Mike laughed at that because as far as he could tell, André liked every woman he had ever met. The cheerful Frenchman also found no difficulty in having sex with all of them, too. André really knew women mentally, emotionally and in the biblical sense.
"Mon ami," André assured him. "You will like her, too."
"Oh?"
"Mais oui, je suis désolé," he said sorrowfully. "She has informed me more than once that she does not date. Perhaps you should guard your heart. Unless you wish to try your luck to make her change her mind?"
This suggestion was no surprise. André was always advising him to find another woman, ever since Barbara's death. "It is not good for you to be alone," André frequently admonished him in a disapproving tone. This censorious attitude was mainly because Mike also turned down casual sex.
Mike tried a brief sexual encounter only once since Barbara's death. The momentary pleasure of a one-night-stand just wasn't worth it. Somehow it just didn't seem right.
Masturbating was a given – he was a fit and healthy man after all. When he jacked himself off, he often thought of Barbara as she was, before she got sick. Mike recalled all the fun they had in bed together, their laughter and how close they'd been. This always made him hard, and gave his body relief. Yet afterwards he remembered that she was gone and he was left in a melancholy mood.
Mike enjoyed his own company and at one time was happy enough to be on his own. It wasn't until after Barbara passed that he discovered the aching solitude of loneliness. Why had they put off having children? That was a regret that he would always have.
After her death he had gone through the normal stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance. It had been an incredibly difficult road. The black empty void of depression had been the hardest, when he had to find a reason to get up every day. Then came a period of sadness that never seemed to go away. He worked fifteen hours a day to keep himself occupied.
He had fallen into a dark hole. It took time and all his effort to climb back out again.
His parents, sister, brothers and their families had been there for him. As much as possible they understood. For them he would pretend, maintaining the face and conversation of a man with his shit together.
Eventually came a point where he would go hours, then days without becoming crushed at the thought of Barbara. There were times when he imagined that he had recovered. Yet simply finding a recipe in her handwriting, or a sweater she had knitted could make him break down completely.
He was even past that now.
Barbara's picture sat on his bedside table, and while he had regrets, he remembered how lucky he had been with her. Uncovering something that reminded him of Barbara now no longer hurt. It only brought back sweet and poignant memories of the woman he had loved.
Mike would be more than happy to oblige André Chevalier and find someone. His friends set him up with women, and he even put his name down on an internet dating site. As a result he went out on a large number of first dates that were as unsatisfying to him as to the women involved.
There was just no spark.
Whatever spark he did have seemed to have died with his wife. Mike was pretty certain that True Love, like lightning, only struck once in a lifetime.
He already had his chance and would have no other. Mike Thompson had been lucky in love with his wife, Barbara. Mike went on thinking that, right until he walked into André's library where he saw Marcy Paget.
Just then his heart stumbled with wishful anticipation, shock and surprise.
Because from the first moment he saw her, Mike Thompson considered that he might actually be wrong about lightning striking twice.
10. Interview
The door opened soundlessly and the thick carpet camouflaged the sound of his footsteps.
The woman had her back to him as she was studying the wall of leather bound, and no doubt incomprehensible, French books. Her brunette hair came down just lower than her shoulders, thick as a lion's mane. God. It had an enticing wave and a healthy shine. It was so vibrant… so alive!
Mike stifled an unexpected impulse to walk over and run his fingers through it.
Her dress was cream colored, covered by dark and deeply feminine blue lace. It was short sleeved, and it was pulled close at the waist with a thin red belt.
Mike's first impression was of wonderful vitality and health. Marcy Paget was curvy, soft and voluptuous. This fact instantly attracted him. His wife, Barbara, had been far too thin for the last years of her life. Thin equals sick - that was his mental association. This woman was not super skinny. Not in the least.
Death from an incurable illness was not in her near future. This woman ate, was clearly able to keep her food down, and was therefore physically well.
A tension in his body that he had been unaware of, suddenly relaxed.
"Marcy Paget?" he asked.
The woman turned and stared at him, frozen to absolute stillness for a moment. Her features were angular, her nose far too long for her face… but her eyes. Mike took a deep breath as his heart skipped, taking an extra beat. Those eyes. Surrounded by dark lashes, they were striking. Why did that honey-brown color look so sweet and womanly?
He blinked with an unexpected internal vision. Those beautiful eyes, dazed with pleasure, looking up at him. Her body under his, his hands upon her, her soft lips moaning… begging for more.
What the hell?
He cleared his throat and banished the image, returning to the present. "I'm Mike Thompson," he said in a formal manner. "I work security for Mr. Chevalier and need to ask you a few questions."
Her honey eyes took him in, lighting up with astonished good humor. The sudden enchanting smile that animated her face was unbelievable. Mike felt as if he had been sucker-punched - or more like stabbed in the chest. Her open smile pierced his heart so completely.
"Oh. My. God!" she said, putting a hand to her heart. Then she began to laugh. It wasn't just any sort of laugh. It was a full throated, "stop tickling me or I am simply going to die" kind of belly laugh. As she stood there, holding her stomach, bent almost double, grinning and laughing, Mike began to laugh, too.
"Jesus," she gasped. "Mr. Chevalier warned me that you looked like a movie star. I had no idea what he was talking about. I just thought he was just giving me a heads up, letting me know that you were unnaturally handsome. I didn't think that you would look like a particular movie star!"
The woman roared hysterically, tears coming into her eyes. "You poor thing! Honestly, I swear to God you could be twins. How in the world do you go through life looking exactly like Jason Statham?" She reached into her bag, took out a tissue and wiped her eyes. "People must ask for your autograph all the time," she added, having finally caught her breath.
"Actually, it isn’t too bad," he said. "I did grow the Van Dyke." He pointed to his facial hair. "You know the moustache and goatee. That helped. You seemed to see right through it however."
"Is that what it's called? A Van Dyke?"
"Yeah," he trailed a thumb and forefinger over his moustache, and then ran them over the short trimmed stubble of his goatee. "If they aren't connected then it's called a Van Dyke." Unusually comfortable in her presence, he modeled it for her in a silly fashion, turning this way and that. "Do you like it?"
"It looks great," she giggled with her hand over her mouth again. "Honestly. I just have to get over the Jason Statham bit. I mean really. "With narrowed eyes she studied him intently. "I see you and I can't help… well, mainly I think of 'The Transporter' movies. With the white shirt, dark slacks and tie, you're dressed like him, too."
Mike cleared his throat, making his voice as gravelly as possible. Straight-faced and deadpan he said with an affected English accent, "Rule number one, 'Never change the deal.' Rule number two, 'No names' and Rule number three 'Never open the package.'"
Marcy, as intended, totally lost it.
Jesus could that woman crack up or what? Mike found his own ches
t shaking hard as he was laughing uproariously again, just by watching her uninhibitedly laugh. Talk about an ice breaker. For the first time that he could remember, Mike was honestly glad that he looked like the famous movie star.
When they both caught their breath, he motioned her to the dark leather sofa. Marcy was still giggling as they both sat down. "Did you manage to fill out your forms?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," she said and pulled the paperwork from her handbag, passing them to him. As she bent toward him he caught her subtle scent. Vanilla? Sandalwood perhaps? It made something low in his belly tighten.
Jesus. Why was he so damn attracted to this woman?
He took the papers and as he did so his hand made contact with hers. An electric zing zapped his skin. Sensual heat flowed through him, just from that one touch. Wow.
Mike studied her for a moment, to see if she was aware of his reaction. Marcy Paget met his gaze guilelessly, still wearing that delicious grin. Holy shit. Her lips were soft and pink and full. Mike became aware of an overwhelming impulse to kiss her. His cock immediately stiffened, becoming painfully hard.
Get a grip, Thompson, he told himself.
His throat was thick, so he cleared it, and took a cursory look through the documents. "This is what I am going to do," he said. "I'll read through this, and ask any questions that may come up as I go. Sound okay to you?"
"Sure."
Mike brought out a pen and they began. The basic questions of schooling, place of birth and such were easy. André told him what he knew of her financial issues with her ex, and her daughter. Her background check aligned with her statements on the form. Getting through the paperwork was straightforward. As far as he could tell, Marcy was an average girl with a fairly typical American upbringing.
"Alright, here we are," Mike said pulling out a sheet of paper. "This non-disclosure form, did you read it?"
"Oh, yes. It was pretty comprehensive."
"Any questions?"
She shrugged. "Not really. I can't imagine what I would want to disclose to anyone. I suppose famous or important people come here all the time? André is a relationship counselor, right?"
Mike smiled. "He certainly is."
"Well I won’t know any secrets anyway. I mean, how would I?"
"We'll go into the details later today," he reassured her, handing her his pen and putting the paperwork on a clipboard. "For now, you sign and I'll witness."
Marcy Paget had a financial millstone to the tune of $45,000 around her neck. The debt was to Spring Valley Medical Hospital, and she was paying a small amount of that debt off weekly. When Mike asked her about it, Marcy explained how her mother died a year ago, but needed extensive treatment before she passed.
"I'm so sorry for your loss," he said. The words sounded empty, yet there was real compassion in them. Mike's own grief always seemed close to the surface.
"Thank you," Marcy said. "I was lucky to have her as long as I did. She was the best mother in the whole world."
"So now… you have no one?" Mike asked, aware that her father died a few years before. That knowledge hurt, creating a strange ache in his chest. He considered his own parents and siblings, nieces and nephews. Crazy as they could be at times, he loved them. What was the point of it all without family? How did this woman manage on her own?
Marcy beamed a large genuine smile in response to his question, and this surprised him.
"Oh, no," Marcy said. "I have a beautiful seven year old daughter who is a fantastic kid. I'm really lucky. And honestly I've been so busy that I haven’t had time for anything except work and Katie. But my best friend moved to L.A., hoping to get into the movie business, so I guess you could say that I am on my own."
Mike's admiration for her cheerful attitude grew. Now he understood André's inexplicable desire to hire this unknown woman. André, intuitive as he was, would have recognized her not just her honesty but her indomitable spirit. No wonder he wanted to keep her.
Mike stared at her for a long moment, captured by her vivacious personality, "How did your mother die, if you don’t mind me asking?"
"Breast cancer."
Mike stiffened, frozen to instant stillness. For a second, or a minute, the whole world stopped. All movement and sound in the room faded into a buzz of white noise. Jumping to his feet abruptly, Mike gradually became aware that he was frowning.
"Are you okay?" Marcy asked with a concerned expression in her eyes.
He forced a smile. "Yes," he said in a low voice. "Tell me…you," he cleared his throat, "you get regular mammograms right?"
"I had one two years ago when I first found out that my mom was sick," she said.
"If your mother died of breast cancer, you should have them yearly," he said. His strict tone made his admonition sound like a parent's scolding, and he reined himself in. A confused and uncertain furrow formed between Marcy's brows. "André is paying for your medical now, so be sure to arrange for another one," he added, forcing himself to speak in a more composed voice.
He took a deep breath, recovering from the unexpected panic at the thought of her dying. What was that about?
Without thinking, Mike pulled her to her feet. Her eyes widened in surprise when he grabbed her hands, but he ignored her response. Adrenaline was still pulsing through his veins. Just now he had to get away.
"C'mon, I'll take you to lunch. It's a beautiful day and the rest of this interview deals with us chatting about a few things. I think we need to get out of here."
11.Fishing
Marcy's head spun. This new job of hers just got weirder and weirder. Where was she going now?
This literally movie star handsome security guy had surprised her. He'd had such an unexpected reaction, when he found out how her mother had died. Apparently he was worried and protective on her behalf, which was sweet, really.
His stern response created a tight painful pleasure in her chest. It was a long time since anyone had showed such concern for her welfare. What was the deal with him? Why should he care when he had only just met her?
Marcy decided she didn't know the man well enough to pursue the clearly sensitive subject. He would talk to her about it if he wanted to.
They had taken the express elevator down to where Mike had parked his black BMW. Marcy was happy to lighten the mood by giving him more ribbing about him taking on the personality and possessions of the Transporter.
"Admit it," she said, strapping on her seat belt. "You are the Transporter."
He smiled that endearing, cocky smile of his and said in his feigned English accent, "You just keep thinking that sweetheart."
Marcy giggled. He asked her how she felt about a round of miniature golf at the "Putt Park" miniature golf course? It had eighteen holes. Marcy was up for anything as long as André didn't mind, and told him so.
"Hey," Mike said. "Have you ever been fishing?"
Marcy frowned and regarded him suspiciously. That was an odd out of the blue question. "Sure. I used to fish all the time at Lake Mohave with my mom and dad. I think my dad would have preferred a son, but he had to settle with me."
"I don’t believe it," Mike said. "You would have been a cute little girl. I bet you had him wrapped around your finger."
Marcy just laughed. Dad would have definitely preferred a boy. Her father certainly hadn't been perfect, but he had loved her – Marcy never doubted that. Her ongoing problem with her daughter darkened her thoughts for a moment, despite the cheerful mood she was in.
What was she going to do about Trent? Katie's father's neglect was so painful, especially when Katie asked about him, which she did often. Could a mother's love make up for a father's flagrant disinterest, absence and abandonment?
The slow drive through traffic combined with the silence in the car and the beguiling warmth of the Vegas November blue skies and noonday sun got to her. Even though she had worked a double and was exhausted, Marcy had hardly slept the night before because she had been so excited about her new job.
&nbs
p; As she lay back in the passenger seat, her eyes drifted shut.
Already it had been a big day. She had driven an expensive French sports car and had a memorable conversation with her new boss. She had met so many people and they had all been loud and welcoming - except for Mike who had been just as welcoming but in a quiet, subtle sort of way.
Mike Thompson was a sweetie. He had a strong yet gentle personality that was soothing. Mike had touched her, peremptorily taking her by the hands, and it hadn't bothered her somehow.
Here in the car with Mike Thompson she felt relaxed and safe and happy. Everyone she had met had been so nice. Marcy felt grateful. Life was really, really good and she was so lucky. That was her last conscious thought as she drifted off to sleep.
And as she slept, she dreamed.
~~~
Ever since her mother died, Marcy had been having regular dreams of her. In her dreams, her mom was unhappy, gesturing and speaking - trying to tell her something important. Marcy always woke up, having no idea what the dream meant or what he mother was trying to say.
This dream was different. It was an actual memory.
Marcy Paget was eleven years old on the unforgettable day that they all went fishing on Lake Mohave, in their small red dingy with the outboard motor.
"That's the second line I've had to cut today!" her father said in an angry voice. His round face was red, his dark eyes flashing.
Marcy, as usual, cringed inside.
Dad never ever hit her, but he sure could yell when he was in a mood. Even worse, nothing hurt Marcy as much as the sneaking certainty that she was a disappointment to him. She never could measure up to his strict standards, yet she really wanted to because she loved her dad.
"I told you to keep your line away from the weeds. Isn't one lost hook and sinker enough for you? How many am I going to have to replace today?"