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William Darcy’s fingers hovered over the laptop keyboard. He frowned, attempting to conjure a thought, something brilliant, of course, and worthy of his expected suspense novel, but nothing came. Hell, he’d settle for a word, just a simple word, to get the muse stoked. That, too, should be brilliant. A colorful word. A lexis that’ll make a reader stop to ponder its brilliance and his wordsmithing acumen. He waited, contemplating: insouciance, propinquity, grandiloquent, until finally his index finger tapped out the only word, which made sense to him at that moment: D.A.M.N and typed it five more times before leaning back in his chair. Frustrated, a deep sigh followed by an expletive left his lips, and then the catapulting of a pen across the room.
Yeah. Damn. Writer’s block. Again.
He looked up from the twenty capital letters taunting him and felt empty. He had nothing in him this time and this next book, Death Knell, needed to be as exciting as his last—as brilliant as his last in the series.
“You suck,” he said, completely burned out and ready to chuck the entire plot bunny. What plot bunny? He didn’t even have that. As a proud pantser, he always let the characters write themselves, but none of them spoke to him!
Summer in his late parents’ house on Nantucket was supposed to help the process. It always had before, but now he felt uninspired even by the tranquility and the view. Admittedly, his protagonist, Alex Logan, had become flat and boring after three New York Times bestselling novels over the last six years. His sister, Georgiana, had voiced her opinion on that epiphany one too many times, claiming so had he (become flat and boring, that is.) What a lie! He was not boring. Just ask any of his adoring fans, any of the women fawning all over him, when he came back to town to hit the book tour publicity circuit. Ask Charlie and his cousin Rick; they sure as hell didn’t think him boring! Dammit. He was Alex Logan!
Okay, maybe not even close, but he looked like him, and he had his money. The lead character was also smooth and stylish, a guy who prided himself on being a class act. Sure, he may not have been a daredevil like Logan, but he’d gone skydiving and even snowboarded in the Alps. He was an accomplished boatman, too, having grown up on them and sailed the Caribbean islands for a month with his ex, Reagan. After all, he had to write what he knew and what better way than to model Logan after some of his own experiences. Reagan had made it into the third Logan novel—and what a scene!
In real life he almost had thrown her overboard.
“Think, man! Don’t get sidetracked with thoughts of that lunatic,” he commanded before rising for his third cup of high-octane joe. As he poured from the old Mr. Coffee glass pot, he considered plot options. “What if Logan goes home to his family in Connecticut and they find out that he’s not really an insurance salesman? Been done. What about...hmm...if he meets a woman that turns him on his head?” He groaned, stirring in the sugar. “Drivel. Absolute boring, predictable trope shit.”
He leaned against the wood bar in the living room and gazed out the window to the water, finally admitting defeat. “You know you’ve hit rock bottom when you want Logan to settle down. The man will never give up the danger for any woman. I don’t write romance...or comedy, and marriage is comedy.”
Maybe it was time for a new genre. Maybe writing detective fiction while trying to hold on to his literary award-winning status for the Alex Logan Series had ended. Maybe Nantucket had served its purpose and maybe playing Alex Logan had ended. At thirty-three, he had better things to do. Didn’t he? His younger sister repeatedly told him so. The girl was too smart for her own good, too observant, and knew him like a book. He groaned, then took a long draft from his mug, eyes focused like a laser on the nearly empty computer screen until he finally walked back to it to FaceCall his best friend and publisher.
Charles Bingley’s sunny disposition leaped from the monitor with a laughing chastise. “It’s about time you called me. Tell me you finished the book and save me a trip up there to beat you into submission.”
“I’ll have you know that something brilliant has finally come from my fingers after three weeks of watching the tide roll in and out.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“Damn.”
“Awesome! Logan jumps from the Hoover Dam? Man, this is going to be killer. Who’s the Logan chick?”
“There is no woman. There’s no dam either. I...um...haven’t gotten that far yet.”
“How far did you get?”
“First paragraph. I’ll be honest, Charlie, but I don’t think I can do it. I’m done.”
“Don’t even try that bull crap with me. What’s another book? Just do what you always do. Go out, pick up a girl, take her for a wild night out on the town, then back to your apartment or the beach house and then shag her rotten. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am and the next morning at the computer write in a car chase, an assassination, and you have another bestseller. Cha-ching.”
Real life didn’t work the way Charlie thought. And truth be told, he’d alluded to all those sexual experiences to build book hype without an agent to do it for him. Charlie may have been his best friend, but he still needed to foster confidence in his publisher’s decision to sign him. In fact, those sexed-up scenes were sheer fantasy. Call him a prude or a closet gentleman or maybe even fearful of Fatal Attraction, but as a thinking man, he didn’t take women to bed following a crazy night of bar hopping after the lunatic Reagan relationship. Not all his experiences ended up on paper.
“Blah, blah, blah. It doesn’t always work that way. I have writer’s block.”
“Bullshit. Writer’s block is a myth. You just need a muse, and you need to face your fears.”
“What fears? I don’t have fears,” he lied.
“Yes, you do. You’re afraid of failure and, like every author I deal with, terrified of criticism.”
“Maybe...a little.”
“Channel the muses of the past, like the threesome in Crash Down.”
“No comment.”
“Was Reagan real?”
“Yeah.” But the sex wasn’t anything worth writing about.
“How about Natasha?”
Darcy laughed, “Honestly? No. That was all in my head, but the sailboat scene was real.”
Charlie audibly sighed, then tapped his finger against his computer screen. “Listen to me. You are Alex. It’s what makes your novels so successful. Men want to be you, and your women readers want to go to bed with you. Damn, I wish I had half of what you have.”
“No, man. As fun as living vicariously through Alex has been, I just don’t think I have anything left in me. How firm are you on this deadline?”
“Just find a muse and write the damn book, and I’ll worry about deadlines.”
“I’m sorry. I know this is the last thing you wanted to hear with Caroline nipping at your heels for control of the publishing house.”
“Well, it’s a setback, but I’ll deal with her. My father was specific about her role at Netherfield and I’m not about to go against his last wish just because I’m afraid of her.”
“You didn’t tell her where I am, did you?”
“What are you crazy? I need for you to work, not obsess whether she’d show up on your doorstep.”
“Thanks, Charlie. You’re a real pal.”
“Yeah. Yeah. That’s what you’ve been saying since our days on the Columbia Spectator. Please get back to work. Please try.” He raked his hand through his blond hair, the frustration evident in the crinkles on his forehead. “I need this book. We’re dying, Darce. Publishers like us are forced to go hybrid or close up altogether, and you’re one of our biggest authors.”
“Is there no up-and-coming talent in agent slush piles?”
“A couple. Caroline is drooling all over herself over one in particular, but she wouldn’t say who or what genre.”
Darcy sat back at the desk and gave his fraternity brother a half-smile, which felt as flat and boring as Alex Logan had become. “It’ll work out, buddy, and you have my word that I’ll give it my best. Maybe I just need a change of scenery. The island isn’t doing anything for me anymore.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I might head down to Manhattan and stay a few days at Georgiana’s new place in the West Village. I’m sure she and her thespian friends will have a shitload of plot ideas. You know how those freaky drama students think.”
“But you don’t like New York City.”
“I’m not going there to enjoy it, just to clear my writer’s block.”
“Cool. Then call me when you arrive, and we’ll do lunch.”
Both clicked off the conversation and Darcy pushed back the chair as he closed the laptop. Manhattan. If he couldn’t find a muse in ‘the center of the universe’ then he never would.
**
“It’s about time you visited!” Georgiana said, dropping his computer bag onto the floor.
“Hey, careful with that!”
The twenty-year-old rolled her blue eyes. “How long are you staying, Bro? ’Cause ya know, you didn’t give me time to move my schedule around and plan for it. The next three weeks, I’m in and out a lot rehearsing and I mostly stay at Anne’s place because her apartment is closer to the theater.”
“That’s fine. I didn’t come to see you, anyway.” He chuckled at the half-truth, then walked around the three-room apartment, determining he could quickly go stir crazy from the size. Maybe coming here would defeat the writing process. “I guess I’ll be here for a long weekend.” To get the muse kick-started. Then I’m gone. Or he’d stay. The apartment had a certain appeal, which he could tap into once he overlooked the size and sweltering heat. The sleeping alcove sported an amazing wooden, multi-paned window at least ten feet wide by five feet high, which overlooked a quaint courtyard in the center of five, Nineteenth Century, three-story apartment buildings. The courtyard, with its flower beds, park benches, and wrought iron bistro tables looked like an age-old secret garden hidden in the center of the modern metropolis. It could inspire him...maybe.
“Nice place, Gigi,” he said, meaning it. Proud of her, he admired her stylish sense for home décor and how she made the space her own creative world. Decorated in yellow and green, the sunny apartment suited Gigi’s personality perfectly. Living here as a single woman was the first time his sister stood on her own feet away from their social circle and their over-bearing aunt who had played mother, father, and disciplinarian for nineteen years.
She bounced on her toes, singing, “I love, love, love it here! I only wish I had more time to meet some of the other residents in the other buildings, but you know how that is. It’s not like back home. No one socializes in the city.”
“You haven’t made any friends?” That worried him. What if something happened to her?
“There’s a guy in another building.”
“Oh?”
“Nothing serious, but he’s from Rome and sooo good-looking and super funny. We shared a bottle of prosecco one night out in the garden. I think you’d like him—he’s a writer, too.”
Not likely. Call him a snob, but everyone was a would-be author these days. He didn’t have the time or inclination to give writing pointers or publishing advice.
He smiled, hoping she would make wiser dating decisions than he had in this dangerous world. “He’s across the courtyard?”
“Yeah, in 1C.”
“Then maybe you should consider curtains.”
She waved her hand. “I like the view.”
“Yeah. I’m sure he does, too—right into your apartment. Do it for me anyway.”
“Whatever, dude. You’re always so suspicious of people.”
“When it comes to you, yeah. Someone has to be. Have you met anyone in your building in case of an emergency?” he pressed.
“I met the lady in 1A. She’s a super-Boomer busy body, keeping track of the comings and goings of everyone around the garden, but I like her. When I moved in, she brought me cupcakes and checks on me. You know, she’s not fam, but I visit with her whenever I can.”
“Oh great,” just what he needed, a nosy neighbor.
Gigi laughed. “She’s a lonely cat lady with and an enormous collection of vinyls and power binoculars.”
“Um, that’s illegal.”
“So is half the stuff you write about. It’s N.Y.C, Will. Everything goes. I don’t even think anything is illegal anymore.”
“Good point. And while we’re at it, for as long as I’m staying here, call me Alex. I don’t want anyone to know who I am. It could get embarrassingly messy and with a Mrs. Kravitz downstairs, I can’t have that kind of publicity right now.”
“Who’s Mrs. Kravitz?”
“Never mind. Nosy people are a distraction I don’t need. I’m here to write in solitude, not have crazed fan chicks pounding on the door if word gets out that Will Darcy is holed up in a West Village apartment with a young and pretty blonde.”
“She’s eighty, Alex. I doubt she’s a stan wanting to attack your bod.” Pulling her hair back in an impromptu ponytail, she changed topics, “Hey, you know...there is a bit of a mystery surrounding a few things at Meryton Arms Apartments. Maybe you could use them for your book.”
He sat on the bumped-out window seat/bed. “Sneaky. How did you know?”
“Charlie texted me and it just so happens I have a shitload of ideas for you, but one in particular you could get to the bottom of with your investigative skills, right here across the garden. At the very least, you could embellish the truth.”
“I’ll settle for anything at this stage.”
“Well...there are two apartments in that building on the right, one on the third floor, the other on the second, but they’re a family and all the six women come and go all hours of the night. You never see the father. He may be a psycho recluse.”
“Hardly a story in the making. I come and go all hours too and when I write, I become a recluse myself. As for psycho, I’ve been called that by an ex or two.”
“Yeah, but the older woman in 3C is a super cougar. She lounges out in the garden half-naked. The fix-it guy is her client.”
“What kind of client? Drugs? Pampered Chef? Ebay?”
She rolled her eyes. “No. The whole family is prosties.”
“Prosties?”
“They’re hookers, and their cougar mama madam runs the escort service from her apartment, and Mrs. Lucas said that her friend Mrs. Phillips, who used to—I repeat, used to—live in 2C was murdered by two of the sisters so they could take over her rent-controlled two-bedroom. They broke into her apartment and drowned her in the bathtub, then hacked her to death. Two weeks later, they were living large in her crib.”
“Gruesome. Was there a homicide investigation?”
“I don’t think so, but I do know that Mrs. Lucas later called the cops with ‘information,’ but they didn’t take her seriously. I think she calls them a lot.”
“I think Mrs. Lucas is lonely and has an active imagination.” But...I could borrow the plot bunny.
“Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t, but it’s all totally sus. Anyway, tomorrow I’m gonna vibe at the Meryton wine down after-hours-happy-hour, so I’m glad you’re here. You can form your own opinion about the murdering hookers of 2 and 3C.”
He laughed. “You know you’re melodramatic, right?”
She nudged his shoulder with hers. “That’s what makes me such an excellent actress. Look, we’re a good sleuthing team. Remember that time when we followed Aunt Catherine to her weekly Saturday hair and nail salon appointment because we thought something was off? How did she not think we’d question why her hair looked worse when she got home?”
He chortled. “Please, my vision has never been the same.”
“That’s why I quit riding lessons from Mr. Jamison’s stable. Each time I walked into the barn, I thought of the two of them going at it next to your horse Thunder.”
“That woman...batshit crazy.” He shook his head, trying to dislodge the recollection of his entire formative years spent at Rosings Park. But he should give credit for its due. His aunt was the reason he took up writing murder suspense.
“I’ve missed you, kid.”
“Yeah. I’ve missed you, too. Alex.”
Turning to face her, he gave her all of his attention. “Forget about me. The words will come. I want to hear about you and the play you’re in.”
“And then you’ll make me dinner?” She grinned.
He looked over at the tiny kitchen. “Yes, I’ll make you dinner.”
**
If it wasn’t for Gigi’s annoying insistence, he would have blown off the drunken star-gazing party, but he had to admit, it intrigued him. If Death Knell wasn’t already set in stone as the title of his would-be manuscript, Two Murdering Hookers had a certain ring to it—not to mention the research could be...informative.
Priding himself on his preternatural ability at reading people—except for lunatic Reagan—he’d flush out the mystery surrounding the dead Mrs. Phillips and put everyone’s worries to rest. He reminded himself of rule number one: Occam’s razor. Still, if true, he couldn’t have a family of prosties hacking people to death in Gigi’s pretty little garden, could he? One conversation from any of the sister-hookers and he’d figure out their game. He was a world-renowned crime author, after all. He’d made a study of body language and pathological killers. Hell, he memorized that emotional thesaurus from cover to cover and practically lived in the online FBI vault of cases. This was his world.
Dressed in black trousers and a button-up shirt, he hoped to blend right in, looking like any other Manhattanite guy dressed to impress. In the shower, he’d formed a plan of attack on how to lay on the charm while asking subtle questions without making people suspicious. New York women didn’t appreciate inquisitive guys and right away they’d clam up thinking him a stalker, but as Gigi’s guest, and not too bad looking, he had good cover. The girl was an innocent angel; she wouldn’t hang out with a creep, and he did possess enough charisma to get women to open up about themselves.
At nine sharp, they entered into the secret garden lit by multiple strands of crisscrossing Edison bulbs and a couple of tiki lamps. Citronella candles flickered on the tables, and a chill Latin lounge mix played from a wireless speaker, providing a sociable atmosphere. The scent of ancient herbs and wet moss, like an old cemetery, permeated the humid night air. Wine, beer, and cocktails flowed to a diverse crowd of about thirty residents, a handful of millennials, but mostly older folks. One woman in particular caught his immediate eye—and ear.
“Don’t you just look scrumptious,” a shrill southern voice rang out from a blonde in her late fifties. Actually, the plunging neckline and short skirt caught his attention first. The southern accent was a bonus.
“That’s her, the super cougar,” Gigi whispered. “And she’s talking to the fix-it guy.”
“I’ll get us some drinks. Keep your eyes peeled and remember, play it cool,” he said, heading over to the makeshift bar, his gaze scanning the crowd—for what he didn’t know. It wasn’t like he knew how high-priced hookers would dress for a resident meet up. The whole of his personal experience and knowledge regarding hookers came from two frat parties, four bachelor parties, and a UPlay video about executive call girls he’d watched before coming to the plot bunny soiree. The six hookers of his brief and fantastical acquaintance wore birthday suits, so he was winging it here. Several women at the meet-up checked him out, and he wondered if they knew who he was or if they were looking for their next trick.
Choosing the wine bottles closest to the cougar, he poured with one investigative ear tuned to the conversation.
“How is business, Frances?” a bearded, heavy-set guy asked.
“Oh, hun. My girls are finally back to working to the bone. Goodness gracious, my Mary’s fingers are cramping up, and Lydia,” she shook her head, “I’ll tell you what! That precious hardly has time to study for those tests, what with all her client servicing after AP summer classes.”
AP classes? Is she exploiting a high schooler?!
The woman sighed. “But I can’t complain. We’ve been through a bit of a dry spell, but finally have new clients in the Meryton, and they’re all mighty happy as pigs in a poke. Now, you make sure you recommend our services to all your friends in need.” She looked completely relaxed in her procurement of clientele for the family business.
The man leaned into the mother and said, “I’ve heard your Lizzy is also a big hit with the fellas at the Meryton.”
“Darlin’, she has clients all over the world. Why, the boys are just comin’ outta the woodwork for her and payin’ top-dollar. If you ask me, every man might could benefit from my Lizzy’s talent.”
“I sure could.”
“You? Aw shug, surely not you.”
“As you say, every man could use a refresher. I’m not getting any younger, you know, and I need a few tricks up my sleeve to keep Marge happy these days.”
“Bless your heart. Lizzy’s booked solid from now until Christmas, and doesn’t usually engage with married men but, for you, my Lizzy might feel mighty neighborly. I’ll see if she can squeeze you in at your apartment next week. You’ll see, once Lizzy’s done with you, Marge’ll be singing your praises, rememberin’ the young, charmin’ stud she married.”
“I’m counting on it, but I’d rather we meet somewhere else. I don’t want the missus to know.”
“Of course! She meets her men at the Library on Madison Avenue.”
Darcy’s eyes widened, and he almost overflowed the wineglass. Disgusting! Her mother is pimping her out right here at the after hour, happy hour. “Maybe that’s why they call it a happy hour. What’s next? ‘Blow off some steam, orgy under the stars’,” he wondered under his breath.
But damn. This Lizzy sounded, um...like he needed to meet her—for research, of course. She could be prime book material. Maybe he could interview her because UPlay had a meager collection of videos regarding the life of an independent call-girl. Hell, he’d dedicate an entire chapter to the woman’s “talent.” Chuckling, he shook his head. “Talent, indeed.”
“Did you say something?” a woman to his right asked.
He turned to face her, standing only inches from him. The beauty’s million-watt smile and the flash in her hazel eyes struck him like a forked lightning bolt. “Um...no. I um...excuse me, I have to give my drink a date...over there, not here, but over there. The wine...her wine,” he stammered, brushing past her.
Affected more than he’d willingly acknowledge, he attempted to strut without spilling the drink on his way back to Gigi on the opposite side of the courtyard. He tripped on the stone paver but caught himself before dropping the glasses. “Way to play it cool, Darcy.”
“What did she say?” Gigi asked, taking the full wine glass from his hand.
“Who?”
“The one with legs to the moon. You work fast, dude. Apart from almost falling on your ass, you totally finessed it. That’s one of the two daughters who whacked poor old Mrs. Phillips with a snub nose in the stairwell.”
His head snapped up, gaze raking over the leggy brunette wearing a strapless, floral summer dress revealing toned arms and a shapely figure. “I thought you said they drowned the woman before hacking her into pieces.” He gave her the fisheye.
“Did I? I must have remembered wrong. I’m sure it was a pistol.”
“Some informant you turned out to be. Did you at least get her name?” he asked.
“Liz. The other one is Jane, the pretty blonde standing by the rosebush. The three other sisters aren’t here. Prolly out working the streets.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. That’s what my friend Gio said—you know the Italian guy in 1C I told you about?”
His heart sunk. Not only was the prostitute a certified knock-out, of course she had to be in her line of work, but she was also a—suspected—cold-blooded murderer. Maybe that was the method employed for most of her slayings. Perhaps there were others: crimes of passion, robberies gone bad, jealous wives. Perchance the old woman in 2C got in the way, found something out about them, threatened to call the vice squad on the family business. He should follow this Lizzy to the library! Yes. Definitely. The library. Of all places to sex romp with her tricks: the book stacks! The woman must have a book fetish. Talk about irony?
Man, he needed a computer right this very minute before all these plot ideas disappeared in the bottom of his plastic wine goblet.
“Your writer friend also knows about the murder?” he asked.
“Sure, I think everyone does. He has an idea for a book about them. Dude, you deadass need to start the story before he scoops ya.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time someone did that. You didn’t tell this Gio guy who your brother was, did you?”
“Duh. Of course not. I want him to like me for me, not for you!”
“Good, and I changed my mind. I wanna meet this Gio.”
She glanced around the courtyard, then shrugged. “He’s gone. I guess he got the writing bug. You know how that is. Oh, wait...ya don’t.”
“Smart-ass.”
Gigi fiendishly grinned.
“I gotta say, I think your cat friend is spot-on about their profession. I heard it directly from the mother’s lips. This little meet-and-greet is a marketing ruse to solicit new clients for the Meryton Arms red-light sex business,” he said.
“Then...go for it.”
“Go for what?”
“You want information, and she is attractive. And you probably need to get laid.”
“You’re outta your frigging mind.”
“Oh, please. Don’t throw shade...Alex. You write about this stuff all the time. What would Logan do?”
Exactly what Charlie expects me to do. Shag her rotten. Make her my muse. Write the damn book.
“I’m not that kind of guy, Gigi. I don’t give consequence to women other men pay for and I’m not easy, contrary to your assertion.”
She chortled. “Bull! Hooking up with her is an investment in your book, money well spent. It’ll help your writing process and stoke your love life—two things you are in dire need of.”
“Ha ha. I don’t need that kind of help in the bedroom. I need help to try to keep women out of it!”
“Well, you better do something because my friend is determined to put their story on paper. It’s dog-eat-dog in the publishing world—at least that’s what Gio says.”
He glanced up at the woman in question, and their eyes met.
She flashed a blinding smile.
He smiled back.
“That’s it. Work it, Alex,” Gigi teased.
“Shut up.”
Long, slender legs on four-inch heels sashayed toward him in slow motion. The breeze licked Liz’s shoulder-length, dark-chocolate hair, and the world shifted on its axis in some kind of time continuum.
“Hi,” she greeted in a breathy, sultry voice.
His great wordsmithing brain froze.
“Hello?” she repeated, tilting her head and knitting her brow.
“H-hi,” he stammered.
Again, she warmly smiled. “I thought I knew everyone at Meryton...”
I bet you do.
“But I’ve never seen you before. Did you just move in?” she said.
“No, I...um...am visiting my sister for the weekend. She’s recently moved in.”
“Welcome to the Meryton Arms. I’m Liz Bennet in Building A, 2C.”
“Hi...sorry, I said that already.” He uncomfortably chuckled, running his free hand through his hair. “I’m Will. I mean, Alex...Tobin.”
“Which is it, Will or Alex or Tobin. Or is Alex your middle name and Will your first or maybe you go by both, or maybe it’s Tobin and we’re going last name first in introductions, like a Bond, James Bond type of thing?”
“Funny. It’s Alex Tobin.”
“Then it’s nice to meet you, Alex Tobin.”
“And you as well.”
She seems nice, if not well-practiced in her charms, but then most murderers are convivial psychopaths.
“Do you live here in the city?” she asked.
“No. I just arrived this afternoon from Boston.”
The killer-dame scanned the garden, then took a sip of her martini. “I’ve lived in this apartment complex my whole life. Boy, I sure can tell you where the bodies are buried.”
He nearly sprayed his cabernet, breaking into a cough.
“Are you okay?”
“It’s nothing. I just heard...(cough)...there were a few murders at the Meryton.” Smooth, real smooth. Idiot.
“Ah, the Meryton Arms rumor mill. They sure don’t waste time. You’re not here more than a few hours and you’re already dialed in on the gossip.” She chuckled, leaning toward him, filling his lungs with a honeysuckle scent. Her perfect pink lips tickled his ear when she spoke. “Pro tip. Don’t believe everything you hear, especially about murders.”
Of course, she’d say that.
And then she confirmed it. Liz looked away, brushing the hair from her shoulder. Any crime fiction author worth his salt could pick up on a woman’s tell.
Clearly unable to hold eye contact with him, her body language gave away her guilt. And what a body. It spoke to him in more than one way, but he reminded himself of Fatal Attraction Reagan and the trouble her body got him into.
He, on the other hand, long mastered his body language despite her heaving...Keep your eyes locked on her face. He struggled with the manly instinctual pull to travel south. “I...um only heard good things about Meryton, despite your body—I mean, the dead body,” he recovered.
“Yeah. It’s a nice place to live. Most everyone is friendly and meet-ups like this foment genuine community when the chips are down for some of our elder residents. I hope you enjoy your visit with your sister.”
There was so much to like about her, and in any other situation—where she wasn’t a prostie or murderer—he might consider getting to know her as just some ordinary guy and girl, but this was official business for his book and more than likely a solicitation for potential clients on her part! At a loss for words, he awkwardly smiled, which usually put women at ease. When she smiled back, he knew he was affecting her in a good, not creepy, way.
But then, she sympathy-touched his arm, making him feel like some rando loser after all. “Do I make you nervous?”
“Um...no.” He took a sip of wine.
“I’m glad. So, what do you do for a living?” she asked.
“I’m a...in insurance, and you?”
“I’m a consultant.”
Is that what they’re calling themselves now? “In what industry?”
She prevaricated, obviously considering how to answer. “The service industry.”
“That’s pretty broad. Hospitality or personal?”
“Well...both. I’m definitely in the hospitality industry,” she said, brushing the waves from her shoulder again.
He chuckled and leaned toward her. “Now, I’m really curious. You’re awfully cryptic about your career.”
A sexy blush rose to her cheeks—definitely another tell.
“I have to be. Some people look down their nose at what I do. In my profession, anonymity and confidentiality between my clients and me are sacrosanct. Bragging is sacrilegious.”
“That’s commendable these days, with everyone virtue signaling and posting their every movement on social media.”
“I’m not on social media. Food porn has no appeal to me.”
Porn, too? “You do know, I’m going to guess what your profession is, right?”
Smiling, she batted her long lashes. “Try as you might, I won’t give it up and I’m confident you’ll never guess.”
“Don’t be so sure. If you won’t tell people what you do for a living, how do you advertise?”
“I don’t. Potential clients just find me, or I meet them at a party, word of mouth, friend referrals, even neighbors in the Meryton, to which I owe my mother’s excessive pride in her five daughters.”
“I can relate to your mother’s need to tell everyone how special her kids are. I have a talented sister and brag about her, too,” he pandered.
“Ah, but my mother is southern, and that takes bragging to a whole other level. She’s my biggest fan, though. Tell me about your sister.”
“She’s an amazing person with a vibrant spirit and heart of gold. We’re very close even if I’m the overprotective big brother and she’s a smartass Zoomer who has more brains than I’ll ever have. She was a gifted child and now a gifted fledgling actress. I guess you could say I’m her biggest fan.”
“Such a glowing description. I hope to meet her.”
“She’s around here somewhere.”
“And is she your biggest fan?”
“I don’t know. I know she looks up to me, but that’s probably because there’s a thirteen-year age difference between us.”
“Maybe you’re her hero big brother.” She lightly laughed with provocative innocence, flipping his heart. “See, God gives us all unique talents and gifts. You’re a caring brother and an attractive insurance consultant who helps safeguard your clients’ future. She’s a bright light filled with sisterly love and goodness, and I help single men achieve their dreams.”
Jeez, why don’t you come right out with it? She just blew whatever cover she thought she had. This chick actually thinks she’s God’s gift to men!
“Ah, so you just tipped your hat there.”
“No, I didn’t.” She laughed, shaking her head. She seemed to like this old-fashioned game of What’s My Line.
“I’d like to hire you,” he unintentionally blurted. WTF are you saying?
“But you don’t know what I do for a living.”
“Maybe I already know, and I’m just pulling your leg. Maybe someone in Meryton Arms recommended you.”
“That’s certainly possible, but they don’t know the half of what I do for my clients, and I don’t mean to offend you or be disrespectful, but my services aren’t cheap. My consulting fees range between two and five hundred an hour depending upon your desires. Sometimes, I’m asked to stay for an entire week and that runs about ten grand.”
He swallowed hard. “Dollars?”
“Actually, I prefer to be paid in Bitcoin.”
Oh, yeah. High-class, professional prostie. Jeez, now he’s even talking like his sister!
Petting his chin, he considered Gigi’s position on the matter. Yeah, it could prove advantageous, an investment in book “research,” but could it be tax deductible? Maybe Charlie will reimburse him. He did, after all, promise his friend to do everything in his power to finish the book. At any rate, Liz’s talents could help him overcome his writer’s block or at the very least release some tension. He didn’t actually have to take her to bed, but he could pick her brain once the cat was out of the bag.
“I’m not insulted, and I can afford it,” he said.
“And you’re single, right?”
“Very.”
“In that case—to be frank—I’m glad I trusted my instinct by coming over to talk with you. I’m sure you’re aware how important first im-pressions are, and in my professional experience, you appear to lack confidence when faced with a woman. After stumbling over yourself by telling me your drink needed a date, I thought you might need some of my expertise. If you’ll allow me, it would be an honor to help you overcome your nerves and uncertainty with the opposite sex.”
What? She’d be honored to have sex with me? “Excellent,” he said.
He didn’t know if he should be insulted or pleased to have secured an “interview” because of whatever the woman saw lacking in him. It was her fault he was tongue tied...and...and the ground was uneven! Apart from stress relief, he had absolutely no need to pay for a hook-up or had any uncertainty about sex, women, or anything else! He was confident his year-long—self-imposed—celibacy and his minor sexual frustration didn’t show! The woman didn’t know what she was talking about!
“Great! Sundays are usually my date off, but since you’re visiting the city for only a few days we could meet then. If that’s okay,” she said.
“That works. What exactly is entailed?”
“On our first consult, we’ll discuss your impediments, and you’ll fill out a questionnaire and go over servicing options...”
Questionnaire for a roll in the hay? Jeez, even prostitution has been turned on its head these days. Do they now use Hold Harmless in case sex gets rough or Non-Disclosure Agreements to avoid scandal?
“This way I will have a better idea of what position to take when helping you get through your moves. Together, we’ll work on...” she glanced around them, then whispered, again touching his arm. “Well...you know...technique.”
Yeah, he knew. I do just fine in the ‘technique’ department.
“Sounds good. I would, um...” he swallowed. “Like the works.”
“Not a problem. We’ll discuss pricing on Sunday. Well, I should mingle. It’s been so nice to meet and talk with you, Alex.” She reached into her dress pocket and removed a business card. “Since texting is so impersonal and the antithesis of everything I believe and practice in my profession, please call me to set a time for Sunday.”
“Sure. Do you take your fee upfront?”
“Not until we’ve consummated our relationship.” Her grin reached her expressive eyes. “You know, I have to say...I’m truly looking forward to working with you. I think, well, I hope, you’ll be pleased with my services.”
His gaze stayed fixed on her luscious lips, fighting the pull to travel downward. “I’m sure I’ll be very pleased. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He glanced down at the card. “For Men Only” Elizabeth Bennet, Personal Consultant
**
After relinquishing the window bed to Darcy’s inspired need to write, Gigi volunteered to sleep on a blow-up mattress in the second room—the one with the window a/c. At half-past one in the morning, he sat with his back against the wall, furiously typing away on the laptop keys lit only by the computer screen glow. Yes, he paid attention to Gigi’s opinions about the blue light cycadean rhythm disruption and all that other oxidative shit she went on about, but he needed to get his thoughts out before the plot bunny disappeared into the weeds. On occasion, he’d stop and gaze out the open windows to 2C across the courtyard. Black silhouettes against the pulled shades teased him. My muse is still awake.
In fact, several tenants were still awake. Some apartments had shades, others like him, were on full display, but with the lights on. He agreed with Gigi that in this heat, curtains restricted the flow of air. Still, the view was a veritable Rear Window: A gamer dude, a midnight-munching chick, and a book-reading woman wearing a pink polka dot bathrobe burned the midnight oil. He wondered if they could see him in the blue light.
Gigi was right about a lot of things today, just not the murder weapon. The writer’s block had disappeared with the introduction of the two murdering hookers.
Although taken aback by the leggy vixen, Logan kept his cool. He lit a cigarette, gaze riveted to her shapely figure as he tried to draw a bead on her. There was no way around the effect she had on him. She was more than attractive; she exuded raw sex-appeal from her demure, wholesomeness. But he knew, he always knew, with these kinds of women. Underneath the classy persona laid a wild tigress waiting to caterwaul for the right price from the right alpha male. She wasn’t a run-of-the-mill cheap streetwalker; she was one of those high-class escorts corporate moguls paid to wine, dine, and fulfill every fantasy for a cool one thousand an hour. Logan also knew Beth Jamison had witnessed the murder of a polarizing and veteran United States Senator.
He wasn’t so naïve to believe her an innocent bystander to the crime. Not on your life; he suspected her profession was only a cover to her career as a gun-for-hire.
Across the ballroom, he acutely watched her work the crowd in search of her next political victim.
Despite the nagging guilt over his voyeurism, he couldn’t help glancing back to the white-shaded window. The light switched off. She’s going to bed.
But she wasn’t.
Exiting the apartment into the lit hallway, she locked the door, then walked toward the staircase, body disappearing with each step down.
“Who leaves at one-thirty in the morning? In the city that never sleeps, on-call personal consultants, that’s who.”
To curtain or not curtain, ethics over inspiration? These were very important things to consider. Whatever Alex Logan would do, he’d do the opposite.
**
Being lucky was a matter of viewpoint when considering the Bennet family’s rent-controlled three-bedroom dwelling in the Meryton Arms apartment complex. Not every gift was a blessing. The lure of remaining tethered to an inherited apartment where the rent hardly raised a mere three percent each year was an undeniable boon. However, when faced with a family of seven living in said apartment, not such a lucky thing. A second-floor apartment in the West Village of Manhattan was highly sought after. In fact, all apartments in the Meryton were so coveted that hopeful denizens searched the obituaries for available rental listings. It paid to know who had just “vacated” an apartment and who the next of kin was. However, in Liz and Jane’s situation, they knew before anyone else—even the classifieds—when Mrs. Phillips in 2C had vacated. They sublet the apartment two days after the funeral.
“Did you hear that?” Elizabeth asked, turning to the open windows overlooking the courtyard below.
“How could I not? Her southern charm is at it again,” Jane said with a chuckle. “Who’s her prey this time?”
Elizabeth snorted and walked toward the conversation outside. She peered below. Another snort left her lips, observing how their mother posed on the chaise lounge. The woman’s floppy sun hat cast a shadow upon her face—but sadly not enough to cover up her ample bosom spilling from a bikini top. She shamelessly flirted with the superintendent of the building, standing over her and staring unabashedly at her assets. The woman’s gifts worked overtime; they had to. This was serious business.
“It’s Foster, again, and she’s eating his attention up.”
“I would be, too,” Jane sighed. “Even from Foster. Heck, I’ll settle for Bill Collins at the rate I’m going.”
Their mother’s drawl carried upward through the open window. “Oh, Fostah, I just adore the new ceiling fan you installed for me. It came in handy last night. You are such a dear.”
“Anything for you, Mrs. B. Just don’t tell the other residents in the building. Um...You’ve been so attentive after Jennifer left. It’s the least I could do,” the super replied, followed by a lick to his lips and gaze over her legs.
“Aw, shugah, she didn’t know a good thing when she had it. What you need is a mature woman, not some clueless, flat-chested teenager. I told you time and again, that girl was too young for you. What does a nineteen-year-old know about pleasin’ a thirty-year-old hunk?”
The much younger man ran his hand through his hair and Elizabeth could see his train of thought written all over his quirky smile. Cougar. Except for the Italian Gio loser in the next building and the gay guy in 1A, their mama played all the men at Meryton like a fiddle. A few compliments, a ton of flirtatious innuendo, and the implied promise of a little side hustle got her a new refrigerator, three air conditioners, and a remodeled kitchen because no building management company would ever be willing to upgrade a century-old rent-controlled apartment. She was currently positioning for a new bathroom, and boy was she working it. Their mama was not only a shrewd, self-employed business woman but also proficient in her artful indecency—and made a mean peach cobbler! Their geriatric-physician father wholeheartedly approved of her methods—all for the family’s benefit, of course.
With an angelic smile, Jane said, “Well, Mama is working her God-given gifts. Better her than me. Why, I just can’t take on another client whose needs far outweigh anything I can do. It’s exhausting watching them lie there expecting miracles to shoot from my hands.”
Elizabeth snorted. “And don’t look at me! I only work with single men, not divorcees. I give Mama credit, though. Her new kitchen has a built-in cooktop now. Still, she shouldn’t lay it on so thick. You know how rumors go in this complex.”
“True. We’ve come through a lot these last few months,” Jane said.
“Are you working again tonight?”
“Sort of. I promised one of my clients I’d spend the night until his wife returns from her sister’s tomorrow. How about you? Are you going out of town again?”
“Yes. After last night’s party and the late-night appointment with the bartender I told you about, I’m flying out tomorrow night for Vegas, but first I’m planning on a lunch-time client rendezvous at the Library.”
“Ooh, Sin City! Please take me!”
“I wish I could, but I’ll be so busy. The client is crazy desperate and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Apparently, my services came highly recommended.”
“Then why the objection?”
“I’ve seen him. As Mama would say, ‘He could eat corn through a picket fence.’ Poor guy is just not an attractive man—at all! Think Bill Collins ugly only with buck teeth. It’s gonna take a lot outta me.” She sighed.
“I’m sorry, hun.”
“Jane, I’m getting burned out. Miami last week, Chicago the week before, but if I can just hold on until December, I’ll have enough to buy us a condo on the Upper West Side in the spring.”
“I feel the same way about my work, too. We must stay focused with a smile, though. We don’t want Daddy to worry. He has enough on his plate.” Jane walked to the window and look down at their mother. “Speaking of good-looking men, tell me about the guy you were talking to last night. Is he a new resident?”
“I don’t know who you are referring to,” she lied.
“The one with great hair and a smile that could stop a girl’s heart. I noticed how your smile stayed firmly in place. I think you even blushed once or twice.”
“Oh, him,” she deadpanned, unwilling to tip her hat.
“You totally didn’t look so blasé at the time. Why did you give him your card?”
“Because he...because I...well, just because.”
“Oh! You liked him!”
“His name is Alex.” She shrugged. “He seemed like a nice guy. There was something suavely cool yet simultaneously spazzy about him, which I found to be...sweet. I caught him talking to himself. So, I determined he could benefit from F.M.O. That’s it.”
“Really. In that brief conversation, you could flush out his need for your services because he said something to himself? Funny, I didn’t get that vibe about him at all. From where I stood, I determined him to be a confident man spellbound by my gorgeous sister.”
“He wasn’t, Jane.”
“You’re in denial. Maybe, like always, you’re just nitpicking the man’s quirks so you can correct them with your brand of T.L.C and feminine mystique.”
Did she just go there? Playfully affronted, she put her palm on her heart. “I’m hurt, Janie.”
“It’s true, Lizzy. Your standards are too high. You’d throw that sexy man out of bed for eating crackers.”
“I will not—I mean, would not! Even if what you say is true, I can’t think about dating right now. He’s interested in becoming a paying client. That’s what matters.”
“Did you consider that maybe he wants to pay so he can get to know you or mayyyybe, you sought him out as an excuse to get to know him? You know, if you service him, you just may discover he has what it takes and may end up being the one to touch where no man has yet to.”
“You’ve got this all wrong. No one is going to touch me there! I don’t get involved with clients. Period.”
“It’s a shame. I mean, all you do for and to them...how can they not fall in love with you?”
“Who knows, maybe they do, but I’m gone after a few days with a smile on my face and a stash of crypto in my account. I’m not getting paid to fall in love, and I have to keep my eye on the prize—the condo.” She chuckled. “But you’re right, it is a shame that I have to get paid to make a single straight man happy and feel pleasure when in a woman’s company.”
“I hate to ask, but does he have a brother?”
“A sister. She lives somewhere in the complex.” Liz gazed across to the opposite building, considering that the potential client was somewhere out there—close by.
Movement in the second-floor window caught her eye. “Lordy, would you look at that?” Although unable to see his face, she raised her eyebrows at the lickable six-pack abs and bare chest facing out for her appreciation. The guy’s well-worn blue jeans hung dangerously low on his hips as he reached up to hang curtains. “Well, ain’t he fit as a fiddle,” she said in awe.
“Hello! You-hoo! Don’t hang those curtains,” Jane called out to the open window.
The guy bent to pick something up.
“Oh. My. Gosh, Lizzy—that’s the hot guy from last night!”
They both dropped to the floor in a fit of laughter.
“This is terrible! They’re not supposed to be that good-looking. I am so screwed,” she said.
“Damn, he might teach you a thing or two! Take the job for free, Sista!”
Liz play-slapped Jane.
**
Okay, so he caved to the angel on his shoulder. Gigi was not going to be happy, but her safety was far more important than his inspiration for a book. And it wasn’t as if he’d hung thick draperies. Yellow sheers, delivered this morning along with a high-velocity cooling fan, suited the apartment and lent it just enough barrier from peering eyes—including his! He may write about creeps, but he wasn’t one.
He sat on the bed, looking at the hookers’ 2C window, then back down to the courtyard: the scene of the crime.
Somewhere in this garden, a crime was about to take place.
Beth’s wavy hair blew in the breeze, preventing Logan from taking action. His hand itched to pull the pistol from its holster, but he held back, letting the situation play out as she wanted. He could always defend himself and neutralize her in other ways. Her weapons were deadly enough for any unsuspecting man, but he could handle her without letting his libido or heart get in the way of taking her out if need be.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she said.
Spellbound by her shiny lips shimmering under the Edison strands in the moonlight, he said, “And why’s that?”
“You think me so inexperienced that I can’t tell when a man desires me?”
Allowing the characters to steer the course of his writing on this one was turning out to be problematic. With twelve thousand words in the can from his all-night creative purge, his muse turned Death Knell from a crime thriller into a romance suspense. Alex Logan was becoming the very character he swore he wouldn’t write.
Abruptly, he stopped typing and picked up his phone, pressing the numbers from Liz’s business card.
“Hello,” she answered.
“Hi. Um...it’s Alex Tobin. We talked...I mean met, well we talked, too, last night at the happy hour. Do you remember me? Probably not. I mean, you meet, um...a lot of men.” He shook his head. Dick head!
“Oh, hi! Of course, I remember you, Alex. I’m so glad you called. I was just telling my sister about you this morning.”
“Not having second thoughts, I hope.”
“Not at all. I...um am looking forward to working on—I mean with you—with you.”
Is she nervous?
“How does lunch at noon sound?” she said.
Interesting. “Sure. Where should we meet?”
“I meet all my clients at the Library on Madison Avenue. It’s just a block from Grand Central Station.”
“The library. Are you a bibliophile?”
She chuckled. “Absolutely! I am a total book junkie. Apart from my profession, I can find no greater enjoyment than reading. That’s why I chose the location!”
“It must be awkward with the books and all, to keep your mind on the job at hand.”
“No, not really. There’s something incredibly inspiring about doing what I do surrounded by great literary masters.” She lowered her voice, as though sharing a secret. “Actually, sometimes I get a little distracted and imagine myself as a librarian.”
Again, with the irony. He pushed the thought of her wearing glasses and a business suit, leading him into the stacks for a meaty novel, then getting it on with her below a row of his books under the D section. Clearing his throat, he said, “I, um, what genre do you read?”
“Mostly fiction, everything except romance novels. I live and breathe romance 24/7, three-sixty-five so, I have no desire to read about it, too. Sometimes a good murder is just what this girl needs.”
If he didn’t know any better, he’d believe this was a cruel—yet effective—joke orchestrated by Charlie to get him to write. In fact, Gigi would conspire with him. Maybe cosmic forces were at work here. Nah.
“How about you? Are you an avid reader?” she asked.
“Definitely. Are you familiar with Will Darcy’s crime novels?”
“Who hasn’t! Oh, my goodness!—he’s a fabulous author—a real suspense genius! So far, I only read his first, Shatter Proof, but I couldn’t put it down!”
Genius? Yeah, maybe. “Definitely Darcy’s best book. I, too, enjoy a good murder mystery.”
“Ha! Are you talking Darcy’s books or back to Mrs. Phillips?” She laughed evilly. “I promise I won’t kill you in the same manner. I’ll be infinitely more creative.
Oh, yeah, guilty as hell if she could joke about it like this.
“Both. If you don’t mind satisfying my curiosity, what was your method of killing? How’d you pull it off, ya know, whacking the old woman?”
She chuckled. “It was very easy. I lured the poor dear to the building stairwell under the premise of assisting her with her groceries. When we reached the top, I threw the bags, then her, down the stairs.”
Stunned by her confession, his skin prickled, hearing the pleasure she derived from the kill. Evil, evil woman. “That was extremely calculating of you, but I heard you and your sister used a pistol—or was it a cleaver?”
“The rumor mill always gets the details wrong. Jane wasn’t there. She’s too sweet to murder someone, and those weapons were entirely inappropriate—too messy to even consider. I arranged for Mrs. Phillips to fall on her groceries—with not a droplet of blood in sight—a few broken eggs but nothing that screamed ‘homicide’ to the detectives when they came sniffing around. In fact, they declared her fall down the steps totally plausible. It happens all the time with older adults in these walk-ups.”
“I’m impressed, but why’d you do it? Was she interfering with your family business?”
“Oh dear, no! She was a client. I killed her for the rent-controlled apartment, of course.”
A client! Is the father a gigolo? “Wow. All for an apartment. That’s pretty cold-hearted. Will Darcy would be impressed, maybe write it into a book. I’m surprised a nice girl like you doesn’t have any guilt over it.”
“Me? Nice? Nah. She was a nice lady, but I had to do it. You try living with four sisters in a tiny apartment. It’ll make you do things you never thought you’d do. As for guilt, I assuage it by keeping Mrs. Phillip’s ashes in a pretty Art Deco box on my fireplace mantle.”
A psychopath murderer’s ultimate trophy! The body itself. Is she joking about all this or truth telling through a beaming smile I could see through the phone?
“You’re not having second thoughts about our luncheon date, are you?” she innocently asked.
“Not on your life. What’s living without a little danger now and then?”
“Great! Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’m looking forward to it, Liz.”
“Me, too.”
He clicked off the phone, then went back to writing.
As Logan skulked around Beth’s open-space loft apartment, he pieced her life together, developing a psychological profile of the suspected murderess. Orderly to the point of obsessive. No attachments to speak of, evidenced by missing photographs or anything of a personal nature. She organized her clothing closet by color, length, and style. Professional suits, mostly gray and black, and little black dresses made up the totality of her hanging apparel. High heels sat at the bottom of the closet in a long row. The neatly made king size bed hugged one of the seven large windows overlooking the Hudson River.
Damned if he couldn’t stop himself from smoothing his hand over the soft coverlet. What things had she done on this bed...in this place? He hated that his emotions were piqued, and his curiosity was more about her, the femme fetale, than about solving the crime.
A lone article stuck to the refrigerator caught his attention. “Senator Found Nude and Shot in Bathtub.”
He walked into the living space, gaze falling to the book on the coffee table: a murder mystery. Thumbing through the pages, he stopped at a dog-eared page and read.
There was no way around the truth staring Logan in the face. She did it. The cold-hearted beauty had shot the senator in the tub.
**
Logan was always late, but Darcy prided himself on punctuality and for a date with a killer-prostie-turned-muse, he made damn sure he was early and mentally on his game.
He dressed for the occasion, wearing a navy suit and light blue open-collar shirt. Sure, he believed their meeting was at the NYPL, but somehow jeans and a t-shirt seemed sleazy given the cost of the hook-up. Standing at the corner of Forty-first and Madison Avenue, he chuckled about the venue for their luncheon assignation. To his surprise, the Library was not a library with a small L, but the Library Hotel. Of course, it was! What a dumbass he’d been believing anyone would pay for sex in the book stacks of the NYPL! Okay, he clearly agreed to it and maybe rabid readers with book fetishes would, too. Hell, some of his female fans no doubt would! Years ago, his mentor, an old-school detective with the Boston Police Department, once said, “If you can think it, it’s been done.” At this point in his literary career, nothing surprised him and getting laid within the hardbacks was tame to some things he’d researched and wrote. At least he dressed appropriately.
He entered the boutique hotel into a dimly lit, wooden bookcase-lined reception area and smiled to the clerk. “I’m waiting for someone,” he said, turning his back to the floor-to-ceiling card catalog behind the desk to appreciate the painting in the lounge.
“Make yourself comfortable. Miss Lizzy is runnin’ late,” the older southern woman said.
“Did she telephone?”
“Oh, no. She’s always very punctual when meetin’ clients. Although, you look a might different from most of the fellas she entertains.”
“And the hotel doesn’t mind catering to her profession?”
“Why should we? Her uncle is the owner. Why, she comes and goes at all hours to accommodate her clients’ time constraints. The hotel is centrally located, especially for those men taking public transportation.”
Jeez, this is some family. The uncle’s in on it, too!
Still, he couldn’t figure where whacking the old woman came into it all. Surely, it couldn’t be so simple—so diabolical—as wanting the second-floor apartment. When it came to murdering hookers who kept body trophies, Occam’s Razor had no play here.
He heard the door open and turned to see a flushed Liz enter. A loose side ponytail cascaded her waves over one shoulder.
Classically demure, yet simultaneously alluring, she looked stunning, just as he imagined Beth Jamison would dress, right down to the coincidental light-grey fitted suit, bubble-gum pink blouse, and high heels. Long, shapely legs sauntered toward him. She was the sexiest librarian he’d ever laid eyes on.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she breathed. “St. Agnes church had a baby’s baptism before the final blessing, and I just couldn’t leave such a special event. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
A religious prostitute attending a church named for a saintly virgin martyred for purity. You can’t make this stuff up!
“No worries. The clerk let me know you were delayed. I’ve only been waiting about fifteen minutes.”
“A punctual man! That’s a rarity these days! You’re off to a great start, Alex.” She scanned him from top to bottom, then smiled. “And a suit—that makes you two for two. Most clients dress like slobs, but you look very handsome. Blue is your color.”
“Thanks. My aunt impressed upon me that when a man meets with a woman, no matter the occasion or circumstance, he should respect her worth and present himself at his best by dressing well.”
“I’m flattered, and I like your aunt. I see she’s familiar with steps seven, eight, and nine of F.M.O, which will save us time.”
F.M.O? “If it’s alright with you, I’d rather not rush through our afternoon together. I’m paying for the works—remember?”
Again, she smiled, resting her hand on his forearm. Her sparkling eyes softened, and he stared at her plump lips when she said, “Don’t worry. We’ll take it as slow as you like. My goal is to make you comfortable and help you achieve maximum gratification. I’ll make sure you get your money’s worth and leave with a smile and head high.”
It’s already on its way. “That’s my goal, too.”
“Great! We’re on the same page. My whole afternoon is devoted to you and unveiling the man beneath your tailored suit.”
Of course, she’d devote the whole afternoon; she was getting paid by the hour.
Liz turned to the clerk. “Kathy, what room do you recommend today?”
“The pick is yours, Miss Lizzy. Most of our guests have checked out.”
“Well then, I’ll let the client decide. Would you like to get down to business inside or out, Alex?”
Suddenly, the reality of going through with sex hit him. He didn’t think there was a way around the inevitability and reminded himself—it was for research. He was Logan, after all, and she was Death Knell’s femme fetale. Hang ups be damned; he got himself into this situation and now he had to screw his way out of it. Dickhead.
Research would not be the bane of his career choice today. Yes, he’d relish it and do exactly what Charlie expected: write about the best damn sex of his life. Still...hooking up for the sake of getting laid, especially with a prostitute, wasn’t his bag. He wasn’t that guy...but he’d have to get over his self-loathing afterward.
“You choose the room, which inspires you the most,” he said, although being “inside” when outside in Midtown Manhattan had a daring erotic appeal to it, turning him inside out at the thought.
Damn! He either had to fight his libido harder or give into it and file the entire research experience in the “indecorous things I never thought I’d do” folder.
“Kathy? Are there any events up on the fourteenth floor?” she asked.
“Nothin’, darlin’. It’s all yours if you want it.”
“Absolutely! Please let the kitchen know. Follow me, Alex. You’re in for a real treat. Since it’s such a gorgeous day, we’ll have our first date on the Writer’s Den terrace on the rooftop. You’ll love it there.”
Surely, someone is punking me, big time.
The elevator doors opened, and he stepped aside to allow Liz’s entrance before him. She looked at him oddly, a smile spreading on her lips. Perhaps all those etiquette lessons Aunt Catherine sent him for were paying off. Few women cared about shit like that, and most needed their own lessons on courtesy. Some would even get their panties in a wad over gentlemanly overtures, but Liz seemed to appreciate the effort.
Small, hardly described the size of the elevator, but he didn’t mind his left arm brushing against Liz’s right side even if it stoked provocative images in his mind’s eye. Still, he turned to face her so as not to make her uncomfortable by invading her personal space. The compulsive in him held back on pressing the stop button during its slow, squeaking ascent to the fourteenth floor. Whether a conscious ploy or not, being in such proximity to his prey did unexpected things to him. Clearly her intent, she had arrived at the hotel with weapons cocked for maximum damage: sweet honeysuckle scent and full lips kissed by pink lipstick. Pink tinted her cheeks in an innocent blush. Shortly, he would be wearing pink, too.
“You’re staring at me, Alex.”
“Sorry. Tight space.” He shoved his hands in his pant pockets and looked up at the ceiling vent.
“I don’t mind,” she said.
“I...I was admiring your hair,” and how it shows your kissable neck and earlobe. “It looks pretty like that.”
“Thank you,” she quietly said.
Promptly diverting his gaze, he stared at the digital number five, but sensed her burning stare upon him.
“Now, you’re the one staring.” He smirked.
“I’m sorry.” A gentle pant left her lips.
“I definitely don’t mind.”
“You...are you wearing cologne?”
“Just aftershave.”
“It’s very nice.”
Floor nine passed in charged silence. His eyes switched from the floor indicator to Liz’s right index finger slowly twisting a tendril draped over her shoulder.
Their eyes met sparking a palpable magnetic current filling the elevator as though high voltage electricity crackled around them. Their gaze remained locked on the other, passing an indisputable charge.
And then...she did it: innocently—or not so innocently—batted her lashes before brushing the ponytail from her shoulder. His gaze dropped to her softly parted—oh so tempting—lips.
They both looked away, back to the digital floor number switched to twelve.
This was not supposed to happen—at all. Physical attraction to a high-class hooker was expected, but this type of chemistry was something entirely different. His pulse raced a mile a minute; his palms were slimy, and Willy was growing uncomfortably alert and looking for a play date. Damn.
“Fourteen!” she exclaimed, breaking the tension.
Again, he let her proceed him out onto the floor.
“You know, you’re making my job very easy, Alex.”
“Maybe I’ll do all the work today.”
“That was always the plan.”
The Writer’s Den was nothing like he imagined, having concluded the Dewey Decimal lobby signs designated themed bedroom suites, but this room was a very cool, inspiring place to kick back and read or write! And not an animal skin in sight.
“Well, what do you think?” she said, waving an arm upward from large windows to the arched solarium.
“Amazing venue.”
“Wait until you see the view from the balcony.”
He followed her to the door, holding it open for her. Not so much entranced by the flowers and rustic appeal overlooking the city, he was more occupied by the sway to her bottom in the fitted skirt and the sunlight shimmer on her dark hair.
“This is one of my favorite spots in the city. It helps my clients relax as they strip down to the basics,” she said.
“I can see why. It’s secluded enough.”
She placed her carry bag on a slotted, wooden lounge chair under an arbor of pink clematis, which he would have thought perfect, until determining the wood against his bare backside might be uncomfortable, not to mention the slots could prove catastrophic for his family jewels.
“Do you keep business in one location, or can we avail ourselves of the sofa beside the fireplace?” he asked.
“Anywhere you feel comfortable,” she said, removing her suit jacket.
Don’t look down. Don’t look down! Fighting the pull was hard. Everything about her made it hard.
“The server will bring us something to drink and whatever the cook feels like putting together for us. Are you hungry?”
He grinned, making a joke. “Are gourmet food and wait service part of ‘the works’ treatment?”
“Oh no. They’re complimentary. It’s surprising how many romantic moments involve food. Its usage is quite nuanced during intercourse and can be highly effective in attaining intimacy.”
“Then, yes. I’m hungry.” Following her lead, he removed his suit jacket and draped it over a chair.
“Where’s your phone?” she asked.
“My phone?” He reached toward his jacket. “Do you need to make a call?”
“No. Most of my clients keep it handy as a safety lifeline to their internet persona.”
“Ah, well, what you see is what you get.” No other personas other than Alex Logan and I have a publicist and a social media assistant who handle everything pertaining to him! “I don’t need my phone when in the company of others. Call me insane but I like to live the moment, and you’re central to this moment.”
Her face lit. “Goodness, that’s refreshing! And here I thought I was the only person on the planet who thought like that! Okay, next question: What’s your drink?” she asked, taking a seat in an armchair facing out to the city.
Sitting beside her, he said, “Casually, or when I’m on a date?”
“Good answer. I’m interested in what you would drink when on a first date, let’s say with...me.”
“With you? Just soda water. I’d like to keep my head.” No thanks to Reagan.
“Very good!”
“And you?” he asked.
“I don’t drink with clients, but I enjoy a glass of pinot noir after hours, which lately there are so few of, but I love my work, so it’s worth the abstinence.”
“But at the happy hour, you drank a martini.”
She looked taken aback by his observation and smiled thoughtfully. “Again, you surprise me. You remember details—that’s very good. Women appreciate a man who notices things, what they wore, what they drank, what they said.”
“I remember details because, as you said, first impressions are important, and in my profession forgotten details can make or break a manusc—insurance policy. And yes, everyone appreciates an attentive conversationalist.”
The server came and placed a charcuterie board and a couple glasses of sparkling water on the bistro table, then disappeared.
“You mentioned a questionnaire?” he said.
She sighed. “I’m not sure you need one.”
“Okay, but before we start, I have a confession to make.”
“Honesty. That’s also a novel idea these days. I’m happy to see you value authenticity.”
So, yeah, he had nothing to lose and everything to gain by being partially so. As far as she knew, he was a sharp-dressing rando not Will Darcy or even Alex Tobin and he’d never see—let alone sleep—with her again after leaving Manhattan for Boston. But the deception was suddenly making him uncomfortable; it’s not like he was catfishing her, just cautious given his history with bat-shit women, none of whom were murderers. Yeah, honesty here was good.
“I think it’s important to tell you, I’ve never done this type of thing before and...it’s been over a year since I, you know, was with a woman.”
“How come?”
Twisting his hands, he admitted, “Bad date. A few bad dates. Stalker bad ex-girlfriend ruined the whole intimacy thing for me,” he said. “I think I’m Fatal Attraction gun-shy.”
“Ah. I see that a lot, but most of the men who come to me for a reset didn’t have the necessary tools to begin with.”
Oh, I have the tools. That’s not the problem.
“But I can help you with that. In time, you’ll feel comfortable and confident for when the right woman comes along and you’re better equipped to make smarter decisions,” she said.
He unbuttoned the next button at his collar, nervously blurting like it was his first sexual encounter. “Okay, now that’s out, I’m ready. Are you ready? Should we talk some beforehand or just get to it? I think I’d like to talk some. It’s important to me.”
Liz rested her hand on his wrist. “Don’t be nervous. I won’t bite—or throw you over the railing.” She chuckled. “We have all day, and we’ll just start with the basics. Are you okay with telling me what you’re looking for in a partner?”
Not expecting the question, he blinked and then rose, walking to the table. Tell the truth or make something up?—that was the question!
“Sexually?” he asked.
“If that’s the only important thing to you, then okay, but I’m speaking in general terms. What traits do you hope your future wife embodies?”
He brought back his and Liz’s glass.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the drink from his hand.
“Is that really essential information you need before we get down to the reason we’re here?”
“Absolutely. It’ll help me immensely.”
He ran his hand through his hair. “What, like role playing?”
“If that’s what you would like.”
“Wow. Okay.” He turned to the city, then back to face her, deciding honesty was always best. “To be truthful, I’ve never given it much thought, always thinking marriage wasn’t for me, but I guess I’m just...” He released a breath. “...petrified. I would like to find someone to share dreams and adventures with. A partner who isn’t afraid to live life to its fullest, maybe on the edge once in a while, but she would also enjoy quiet nights at home or at the shore.” He looked over at her intrigued expression. “Not to sound sappy, but...I want to laugh with her, cook with her, and for her to be my muse and cherish family. But, more importantly, I want to be all those things and more for her to help make our life together the stuff of...I don’t know...clichéd, romantic dreams. Life is hard. I want to make hers happy.”
“You’re saying you’d be someone you’re not in order to make her happy?”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t a romantic. I just don’t show that side unless my heart tells me to.”
“Did you say cook?”
“Yeah, I did. I love playing around in the kitchen.”
“And...and what’s this about a muse?”
“What?”
“You said you want her to be your muse.”
“I...um, I’m a wanna-be writer in my spare time,” he fibbed.
“That’s wonderful! What do you write?”
“Mostly crap lately—nothing worth publishing.”
“I love books,” she dreamily said, eyes sparkling at even the thought of a book in her hands.
“I know. Me, too.” He chuckled.
Sitting beside her, he changed the topic. This was getting too real for him. He wasn’t here to be the interviewee or to divulge his emotional or professional secrets. “Enough about me and my commitment phobia and sentimental dreams. Tell me about you, Liz. Why do you do what you do? Is it that you just love men or had someone hurt you?”
Knitting her brow, she tilted her head, examining him like he crossed a line. “This is unexpected. No man ever asks about me until at least the sixth date in our working relationship and by then I’m walking out the door.” She sighed. “I guess that’s the nature of my profession. I’m there for them, not for me. Anyway...I maintain strict boundaries with my clients. So, it’s okay.”
“I can’t imagine that no one asks about you, but I guess I’m just an old-fashioned guy. If I’m going to engage in intercourse with a woman, I at least take some time to get to know her. Who she really is and what her desires are. The intimacy that follows should be memorable and purposeful. Shame on the man who doesn’t listen or take a genuine interest.” He meant that. Meaningless hook-ups when a younger guy had only made things worse in his life. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
As though a lightbulb clicked in her head, her eyes widened. She took a sip of water, then signaled the server.
“Joey, I’ll have a glass of house pinot noir.”
“I thought you didn’t drink when with clients?” he asked.
She looked him straight on, eyes burning into his. “You can’t be my client.”
Forget the soda water; he needed scotch with the soda. Maybe she figured him out. F.r.a.u.d.
“I’m embarrassed to say...I think I’ve made a grave mistake, maybe misled you, Alex. You don’t need my professional services, at all.”
“Sure, I do.”
“No. I’m sure you don’t.” Flustered, she looked away from him. “Jane was right,” she said under her breath. “I’m so sorry. I made a bad assumption on Friday night. It must have been the martini because I have yet to misjudge a prospective client. I truly thought you could benefit—”
“I’m sure I will benefit from anything you have to offer.” You sound desperate for a lay, asshole.
“Not enough to take your time and money.”
“It doesn’t need to be the works.”
“Still...”
“Okay then, how about...we...don’t...do it? What if we just spend the day together enjoying each other’s company, and I promise to still pay your consultant fee.”
Isn’t that what escorts provide anyway—companionship?
Joey interrupted with her drink.
“I can’t take your money and not deliver on my promises and your expectations. It’s unprofessional, and I’m not a grifter,” she persisted.
“Of course you’re not, but I am paying for an afternoon with Liz Bennet. In fact, I’ll pay you for three afternoons.” That should be enough to figure out your murder racket and finish the damned book. Maybe Charlie will pick up the cost.
She furrowed her brow. “Why would you do that?”
“Like I said, it’s good to live dangerously now and then. Besides, it’ll give you time to plan my murder.”
“Ha ha. I told you not to pay attention to the rumors.”
“Hey, you’re the one who admitted the whole thing to me yesterday.”
“I have no defense for that.”
“Do you agree? We’ll just enjoy today and get to know each other, and if you change your mind about servicing me, then great.” He grinned.
Taking a sip of her drink, she mulled over his proposition. “You’re really serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“Well, I did set the whole day aside to spend with you, so...I guess it’s okay. Yeah, let’s put business aside.”
Internally, he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Should I be insulted that you don’t want to service me?”
She chortled. “No. On the contrary. It’s a compliment, Alex.”
**
Summer dusk crept over the courtyard in shades of purple and gray, and the ancient herbs wafted up to him through the large windows. Darcy’s thoughts traveled to Liz’s honeysuckle perfume. Cloud nine only existed for chicks, right? Yet, feeling like a love-sick fool, he sat on the window bed gazing at 2C’s windows through the break in the new curtains.
He liked her and didn’t care she was a prostitute. Their afternoon together, without having sex, was amazing. She was the first woman in a long time not trying to sink her claws into Will Darcy, the author of Alex Logan, their book boyfriend. As dates went, the afternoon with Liz had far surpassed any he’d been on in recent years, surprising him given her criminal reputation. Liz “the killer,” didn’t fit with the compassionate, joyful, faithful person he’d spent five hours with over drinks and a full lunch. A woman of her sensibilities and kindness would not murder someone for a rent-controlled apartment! C’mon, Liz made five hundred an hour for a roll in the hay. Even if she only worked five hours a day, six days a week and pulled a dozen week-long consults, she made a healthy six figures a year! He may not have been the greatest mathematician, but he wasn’t that dense. She’d kill for a measly seven-hundred dollar a month rent? No way.
He reflected on their goodbye only two hours ago.
“When will our next consult—I mean lunch—be?” he asked.
“Not until next Sunday. Will you still be in town?”
“I could arrange it.”
“I’m sorry it can’t be sooner, but I’m headed to Vegas tonight for a new client relationship and I don’t think he’ll let me return until the end of the week.”
“He sounds demanding.”
“He’s desperate for a girl.”
Something in his heart squeezed. He didn’t know when or why he lost track of the fact that she was an on-call “consultant.” There would always be other johns who paid for her body and talents. Heck, he found happiness in just her company with clothes on! Others might too. Not likely.
“I understand. You’re a popular woman with many talents,” he said.
“Ah, you overheard my mother at the party, didn’t you? Goodness, the way she describes me, you’d think I was a streetwalker.”
“I thought no such thing.”
And there it was. She wasn’t a streetwalker; she was a discerning, high-priced woman who scrupulously chose her clients, and he hadn’t measured up! Again, he didn’t know if he should be insulted or glad, and she never answered the question as to the reasons that led her to her profession.
Yet, as he peeled back the onion of her criminality, even her career choice seemed dubious. He could see no reason any type of hooker would refuse sex for money, especially since the sexual chemistry between them was through the roof. What was really at the heart of her ending their consultation?
And although he confessed to being a closet romantic and reasonably reticent when it came to sexual relations, he had, as Gigi accused, hooked up a time or two, but definitely not five or six after too much drink or partying. The point is, no woman had ever rejected his advances to go to bed when he offered, but Liz had turned the tables on him, and the day turned out better for it in his opinion. They talked about his childhood summers on Nantucket and hers spent at camp on Long Island. They’d laughed at just about everything including terrible books, especially stupid murder plot lines, bad sex scenes, and purple prose. It was as if they brainstormed on a would-be novel, sharing brilliant plots in their favorite books. He absolutely enjoyed her dry humor and her brilliant wit and methodical—if not sinister—mind suited for homicide.
But if she wasn’t a killer or a high-priced prostitute, what kind of “consultant” was she? What was this For Men Only business she ran, which sounded and acted like a crypto-for-sex operation run out of the Meryton Arms? Were steps seven, eight, and nine sex surrogate tutorials? Unable to draw a bead on Liz, her career choice, or her crime, he questioned the extraordinary attributes he prided himself on as a crime suspense writer. She had him completely turned inside out. Caught in the recesses of his mind, her million-watt smile, infectious laugh, and hazel doe eyes held him spellbound. Actually, everything about her captivated him.
He gazed down at the garden courtyard and the strings of lights stretching from tree to tree and he shook his head. He actually felt butterflies in his gut, from just thinking about her. Damn. She was under his skin now.
“Haven’t you learned your lesson from Reagan, you idiot? This woman is too good to be true. She’ll either pull your heart out or make you submit. Do not even think about going there.”
The possibility that all of it: the rumors, the fantastic story surrounding the murder, even Liz’s misleading statements were part of a coordinated ruse in order to get him out of writer’s block appeared to be the strongest evidence presented.
There were more ways to skin a cat; he’d have to go old school tomorrow with pad and paper and a bribe. He’d go to the source: the...um...cat lady.
Resisting the impulse to leave Liz a message, on her way to the airport for Vegas, he opened his laptop, letting Logan have his say in the matter.
On the surface, Beth was too good to be true, which set off Logan’s alarm from the start. Sure, she was a professional escort, but discovering what lay hidden required the ultimate sacrifice. Thus far, his investigation into her had turned up empty. Subterfuge was the only way. He had no choice but to take a page from her book. Sleeping with her opened the door to her private, closely guarded world. That was three weeks ago. Every night, when she wasn’t ‘on call’ or working the Plaza Hotel, she freely gave him exactly what he’d paid for in her loft–and all he got in exchange was great sex and a few suspicious, yet vague enough texts and calls on her paired phone and fruitless tails throughout the city. None of it was substantiated evidence or even showed correlation. But a lack of evidence did not mean the woman had not committed the murder. He’d continue to plug her for information.
**
As far as he can remember, little old ladies—specifically his grandmother Matlock—in New York City loved Entenmann’s baked goods. With a box of soft chocolate chip cookies and a bag of kitty party mix in hand, he rang the 1A cat lady’s doorbell, understanding the persuasive power in the offering of both treats.
“Who’s there?”
“Hello Mrs. Lucas, my name is Alex...Georgiana’s brother...your friend from 2C.
“Is she okay?”
“Yes, of course. I’d like to thank you for keeping an eye on her since she moved in.”
In her silence, he imagined her eye pressed against the peephole and softly smiled, hoping it would disarm her.
Four unlocked dead bolts later and the door opened.
The woman who answered the door wasn’t a typical octogenarian by his standards. In fact, she looked and dressed much younger and hipper. Even her choice of seventies folk music surprised him.
She checked him out from top to bottom, and while he expected a pleasant greeting, her frank statement surprised him. “Nice hair.”
“Thank you. These are for you and your cat.”
He looked down to see a white and black spotted feline sitting right beside her, like he was the bouncer or something and attentive to everything said.
“This is Fonzie, my attack cat.”
“Hi, fella,” he greeted with a scratch to the cat’s black ear.
Mrs. Lucas examined the bag of treats and the cookies then smiled. “I like a man who brings the right gifts. You’re thoughtful, like your sister. Come on in and have a seat. And just so ya know, if ya try anything, I know self-defense, which I learned at the senior center.” She held up her chin and a gnarled hand, three bent fingers separated from the rest like a claw. “This hand is lethal.”
He had no doubt about her claim. “Yes, Ma’am. I’ll consider myself warned.”
The tidy apartment didn’t smell of cat urine, which he had prepared himself for.
It didn’t take but one minute before she pried open the box and popped a cookie in her mouth. Fonzie, too, inhaled a treat from her crooked fingers.
“I like that Gigi—she’s a kind girl. Pretty, too. No one else in this blasted building visits with me, but she comes by whenever she gets back from your cousin’s apartment uptown.”
“She’s a good kid, but I’m concerned she hasn’t made many friends at the Meryton Arms. If something happens to her, I’m all the way up in Boston. So, thank you for keeping an eye on her. It gives me some peace.”
Gordon Lightfoot spun on the record player below the window, and Mrs. Lucas continued eating, eyes switching from Fonzie to him, half-listening to the music and what he had to say.
“Now that you’ve thanked me, Alex, why don’t you come out with the real reason you’re here? I wasn’t born yesterday, ya know. When a strange man shows up at a woman’s door with any kind of gift, some-thin’s fishy, but when he brings Entenmann’s, he at least deserves my attention.”
“You’re a smart woman, Mrs. Lucas, so I won’t insult you by beating around the bush. At the behest of my sister, I’m investigating and writing a novel inspired by the murder of your friend, Mrs. Phillips. I understand you believe the Bennet family had something to do with it.”
“That’s right. Clara, God rest her soul, never hurt a fly and those two older girls threw her down the steps three months ago.”
“I thought the suspects shot her, or was it drowned in her bathtub?”
“I haven’t lost my memory yet, dear. They found Clara dead as a doornail on the landing between the second and third floors. That I’m sure of.”
“Did you actually see the bod—your friend following her death?”
“Only at the wake, and it was a closed casket!”
“I see. Gigi said the police suspected Mrs. Phillips fell when bringing her groceries home. Is that the way you see it?”
“I suppose that could have happened, but those two girls wanted her rent-controlled apartment. Clara had been living there since she was ten, so you can imagine how cheap the rent is! Two years ago, she spent a fortune to remodel the kitchen. I helped pick out the refrigerator.”
“I see. The sisters had motive.”
“Wouldn’t you? All those girls living in that tiny three bedroom on the third floor with that pazzo mother.” She clucked her tongue and shook her head. “Poor Clara.”
“Did the police suspect Liz and Jane or anyone else in the family?”
She waved her hand away. “What do they know? They said it was all in my imagination and hung up on me. Next time something suspicious happens around here, I’m going to take out my camcorder. I still have one from the nineties, ya know.”
“That’s a good idea. You could prove them all wrong and crack the case wide open.” Although he didn’t think her shoulders could carry the weight of it. “Is there anyone else in the apartment complex who you consider suspect? I mean, you know the residents and seem to be a righteous judge of character. Is there anyone at all who you think would harm her?”
“Ha! I don’t like him, but your sister and the youngest Bennet girl seem to think he’s something special. Maybe I’m mistaken, but I’m not usually wrong about men. You, I like. You have nice hair and brought me Entenmann’s. Why, if I was fifty years younger, you wouldn’t leave this apartment for weeks.”
He chuckled. “Thank you, Mrs. Lucas. Is it Gio you don’t trust?”
“Gio, shmeeo. He’s a fraud, I tell ya, right down to those so-called Italian loafers he wears. I saw those pleather shoes at the Kmart on blue light special for eight-ninety-eight!” She rolled her eyes. “He might pull the wool over these young girls’ eyes today, but he didn’t fool me. My grandfather was from Naples.” She pinched her crooked fingers and rocked her hand back and forth. “I know Italians, and he isn’t one of them! Pfft! Rome, my eye!”
Time for a chat with Gigi and maybe this Gio dude!
“Has he been around here? Come to see you?”
“How did you know?”
“I have a feeling about these things.” He’s a writer, probably doing research, too.
“Yup. He came empty-handed and left empty-handed. I didn’t let him in. Even Fonzie hid! The fella asked the same types of questions as you, but I didn’t tell him anything. I told him to go pound sand.”
“You spoke to him through the door?”
“Yup.” She put another cookie in her mouth and gave another treat to Fonzie after his successful stare down.
“Do you have any reason to believe he’s an undercover detective investigating the suspicious happenings at the Meryton?”
“Him? Nah.”
“Did you share your suspicions about Gio to my sister?”
“Son, your sister has to learn these lessons the hard way. She’s a bright one. She’ll figure that jerk out soon enough. Why, I bet that con artist made her buy the bottle of prosecco they shared in the courtyard last month.”
Damn! His acumen for making poor dating judgments was turning out to be hereditary. Good thing he put the curtains up and she’s spending most of her time uptown. “One last thing, Mrs. Lucas. What makes you think the family is running a prostitution business from their apartment?”
“Prostitution? Did you say prostitution?”
“I did.”
“Good Gawd, now that’s a juicy tidbit, but it didn’t come from me, and Lord knows I like to tittle-tattle.”
“You didn’t mention this to my sister?”
“On my word. I may have said the mother acts like one, or that they pimp out or prostitute their daughters for the family business, but that’s just a euphemism. Goodness gracious, kids today take everything so literally.” She sighed. “I never called those murdering girls hookers! They may be easy, comin’ and goin’ all hours of the night, but I don’t know anything about them being sex workers!”
His stomach fell. What the hell is going on?
“You’re sure about this?” he asked.
“I’d no more call that precious Mary Bennet a prostitute than I would Sister Mary Margaret at Saint Joseph’s church.”
“Then...what is the family business?”
“A house call doctor business. Tom Bennet, the father is a physician and runs Village Home Health from the apartment.”
Holy crap!
“Clara was one of their patients. In fact, that Mary used to play music on her keyboard for her two times a week. It helped to lower her blood pressure,” she said.
Facial control was paramount in this exchange. He swallowed hard. “And the other sisters? What do they do?”
“Jane, the oldest murderer, is a masseuse and physical therapist, and Kitty, the middle girl, is some sort of nurse. That precocious Lydia, the youngest, is an elder companion after school when she’s not carousing with that Gio. She does the food shopping and cooks dinner for some of the shut-in clients.”
Home health—not prosties! “It’s a shame she wasn’t there to help Mrs. Phillips with the shopping.”
“Or maybe she’s the one who threw Clara down the steps,” she said, tapping her temple.
“That’s certainly a possibility. And does Lizzy also work in the home health business?”
“Ah, she’s the one with the brains who chose a different path. I heard she teaches single men how to meet, date, and romance the girl of their dreams. If you ask me, you fellas today need to go to college for that! Men knew what to do when I was coming up—now it’s all about the sex and that’s the easy part!”
He fought to keep his chin from dropping. Fonzie jumped on his lap, and he mindlessly petted his back, lost in his shock.
Finally, he uttered, “You’re right. Times have changed, Mrs. Lucas. Maybe we’ve grown lazy or forgot how to listen to our hearts. Men are idiots when it comes to romancing a woman.”
“It’s a cryin’ shame. Romance and manners are dead, especially now that everyone has a telephone stuck to their fingers.”
He nodded, still traumatized by the information about Liz and her family. How could he have bought into such a rumor, and with such zeal, too? Desperation for a book, that’s how.
“Why, you’ve turned white as a ghost,” she said.
“Have I?” He shook his head. “Someone has spread some very cruel lies. I’m sorry, but I have to go and get to the bottom of things, Mrs. Lucas. Thank you for everything, especially for helping me with my book. I promise...I’ll come back with maybe...Entenmann’s chocolate-covered donuts? Would that be okay?”
“You can come anytime. I’ll be here, handsome.” She grinned. “Will you make me a brunette?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you write me into your novel. I’d like to be immortalized as the beauty I once was with long chestnut hair.”
“Absolutely, but I think you’re a beauty now.”
“Charmer!”
He stood and exited the apartment, fuming mad at Gigi and whoever fed her the bogus story about the Bennet family business. But mostly, he was mad at himself for forgetting Occam’s Razor and assaulting Liz’s character in such a heinous manner by falling for slanderous gossip.
He felt like crying, or laughing, or shouting out the window into the courtyard, “She’s not a murdering hooker!”
She is a friggin’ dating coach!
The door closed behind him, and he leaned against the wall, tipping his head back against the plaster. Relieved, he chuckled to himself. He’d passed muster because of Aunt Catherine’s ridiculous (at the time) lessons in politeness and gentlemanly manners. Liz hadn’t found him lacking at all. Now, he just had to prove she didn’t throw the old woman down the stairs. Until then, he had a book to finish!
**
With Gigi uptown, Will sat on the floor, back against the window bed, unable to even look out the window. Riddled with guilt, he picked at the pizza pie next to him, and one finger typed words that were stuck in his throat. An incoming FaceCall beeped Darcy’s computer, and he tapped the screen.
Charlie’s enthusiastic grin lit up the other side of the monitor. “I hear you’ve hit pay dirt,” he said.
“What was I thinking by giving Gigi your mobile number?”
“Are you kidding? That girl is awesome. She’s been keeping me in the loop. Now it’s your turn. I want details about the Logan chick.”
“I don’t have any to give at this point because I’m still sketching her character,” which wasn’t a lie.
“That’s not what your sister says. She tells me you’ve dropped quite a dime to interview her.”
“Right, and I’ll send you the receipts for reimbursement. The things I do for you.”
“Fine. Tell me the truth, how’s the book coming?”
“My research didn’t go as expected today, but I’ll be seeing her next Sunday. But on the flip side, I’ve written eleven chapters. It’s golden, Charlie. Really golden.”
“I hear she is, too.”
“She’s attractive, but she’s nothing more than a research tool. I’m not tempted in the least for anything else.”
“We’ll see. Reagan started that way, too.”
“And you just made my case.”
“Can you at least e-mail me a synopsis, so I have something to tell Caroline and the cover designer?”
“Sorry, no can do.”
“Jeez. Okay, I guess I’m gonna have to trust you on this.”
“All I can tell you is...Death Knell is out of my comfort zone, and I broke a few genre rules, but I think it’s the perfect ending for Alex Logan. I’m convinced that not only will you have a bestseller, but...after this...I can write anything.”
“Oh, now you have my attention! You know, I have to come down to the West Village in two weeks with Caroline. If you’re still in the city, let’s meet for lunch to discuss your future without Logan.”
“Ditch Caroline, and you have a deal. Listen, if I promise to get this done in two weeks will you do me a huge favor?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure, anything.”
“Can you call in a favor for next Sunday?”
“Oh, ho! Sunday! You’re seeing the prostitute on Sunday!”
I’m going to kill you, Gigi!
“Yes. I’m seeing Liz and she has a thing for books.”
“Kinky. Does she have a thing for authors, too? Maybe a little somethin’-somethin’ in the book stacks below the Logan series?”
He’d not comment on the stupidity of the question, given his own previous imaginings.
“Where are you taking her?”
“To the Morgan Library? I’d ask my aunt for help, but you know how messed up my relationship is with her. Maybe you can drop your father’s name—my name?”
“Oh, that hurts. Like my name isn’t good enough?”
“I didn’t say that, but your father was a Life Trustee with a fifty-year reputation in New York philanthropic circles.”
“True. We may be small now, but before Granddad took over from his father, Netherfield equaled HarperCollins at one point.”
“And another thing, Liz doesn’t know I’m Will Darcy, so...let your contact know not to spill it. I’m Alex Tobin. Here’s what I need...”
**
Drizzling rain wouldn’t spoil the day Darcy had planned with Liz, and it oddly felt more like a date than research and that confused him. He wasn’t searching for a prospective girlfriend, just a story, but things had gone sideways after visiting with Mrs. Lucas. Although released from pre-conceived notions of Liz’s shady profession, the jury was still out on the murderess or conspirator part, even if implausible. Perhaps Liz had covered for her youngest sister. That was a possibility. At any rate, he’d figure it all out today, and finish the damned book in two before his heart engaged beyond the point of no return. Damn Reagan for killing his soul and riddling him with fear of commitment.
He exited into the courtyard where they planned to meet and, like their first meeting under the Edisons, lightning struck him. Backdropped by a trellis of climbing pink roses, Liz stood in the rain under a transparent umbrella, looking like a ray of sunshine. She wore a yellow dress and fashionable ankle rain boots and her hair styled in a casual braided bun. Unlike most women he met, Liz seemed unaffected by the inclement weather and when she heard him clear his throat, turned to face him with a brilliant smile lighting up the garden.
“You’re right on time. No baptism today, I guess,” he said, ducking under the umbrella with her.
“I didn’t want to be late. I went to church last night.”
She was...too good to be true.
“How was your trip?” he asked.
“Good. Long. Vegas isn’t quite my thing, but my client was so happy and feeling confident again. It was worth it.”
Knowing what he now knew, it didn’t tear his heart out imagining her getting it on with a john.
“I’m glad to hear it.” He knew he was smiling like a fool but couldn’t help staring at her.
“Gee, you look spiffy,” she said.
“Yeah, well, you know...my aunt. I didn’t want to make you look like you were slumming.”
“You succeeded.” She grinned. “I hope the rain doesn’t mar the plans you’ve made for today. I’ve been looking forward to it all week.”
“It won’t. In fact, it’s a perfect day for what we have planned, but you don’t seem to mind a little drizzle either.”
“Are you kidding? I love the rain, especially how it turns everything here vibrant. This garden has seen over one hundred forty years of rain.”
“You really love it here, don’t you?”
She sighed. “The Meryton, especially this courtyard, hold the best memories of my childhood, but Jane and I are getting ready to purchase a condo uptown. We’re big girls now.” She laughed.
“What about your place in 2C?”
Chuckling she said, “You still think I killed Clara, don’t you?”
“Maybe,” he half-joked.
“Unfortunately, we’re there only until spring. After Clara’s untimely passing, we struck a deal with her son to sublet the apartment for a year, giving him time to clean up the estate and remove eighty years of family belongings. We—”
Cutting her thought, she tilted her head to look around his body, then furrowed her brow. Inching toward him, it was clear she attempted to shield herself from someone, which he didn’t mind when she moved closer. If heaven had a scent, it was named Liz. He breathed in and she whispered. “Hide me.”
What was he to do? He put his arms around her and pulled her into him, enjoying every second of it. Should I kiss her?
“Lizzy, bella! Is dat-a you?” an Italian-accented man asked.
The look on her pained face almost prompted a deep kiss so the guy would keep walking, but it would be a violation. He couldn’t bring himself to do it without asking first, and there wasn’t time.
“Lizzy?”
She stepped from their embrace. “Oh, hi Gio.”
“It is-a you, bella!”
He turned to face the creepy would-be writer he’d heard so much about.
His heart stopped.
Their eyes met. Brows knit. Silent confusion immobilized them both with an expressionless, decade-long hatred of the other.
Gio flashed a fake smile at him with that crooked, deceitful mouth he knew too well.
“You break-a my heart. Who is dis, cara?”
“Gio, this is my friend Alex Tobin. Alex, this is my...he’s—”
“You say-a Alex Logan?”
“No. Alex Tobin,” he replied.
“Ah! I’m er ex-a boyfriend Giovanni Galbretti, but I like-a Gio.”
Liz gazed up at Darcy and, more than likely noting the frown on his face, protested. “You weren’t my boyfriend, Gio. I only went on two dates with him, Alex.”
“Nice to meet you, Gio.” He didn’t hold his hand out for a shake.
“She tell-a you what she does for a living, Alex, no?”
“I know all I need to know about Liz,” he said, putting his arm around her waist, then kissing her temple. “I’m a lucky guy.” To his surprise, she put her arm around his waist and playfully pinched it from behind.
“Yes-a, you are lucky. Maybe you will have-a better luck than I,” the grifter said.
“I’m sorry, Gio, but we have to go. Alex has planned a special day for us,” she said with a lovely smile.
“Yeah, and you don’t want to ruin your expensive Italian loafers in the rain,” he added.
“Arrivederci, Bellissima, and-a I’ll see you again, Alex-a Tobin.”
“Not if I see you first,” he promised, turning his back to him and walking arm-in-arm with Liz toward the street gate.
She murmured. “His shoes are plastic.”
“I know. Mrs. Lucas told me. She’s not a fan.”
“No one is. I don’t know what I ever saw in him.”
“It sounds like he could benefit from your services.”
“Ugh! I can’t be charitable here. That narcissistic loser is so beyond any help I could give!”
They reached the gate, and he put his hand on the latch opener, but turned to face her and those stunning, soulful eyes. “I’m really sorry the creep upset you, but don’t give him that power over you. Let’s choose to have a great time today, and he can eat his heart out all he wants because whatever he did, he only did it to himself.” As usual!
“He’s a jerk.”
If you only knew. “I gathered.”
She shook her head. “You don’t know the half of it. He’s like so many of my clients, looking for an angle all the time. It gets to the point where I think every guy is like that.” She thoughtfully smiled adding, “But then, I met you—a nice guy.”
“That’s never good when a date calls a guy a ‘nice guy.’ They never get the girl.”
“Are we on a date?” she asked, eyes searching his.
“I’m not sure. Are we?”
“I think so.”
“Even though I’m a ‘nice guy’?”
“I meant you being a nice guy in the best way. I’ve never met anyone like you before and, as you know, I meet a lot of guys.”
“I’m glad to hear it because I have never met anyone like you, but date or no date, I’m still going to pay you for the time as we agreed last week.”
“You don’t have to pay for me to spend the day with you! She put her hand on her hip. “I’m not a prostitute, you know!”
He swallowed. “Of course, you’re not. I...um...didn’t mean to imply anything of the sort. I’m so sorry...I just meant—”
“I’m kidding! I have no intention of re-negotiating our terms even if this turns out to be the best date I’ve ever been on,” she cheekily replied.
The uber was right on time, taking them crosstown, up to Midtown through little Sunday traffic. Raindrops streaked down the windows blurring the city, but Darcy hardly noticed, lost in his thoughts. Trying to be present was hard, even with Liz seated so close to him, but Gio’s presence remained, having literally shocked him to the core. It took every ounce of control to not text Gigi with some very harsh words, but how was she to know about the snake?
His nemesis was here in the West Village and living at the Meryton Arms! After making moves on Liz, he was now making moves on her youngest sister and Gigi. What game, what angle was he playing? Because the guy always had a grift of one sort or another. Mrs. Lucas called it! The heck with the Entenmanns—the woman deserved a frigging party tray of Italian cookies and a year supply of gourmet cat food!
Further, “he who shall not be named” caught him lying to Liz by assuming a false identity. At least Darcy wasn’t stupid enough to appropriate another culture! They were both in a chess game check-scenario, but the scammer lacked the intelligence for checkmate.
“Liz, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“I know I said let’s forget about that Gio guy, but I’m more than a little concerned by his presence at the Meryton Arms. He’s been making moves on my sister.”
“And mine.”
“What’s his game?”
“I think he’s just a predator and everything that goes with it, but my silly sister won’t listen. She thinks he’s—quote—‘an Italian snack with steez.’ ”
“Is that some Gen-Z slang?”
“Weird, right?”
“I’m sure my sister knows what it means. If you don’t mind me asking, what happened between you and ‘the snack’?” he asked.
“Let’s just say he expected liberties I was unwilling to give after only two dates...”
He metaphorically threw up his hands. Thank God! So totally NOT a hooker, call girl, prostie, or sex worker “consultant!”
“...and then, as revenge, the jerk spread some terrible lies about my family’s house call practice, which lost my father a lot of clients in the Meryton. It’s sad, not just for dad who sunk his entire retirement savings to start the practice, but because many of those patients are shut-ins and really needed his help.”
“I bet. There aren’t many house call physicians out there. Damn, I hate he did that to your family.”
“Thank you. After a lot of prayer and a lot of work to restore confidence in Village Home Health, we’ve only started to bounce back. But it took two months of his lies and a cease-and-desist letter from our lawyer for real action.”
“What a creep.”
“You said it. I really could kill him for what he did.”
His head snapped to her, and she smirked. “I won’t—of course. Don’t want to be accused of murder when he shows up dead in the courtyard. I’m sure there are a few others at the Meryton considering a firing squad. Personally, I’d go for poison.” She chuckled.
I might beat you to it.
“As for your sister, I would tell her the truth, Alex. I’d hate to see her pressured or victimized by him. If you think it’ll help, you have my permission to share my family experience.”
“I will, thank you. She’s somewhat impressionable, and this is her first time living on her own in the city. Maybe I’m too overprotective, but my parents have been deceased for most of her life and no matter her age, she’ll always be my responsibility.”
Liz rested her hand on his knee. “I’m so sorry about your parents.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re a good brother. I wish I had one, but God gave me my elder sister Jane, who’s not afraid to tell me like it is. She’s an angel, even if brutally honest.”
His betraying hand turned and held hers within its grasp. “You’re an angel, too,” he said unable to look over at her beautiful face because the truth squeezed his heart and plunged a knife into his already-addled brain. He was screwed—falling for her like a ton of bricks.
“Angel? Far from it. While I don’t hate a lot of things, I do hate liars, and that vindictive poser should get his comeuppance.”
“Yeah...I hate liars, too.” He swallowed his guilt. Jackass. None of this “research” was turning out like he had planned, particularly the reality that he turned out to be a grade-A asshole, only slightly better than his former fraternity buddy.
It occurred to him: Exacting further revenge, Gio had to be the originator of the prostitution theory. “She tell-a you what she does for a living, Alex, no?”
**
By the time they made it to their destination, the rain had calmed to a light drizzle.
“This is us,” Darcy said, opening the door.
Liz stepped out of the car on Thirty-Sixth Street and furrowed her brow. “But...this is...the closed entrance to the Morgan Library.”
“It is.” He beamed at her obvious awe.
Promptly at the pre-arranged time, Charlie’s contact opened the massive doors to the McKim building, smiled, and descended the steps.
Unlocking the wrought-iron gate, she greeted. “Good morning. Mr. Tobin, I presume?”
“Yes, and this is Liz Bennet.”
“Welcome to you both,” she said, shaking their hands. “I’m Lynette Harris, assistant to Deputy Director Matthers.”
“Thank you for considering my unusual request, Ms. Harris. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”
“With some minor alterations, we could meet your request. The Bingley name carries much weight around here at the Morgan and we are more than happy to find a way to make Charles’s request happen, especially for Mrs. DeBourgh’s nephew. Follow me.”
He felt Liz’s shocked stare upon him.
He could only imagine what was going through her thoughts as she reverently smoothed her hand along one of the marble lioness’ backs.
Their gaze met when they reached the paneled bronze doors under the portico, and she gifted him with a brilliant smile. The joy sparkling in her hazel eyes made his heart lighter for all his deceit and misconceptions. Although not entirely his fault, he still owned it and vowed to tell her the truth at the right time—just not today. Why ruin the once-in-a-lifetime experience he had planned for her?
She scanned the brightly lit foyer from colorful marble floors to the mythological figures painted on the lunette and then back up to the stucco reliefs in the dome.
“This is the Rotunda, a tribute to the great literary foundations of the past: Antiquity, Middle-Ages, and Renaissance. Behind me is the North Room, the private office of J. Pierpont Morgan’s personal librarian of forty years, Miss Belle DaCosta Greene and, to my right is the West Room, Mr. Morgan’s personal office,” Ms. Harris stated.
Looking up at the della Robbia terracotta sculpture of the Madonna and Child, Liz whispered the Latin engraving, “Soli Deo Honoret Gloria. Glory to God Alone.” She seemed to slip out of body; her mind floating to the Madonna, climbing upward to the apse, lost in the frescos, absorbing the director’s explanation of each depiction.
He, too, took it all in, especially relishing Liz’s special brand of wonderment.
“I must admit, Mr. Tobin, yours was the first request of its kind in my tenure, so we had to deliberate the ramifications to the collection. After discussion with the conservationists, the director agreed with limitations, of course. And since it is before hours, you will have the time you requested for brunch,” Ms. Harris stated.
“I’m indebted, really, and if there is any way I can assist the Morgan, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Well, I certainly have a list already penned, but honestly, it is my pleasure to make this happen for you in thanks for the more than generous donation. The museum is quite pleased to include you as one of this year’s prominent benefactors.”
Liz’s attention snapped to his face, and she tilted her head in confusion, but all he could manage was a wink. The cat, unfortunately, was peeking its ugly head out from the bag.
Stepping toward the open double doors to her left, Ms. Harris held out her arm. “And lastly, your brunch awaits you in the library.”
“I’m sorry, did you say brunch? Here? In the East Room—the library?” Liz asked.
“Yes. As Mr. Tobin said, a most unusual request. For the next two hours, you can avail yourself to discovering the library and the adjacent rooms in absolute privacy until opening at noon.”
Behind Ms. Harris, they entered the shadowed, three-story library dimmed by inclement weather and appointed in walnut and deep rich colors. “Welcome, Ms. Bennet, to a bookwoman’s paradise,” she said with a smile.
“I’ll say! I could spend weeks here and never come out.”
“I am sure Miss DaCosta Greene felt the same. Unfortunately, these volumes are not accessible for reading to the public.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I’d be happy just sitting among them,” she voiced in awe.
“I hear that a lot...and agree,” she chuckled.
Ms. Harris pointed out several medieval manuscripts and explained the sixteenth-century tapestry and the zodiac sign depictions on the spandrels above the arches, but Darcy was otherwise occupied. Although he’d never been to the Morgan, his gaze stayed riveted to Liz’s wide-eyed examination switching from the luncheon-set table in front of the fireplace, to the tapestry above it. Her head slowly rotated up, around and down, then back up from the bookshelf-lined walls to the two balconies filled with rare manuscripts, then back to the stained-glass ceiling and frescos. Standing at the entrance of such an intimate, yet immense, historied repository was breathtaking even for him, let alone for Liz who loved history and admitted to seeking refuge from career and family in the pages of a book. Her dancing eyes met his, and she blushed with a demure nod and a tender smile of appreciation. He mouthed, “You’re welcome,” and smiled back, so frigging happy he could give her this. What was fifty thousand dollars in recompense for ignoring his good principles and upbringing by believing the worst and seeking to use Liz in the most ungentlemanly manner—all because of writer’s block!
“Mr. Tobin, we laid a special rug beneath your dining table, and the dishes for brunch are in keeping with conservation requirements to not affect the antiquities. In plainer words, no mess, no smell, and only bottled water restricted to your dining area.” She chuckled. “But I think you’ll both be pleased.”
Liz bit her lip to conceal a bursting grin and he knew his head lost the battle over his heart when it danced like it had the other night when thinking about her.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must attend to a few things before I return in two hours for the behind-the-scenes tour of the Thaw Conservation laboratory. Enjoy your lunch,” the assistant said.
“Again, thank you very much, Ms. Harris,” he said. “It has already surpassed my desires.”
“Great! Then I’ll see you both at noon.”
The moment she left the room, Liz looked up at him. “Okay, no insurance salesman I know can make a donation to the Morgan that would gain you access to this and a tour of the Thaw!” she said, waving her arm out.
He uncomfortably chuckled. “Well...I said I was in insurance, not a salesman.”
She gave him the fisheye. “Now, who’s the cryptic one?”
“Never mind all that—my family’s story isn’t all that important. Let’s talk about...all this. What do you think?”
“Isn’t it obvious? It’s the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me. Gosh, I could kiss you for this, Alex!”
“What’s stopping you?”
Looking up at him with a coy smile, she placed her hand on his bicep, and raised on her tiptoes.
One second of waiting felt like forever before her velvety, plump lips caressed his in a tentative, gentle kiss.
She breathed, “Thank you for this wonderful day,” then gave him another, which he deepened, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close to his body. Liz’s scent filled his lungs; her luscious lips tasted like strawberries. Her body spoke to him again, only this time accompanied by fireworks.
Hot damn! St. Elmo’s Fire lit the room with each glide and caress of her mouth.
“Oh my. Did your aunt teach you how to kiss, too?” she whispered.
“No. I think you should teach me.”
Threading her hand up the back of his hair, she brought his lips to hers, passionately kissing him.
**
“What are you telling me, Bro?”
“I’m saying keep away from Gio,” Darcy replied, seated in front of the apartment window.
In typical Gigi form, she stood before him, with arms folded across her chest and a raised chin. This was the defiant, independent side of his sister he disliked. Nothing was going to get through to her when she acted this way. But he had to try. Hating to be the heavy, he had no choice but to bring her down to reality. “Did you hear what I said? The guy’s no good.”
“Ah, no. I like him,” she said.
“Trust me on this.”
“Trust me.” She pointed to her chest, then refolded her arms. “Dude, he’s fine. There’s nothing sus about him. I’ve totally searched him on social. He’s super nice and has a ton of friends.”
“Social media isn’t real and his is definitely a contrived persona. The guy’s a master player—a fraud. He may be the life of the party, but he’s incapable of keeping friends.”
“That’s mean, Dude.”
“It’s not mean—it’s truth, and please stop calling me dude. Speak complete English words that have Cambridge Dictionary definitions that I understand and you grew up speaking.”
“Whatever.”
“And please sit down so we can discuss this like adults.”
“Fine, but don’t play Aunt Catherine. Just give it to me straight and trust I’ll do the right thing. Ya know, me being an adult and all,” she said sarcastically.
She dropped into the club chair facing him and, with a huff, folded her arms again.
“You want straight? I’ll tell you straight because you’re right. In the end, the decision is yours. But, need I remind you, Gigi, when you turn twenty-one, you’ll be a very wealthy young woman. You should be more discerning in the company you intimately keep. Guys these days...I don’t know. I don’t trust many of them.”
“What does my Trust money have to do with my dating?”
“Everything, especially relating to the guy in question. I know your new friend, Gio, and his name isn’t Gio. It’s George Wickham, and he was my fraternity roommate and also on the Spectator with me and Charlie in our third year at Columbia. That was before the university and the fraternity kicked his ass out for making shit up on the paper and plagiarism.”
“So, he was an exchange student?”
“You’re not listening to what I’m saying, Georgiana. George Wickham is from Philadelphia, not Rome. He’s not Italian, and not named Gio Galbretti, and he’s definitely not someone my sister should be hanging out with. He’s a morally repugnant, lying piece of shit grifter and vile sexual predator.”
Her chin dropped.
“Yeah. That’s the harsh truth. Wickham knew exactly who you were when you moved in, and I bet he didn’t tell you he knew me, because if he did, you would have discovered what he did to me at Columbia. When I was writing my first Logan book Shatter Proof as part of a college assignment, he stole the manuscript for a prospective publishing writing critique, claiming it as his own. If it weren’t for Charlie’s dad, I never would have had the success it did and it probably would have ended up in a court fight over intellectual property theft.”
“No, not this guy. I mean, he’s a writer, but not the guy you’re talking about. Maybe Gio has a doppelgänger who is the dickhead.”
“Okay, so you find this all hard to believe. I get it. What if I told you Gio’s the one who spread the rumors about the Bennet family business and Clara’s murder? Maybe the latter was in the hopes it would get back to me to send me down some endless rabbit hole or entrap me in a defamation suit with the Bennets. Maybe it was to get him out of writer’s block...I don’t know, but I know why he lied about Liz and tried to ruin their true family business, which is a house call home health agency.
Gigi furrowed her brow. “Why would he tell everyone she was a hooker?”
“Because he didn’t get what he wanted from her.”
“What did he want?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, c’mon! ‘Me too’ is so yesterday.”
“It’s not. She confided in me on our date. Why would a girl lie about that? And given my experience with him, I know it’s true.”
“You said you were convinced she was a prostitute. If not that then what does she do for a living?”
“I was wrong, very wrong, and feel terrible about it. She’s a highly sought-after dating coach. We talked at length about her career and what led up to it. In fact, she has strict boundaries and never gets involved with her clients.”
“But you’re a client.”
“I’m not...she, um...didn’t think I needed coaching.”
Gigi dropped her defensive stance and guffawed. “Yeah. Right.”
Cruel kid. She must get that from Aunt Catherine.
“Is she at least a murderer?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but no. He made that up, too. Mrs. Philips fell down the stairs on her way home from grocery shopping. The wheel on her shopping cart broke, making her unsteady.”
“Damn. I thought we were onto something. For a few minutes there, it was exhilarating, believing I knew a couple of murderers!”
He laughed.
“That dickhead. What a snake,” she finally said.
“That’s right, and now he’s dating Liz’s sixteen-year-old sister and making moves on you.”
“Ew, sixteen? That’s like illegal, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s consenting age.”
“It should be illegal, but then...nothing is these days. That sleazy fucker.”
Rising, Gigi paced the floor, his words deeply registering. He could almost see the flames of anger exploding through the crown of her blonde head.
“Gigi, I know it’s none of my business, but...be honest...did things get romantic between you?” he asked. “You know what I’m asking?”
“No! You think I want him to be my first? No frigging way! I mean, he’s a total snack, and all, and I like his accent and we had a good time but...but...his breath was really bad, Will. He tried to kiss me, but I begged off it was so cringey.”
He wanted to laugh but held back, shocked—and pleased—his sister was still a virgin, and that she was selective, as far as breath went. “Good.”
Sitting beside him, she leaned against his shoulder. “I promise, Will, there will come a day when you don’t have to always come to my rescue or look out for me. I’m trying to glo’ up.”
“I know you are, and I’m proud of all your achievements, but you’re assuming I don’t want to look out for you. Gigi, I’ll always have your back, whether what I have to say is welcome or not. I love you, kid, even if you speak like an illiterate Zoomer half the time.”
“What did I do to have such a great brother and friend?”
“I don’t think you had a choice. It was either me or Aunt Catherine?”
“True, and you never made me paint your gnarly toenails.”
They sat in silence for a couple of minutes until she said, “Okay, spill the tea. How did your date go with Liz today?”
“Fantastic...she’s fantastic.”
“Soo?...”
“We talked a lot about...life, dreams, books. Man, we laughed at everything.”
“And?”
“The chemistry between us is...amazing.”
“Aaand?
“We kissed...a few times.”
“Yes! Tongues?”
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply.
“Do you think you finally found someone you want to stick around for longer than a minute?”
He sighed, defeated by his own heart and Liz’s magnetism, then looked at his sister’s hopeful smile. “Definitely.”
**
One more chapter and he could put Death Knell and Alex Logan to rest forever. The title turned out to be more apropos than initially thought, and he was ready to let the series go and start anew. And unlike how he felt about Logan, he was unwilling to let his muse go after their final Sunday date in three days. Since the Morgan Library, they’d spoken on the telephone a dozen times and each time he came close to telling her the truth about his identity, what he believed her career, and the mounting body of evidence against her, but wimped out. It had to be Sunday, and he had to make the date meaningful, not only for her, but to avoid maximum fallout. Otherwise, there just may be a dead body found in the courtyard—him!
Ignoring the laptop laying on his thighs, he daydreamed, staring out the open curtains to the sunny garden. Mindfully constructing the details of their upcoming date, he attempted to will the outcome he wanted: Her. With Him. Until the ride ended but hoping it wouldn’t. He’d not speak of love but acknowledged feeling different from any other time in his life. Liz was the real deal, maybe heaven sent. Even the way she snorted when laughing made him smile, whereas if any other girl, he would have hit the bricks.
His attention drew through the tree canopy to a flash of red hair coming toward him from the street entrance into the secret garden. He placed the laptop on the bed, scrutinizing the interloper. The stylish black pants and orange blouse were a dead-giveaway when put together with the over-confident strut and fiery copper locks. Caroline Bingley.
“Shit!” He pulled a sheer curtain but kept his gaze on her through the fabric. “Charlie, I’m gonna kill you!”
That pain in the ass was here to pressure him for details about the book and stick her nose where it didn’t belong. She wasn’t his agent and had nothing to do with his manuscript development or publication. Apart from the book cover and blurb, Charlie had full control of his publishing relationship with Netherfield.
Sliding the curtain open a few inches, he peeked through the crack, watching her take a seat at one of the bistro tables. He sauntered to Caroline. Wickham!
“Fuck! You will not do this to me again! You thieving piece of crap.”
Acting fast, he fired off an email to Charlie and uploaded his unfinished manuscript, tagging it Urgent. He pounded the keyboard. “Charlie, good news, only one chapter left! I’m super stoked and thought you’d like to give it a look over for any plot changes or holes you think are important. Please confirm you have received this with date and time of submission.” He hit send, just in time to see Wickham slide over a thick stack of paper across the table.
He grabbed his phone and snapped several photographs of the hand-off. “Looks like I see you first, Gio.”
Within thirty seconds, he received an answer from Charlie: “Got it! Going to read it right now since Caroline is out of the office meeting a prospective client.”
He hit FaceCall and called Charlie. “She’s meeting with George Wickham at this very second.”
“You’re kidding me. Wickham is her prospective client? No frigging way!”
“Looks that way. I have them in my sight thirty feet from me and he just handed her a manuscript.”
“Can I just say, between you and me, those two connivers should be lovers. They’re perfect for each other! I’m sorry about this, Darce...after your long history with him.”
“He’s your history, too, and don’t think for a second he doesn’t have revenge plans for getting him booted off the newspaper.”
“Is that why you sent your unfinished manuscript to me?”
“Yeah. I needed proof of a paper trail and that you received my manuscript first. I’m pretty confident his storyline is similar to Death Knell, since he’d been feeding Gigi plot devices.”
“To what purpose?”
“I don’t know. Maybe in his warped mind and his insatiable desire for revenge, he wants to prove he can pen the better book using the same premise and my publisher. My guess is that he thought Caroline was a shoo-in to publish it, versus you, who have read every Logan book from cover-to-cover at least a dozen times. Maybe he wanted to entrap you in a contract dispute.”
“Well, whatever his reason is, he’s dead in the water,” Charlie said.
“Good book title. Maybe I’ll write him as the lead character.”
“Now, he would make an interesting thriller antagonist. After everything you told me about that asshole’s activities over at Gigi’s place, I’m not going to let him get off this easy.”
“I’m listening,” Darcy said, uneasy about revenge of any sort; it wasn’t in his credo.
“He’s done—canceled. A few phone calls and texts and the guy’ll have no choice to self-publish and, even at that, his reviews will rip him and his work to shreds. He couldn’t write for shit.”
“He’d never go indie. It’s more than just writing a good story. Wickham has been and always will be too lazy to put in the effort. Self-pub requires 24/7 dedication and significantly more than half a brain to make inroads of any kind. He hasn’t got the balls or the drive to do the work ’cause, as Liz says, ‘He’s always looking for an angle,’ but he wants others to do the work for him.”
“True that.” Charlie agreed with a nod.
“Still...I don’t think Liz would want to ruin him. She’s too nice and she and her family are the injured party here. I’ve taken care of the Gigi issue, so...I’ll face him and warn him off Liz’s sister, maybe convince him to move out of the Meryton with some empty threats. Other than that, don’t get Netherfield involved, just drop it. He’ll fall on his face by his own malevolent actions, not by ours.”
“If that’s what you want, but the guy’s like a Hydra. He’ll be back again—bigger and stronger.”
“I can’t worry about the future. Today, it’s the honorable thing our brothers exemplify, and I’m pretty sure what Liz would condone.”
“Tell me more about her.”
“Ah, you know I don’t kiss and tell,” he joked. “Not even in my novels.”
“Ha!! Thank God she’s not a hooker, ’cause you, my friend, have once again fallen for your muse. You damned lucky devil.”
“Lucky? Yeah, I’m damn lucky.”
“Does she have a sister?” Charlie asked.
“Five, but the blonde knockout I’m told is an angel.”
They ended the conversation with plans to double date if everything went well on Sunday, then he went back to writing, hands poised over the keyboard. What would Logan do? He knew Logan better than himself. In the end, Logan didn’t live by any fraternity code but he would be honest, even if it killed him.
Logan looked deep into Beth’s eyes. Her hurtful, but truthful words, cut him to the quick, yet he couldn’t let her know the wounds inflicted by her sharp tongue. Call it pride, call it stupidity, but he could no more deny his suspicious nature than a lion could forgo stalking its prey. As regretful as his suppositions were when it came to Beth, he could not deny who he was, but he must own up to hurting her so deeply when the truth came to bear. He needed to share his feelings—something he swore never to do with a woman, but Beth was no ordinary woman.
“I deserve a dress-down, but would it matter if I told you how much you bewitched me from the start? How I wanted to believe something other than miniscule circumstantial evidence and my years of experience? Would it help my case if I told you how much...I...I ardently love you?”
“Then you betray yourself, since you alone convicted me of murder—of all things. I may be...what I am...but I am not that morally bereft as to take a life. What does it say of you who chose to love such a repugnant woman?”
“Repugnant? No.” He touched her cheek, but she turned her face from his hand. “It says that above all things, I fell in love with your heart, your mind, and your soul, despite the foolish direction I followed so doggedly these many months.”
“Yet knowing you loved me, you still sought to prove me a murderess?”
“No. Honestly, I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words. I didn’t know. I was in the middle of loving you before I knew I had begun.”
Her eyes welled with tears.
**
Never in his life had Darcy been so nervous, so fearful everything would turn to shit over the next three to four hours.
Looking down at his watch, he tapped his fingers upon the edge of the fine china plate (borrowed from Mrs. Lucas,) hoping he’d planned everything just right. One story up, Gigi prepared to act as waitress and remote DJ. The sun had just set over the city and darkness was falling fast in perfect timing. In fifteen minutes, Liz would enter the courtyard through the street gate. It felt like an eternity of waiting after planning and cooking the entire day for this one chance to get it right. He needed to dissuade her of any belief he was a liar like Wickham or lackluster like so many of the men she came across in her profession. If she hadn’t determined already, he was just like her. He was true blue, a petrified person looking for something honest and meaningful with a life-partner.
The Edison and tea lights he added earlier in the day clicked on, creating a romantic vibe. Nobody asked him about the courtyard work, yet he sensed their gazes all afternoon. Mrs. Lucas especially, who had praised the cookie tray and kissed his cheek the day before. Oh, the gossip she would spread, but it was all good. Despite the smell of bug repellant, a freshness hovered over the Meryton courtyard tonight. Perhaps it was the L word, or because Wickham permanently abandoned his roommate when threatened with a defamation lawsuit. Or maybe Reagan’s ghost had finally disappeared, and he was free to live outside of his books again. Maybe the new suit he bought for the occasion made him feel invincible. Whatever it was, tonight was all for Liz and thanks to Liz. In only four weeks, she’d done the impossible without even knowing it: she stole his heart and helped him write the damn book.
Oddly, Meryton Arms and Gigi’s tiny apartment felt like home. He now understood why she and Liz loved this small community in the center of the universe. Even next week’s wine down after-hours-happy-hour with his sister and possibly a new girlfriend felt like a fresh beginning for him to meet residents. Maybe her father would be there, and he could float the idea of investing in Village Home Health to assist in the practice’s recovery and growth.
He focused on the jazz music and uncorked the bottle of Pinot Grigio, attempting to relax. His gaze locked on the flickering candle in the center of the red and yellow rose centerpiece.
“You got this, Bro,” his co-pilot called down for the benefit of every resident watching. “It’s show time. Her cab just pulled up.”
The street gate latch clanked, and he stood beside the table, holding his anxiety at bay. Wearing a pink off-the-shoulder summer dress, Liz entered under hundreds of tea lights spanning above the pathway to the courtyard.
His breath caught in his throat.
Again, time shifted to slow motion when she came toward him. Her mahogany waves cascaded around her and her shiny pink grin undid him.
Their eyes met, and he walked to meet her halfway under the twinkling lights.
“You...um...look...you look beautiful, Liz,” he stuttered.
She blushed. “Thank you. So do you.”
Slipping his hand into hers, he led her to the center of the courtyard.
“Wow...you did all this for me, Alex?”
“I’m trying to prove to you that all men aren’t inept when it comes to romance.”
“I knew you weren’t inept back at The Library Hotel.”
“Still, I wanted to make our last consult special.”
“You mean date.”
“Yes, date. This is absolutely a date.”
She panned the garden and all the accents he had attended to. “I’ve never seen the courtyard look so lovely. It’s like you made a secret garden just for us.”
He smiled and nodded, then pulled out her chair for her.
“Boy, I think you should teach my clients,” she joked.
“No. This is only for you and, I guess, all your neighbors who have been watching me this afternoon.” He pointed up to her sisters staring down at them, the gamer guy, and an old timer in another building.
Nervously, she brushed the hair from a shoulder. It wasn’t a lying tell; it was a nervous reaction. Perhaps at being the center of attention for a change.
“I hope you like seafood,” he said.
“Oh yes! Did you order in from Savilla?”
“No, I cooked everything tonight,” he said, pouring the wine.
“My goodness! Keep this up and you won’t have to pay me for our date,” she joked.
“To what shall we toast?”
Raising her glass, she bit her lip and considered her words. She looked directly at him and said, “To romance. Hopefully, to our developing romance,” then clinked his wine goblet.
Bang zoom!
Grinning, he said, “Exactly what I was hoping you’d say.”
Her sparkling eyes remained locked on his as they drank.
On schedule, Gigi showed up wearing a maid costume, a knowing smile, and bearing a tray of fresh oysters and two tartare tuna and avocado stacks.
“Liz, this is my sister Gigi. She lives in 2C in building D.”
“Oh! It’s wonderful to meet you, Gigi. Welcome to the Meryton.”
“Thanks! I’ve heard a lot about you, Liz. You must really be something special if my brother is sticking around Manhattan. He hates New York.”
“Is that so? He never said.”
“Time to go, Gigi,” he laughed.
“Yes, sir. Just give me the high sign when you want dinner served.”
As soon as his sister was out of earshot, Liz said, “She’s sweet and exactly as you described.”
“She’s the best and now free of Italian creeps.”
“That’s good to hear.” She looked down at the oysters and twisted her lips, holding back a smile. “You know what they say about oysters?”
He knew, but that desired outcome was the farthest thing from his mind. Liz had proven she wasn’t that type of girl. “Apart from being delicious?”
She chuckled.
“Ah. Is that included in the F.M.O lesson plan?” he asked.
“Only if my client’s first date is a smashing success, then we meet for a follow-up to discuss the dos and don’ts of bedroom romance. Did you get the oysters at the Fulton Fish Market?”
“No. I had them delivered this afternoon from a reputable farm I frequent in Nantucket.”
“Delivered from Massachusetts? You know, you’re going to have to tell me more about your insurance business, right?” She checked the cleave like a pro, squeezed a lemon, then raised the shell to her lip. Slurping back the mollusk in the sexiest manner, she closed her eyes, then chewed as though delivered to heaven. “Amazing,” she breathed.
This stirred all sorts of wild imaginings in him. She did say that food was nuanced in building intimacy.
Liz placed the empty shell on the plate and smiled. “Okay, I’m not going to beat around the bush, but...you have my curiosity piqued. What do you really do for a living?
No! It’s too soon. She hasn’t even had the creamy salmon piccata yet!
“I’d rather talk about you.”
“Nope. You’re paying me, so you must do as I instruct,” she joked.
He sighed, shook his head, and ate another oyster.
“Is that your position?”
He had a lot of positions in his toolbox, but deflection wasn’t one of them.
“Okay, fine. I’ll tell you only because I value honesty in a relationship. I’m not in insurance, not technically. I mean, I’m on the board of a multinational insurance company, but only because it was my father’s. After my parents suddenly died, it sorta became mine—but I...I have another career, which brought me here. I was having a hard time focusing, so I thought the West Village would stir my imagination.” He gulped his wine.
“Are you focusing on taking your writing hobby to publishing?”
“Well, actually...it’s not such a hobby.”
Reaching under the table, he withdrew the last Logan book, swallowed, then handed it to her across the table. “Turn it over,” he said.
Examining the back cover, her eyes widened at the sight of his photograph. She looked up at him and furrowed her brow. “This is...you.”
“Yes.”
“You’re...?” then glanced back down at the book in her hands.
“Yes. I’m Will Darcy, author of the Logan Series.”
“Ha! I thought you looked familiar, Alex!” she chuckled. “So that’s how come Ms. Harris jumped through hoops for you and your publisher?”
“And my aunt. She’s a huge benefactor.”
“Will...Darcy. I’m having dinner with a three-time New York Times bestselling author.” She shook her head and laughed again.
She didn’t throw the wine bottle at me. She thinks it is funny!
“But why the ruse? Please tell me you’re not scamming me or something?” she asked, the smile slowly receding.
“I’m not. I promise I’m not.”
He stood and walked over to her, taking the book from her hands. Placing his hands in hers, he guided her up from the seat. “Believe me when I say there was no intentional deception once I realized at the Library Hotel how incredible a woman you are, and how quickly I fell for you. I kept my identity a secret because...call me crazy, but I just wanted to be free from...me and Alex Logan for a weekend.”
Although she smiled, he saw the questions across the shadow of her face under the lights. “But you sought to deceive me at the onset?”
“Not really.” He sighed again and squeezed both her hands. “I came to New York because I had writer’s block, and from the second I met you at the happy hour, you became my muse.”
“Me? Your muse?”
“You and Clara and...there was this other rumor. Any perceived deception was just me trying to prove that you weren’t a murderer or...well...both rumors inspired the book.”
“Another rumor started by Gio?”
“I think so.”
“Oh dear. I don’t think I’m going to like this.” She slowly sat, and he pulled his chair over beside her.
“You won’t, but I promise you, it was never my intention of hiring your services for that. I only wanted to interview you...and then...the mutual attraction between us was...undeniable.”
Her head snapped up; eyes lit with fire! “Oh, my gosh! You thought I was a prostitute?”
“Worse.”
“What could be worse than that?”
“I was led to believe that your whole family was in the business...your sisters, your mother...even your uncle at the hotel.”
“Oh. My. Goodness!”
“What else was I to think? Between you, your mother pimping you out, and the rumor, not to mention how you talked about FMO, it seemed to confirm what I heard. I mean, your very lexicon led me to believe the unbelievable when you dropped words like servicing, consummate, positions, intercourse, and helping men achieve their desires, and then you met me at a hotel.”
“I just thought you knew what I did for a living.”
“So did I, and I had to follow that investigative lead for the book. For what it’s worth, I didn’t think you...cheap.”
She bowed her head and his heart seized when her shoulders shook. He’d made her cry.
“I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, Liz. I...I...never should have assumed such things. I forgot about Occam’s Razor and, and the book, and...
He shut up from digging a deeper hole than the one he fell into. Sitting there with his tail between his legs, he watched her weep. “I messed this whole thing up. Please don’t cry, Liz. I’m so sorry.”
Suddenly, she snorted and burst out laughing. “I’m not crying! I’m laughing! That is so stinkin’ funny!”
“You’re not angry with me?”
“Not at all. Oh my gosh, we totally misunderstood each other! Here, I thought you were socially inept, but because I found you so attractive, I was willing to service you for as long as you needed until you found your confidence and the girl of your dreams! But I secretly hoped something would develop between us, then...when you turned out to be the perfect guy for me, I got scared at the Library.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Well...you still could service me. I’m not opposed to taking tips from a professional dating coach,” he said with a smile.
Leaning toward him, she closed the distance between their lips and whispered. “I think I like your idea of servicing better, Will Darcy,” then kissed him.
Inspiration songs:
“You Set My World on Fire,” by Loving Caliber
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