Brandt was Lisa’s family name and she was an only child. She came from a working class family, born and bred in the Bronx. She was thirty, she said, but he found her demeanor to be that of someone older. Best of all, there was a genteelness about her, something soft and refined.
He told her about the toy industry, how he had started out with a distributor in Montreal, after first trying his hand at computer sales. “I found I had a knack for toys,” he said with a self-effacing gesture. “Stayed with the distributor for five years before this opportunity presented itself here in New York. And the rest, as they say, is history.”
“Are you good at what you do, Blair?”
“I made it to the Mean Apple, didn’t I?”
Lisa concentrated on her drink.
It dawned on Blair that his mind was growing fuzzy. He took her hand in his.
“I like you,” she said, before he could speak.
“I like you, too,” he echoed her words.
She covered his hand with her own. “Can we go somewhere quieter?”
She was so bubbly. And nice. He couldn’t remember being with a woman this nice. He wanted to give her a hug. “My place?” he suggested as he stood.
Seeing him wobble, Lisa put her arm around him.
How much did I actually drink? he wondered, no longer able to feel his feet.
He knew Lisa paid for the cab. But how they ended up inside his condo was a mystery to him. His building was one of the few in Manhattan without a doorman, so there was no one to lend assistance. Conversation was moot at this point. Leading him by the hand, it was nice to see her taking charge. Through the hallway, past the den and kitchen, into the master bedroom.
Lisa was not only in control, she seemed determined. His clothes came off, but not his underwear. He would have stopped had she tried to go that far.
Not that she tried.
Blair flopped down on the bed, belly first. Lisa said something about helping him feel better. It was all innocent enough, practically childlike. Until an iron-fisted set of knuckles began to knead the flesh on his shoulders.
“Ow!” he called out, quickly sobering.
“Your muscles are tight.”
“They are?”
“Yes. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“You haven’t?”
“Not really.”
“Don’t be a baby.”
The pain was bringing tears to his eyes.
“This will do you some good,” she promised.
Blair wondered how an average-built woman could be this strong.
She might be a psychotic killer, he told himself. And she was in his apartment. And he was lying here, more or less vulnerable. “Lisa—” he tried to distract her.
He could swear she was humming to herself.
“Lisa?” he repeated.
“Yes, Blair?”
“Could you, uh, stop for a while? Just for a second or so? Let me catch my breath?”
“I will. Almost done…”
He groaned out loud; it was unpreventable.
“Feeling better?” she asked when she finally stopped.
“Oh, yeah,” he muttered, the relief profound. “Much better.”
“Perfect.”
“And sober.”
“Exactly my intention. Now, close your eyes.”
He opened his eyes wide. If she were psychotic, this would be the perfect time to pull out a knife or gun.
“Blair?”
“Huh?”
“You’re not listening to me.”
He closed his eyes, praying for the best.
There was a rustle of clothing. Then the warmest body imaginable was lying next to his. Not quite naked, unfortunately. He could feel her bra and panties.
Blair went to kiss her.
She avoided his lips. “Sleep,” she whispered.
He ignored her request and made a grab for her breast.
She pushed his hand away, gently.
Something stirred between his legs and it wasn’t the blanket.
“Goodnight, Blair.”
“But—”
“But, what?”
He sighed, feeling sorry for himself. “Nothing. Goodnight, Lisa.”
In the morning, she was gone.