MARC WAS angry.
And Amanda couldn’t really blame him.
He was angry she had tried the foolish impersonation stunt alone, angry she had wandered around the streets after encountering the big guy, and angry she had come up with such a loony idea as the posing session without consulting him.
Except, they both agreed, her plan for the private session was exactly what needed to happen. They could get the four suspects together and put on the pressure to find out which one was the bad guy, before the yet undiscovered bad guy decided to do somebody in.
Amanda looked around at the crowd of people in Washington Square, hurrying from one place to another. NYU students, all ages, backpack laden, business men and women rushing to take off for the weekend, the unkempt homeless and groups of people just hanging out.
Marc was expounding earnestly-had been for many minutes, Amanda noted distractedly-occasionally shoving his horn rims back up his nose.
His contacts must be bothering him.
There seemed to be nothing left of the lamplight-dappled moments she and “Antonio” had spent strolling the same walks a few evenings ago. That Antonio was gone.
That Amanda was gone, too.
Amanda chewed on her lower lip. Which wasn’t doing her subtle Makeover-by-Cissy look much good.
“Marc, I’m not listening to you.” She stopped him mid-reprimand. She plopped down on a nearby park bench, dislodging a sprawling street person, whose first reaction was to protest but at the cross look from Amanda decided he might get the worse of the confrontation.
Marc looked as startled at her action as did the mumbling pile of rags that shuffled off into the crowd. Amanda turned the same determined look on her slack-jawed companion.
“I have listened to you rant ever since you got here. Thank you for your concern, but I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself in this city. I told you I saw that large, ugly man leave Pinks. Both Mr. Wilde and I kept an eye out. He was gone.” She waved her hand, dismissing the danger.
“I called and you had left no message on your machine about how to get in touch in case of an emergency. I put Mr. Wilde in a cab; there were people everywhere. The park was only a few blocks away. It made perfectly good sense to me to leave SoHo and come here to try and phone you again. There was no reason for you to get hysterical.” She crossed her hands brusquely and snapped her head away. The slouch hat slid over one eye.
She could feel Marc stiffen, hovering above her, and she could almost feel the added heat from his reddening cheeks. He didn’t like being crossed either.
“I was concerned about you.” The words could barely force themselves through his clenched teeth. “And guys do not get hysterical.” He sat down next to her. She turned her head farther away. The slouch hat slouched over both eyes.
“Damn!” Amanda grabbed the limp felt and punched it into her lap, reeling in the flowing lime silk. She whirled her body to face her tormentor full face.
His tense jaw relaxed and the deep rust of fury faded from his cheeks. His gray-blue eyes softened. Her chin trembled.
“This is not going to work out.” She stiffened her back and tried not to concentrate on the way his glasses subtly enhanced the large, evening-sky blue irises. How could she not trust him with her life? His look was so direct, so honest.
“Yeah. I know.”
So maddening! How could he know what she was referring to? It could be the case she meant. How could he assume she was talking about what they both knew they were both thinking about.
He put his arm around her and gently pulled her close. His other large hand rested lightly on her small tight fists twisting Cissy’s delicate silk into an unredeemable knot in her lap.
“Ace, somebody may be lying dead somewhere in London, whose identity this guy has taken. I just don’t want anything…”
“And they may not, too, be lying dead… anybody… anywhere. You said the man at the insurance firm wasn’t certain. There’s no body, right? You always think the worst.” She would not be mollified by his strength, his concern, his willingness to be badgered the way he had badgered her.
“And you always think the best. You must have had a great childhood.” He was being grumpy and self-pitying and it shocked Amanda to realize how wrong he was.
She had always considered it a lousy childhood. No Mom. Almost non-existent Dad. Annoying little brothers. The teen-age years had been hell. And yet. Somehow she had turned out okay. It wasn’t Mom’s fault she died. Dad did the best he knew how. Now that he had gotten his brood through the worst part and they were becoming self-sufficient, he was even beginning to loosen up a bit.
Her brothers had stuck to the straight and narrow. With Amanda doing some psychological cattle-prodding to see to it that they did. They had turned out fine, had met some fine Pittsburgh girls, and were ready to settle down to being solid citizens. Bed-rock of the country. She was proud of them.
“What if I just not let you out of my sight until this case is closed?” Marc was being serious.
“Marc…”
His face shifted to chagrin. “Yeah, yeah, I know, Ace. You’re a big girl. What you did today was dumb but very helpful. More pieces to the puzzle. Nothing fits yet, but we’re getting more choices.” He leaned back, appraising her from tousled top to scuffed toe.
“And Cissy did a knock-out job, I can imagine.” He grinned as Amanda frowned, clutching at her barely together hair-do and tugged at her short skirt realizing there was no possible way to cover the shredded hose.
She slapped the exhausted slouch hat on her head, the twisted fabric dangling, and pulled the felt sides down, turning it into a disheveled bonnet. She made a face not unlike the annoyed, dislocated street person and then, changing attitude, raised her eyebrows haughtily and slumped languidly.
“Eet has been a deeficult dayee. But at the time, I was most effectif. He ees guarding my treasure weeth his life.” Her eyes flashed with Garbo-esque passion.
Marc guffawed. “Dad-gummit, m’am, I’m downright impressed.”
“Marc, you should see the drawing. It looks exactly like one of the Ingres in the Met. So beautiful. I can’t believe someone I know might have done it.” For some odd reason, considering the diatribe she had just had with herself about truth and honesty between them, she decided not to reveal who she thought the drawing might have been made by. No reason to get Mr. Wilde into more trouble yet.
Marc looked thoughtful. “Maybe I will get to see it.”
Amanda heaved a sigh. Down came the crumpled hat, in reeled the twisted silk to be formed into another knot. She stared at her handiwork. “Marc, we gotta talk.”
“Yeah.” His strong fingers helped her unwind the abused scarf. Slowly, he ironed the wrinkled fabric over her thigh, his palm sliding down to guide his fingers onto the trail of laddered nylon that spilled over her knee and down her calf. “We could talk at your place or mine.” His voice was pure lust.
And she lusted as much as he.
Why fight it? We both know it can’t go anywhere. He just as much said so, too. I don’t know anything about a P.I.’s life. He’s just staying with his brother temporarily. I don’t even know where he’s from.
“Where are you from?”
It took only a moment to wrench himself onto her track. He was maddening, accepting her erraticness, her splintered trains of thought, as though they were the most natural thing in the world.
“The Island… Long Island. Upper middle class strivers. NYU.” He glanced around at the perimeter of the park. “A bummer. David went off to Europe on scholarships. I took off for the wide open spaces. Montana. Arizona. And when I got tired of the coyotes, headed for the bright lights of Vegas. That’s where I decided to try the private eye biz. I blame it all on Robert Urich, those half-naked show girls and that sports car. Reruns.”
He began to drift deeper within himself with the memories. She had to strain to hear.
“Settled in SoCal. David had tanked by then. I became a surfing dude when I wasn’t sneaking snaps of two-timing husbands. Bor-ring. So I started specializing in art investigations. Thought the clientele would at least be classier. Mr. Big Guy Heavy Hitter has proven me wrong.”
He had been around more than she had suspected. “So… so you’ve had quite a few relationships.”
“Yep. I’ve always been a very approachable guy, even before I started heaving iron and dropping my drawers. Very personable. Very charming. A real schmoozer.” He said it flatly, objectively, as he watched a couple of pigeons hustle in and out of hurrying feet to grab beaks full of something. “Enough to know the good from the bad.” He shifted his gaze to her. “This is one of the good relationships, Ace.”
One of many. One of the good ones… but one of many.
“And you?”
Somehow Amanda felt on safer ground now. Or at least on ground that she knew how to navigate. Get away from the mushy stuff.
It ain’t fairy tale time, no more, no more.
Handle the situation. More her speed. He wasn’t pushing…or pulling. He was just taking it as it came. And he seemed grateful it… they… were “one of the good ones”.
Amanda felt infinitely sad.Life, Ace. Be grateful.
“Let’s go to your place… David’s place. We’ll make dinner and I’ll tell you the story of my life.”
He brightened and smiled wickedly, though the wickedness seemed tinged with a trace of sadness, too.
“You know I’ll put the make on you real heavy. They’re springing David tomorrow. After that, it’s tacky motels. A P.I.’s salary is not a consistent one.”
Amanda slapped the misshapen Garbo slouch on what was left of her French twist and looked at her watch. “Then let’s get to it, hot shot. What do you know about tossing a salad?”
His eyes shone. She could tell his pulse was up. “You sure you want to do this, Ace?”
Oh, swell, he would have to ask.
“Do what? We’re making dinner. We’ve gotta eat. One day- one hour at a time, right? We know what today brought. We’ll see what tonight brings.” She couldn’t have been more coolly objective if she were dealing with Untermeyer and his bunch of money-grubbing venture buddies.
They decided to walk. Cabs and the subway were impossible at rush hour. It would give them a chance to discuss the modeling session on Sunday. Marc agreed it was a great idea.
“Damn, lady, I should be inviting you into the firm. Why didn’t I think of that? We go through all this hassle and then don’t focus on the prime targets. Not a smart plan.”
He remembered he had told David that he had invited her into the investigation, but she had outrun him.
“It was a smart enough plan for a couple of lunkhead males,” Amanda said. “What you needed was some cold, corporate dame figuring the angles. I’ll do what I can to help you mere men keep this show on the road.”
“So long as you don’t go off on your own again. Talk about not-smart plans.”
Before she could retaliate and they would be at it again in the middle of Sixth Avenue, Marc stuck up both index fingers. “Okay, what do we know so far?”
“We know the bad guy knows about Pinks. We don’t think there’s a connection, though, unless Dracula was going for a Tony with his act of outrage in front of Mr. Wilde. We also know the sharp-toothed one expects another drawing to show up within the next few days.”
“Which means things might be coming to a head. Too much activity is making our man or woman nervous. And, I’m sorry to say, it doesn’t look good for your beloved old mentor, Professor Angeli.”
“I know. He does seem to be in the thick of things. Alerting his buddies to clear their work out of Pinks because he thinks the heat is going to be put on. Jimmy said he was a nervous wreck at work today. Nathan was smooth as silk. Obviously, his backside is covered. I’ll find out what’s going on in Christine’s head tomorrow.”
“You’re seeing her tomorrow?”
“The wicked three are gathering.” Amanda almost wondered why. At this point, there didn’t seem to be a lot of discussion or deciding to be done. She and Marc had already taken care of that: enjoy each other and then farewell and goodbye.
Oh well, maybe she could regale Cissy and Christine with how she had battled against his advances and then listen to them berate her. That should be good for a couple of laughs.
“Christine is that readable?”
“She trusts me. First mistake.” Amanda felt like a traitor. Gaining her friend’s confidence and then using it to spy on her.
But Amanda also felt pretty certain Christine was not the forger. And she knew that Marc and David agreed. At this point, the best thing to do would be to get this case solved as quickly as possible in order to get her friend out of harm’s way.
They were at the apartment. The super had repaired the door and the locksmith had put in new locks.
Her objectivity crumbled almost the instant the repaired door to David’s apartment swung shut behind them. Amanda stood in the middle of the living room trying to think about what they might throw together for dinner, when Marc came up behind her, smoothed the stray strands loosened from her upswept hair out of the way with his warm palm and kissed the nape of her neck. And she dissolved into a little puddle.
His fingers curled around the once-sleek twist and began to pull it apart, deftly sliding out the hairpins that held it together. Amanda’s lids drifted closed as his fingers pulled the arrangement loose and combed through the released tumble of golden auburn locks, pausing to lightly scratch her scalp.
Little tributaries of excited nerve endings raced down her spine and into her toes. She kicked off the Ferragamos and pulled off her earrings, reaching to drop them on the nearby counter. Marc’s lips caressed her neck and he nibbled on her ear lobes as he pulled her back against his body.
His chest was solid and firm against her aching back. She wasn’t used to heels that high, or bare feet slamming against cracked pavement, or the energy expended in pretending to be European money. It certainly had been an exciting, though exhausting, day. And it was turning even more exciting by the second.
Relax and enjoy.
Her mind raced. Should she? She shut it down.
Marc was anything but relaxed. She snickered naughtily, feeling the extent of his excitement pressing against her.
He mumbled into her ear as his hands slid around to cup her breasts, “One thing about guys, they can’t keep a secret.”
“That would be a pretty big secret to try and keep.”
He chuckled into the side of her face, the heat from his breath raising tiny goosebumps which cascaded down her neck and skittered down her arms.
The pressure of his hands against the firmness of her breasts was urgent and filled with repressed longing. He knew their shape and texture, he had explored their landscape with his mouth and his hands and his stubbled cheeks. Now he rediscovered them, taking gentle but firm measure, probing their softness and bulk with the pressure of his fingers, receiving their weight into the enveloping cup of his hands.
Amanda’s chest swelled with the luxury of his touch. She pressed into his embrace. He was such a strong, gentle lover. Her heart burst with pride at having found him.
Even for a short while.
He seemed lost in filling his palms with the imprint of her breasts, as if to etch their carriage and weight into the memory of his life lines.
Amanda longed to feel his hands on her bare skin. Her shallow breath came quickly, urging him on. The delicacy with which he peeled the layers of clothing from her body seemed to float her off the floor, lightening her, rising her into the air as each piece fell from her.
He unbuttoned the fitted jacket, slipped the fabric belt from its moorings, and eased the garment from her shoulders. His hands moved down her bare arms, raising another legion of goose flesh. She could feel the delicate hairs all over her body rise to trembling attention.
She leaned back against his powerful body, molding herself to its jutting outlines. Marc unbuttoned the myriad buttons on the pale silk blouse, almost the color of her tawny skin, deliciously building her expectation with each released clouded mother-of-pearl oval, until her chest rose and fell in heavy anticipation at its ultimate uncovering.
He explored the barely confining lace of her bra, fingers outlining the delicate tracery, slipping seductively under a wired edge, an elastic band, to probe the confined interior. He tantalized her with his wanderings, his claimings, circling the outline of her breasts over and over again until, when he abandoned them momentarily to trace the circling elastic straps and release the hooks, Amanda was beside herself with anticipation.
She plucked the delicate confining cups from her body and stretched luxuriously back against his clothed frame, opening herself to receive his touch. When he spread his fingers and captured her naked skin in his grasp, the breath caught in her throat.
And so it was with the rest of her body. It seemed to be time immemorial that he took in discovering her anew, baring her to sun and sea and sky. His touch was like ice, like fire. When he pressed his lips to her bare buttocks she flushed with an inner release that froze her to the spot.
Somehow Marc became naked, too. The charcoal gray suit pooled roughly at his feet to mingle with her discarded silk, delicate nylon, and the laddered hose. His white cotton briefs came off, his executive length black hose; his berry-brown sculpted muscularity bloomed powerful and rampant, prepared to encompass her own.
Amanda did her own exploring, dropping to shape his jutting calves with her lips, ironing the hard-packed elongated thighs with her cheeks, sculpting the powerful bulges and lean indentations of his rib cage and heaving chest with her pressing, discovering hands.
She couldn’t believe she had made love to this man before; he was an entirely new, blazing being. Confined, contained, frozen to the spot, animalistic, territorial, throbbing as she with barely repressed expectation as if afraid the act of tearing themselves from the circle they had established would destroy the moment.
He produced the ring of protective plastic and she unrolled it on him, fascinated by the rich-colored, throbbing veins, the muscular, engorged flesh that it muted inside its whisper-thin sheath.
Marc plunged into her, lifting her from the floor. She clung to his neck, tenaciously, the steady throbbing of the straining cords beneath her clutching arms. Her breasts flattened and danced over the slabs of his chest, her nipples brushing his as their bodies engaged and released and re-engaged seeking more and more complete union.
She clung, her arms bolted to his lurching frame, her head interlocked with his, her gasping breaths a counterpart to his urgent deep-throated exertion. He had lifted her, her buttocks molded in his powerful grip. Her legs wrapped his lower body, binding them together. Inside, she stroked and clung and urged him deeper and deeper into her very center.
She exploded multiple times. She overflowed and refilled and emptied and plumed until she felt she had cocooned their clutching, upright forms with her blossoming, binding aura.
New. Brand new. Each stroke. Each breath. Each impaling thrust. Each butterfly brush of his lips. They seemed welded. Two melted into one from the heat of their passion. The flames mounting higher and higher.
He erupted in joyous, breathless gasps and staggering lurches of his spasming muscles, rocketing deep into her center, filling her to overflowing with his passion and complete possession.
Sighs of completion rumbled up from deep inside Amanda, low sounds of completion that bubbled over in satisfied, rippling chuckles. She nipped his nose, tugged on his ear lobes, blew on his clenched eyelids as her fingers dug into his hair and her legs tightened around his trunk. He swayed slightly and the power that rippled through his body as he adjusted his stance sent another thrilling cascade through Amanda.
He pried his eyes open, the dark and shadowed pools into which she indulgently plunged, diving and stroking, swimming luxuriously through the liquid of his heavy-lidded gaze.
“Was it good for you, too?” he smirked.
She pounded his buttocks with her heels and they tumbled laughing onto the floor.
How could she ever let this man go?