtown gym, Marc grabbed the barbells, lay back on the incline bench and began to do free weight chest exercises.
His young trainer mumbled something about form and glazed over until he could be of more use to his morning client.
The man’s entire focus in life is his body and how many broads he’s laid and this morning I’ve managed to shut him up with my amazing ‘positive’ vibes.
Marc glumly raised the barbells from a wide horizontal, spreading his broad chest to a vertical lift, tightening his pectorals and repeated the circuit.
Over and over.
The tension in his body began to slowly ebb.
One good thing about exercising, which he used to hate with a passion, was the almost zen-like concentration it forced him to maintain.
I’m lucky.Lift, spread, lift, spread.I’m really lucky.
The first, about his genes: not having to devote himself to the kind of concentrated pain that forced muscles and tendons to grow in a pattern to which they weren’t predisposed. It was just a matter of doing the work and having his muscles respond.
The other extraordinary luck was meeting her.
Marc glanced at his trainer, leaning back against a metal contraption of weights and pulleys, casually chewing gum, his eyes blandly scanning Marc’s body, checking to see that the right fiber packs were contracting, the right bundles of tissue elongating. Simple life. He was proud that none of his “guys” had ever sustained a “major setback”.
Major setback.Last night was not a major setback. It was a new and profound way of finding his way into his “relationship” with Ace: giving “space” when needed, pressing forward, only when given the go-ahead.
He wasn’t used to waiting to be given the go-ahead. That wasn’t the way he usually worked his women.
What a loathsome statement, how could I be so heartless? “Work my women.” As though I’m some kind of macho lothario. Is this the first time in my life I’ve ever been in…
He sat up in a sweat.
“Gotta cramp? Ya got another set t’ go, y’know.” Chad shoved himself erect, blinking, like a dully grazing stud whose interest was suddenly caught by an interesting movement at the other end of the field.
Marc nodded numbly and lay back. He forced himself to think only of the effort he was expending on the lifting and lowering of the barbells. Something he could control.
Not her.
Amanda was not to be manipulated or controlled.
She had her own agenda.
And I damn well better be on it. Speaking of macho posturing… Okay, okay. I hope I’m on it. No, dammit, too wimpy. By God, I’m gonna be on it and she’s gonna want me to be on it. At the top of the list!
He finished the sets, took a breather to swig some mineral water and lowered himself prone on the bench again. Chad passed him a bar loaded with heavy circular weights for the chest presses. The trainer brightened. Now he was working. He had to watch his client closely, adjust his form, assist him with the bar, be prepared to grab the weight if he faltered. He was working. He nattered on.
Marc relaxed at the background of piped-in pop-rock and his trainer’s babble. The famous Fonda “burn” seared his chest and arms. Sculpting flesh, as Michelangelo had sculpted stone.
Getting a bit lofty, are we? Comparing ourselves to the big man himself, are we? She thought I looked great. She thinks I am great.
His eyes closed in measured self-satisfaction.
“Yeah, ya doin’ good, big guy. Keep up the good work.”
Chad didn’t permit his clients to day-dream. Keep ‘em focused. He shoved Marc into position for the squats with the gentleness of a stevedore unloading contraband. Marc’s thighs screamed. His legs were not as well-supplied with receptive genes as his upper torso. Or his groin.
The antiseptic, cleaned air of the gym being snuffed into his heaving lungs was replaced with her scent: rich, lush, a myriad of tantalizing bits of her daily being. He again felt her body responding to his urgent embrace in the hansom cab even through the confining layers of damp clothes.
Marc forced himself to not think of her kiss. His body responded too vehemently at the memory. His senses flared. His pulse galloped. The small hairs on his body rose.
I’d always wondered what it was like to swim in pure honey.
God, how long could a man take it!
As long as it takes, ‘big guy.’ We’re here for the long haul. She wants space. She’s got it. Tonight I’m gonna come up with such poses as “dreams are made of”. She’s gonna be knocked out! She’s gonna want to close that space so quick.
“Hey man, you’re really breaking your butt today. Big night tonight, huh?”
“The biggest, my young stud, the biggest.”
Chad beamed at the appellation and immediately launched into a blow by blow of his latest conquest.
Ah, but I am above such mundane matters as sex. I am ensconced on a higher plane. I am dealing in a realm of pure delight.
His lower senses chuckled. Right. The blood pumped lustily through his pulsing veins as he strained happily against the weights, as his head thought of her quickness, her sass, her forthrightness, her pride in herself, her need for him.
With a final heave, he hooked the bar onto the stanchion’s holders, stood and shook his muscles loose, dancing lightly on his toes, eyeing himself in the walls of mirror. He looked good. She deserved the best.
That’s what’s got you all shook up, huh? This is the first time it’s ALL been involved: your head, your heart, your…the rest of you. Wasn’t that a Boy Scout oath or something? I sure don’t feel like a Boy Scout.
His trainer pointed to the next toy machine he was to conquer.
Marc remembered his and Amanda’s goodnight kiss. They had returned to her apartment and chastely gone over what he wanted her to look out for at this evening’s posing session.
She had been annoyed.
“Why can’t you tell me exactly what’s going on? I know it’s a Michelangelo forger we’re looking for, but where did the information come from? Who’s the most likely? What an absolutely amazing thing to be involved in,” she interjected parenthetically. “And how do you know it’s someone from David’s class? I feel like I’m in high school trig where that annoying Mr. Danials kept saying ‘just do the math, you don’t have to know why.’”
“All in good time,” he had smirked.
She had swung at him and he’d instinctively grabbed her wrist.
There was a moment frozen in time, a split second where, from the look in her eye, the physical response in his loins, the shock deep in his heart, he could have vowed never to let her go, ever.
But he did. He had smiled jauntily, superior-male-I’m-bigger-than-you-are, gathered his coat and went to the door. “See,” he had said. “Space.” He had clasped his hands safely behind his back, leaned forward and puckered his lips.
He had been good. He deserved a goodnight kiss. He expected a peck. A truce. A quick salutary smack.
She had touched her mouth to his with infinite grace. An impress of the greatest goodness. Her lips had moved slightly, tasting his, measuring the width of his smile, the power of his pucker. She had kissed him nakedly. Wholly. Almost spiritually. They’d flowed into each other. He was frozen to the spot, drinking her in. Swimming in honey. He had felt hot behind his eyes.
And then she’d said goodnight and the door was closed and he was bereft not to be in her presence.
“Man, you gonna bust something if you’re not careful. Ease up. We want you to live to lift tomorrow.” Chad laughed appreciatively at his own ready wit.
Marc glowed. Long before tomorrow would come tonight. As Chad shook his head in bemused amusement at the odd behavior of his client, Marc twisted his body into a reproduction of The Dying Gaul.
He was ready…
Ready for the forger… ready for Ace.
Through the forest of machines of levers and weights, past floor-length mirrors, at the other end of the workout area, a large man nonchalantly exercised. His features deliberately concealed by a pulled down baseball cap, he kept close watch on the handsome, muscular man and his trainer.
His brow furrowed in puzzled concentration as, before the far mirror, Marc twisted his body into the tortured central figure in the Laocoön sculpture group. Suddenly, the rough, tensed face slacked in shocked recognition as an amazing revelation dawned.
His eyes narrowed and a satisfied snarl crept over his thin lips. He chuckled quietly to himself. His course of action had changed radically.
OH, DEAR. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all.Amanda’s worried eyes flicked quickly back and forth between a deadly looking Cissy and a grim-faced Christine.
Get to know what Christine thinks, Marc had said, referring to Antonio’s posing. Hopefully get past her initial reaction. That would mean meeting Christine away from their group, Amanda had surmised. Find out who Christine was, how she thought.
Her worldly classmate would also more than likely have a few well-chosen words of advice concerning “relationships.” And this morning Amanda had felt she could afford to listen to a little advice coming from a different perspective.
And then she had the bright idea that Cissy should be added to the mix. Maybe between the two Amanda could figure out if she was handling this thing with Marc right. Being very careful, of course, not to reveal his true identity.
She was feeling totally conflicted caught between wanting to build slowly to make sure her affinity with Marc was solid and built on a firm foundation. And at the same time wanting to leap into his arms and worry about the consequences later.
Lord, how long could a girl hold out?
So she had called them both for lunch and they all met at a lovely, little place on West 23rd.
“I’ve always felt theimportant thing was to find someone you could spend therest of your life with.” Cissy’s white-knuckled clinch around her wine glass belied her frozen smile. “Someone who could takecare of you, and keep you in the manner in which youshould be kept.”
“Bull, baby.” Christine was having none of it. “Love ‘em and leave ‘em, ‘cause that’s exactly what they’re going to do to your little, hot loins.”
“You sound like you’ve had someunfortunate experiences,” Cissy said, pity seasoning her voice. “And that’s anawful shame. But we mustn’t allow one or two bad apples to spoil the whole fruit basket.”
“One or two? Look at me, you little…you young one.” Christine swept her hand grandly from her hairdo down to her martini. “Do you get the feeling I’ve been there and done that? Several times over? If Amanda is so dense as to think she’s going to get the perfect ‘relationship’ out of this thing with…what’s his name Mr. Horn Rims…then it’s probably going to be as deadly as they come. He backed off when you told him to?” She turned an incredulous face toward Amanda. “No balls. I say jump in his pants, get what kicks you can and dump him for the first replacement that comes along.”
Amanda felt chilled. The air conditioning must be very high.
“Now if we were talking about the Naked Hunk we’re going to get the chance to slam our peepers on again tonight, youknow there’s no more there than meets the eye. But it’s great eye candy. You think because this Marc stud treats you like Little Miss Princess he’s gonna keep treating you that way when the wedding cake gets cold. Get real.”
Cissy’s tight features took on a look of true concern. “GoodLord, Christine, you sound like you’ve been treatedvery badly along the way. Maybe, if you were a little more subtle with your make-up?”
Amanda cleared her throat in shocked warning.
A moment’s hesitation and Christine laughed raucously.
“Cissy-belle, I gotta hand it to you. You’re either naive as cotton candy or you’ve got more guts than I give you credit for, to take on an old war horse like me. I know I’m painted like a fun-loving merry widow, but it keeps the uninitiated out of my life. I’m no teacher at this stage of the game.”
“But I thought you and Nathan…” Christine whirled on Amanda, stopping the words in her throat.
“I have… my weaknesses.” The look of pain startled both the other women as Christine downed the rest of her martini.
“You mean thattacky, self-centered, young…” Cissy’s harsh comment trailed off. Her face instantly softened into a look of motherly concern. “Oh,honey, youknow better.”
Christine woefully nodded. “Yeah, I know.”
“Oh Lord, he would make your lifemiserable.”
Christine again nodded dejectedly. “Has made. But he’s such a great talent and he’s throwing it away.” She looked angrily at Amanda. “On those god-awfulthings you publish. It’s okay for old Angeli to blow what talent he’s got left, but Nathan… You should see the stuff he’s got on his walls.”
At Amanda and Cissy’s surprised reactions, her false lashes dipped and her chin lifted proudly. “Yeah. I’ve been in his bedroom. Yeah. We did it. Yeah, I’m carrying a damned torch ‘cause we’ll probably never do it again.” Her eyes brimmed. “He was… so gentle. I felt fifteen. As if I remembered fifteen.”
The tears overflowed. Cissy was instantly at her side, her arms enfolding the shuddering shoulders with protective youthful assurance, a tissue at Christine’s eyes, cooing soothing counsels of understanding.
Amanda watched, amazed at the revelations.
Christine sighed deeply, dabbed at her face and gave Cissy a thankful pat.
“At least I’ve got that night to remember. I had this goddamned foolish thing about being his… muse. You should see his stuff, Amanda. I swear it’s as good as the drawings I’ve seen hanging in the Met. Like old masters. I went home and did some of the best sketches I’ve ever done, I was so absolutely inspired.” She gave a self-deprecating guffaw. “Yeah, right. By his art. You know anything about art, Cis?”
“Well, I…”
“To have gone to bed with a kid that can put pen to paper like that. I guess I can die happy. But I ain’t happy…” The tears started again. Cissy was again at her side, spreading soothing understanding and commiseration.
Amanda sat stunned.
Nathan.
…And maybe Christine.
The life class at the Art Students League was starting to get tense.
DAVID Parkerson entered jauntily, a few minutes late, surprised that young “Antonio” hadn’t already shown up to pose for the session. He assumed the young model would be along shortly and proceeded to extol to the class his extraordinary good fortune in being chosen to assist in the new Metropolitan exhibit.
He had a particular expertise in the field of art the exhibition covered, he noted modestly without going into further detail and knew the class would find the it most interesting when it opened.
“We would like to find this class most interesting,” Christine noted tartly. “Where is our handsome hunk?”
Amanda felt a wave of apprehension. Where was Marc? She knew how he was looking forward to this evening’s session. Maybe stuck in the subway. Surely not in a cab accident.
She forced herself to remain calm.
“You haven’t perhaps set us up for a let-down have you?” Professor Angeli was being unusually tart. “Young Antonio is not to appear tonight and you are making a feeble attempt to assuage the situation.”
Mr. Wilde pulled himself up to his full imposing height. “I say, that would be unthinkable, Parkerson.”
“Mention using those damned plaster casts again and I’m outta here.” Nathan seemed the most sullen of all.
Amanda had the sinking feeling he was on something again. He had arrived hyped and excited and had grown increasingly short-tempered as it seemed more and more likely that Antonio might not show.
Their teacher’s patience was growing thin. “You’re here to sketch, to learn life drawing. It’s presumptuous of you to be demanding. It’s I who am demanding of you to do your best work with or without a model.”
“That’s outrageous,” Professor Angeli seethed. “How dare you speak to professionals in that tone of voice. We’ve put up with your superior attitude in no small measure. And the foolish examples of humanity you’ve given us to work from…”
“Let’s hear it for paunchy Maurice.” Nathan flung a drawing pad into the air. “And the overabundant Pauline!”
Mr. Wilde clattered his watercolor brush on his easel as the rest of the class joined in the bedlam.
David Parkerson waded into the center of his rebellious students, smartly slapping his hand against easels and rapping drawing pads for attention. “I am your instructor! You will not question my motives and my expertise.”
He spun on Nathan. “If you are so feeble as to not be able to draw without proper inspiration, then go to the posing area and we’ll draw you!” He shoved the compact young man roughly in the direction of the platform.
Amanda gasped. The entire scene had become surreal. She couldn’t believe serious artists were allowing themselves to become drawn into the mob mentality.
“You gave us a great model and you’ve taken him away”, someone in the class called out.
“We have every right to be angry,” another voice added.
Nathan whirled and shoved the large teacher back. “Keep your untalented hands off me, buddy. The Met may think you’re hot stuff but we’re the ones who do the work here.”
“Stop that!”
“Slug him, Nathan!”
“Serves the stuck-up bastard right…!”
A cacophony of violent voices rose in harsh agitation.
Christine waded in. “Don’t you touch Nathan!” She swung at Parkerson who backed into an easel, sending the flimsy wooden contraption clattering to the floor followed by drawing papers, pencils and crayons.
Chaos broke out. Pushing, shoving, shouting. Frustration burst forth, unleashed from all sides. Above it all Mr. Wilde bellowed for civility and calm.
Amanda hovered against a back wall with several other students, shocked and frozen into inaction.
Marc! Dear God, Marc, where are you?
THE PRIVATE investigator’s head swam. He couldn’t believe he had been so lax as to allow himself to be mugged in his own apartment.Man, this being in love stuff can get a guy killed.
Being in love?Yeah, he had to admit to himself, he was bonkers for the babe.Okay, let’s see if I can salvage any of this battered body with which to tempt my lady love.
He shook his head hard to snap away the excruciating pain. He could still see and focus, though it was a little fuzzy, so there appeared to be no major neural damage. He reached to feel if blood flowed and felt his hand sharply grabbed, pulled back, and roughly held against his other.
A large menacing shape loomed behind him, wrapping his wrists in tape. Marc slowly revolved his head to see his tormentor, incrementally realizing the rest of his body was also constrained. His ankles were taped to the legs of one of the dining chairs.
“Okay, pretty boy, where’s the other bozo? The Italian job. You’re teaching him that art stuff, right? Damn, how many of you are involved in this mess? I want some answers and I want ‘em fast. Where are the new drawings? Answer me!” A large ski-masked shape heaved itself into his field of vision.
There was a crack and Marc’s slapped face snapped around. Good. Woke him up, sharpened his senses and got his adrenaline boiling. David’s apartment… right. He had let himself in, humming happily, pretty good spirits, thoughts of Ace dancing through his bed- head!
Then everything went the proverbial black, preceded by the not-so-proverbial splitting pain in his head that remained with him still.
It was the big guy they had caught rifling Amanda’s apartment, Cissy’s unexpected guest. His head now covered with a ski-mask and he was making an effort to disguise his voice, but Marc would know his violent presence anywhere.
Another sharp slap stung the side of Marc’s head. The private investigator’s senses sharpened to a razor’s edge even as his body contracted in a counterfeit cringe from the onslaught.
“Answer me, fruit! What the hell is going on with the Italian guy and you? Parkerson set you up? You know where the new drawings are, don’t you? Damn creepy Angeli, doesn’t know shit! Talk to me!”
The man grabbed a nearby large bookend and drew his thick arm back. Marc ducked his head and flung himself forward, butting into the large barrel chest.
With a searing tear at his wrists, one arm swung free.
What an idiot. Binding me with low-tack masking tape from David’s drawing supplies.
With a bellow, the struck body fell backwards, clattering into an end table as Marc toppled to the floor. A dislodged lamp smashed near his head.
Pivoting himself on his free arm, Marc used his body as a fulcrum and swung the chair still attached to his lower body against his attacker, who was scrambling to right himself. The furious man threw himself at the retaliating private eye as Marc’s other hand came free. Bracing himself on the floor, Marc cocked his legs back and shot them forward driving the attached chair into his attacker’s chest like a desperate lion tamer.
The dining room chair splintered in stabbing shards against the barrel chest, one leg catching the howling man over an eye. He screamed in agony, clutching at his head as Marc hunched his body and jack-knifed himself upright and staggered for the door, pieces of the attached chair clattering after him.
“I’ll kill you, by God!” Marc heard the furious roar behind him as his mind raced to place the accent his assailant had ceased to attempt to suppress. Irish? Cockney?
Marc tried to wrench the door open. Maybe the man had snatched the mask off his wounded head. Marc glanced back to make a positive identification.
His assailant was indeed bareheaded, but with the tangle of dislodged dark hair, a beefy hand clutching at a slash of red, and the infuriated distortion of his features as he shrieked at his retreating victim, Marc caught nothing but a general impression of the large man flailing among the clattering utensils on the kitchen island.
He did somewhat resemble the elegant, large Mr. Wilde in the life class. That put that bit of misinformation to rest.
The life class…What must be happening there?
How much time had passed since he had been knocked out? Amanda must be worried sick. As he clawed at the bolts of the door, out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of one of David’s prize copper-bottomed frying pans sailing toward his head.
Amanda isn’t the only one who’s gonna be worried sick.
A flash of incandescence and he dropped like a stone.