Bedroom Eyes Page 2

  They’d played house during their senior year in college and for three years after. When he wanted to enroll in the Police Academy, she suggested he owed it to his parents to join the family business. His parents stood behind his decision completely, and Kathy’s desire for the path of safety and security rankled Tony.

  So he’d thrown himself into being a policeman. His wife had pursued her MBA. Then they’d divorced, as quietly and uneventfully as they’d begun.

  At least they hadn’t had children.

  If any man had been meant to be a cop, it was Tony Olano. Kathy hadn’t understood that, but then, neither had the stuffed shirts in the department who wanted him to follow procedure and quit taking so many risks, even though his style, as his superiors called it, had earned him three commendations in as many years. But no guts, no glory, Tony had reasoned.

  This attitude got him branded a troublemaker, a reputation that worked against him when he’d been caught accepting an envelope stuffed with hundred-dollar bills from a strip joint operator.

  No one stood beside him. No one stopped to question his guilt or innocence, reactions that played straight into the hands of the forces that had engineered the frame-up.

  Hinson now had his arm around the woman, speaking to her with an earnest look that made Tony gag. He whistled through his teeth, imagining what sweet nothings he’d pick up on the playback of the recorder. Better to think about that than the holding pattern of his own life.

  Still with an arm around her shoulders, Hinson guided the woman back inside. Tony captured the shot and put away the microphone.

  He’d done the job his client had asked him to do. Time to stop for a beer, go home and try to sleep.

  As he stowed his equipment and pulled the car away from the curb, the image of the woman’s hair spilling over her shoulders echoed in his mind. He might be finished with the assignment, but he didn’t feel ready to let go.

  He told himself, as he stopped by Parasols in the Irish Channel, that his interest in Hinson’s latest was purely professional. When a sleaze-ball like David Hinson spent time with a woman who looked like a schoolmarm, something had to be up.

  Tony didn’t spot anyone he knew in the bar, so he sat alone, sipping his Budweiser, idly peeling the label free with one thumb and wondering if Hinson too had detected a hint of fire in the woman’s deep blue eyes, a hint that promised some lucky man more pleasure than he’d ever known.

  Tony shook his head, wondering at his flight of fancy. The woman would no doubt turn out to be your typical suspect, a lawyer tired of the daily grind who’d decided it was easier to chase after Hinson’s money and set up housekeeping in his fancy place in the Garden District. Well, if this prim one was after marriage with a guy like Hinson, she’d soon discover she’d be trading her soul for any diamond that man slipped on her finger.

  He smoothed the label onto the surface of the bar. Rather than the red, white, and blue of the label, he saw only the deep blue of the woman’s eyes.

  Fingering one of the quarters lying on the bar with the rest of his change, Tony knew he was once again about to break the rules. He had no business dabbling with one of Hinson’s women. Any day now, the undercover operation could gel and Tony would find himself on the inside of Hinson’s unsavory operations.

  Still rolling the quarter in his hand, Tony made a deal with himself. Heads, he’d find out for himself what lay beneath her silky surface; tails, he’d leave her alone.

  He spun the coin in the air and slapped it down on the beer label.

  George Washington winked at him.

  Tony grinned and pushed away the beer he’d barely touched.

  Time to go home and get ready for tomorrow.

  Chapter 2

  The crowd of shoppers in Pottery DeLite had thinned during the time Penelope had been mulling over the choice of placemats and napkins offered by the gourmet cookware store. In her left hand she held the dark blue jacquard weave, in her right a more festive plaid.

  Dinner once a week with David Hinson for the past six weeks had been at his invitation each time; that she herself prepare a meal this Saturday had been her suggestion, an idea sparked by the dinner he’d hosted at his home earlier that week. David was an articulate, bright attorney who spoke her language, and the only person she’d seen socially since moving to New Orleans earlier that year.

  Besides, Penelope loved to cook. If her mother hadn’t railroaded her into law school, she might at this very moment be presiding over the kitchen of a top restaurant.

  She fingered the jacquard weave and smiled as she thought of the irascible chef who’d sneaked lessons to her behind her mother’s back. Henry—or Henri, as he styled himself—ruled the kitchen of the restaurant where Penelope’s mother Margery worked as a waitress, then later as a hostess when her legs swelled and the arthritis in her hands betrayed her.

  Over my dead body, her mother had exclaimed, when Penelope had asked to study with Henri. So obedient straight-A student Penelope had sneaked her lessons throughout her high school years.

  Yet she’d gone to college, then law school, and on to NYU for a master’s in taxation, exactly as her mother had planned. Now her mother was dead and Penelope should have been free.

  But freedom, she had been discovering, was an elusive state. With her mother no longer there to shriek in horror, Penelope could have walked out on her life as a lawyer, but a funny thing had happened along the way.

  She’d become very good at what she did.

  At least she’d had the courage to trade in her childhood home of Chicago for New Orleans. And she’d resurrected her long-ago-envisioned cookbook idea, a project she kept secret from her legal colleagues. No doubt she’d have to publish it under another name.

  As she stared at the rich blue cloth, the design wavered and she saw instead the image of an elegant room filled with the movers and shakers of the culinary world. After entering the ballroom, she made her way slowly to the tables reserved for nominees, graciously acknowledging the smiles and waves of well-wishers and hoping against hope she’d finish the night a winner.

  When the time came for the master of ceremonies to announce the Best New Chef of the Year, she waited, one hand clasped against the plunging neckline of her slinky black evening gown. And then she heard the magic words—her name!

  She accepted the platinum knife and fork statuette, smiling at the adoring crowd. She thanked Henri; she even thanked her mother. Then she paused. Surely there was someone else to name, someone who’d helped her achieve the pinnacle of her dreams?

  Well, hush puppies and hash browns, as long as her imagination was running free, she might as well finish the picture to her complete satisfaction.

  She swept her hand to her side. She pictured the sexy stranger from the elevator almost a week ago.

  His image danced in her mind. Mysterious, strong, and, strangely enough, also gentle. She inclined her head toward the invisible microphone. The curtains behind her on the stage parted. “For making me what I am today, I’d like to thank. . .”

  He moved toward her, as light on his feet as any meringue she’d ever concocted. This time he looked only at her, consuming her with the adoration and admiration shining in his dark eyes.

  “. . . the man with the bedroom eyes.”

  She drew him toward her and the audience went wild. Together, a beautiful and glamorous couple, they swept from the stage. Their limo awaited.

  “Looks like you dropped this.”

  Penelope jerked back to reality. Bunnies and bumpkins! She’d done it again, totally lost touch with her surroundings.

  She blinked and cleared the heady dreams from her mind. She glanced at the jacquard weave placemat extended toward her, allowing her gaze to travel up a masculine forearm, covered with a generous dusting of black hair. As she registered the familiar voice, the pulse in her throat raced.

  Without continuing her visual journey, Penelope tried to snatch the placemat from the man’s hands.

  It di
dn’t budge.

  “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  Penelope, with great reluctance, lifted her eyes to the stranger’s.

  He stood there staring at her.

  He looked good, more than good, even better than the first time she’d seen him. That day he’d been dressed in the conventional downtown uniform. Today he wore a T-shirt that showed his broad chest to advantage. The white cotton contrasted beautifully with arms tanned a golden bronze. Khaki shorts revealed the kind of well-defined thighs Penelope had known only in her fantasies. Fighting a blush, she said, rather crossly, “You don’t know me from Adam.”

  One brow quirked wickedly. He raked his dark eyes over her and shook his head slowly. “Oh, there’s no way I’d mistake you for Adam.”

  Penelope sensed both her mind and body reacting to the implied compliment. Then she remembered herself. He had to be toying with her. She glanced down at her navy slacks and white linen blouse. Her Saturday shoes were loafers, her navy leather belt a prim and proper choice to match. She was not a woman that men—especially men like this—flirted with.

  “I’m sure we’ve met before.”

  She tugged again at the placemat. “I’m not Adam or Eve or some woman you met in an airport. So please let go of my purchase.”

  He grinned and snapped his fingers. “The elevator! You’re the woman who forgot your briefcase in the Oil Building.”

  Penelope nodded, though it hurt her pride to do it. She felt flattered to be remembered, but embarrassed he’d caught her being absent-minded. Absentminded! Call it what it was, Penelope, she lectured herself—fantasizing and completely out of touch with reality. And not once but twice. She tugged on the fabric and it gave way.

  “You new in town?”

  She half-turned, collected three other place-mats, stacked them together. Over her shoulder she said, “I’m sorry. I don’t talk to strangers.”

  She saw him grin again, then sketch a salute. “So I’ll just have to get to know you,” he said, then walked away, whistling.

  Frogs and fairy tales! Talk about presumptuous. The man was as annoying as he was attractive.

  Besides, if he intended to get to know her, why had he walked away just now? Or had he? Something like an itch overcame her as she battled the desire to turn her head to see whether he’d left the store.

  Penelope was made of sterner stuff. She moved instead in the opposite direction, focusing on a display of napkin rings. Swans in pewter, curling leafwork in brass, fanciful spirals in shaved steel—designs for setting every possible mood filled the oversized basket.

  What was it about that man? And what was he doing in Pottery DeLite? She fingered one of the swan rings, willing to bet the man didn’t know a paring knife from a pair of poultry shears.

  New Orleans wasn’t a big city. So what if she had bumped into him a second time? Penelope shrugged, attempting to erase the tiny voice that whispered the meeting was less than coincidental. Twice—okay. But if he popped up again, she’d have to figure out if he meant trouble.

  “Oh, dear, could you help me, please?”

  Penelope looked around for the high-pitched female voice. No one else stood nearby.

  “Yoo-hoo, over here,” the voice called again.

  The voice came from the basket of napkin rings. Penelope shook her head. A talking napkin ring? Honestly, she had to cure her bad habit of drifting into fantasies. Deciding to buy the jacquard weave placemats and get out of the store swiftly, Penelope turned away from the display.

  “Please don’t go!” This time the voice shrieked and Penelope detected panic.

  Panic? In a basket of napkin rings? She couldn’t think of any reason she’d imagine such a thing.

  She shook her head, but her curiosity overcame her. Turning back to the display basket, she edged closer.

  “That’s an angel,” said the voice, definitely coming from within the center of the basket.

  Maybe she should have gone into therapy, Penelope thought, as she looked into the basket. It worked well for millions of others.

  But Penelope had to admit she enjoyed her fantasies, at least most of the time. Right now, though, she might be willing to agree that a bit of professional tinkering was in order.

  Perched next to one of the swan rings, clinging to a carved wooden banana, sat a talking figurine in the shape of a woman dressed in a purple and orange caftan, holding on to a thin brownish stick almost the same six inches in height. The design was such that the figure moved fluidly even as it spoke.

  “Clever,” Penelope said under her breath, wondering how the device worked.

  “Not so very,” came the reply. “If I were half so clever as I tried to be, I’d never end up in these pickles.”

  “Pickles?”

  The tiny figure shrugged its shoulders and pointed to either side. “Just look where my latest spell has landed me.”

  The figure beckoned to her and Penelope bent her head toward the basket. The rational part of her mind had begun sending the message loud and clear: This was not a talking mechanical device cleverly fitted with a microchip.

  So had Penelope slipped into one of her fantasies without being aware that she’d done so? As a child, she’d learned to escape into daydreams to avoid the drudgery of her life. Now that her circumstances were far more comfortable, Penelope continued the habit, even as she acknowledged that she used it to buffer the lack of emotional involvement with others that marked her life.

  Best not to get involved. Unbidden, the voice of her childhood echoed in her mind. Wasn’t that what her mother had tried to teach her? Stick to your path, become the success I never had a chance to be. Don’t be led off your course by other people’s problems or other people’s dreams.

  Penelope sucked in her breath. She’d missed out on so much. Cheerleader tryouts, her senior prom, sorority life.

  All because she’d never become involved.

  Glancing around, Penelope saw the store remained unchanged. No one stood nearby. She pinched herself and her neurons registered the pain.

  So, no, she hadn’t lost touch with reality. Speaking in a low voice, she said to the figurine, “So what are you?”

  The figure stared at her, head cocked to the side, one lilliputian forefinger tugging lightly on an even tinier earlobe. Raised eyebrows greeted Penelope’s blurted question. With a great deal of dignity, the figurine said, “I think perhaps you mean who am I. The name is Merlin. Mrs. Maebelle Merlin.” She extended a hand and Penelope found herself lifting hers in return. Then she hastily dropped it to her side.

  “No need to be afraid,” Mrs. Merlin said.

  “I’m not afraid,” Penelope said, then added, “I’m just not sure of the protocol for this sort of meeting.”

  “I don’t think one worries about protocol in a life-and-death situation,” came the response in a dry voice, followed by a brisk clap of her hands, accomplished without letting go of the dusty brown stick. “Help me out of this basket and we’ll take it from there.”

  We? Penelope wondered at Mrs. Merlin’s choice of pronouns. Glancing around, Penelope noticed the sales clerk staring in her direction, but no other shoppers milled about. A check of her watch revealed the store would close in two minutes. She’d all but forgotten the placemats and napkins clutched under one arm. But she needed them for the meal she’d planned for David. She shifted her body so the sales clerk couldn’t watch her face and said, “I’m afraid I need to go. I’m expecting company for dinner.”

  “So you are afraid! And more concerned over protocol than aiding a sister human.” Mrs. Merlin sighed and shook her head. “How you could eat dinner knowing I’m stuck in this store overnight, as ravenous as a nutria, is beyond me.” The tiny voice rose in pitch. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Even if you’re no Good Samaritan, where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “I—I—” Penelope gaped at Mrs. Merlin. She swiveled her head. The sales clerk had turned the other way. “I do too have a sense of adventur
e. I just don’t use it very often.”

  “Then brush it off a bit.” The tiny woman raised her arms toward Penelope. “Pop me into that purse of yours and get me out of this store.”

  “But that’s shoplifting!”

  A sigh much larger than the six-inch-high figurine escaped its lips. “What are you, a lawyer?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, that’s too bad, but let me assure you it’s not shoplifting because I’m not for sale. Ergo, no crime.”

  Penelope smiled despite herself. For all she knew, despite the severe pinch she’d administered to herself, she might be imagining this entire interlude, but something about Mrs. Merlin was impossible to ignore. “Hop on,” she said, bending over and opening her palm.

  “Pottery DeLite is now closed,” the sales clerk’s voice rang over the PA system. Penelope almost dropped her passenger on the floor.

  “Careful, now.”

  She lowered Mrs. Merlin and what Penelope nervously thought of as the creature’s magic wand into her purse, breaking out in beads of perspiration as she did so. Whatever clever arguments the tiny woman had made, Penelope still felt like she was stealing a napkin ring. Certain she’d be caught, she licked her lips nervously and tried as nonchalantly as possible to walk toward the front of the store.

  She’d made it only inches from the door when the sales clerk called out.

  “Stop!”

  She literally froze. They’d search her and find Mrs. Merlin riding sidecar in her purse. Visions of disgrace filled her mind. Maybe the creature was right and she had no sense of adventure. Slowly Penelope turned to meet her fate.

  “Your placemats. I don’t believe you’ve paid for them, miss. I’m just closing the register but if you still want them I’ll ring them up.” Though she spoke politely, the woman kept looking at her as if she thought she might need to call for help at any moment.

  Weak with relief, Penelope giggled. “These silly things?” She held out the placemats. “I’ve changed my mind.” She dropped them on the nearest display and backed from the store.