My shoulders slumped; I’d almost forgotten about my obligation for this evening. “Yeah, I’m sorry, but Kendal did me a huge favor last summer and I really owe him. Besides, you and I have all weekend, or parts of it anyway. I’m working Saturday and Sunday, but we still have the evenings. Honest, I can make it up to you, I promise.”
There was a long pause on Dutch’s end, then, “Could you at least have lunch with me this afternoon?”
“Absolutely!” I said perking up immediately. “I have a break from noon to one. How’s that grab you?”
“Sounds like a winner. I’ll pick you up right at twelve.”
“Sailor, you can pick me up anytime, anywhere . . . I won’t complain,” I said, doing my best Mae West.
Dutch doesn’t share my love of impressions, so he simply replied, “See you then, babe,” and hung up.
With a quick glance at the clock I rushed back into the bathroom to get to work on hair and makeup.
My looks have always been the one thing about me that I’ve been pretty comfortable with. Having a sixth sense took years to come to grips with, but not my appearance. I know people who stare at themselves in the mirror and long to be different. Not me.
Now, don’t get me wrong: I’m by no means a supermodel, but neither am I plain-Jane, either. I’m somewhere in between, sort of a girl-next-door type with long, waist-length hair the color a mixture of auburn, brunette and a few recently added blond highlights. My face is an inverted triangle, with a broad forehead, high cheek-bones, a regular nose and an angular chin. My eyes are steel blue, my complexion fair and—usually—blemish free. I do have freckles, though, which I remember in my youth not being so fond of, but over the years I’ve gotten used to them.
My shoulders are broad for a girl, my hips are curvy and my butt has just a hint of J-Lo. I’m small in the chest, but since the invention of the Wonderbra, it’s been less of an issue.
I stand five-foot six, and due to a busy schedule of late, I weigh a little less these days than I did a few months back; I’m down to 120 pounds.
My one weakness is that I’m a clotheshorse. My closet is bursting to overfull, and my fashion sense leans toward Darth Vader.
When I was a little girl, most of the other little girls in my neighborhood wanted to be Princess Leia. And although I liked Leia, and cheered for her, Luke and the gang . . . it was Darth Vader who captivated me.
Here was a guy who was different. He could do stuff with his mind that others couldn’t. He could tap into the future and see things that were about to happen. He’d had some sort of freak accident that prevented him from mixing with polite company, so he too was on the outskirts of the “in” crowd.
To this day I remember the power emanating from Lord Vader as he strode down hallways, his black cape billowing dramatically behind him as the music trumpeted his footsteps and the eerie sound of a ventilator sounded a warning call to one and all.
Everyone in his path shrank from his presence as, even masked, he still dominated the screen. Darth Vader stole every scene, he commanded absolute respect, and nobody messed with him. As a lonely little kid known to have rather “odd” talents, which provoked a slew of verbal and even physical attacks, sometimes I longed for that kind of presence.
Now, in the real world I can’t very well parade around in a cape, no matter how much I’d like to, so given my dramatic flair, you can imagine how happy I was the day sweater coats came into vogue. I must have fifteen of them, most in shades of gray, black or charcoal.
My typical wardrobe for a day at the office is a sweater coat, jeans and spiky boots that, of course, must match the sweater coat, so I have ten or fifteen pairs of those too. Gee, and I wonder why my savings account remains so low.
This morning I chose faded blues, black silk blouse, black sweater coat and black boots. Look out, Dutch; here comes Darth Vadora.
After half an hour of primping in the bathroom I was done, and I rushed down the steps trying not to trip in my heels. After letting Eggy out one last time I locked up and headed to my office.
The morning passed normally, although I found myself having to work hard to concentrate as the time to meet Dutch came closer. I hadn’t seen him in eight weeks, and I wondered, insecurely, if we’d still have that same spark between us.
At exactly twelve noon there was a knock on my outer door, and with a quick breath I rushed to open it. As the door swung open there stood Dutch Rivers, leaning against the doorjamb in cool magnificence. I tell you, ladies, no man should look that good.
He was wearing a tan suede jacket, brown cashmere sweater and faded blue jeans. He’d obviously just showered, as his light blond hair still looked slightly damp, and the subtle scent of a spice-laden aftershave tickled my nose. “Hey, there, Edgar,” he said, using the nickname he’d coined for me months ago, after the famous psychic Edgar Cayce. The way it came out of his mouth, all throaty and masculine, made me want to jump him right there and then.
“Hey, yourself,” I said, my voice cracking and a smile erupting on my face. I saw him straighten, looking intently at me, and it froze me in place. I don’t know what I imagined this moment would be like, especially after not seeing each other for so long, but I do know I didn’t think it would be this intense. This charged. This . . . hot.
I waited for him to do something, and for several seconds all we did was look at each other. Then I heard him inhale deeply and move forward, grabbing me around the waist with one hand and lifting my chin with the other. I allowed myself to be pulled forward as he kissed me long and deep. I couldn’t help it; I moaned. This of course gave him added encouragement, and his kiss deepened, his embrace tightened and I began to swoon.
My senses were filled with him. His smell. His warmth. His kiss. His touch. We pawed at each other, breathing heavily and consuming each other like ravaging animals. At some point, however, I heard someone pass by and cough loudly, saying, “Get a room.”
I didn’t care, but Dutch was probably a little more self-conscious, and he pulled back slightly and looked behind him to the departing figure, then back at me, and grinned. “That’s a great suggestion. Shall we take him up on that?”
Just as I was nodding my stomach gave a very loud, rebellious growl. It had been hours since I’d eaten. We both looked down at my midsection in surprise, and Dutch let out his throaty, seductive laugh. “Guess we’d better feed you first, huh?”
My stomach answered with another growl. I giggled myself this time and said, “Yeah, might be a good idea.”
“I’ve made reservations anyway,” Dutch said, releasing his firm grip on me.
I smiled shyly as I smoothed back my hair and readjusted my clothing. How had my blouse come unbuttoned? When I’d put myself back together, I grabbed my purse and smiled as I brushed past Mr. Sexy while he held the door. After locking up we headed companionably down the hallway, his arm tossed casually across my shoulders. “So, gorgeous, how ya been?” he asked while taking up a small lock of my hair to examine my new highlights more closely.
One of my favorite things about Dutch is how quick he is with a compliment.
“I’m good,” I answered. “Busy, but good. You like?” I asked, indicating the highlights.
“Yeah, it’s nice,” he said, smiling, “but you could be bald as a billiard and still look good to me.”
God help me, I’d found the perfect man. “So where we going for lunch?” I asked as we stepped into the elevator, heading toward the lobby.
“Well, I made reservations at Maverick and Moon’s, but about that . . .”
“Yes?” I asked as we reached the front lobby.
“I wanted to introduce you to my new partner, so . . .”
“You extended an invitation,” I said, letting the disappointment hang in my voice.
“Uh, yeah. Technically I’m still a trainee, and I’m sort of under Joe’s command for the first six months.”
There was an unspoken apology in Dutch’s voice, and I really wasn’t up to
picking a petty argument over something so small. We’d have time to get reacquainted later anyway, so I shrugged off my initial annoyance. “Dutch, it’s okay. I’d love to meet your new partner. Speaking of which, have you talked to Milo lately?”
Dutch and I had reached his car at this point, and my question hung in the air as I saw him bolt around to the front of his car—parked illegally, as usual—and snatch a small white piece of paper from under the wipers. “Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, alarmed.
“That son of a bitch Bennington!”
Immediately I knew whom he was referring to. Shawn Bennington was an archrival of Dutch’s. Passed over for detective half a dozen times, Bennington was most recently reprimanded due to his lack of professionalism in a murder case Dutch and I had solved. Dutch had made a lot of noise about Bennington’s sloppiness, and as a result Bennington had been demoted to meter maid. The ticket wadded up in Dutch’s hand was evidence that Bennington was taking his revenge any way he could. “I’m gonna kill that asshole!” Dutch said, looking around for any sign of the patrolman. Not seeing him, he mashed up the ticket and stuffed it into his coat pocket, his brow furrowed and his mouth set in a firm line.
“Hey,” I said, trying to sound reasonable, “it’s okay, really. So you make a quick call and the ticket goes bye-bye. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that this guy is a menace, and he’s not fit to be wearing a uniform. He got off easy with the meter-maid assignment, and it sticks in my craw that the man’s still employed by the Royal Oak PD,” Dutch snapped testily.
I got in the car not knowing what else to say. I didn’t want to argue about it, and I was beginning to feel really disappointed that our lunch reunion was quickly filling up with so many pitfalls.
We drove to the restaurant in silence, Dutch still simmering over his ticket and me trying not to provoke a long-winded dissertation on Bennington’s ineptness. After all, I’d heard it all before.
By the time we’d reached Maverick and Moon’s, Dutch seemed to be cooling off. He pulled into the parking lot and stepped around to my side, holding the door open. When I got out he hugged me and whispered, “Sorry about that.” He then kissed my forehead and said, “That guy gets under my skin, and I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
I beamed up at him and took his arm as we strolled into the restaurant.
Maverick and Moon’s is a popular, swanky haunt on the outskirts of Royal Oak. The exterior is white stucco with a shingled roof and mosaic patterns bordering the windows. The interior is eclectic, booths are round and cozy, tabletops are marble and no two chairs are alike.
The lighting is soft and romantic, and the fare adventurous and bold. It was one of my favorite restaurants, and I smiled to myself as I thought about how Dutch had remembered that I’d raved about it the last time we’d had dinner here.
In the lobby we were greeted by a petite hostess who took Dutch’s name and looked at her seating chart. “Yes, Mr. Rivers, the other half of your party is already seated. John, will you take these two back to table number twenty-four?”
A young man stepped forward, and we followed him in a fishtail path through other tables to a four-top, where a gorgeous brunette stood up to greet us. “Hello!” she said as we approached. Oh, how nice, I thought, Dutch’s partner brought a date too.
“Abby, this is Joe La Bond. My new partner.”
My mouth fell open as if my brain had suddenly leaked out of my ear. The woman claiming to be Dutch’s new partner was at least five-ten with shoulder-length dark brown hair and full, seductive lips set prominently on her gorgeous face. Her eyes were huge brown orbs that gave her an innocent baby-doll appearance. She had olive skin, long limbs and narrow hips—oh, and her boobs were enormous.
Now, I know what you’re thinking—and yes, I am still comfortable with my looks, but anyone can feel intimidated when they stand next to Catherine Zeta-Jones.
The air hung around us as Dutch and Joe waited for some kind of reaction on my part other than, “Duh.” Finally I shook my head a few times and tentatively extended my hand. “Nice to meet you, Joe. Sorry, but I thought you were a guy.”
Joe chuckled, a smoky, seductive sound. “I get that a lot. ‘Joe’ is actually short for ‘Josephine,’ but you can’t be taken seriously in the Bureau carting a name like that around.”
Dutch and I laughed politely, although mine was a little more forced than his, and we all took our seats. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Dutch looking slightly flustered. I had a feeling he’d been so distracted by his parking ticket that it’d completely slipped his mind to fill me in on his partner’s gender and appearance. To set his mind at ease, I shot daggers at him and mouthed, You are so dead . . . as I snapped my menu open.
“So!” Dutch said into the tension-filled silence, “what’s good here?”
Joe answered abruptly, “Everything, but the pumpkin tortellini is a favorite of mine.” Turning to me she added, “Dutch asked me where he should bring you for lunch, and I recommended this place to him. You’ll love the food.”
I fought back the venom I wanted to spit at my boyfriend, and instead said icily to Joe, “Yes, I know. He and I actually came here last summer the night before he left for Quantico.”
Dutch looked at me in surprise, then glanced around the room quickly. “Oh, yeah. I thought this place looked familiar.” So much for giving him points for sentimentality.
Joe mouthed Uh-oh and averted her eyes back to the menu while I glared at my boyfriend. “What?” he asked defensively.
Could men be more stupid?
“Nothing,” I snapped. “Nothing at all.”
There was a long period of uncomfortable silence as we all pretended to look at our menus; and after a minute or two our waiter, Bob, came by to take our drink orders. I ordered a glass of red wine; Joe and Dutch both ordered iced tea. I felt awkward being the only one at the table to order alcohol, so I tried to retract my order when Joe said, “No, no, Abby, you go ahead. Dutch and I are on duty.”
“On duty?” I asked, surprised as I glanced at Dutch, who began to cough loudly.
“Yeah, we’re on assignment right after lunch. We’ve got to catch a plane later on tonight, and we’ll need to stay focused,” Joe said smartly.
I looked at the her with my mouth hanging open. I could not believe the deluge of crap being spoon-fed to me in the course of the last ten minutes, so I kept the wine, sent the waiter scurrying to the bar and rounded on Dutch. “You’re going on assignment and you have a plane to catch?”
“Uh, you see, the thing of it is . . .” he tried to explain as he leaned over to lay a reassuring hand on my wrist.
I looked at his hand as if a turd had landed on my skin, and Dutch quickly pulled it away. Again Joe decided to get in the middle of it and make things worse. “It’s not his fault, really. We got our assignments yesterday, and you can’t really put off the Bureau just because you miss your girlfriend.”
At that moment the waiter came back with our drinks and asked if we were ready to order. Joe took charge and ordered the pumpkin tortellini, Dutch dittoed that and I rebelliously picked the most expensive item on the menu, the roasted duck with a side salad. Truth be told I didn’t even like duck and I had no real intention of eating Daffy, but I was hungry, so I’d have to make do with the salad.
When the waiter left I took a tremendous swig of my glass of wine and looked anywhere but at either Joe or Dutch. I was fuming and trying valiantly to tramp down my feelings. I pictured all sorts of scenarios that began with me thumping Dutch on the head and him pleading for mercy. Trying for small talk, Joe asked sweetly, “So, Abby, Dutch has told me so little about you. What is it that you do?”
So little about me? “I’m a psychic,” I said icily.
Joe sputtered the iced tea she was sipping, “You’re joking.”
I shot a question mark at Dutch and found him picking at the lint on his napkin, avoidi
ng my gaze. Feeling hurt at his obvious discomfort with the topic of conversation, I shifted my gaze back to Joe and said, “No, not joking at all. I’m a psychic. I look into a crystal ball and wear lots of scarves and dance under the full moon buck-naked while I howl like a coyote. Didn’t Dutch tell you?”
Joe tilted her head back and laughed heartily. She thought I was kidding. Dutch squirmed in his chair and I continued to take large sips of my wine. “No, really. What line of work are you in?” Joe persisted after she’d had her laugh.
I sighed and turned my cool stare directly on her as I said, very deliberately, “I am a psychic. I tell people their futures . . . for real.”
Joe smirked and cocked her head slightly as she looked at me, waiting to see if I’d crack a smile. Finally she said, “Okay, so what am I thinking?”
Oh, brother. Here we go. “I said I was psychic, not a mind reader.”
“Is there a difference?”
“A big one,” I said dismissively as I downed the last of the wine.
“Like what?” she persisted.
I didn’t like this woman. Not one bit. Her attempts to be helpful were just a bit too over-the-top for me, and this whole warm and fuzzy routine was getting on my last nerve. I sighed heavily. “Psychics are able to see glimpses of events, opportunities and obstacles that may happen, or have already happened. Mind readers, who are sometimes referred to as mentalists, use extrasensory perception to get a sense of what you’re thinking or feeling.”
“Huh,” Joe said, looking at me with narrowed eyes. Then she smiled and said, “Personally I think the whole thing’s a bunch of baloney, but there are a lot of gullible people out there, so I’m sure you’re doing quite the business.”
The wine had hit my empty stomach and drained the restraint right out of me. I couldn’t believe what she had just said to me. I half stood out of my chair in a shaky motion; I was going to hit this bitch but good.
Dutch bolted up and caught my shoulders; pressing me back down in the chair he said, “Abby, easy there. What Joe means is that until she sees proof, she’s going to remain a confirmed skeptic. Right, Joe?”