I tried to vomit back up the Viagra in a very ladylike, very silent manner.
No such luck.
I made a mental note to carry syrup of ipecac from now on.
Not that the Viagra had been able to work in those few seconds, but I sure as hell felt my skin burning while Jagger looked at me—grinning.
Sophie had mumbled some more and apparently left.
Jagger shined his light around the room. No window. No other door.
I was locked in Mr. Wisnowski’s shed with my fantasy man—and I’d just swallowed a drug used for sexual dysfunction.
I knew it also worked on women, enhancing their “feelings.” And it worked in thirty minutes—and lasted up to four hours.
This could be a long night.
But a fun one.
“How soon can we get out of here?” I asked when my mind snapped back to reality.
Jagger looked at me. “We’re probably locked in till daybreak when the kid comes back, Sherlock.”
Locked in.
Oh, boy. All of a sudden my heart started to pound and beneath my gloves my palms sweated. Locked in. This was not good for my claustrophobia.
Jagger must have noticed. “Oh shit. You’re not going to pass out like that time on the elevator.”
“Pass out? Very funny.” I became woozy. “I’m fine.” The room spun. “No problem.” My knees wobbled like a rubber band.
I ordered my brain to ignore the fact that we were locked in.
“Good.” He grabbed a few burlap sacks from a pile and laid them out on the floor near the door. “Then make yourself comfortable.” He sat down and patted the floor next to him.
I stood like a freaking mannequin.
“Oh,” he said, grinning. “Maybe you want separate sleeping arrangements after you swallowed that . . . bug?”
I could try to sleep somewhere else, but the shed was only about six feet by eight feet, and filled with tools, shovels, a lawnmower and a snow thrower.
And, besides, if I tried to sleep somewhere else, Jagger would never let me live it down.
Or I’d have a full-blown anxiety attack if I couldn’t be near the door.
“Move over.” I flopped down, scrunched up a few burlap bags for a pillow. “Good night.” I turned with my back toward him.
I knew he was still grinning.
For several minutes I laid there, telling myself that one silly Viagra wouldn’t affect me.
Then Jagger shifted.
Only a little. A tiny little amount, but his leg brushed the back of my knee.
Viagra was like adding gasoline to my already detonated Jagger explosion.
Okay, time to pull out the Pauline Sokol, RN, ammo. I had to reach into my already confused brain to tell myself that the Viagra didn’t do anything to increase desire in women. I’d read a study that said when Viagra was used on women, it increased the blood flow to involved parts and did help, but that one tiny “bug” pill I’d swallowed shouldn’t do a damn thing to me—unless we “did it,” and I doubted it—especially because Jagger was snoring softly against my back.
I’d never sleep a wink tonight, I said to myself.
My eyes burned from being so overtired. My back ached from not being able—no, not daring—to turn around. If I faced Jagger, I would see him, watch him, ogle him and drool over him—that’d be my undoing.
He shifted again.
“Damn it,” I mumbled.
He turned over!
Now his arm had taken the liberty of resting on my shoulder. He moved closer.
I didn’t know much about Jagger, but now I knew without a doubt that he was a “cuddler.”
He started making some kind of moaning sounds. Not as if he were in any kind of pain, but more sexual in nature. More as if he were having a darn good time while he slept. At least that’s how I heard them in my Viagra-induced state.
Yes, my Viagra had kicked in.
I felt heat tear through my body, landing in the most important area that Jagger could ever affect. It wasn’t easy not to spin around, grab him, tear off his clothes, make mad love and keep kissing him until the damned medicine wore off.
But I was a professional and told myself that I could withstand this torture—for the case.
And, admittedly, for me to keep face in front of Jagger.
So, I stayed put, ignored my traitorous body, now enhanced by some chemical, and shut my eyes.
I felt as if I were being smothered after I realized we couldn’t get out. Phobias were not life threatening, I reminded myself. So, a little sweat. A rapid heartbeat. No one ever died from being locked in an old shed.
I had to fall asleep to ignore my phobia—and Jagger.
After a gazillion novenas to Saint Theresa, I felt my eyes start to shut.
My nose was freezing. I opened my eyes to see Jagger’s face, inches away from mine. The cold night had seeped into the tiny, unheated shed. Shivering took over my body, and I tried to turn back. Obviously in my sleep, I’d shifted toward Jagger.
This was not good.
His hold tightened.
I tried to ease free by sliding down toward our feet. It wasn’t easy by the way he held me, but I kept moving inch by inch.
But for every inch I’d gain, his hold would shift, tighten or his legs would move closer, pinning me in. I took a deep breath, told myself the Viagra had to be out of my system now, when, in fact, I knew it must be at its peak.
I made it down past his waistline, ready to pull free and turn. Shutting my eyes, I paused.
“Viagra kicking in, Sherlock?”
My eyes flew open to come face to “fly” with Jagger’s jeans—with him still in them.
Oh . . . my . . . God.
This didn’t look good at all.
For a second, I couldn’t move. Then, thinking as fast as I could, I started to mumble. I mumbled and shifted, praying my acting abilities would have Jagger thinking I was still asleep and wriggled up until opposite his neck.
Then my chin lifted toward his face.
His lips touched mine.
And my world would never be the same.
My eyelids fluttered open. I looked around and felt my forehead wrinkle. What a dream. This place was freezing, dirty and . . . Jagger stood near the door.
It wasn’t a dream.
More a nightmare.
The last thing I remembered was Jagger’s lips on mine. I looked under the burlap to see that I had all my clothes on—but no jacket. I know I went to sleep with my jacket on.
Did that really mean we had . . .
Knowing Jagger, he would have helped me back into my clothes after . . .
Then I remembered the Viagra and said a silent prayer that it hadn’t gotten out of hand last night. I felt pretty tired, but that could be since this wasn’t the Ritz, and I hadn’t slept much.
If I’d made love to Jagger—surely I’d be floating on a cloud right now—not lying here on a dirty floor.
And Lord knows, if we really had sex, I’d want to have lived through every tiny second of that experience with him.
I decided I’d go with the theory we hadn’t and never breach the subject with him.
He turned toward me. “Hey.”
“Morning.” My voice came out a raspy tone. Sounded a bit sexier than it had last night, but I knew my breath needed some help. First thing I always did in the morning, no matter who I was with, was brush my teeth and tongue.
Pauline Sokol, creature of habit.
With my hand over my mouth, I asked, “Did you get it unlocked?”
He gave me one of those looks.
“Okay. How are we going to get out if the yard boy doesn’t come back?” I sat up and ran my hand through my hair. Medusa, look out. Trying to tame the strands, I said, “Should we call someone?”
“We’ve never been here.”
“Oh, right.” I got up, brushed myself off and touched my lips. They felt a bit swollen. Maybe we had shared more than one kiss? And why was my jacket off?
Damn, how I wished I could remember.
Not only to know whether I should be properly embarrassed, but there was that thing of if I’d had sex with Jagger, I’d want to relive it moment by moment, or maybe even have video—for my own use only.
I couldn’t be that unlucky to have done “it” and not remember.
Goldie’s jacket hung from a hook above my head. Not a good sign. I reached into the deepest recesses of my brain to see if I remembered hanging it there. Nada. Jagger could have hung it up for me.
I shook my head to get all these stupid thoughts out of it, stood, grabbed the jacket and put it on.
He watched me, silently.
Great.
“So, how do we get out of here?” I walked toward the door.
Jagger had pushed open the double doors only about three inches. The old padlock still did its job, holding them shut.
I pushed at one door. It creaked. “Can’t you just push it until the lock pops?”
Jagger looked through the small opening. “Not until Sophie is gone.”
I bent near to look. His breath heated my cheek, and the bastard didn’t move away. As a matter of fact, I think he somehow managed to make his breath . . . hotter.
During the night, snow had fallen. Not much, thank goodness, but enough that the roads might be a bit slippery. I wondered if the neighbors had noticed Jagger’s SUV parked down the street. At least he didn’t stop it right in front of Mr. W’s house.
The guy was on the ball.
“Oh. Good thinking about Sophie. Can you—” I pulled back. “She’s coming!”
Jagger took a fast peek, then grabbed my arm. As he pulled me toward the back of the shed, he held a finger to my lips. I got it that I had to shut up, but didn’t move his hand away.
Pauline Sokol, pathetic woman.
“Clean both driveways today, Todd. Someone is coming to look at the house,” Sophie said.
“Yeah,” a teen’s voice answered. Obviously Todd. The yard boy.
Jagger and I looked at the shovel together. Todd had to come get it. The lock started to jiggle.
Jagger pushed me behind the lawnmower. I fell, but before I could conk my head, his arms were around me, easing me to the floor with him on top of me.
Todd, a lanky kid with acne and a black woolen cap, stuck his arm into the shed and grabbed the shovel. “Yeah, bitch-lady. I’ll shovel real good. Wouldn’t want your fat ass skidding down the drive and breaking the cement.” He turned to look, probably to make sure Sophie was gone. Then he let out a howl of laughter.
I held my breath, which wasn’t difficult since Jagger was squashing the daylights out of me.
A mouse walked across my leg!
Jagger’s hand was over my mouth before I could scream, but a tiny muffled sound had come out.
Todd stopped laughing.
“Who’s in there?” his voice shook like mine felt. “I’ll bet just one of those damn mice. Yeah. You little shits, stop making so much noise. You’re not going to scare me anyway, making me think old man Wisnowski came back from the dead.”
Silence.
Bam!
Jagger eased up. With my face partially blocked by his jacket, I looked to see the door shut and prayed Todd had forgotten to lock it again.
We waited a few minutes.
Then Jagger got up, offered me a hand, which I had to take since I was folded like a pretzel and didn’t think I could maneuver on my own. When I was able to stand, he turned and walked toward the door. Ever so gently, he eased it open.
Atta boy, Todd, forgetful teenager.
Squeak.
This time I knew it wasn’t the mice. If Todd had decent hearing, he might come see what was going on. Then again, a teen who thinks about ghosts more than likely would run the other way.
I looked at Jagger. “Think he’ll come back?”
“More than likely he’s got some earphones blaring. Come on.”
He took my hand, stepped out, and looked down the driveway. Sure enough, there shoveled Todd with music playing so loudly I could hear it from where I stood. We worked our way around the back of the shed and ended up on the opposite street.
Jagger looked around. “Let’s go.”
We walked down the sidewalk, turned left and headed toward his SUV, which sat partially covered in white.
I think I finally took a breath.
“Hungry?” Jagger asked after he brushed off the snow just barely enough to see through the windshield.
“I hadn’t even thought about food after a night like that.”
He turned, grinned.
“I’m talking about almost getting caught breaking and entering.” But truthfully his look wasn’t far off. “Yeah. I guess I am hungry, but I can’t eat like this.”
He turned down Elm Street. “We’ll go to a restaurant.”
“No, I mean . . . my teeth. I have to brush them and then shower before I can eat.”
At the stoplight Jagger turned to me. “Maybe next time you should bring an overnight bag with you on surveillance.”
“Why I hadn’t thought about—” I slapped his arm before he took off again. “Funny. I can’t help having good hygiene. Anyway, I need to go home before I can eat.”
“I’m starving.”
“Okay. Compromise. I’ll give you toast while I get ready.”
He didn’t reply but turned into the parking lot of my condo and shut off the engine. Once outside, I took a long, deep breath of fresh air. It really felt good to be outside again. I made a mental note to call my friend who was a therapist. Probably I could use some behavior modification for my phobia while doing this line of work.
Maybe even a little Prozac.
We walked up the steps, and I opened the door. When Jagger walked in, he stopped. I’d forgotten to warn him about the “jungle.”
“Goldie lives here now too.”
Without a word, he walked toward the kitchen. Spanky came running up to Jagger. He grabbed the dog, gave him a hug and held him. “Where’s the coffee?”
I pointed to the pantry. “Don’t make any messes. Miles can’t take it. I’ll be right back.” I gave Spanky a pat, but the dog ignored me and nuzzled Jagger’s arm.
Smart dog.
Once in the bathroom, I started to undress, then thought about Jagger being downstairs. Like a fool, okay a wishful fool, I rechecked the door lock. Yep, unlocked.
I got into the shower and turned the handle on full blast. The water felt wonderful after last night. Not that I got that dirty, since I had on my winter clothes, but on principle I felt cleaner afterward.
When I headed into my room to change, I remembered how long it had taken me the other night to pick out an outfit for my date. Then it dawned on me that I hadn’t even thought about Nick all night.
That was not a good sign.
My “Nick likes me” mantra ran through my head until I was dressed in my jeans, long blue sweater and had my hair pulled up. There wasn’t time to wash and dry it, so I went with the casual look. I reapplied my makeup and headed downstairs.
Something smelled good. Certainly wasn’t plain old toast. Famished now, I opened the swinging door to the kitchen. Spanky sat on the floor watching.
Me, I leaned against the wall and joined the dog.
Jagger moved about as if he owned the place. Coffee perked. Bacon sizzled. On the griddle were two gigantic pancakes. He stood over them, slicing bananas onto them. Without looking up, he said, “Hope you like bananas.”
For a second I thought he was talking to Spanky. “Oh . . . yes. But I’ve never had them in my pancakes.” I managed to move away from the wall, take a mug from the table Jagger had set and filled it with coffee. After several yawns, I needed the caffeine.
I had to smile when I set the mug down on the table to put in my cream and sugar. He’d used Miles’s everyday white pottery dishes. But instead of using napkins, Jagger had folded paper towels and set them next to them. The fork, knife and spoon all sat on the left side of the dish. I had the urge to correct it, but held back.
Did it really matter?
Obviously Jagger did things his own way—and that’s what made him Jagger.
“This is so nice of you,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee. “I thought we were going out to eat.”
He looked at me. “Not before I showered.”
I smiled, knowing he did it ’cause I was upset. “Touché. Who knew you could cook?” I sat at the table and took another sip of coffee.
“Jack of all trades.”
I’ll bet you are.
He turned around and set a plateful of bacon on the table, which he followed with the two pancakes too large to fit on a plate. Those he juggled on the spatula and pan while hurrying over to the table. My pancake he set down, folded in half.
“Thanks. This looks wonderful.” I would not allow myself any “homey” or “sexy” thoughts of us sharing breakfast on a cold winter’s day. So, I took the heated maple syrup and poured way too much over my pancake.
We ate in silence, which didn’t surprise me. After taking the last bite, even though I was stuffed, I said, “I’m so full. You did a great job, Jagger.” I had to get up and move around, or else I’d gain twenty pounds just sitting there.
He got up and started taking his dish to the sink.
“Oh no. House rules. Whoever cooks doesn’t clean up.” I stifled another yawn and got up.
He set the dish back on the table. “Good rule. So how long has Goldie been here?”
“Just moved in.” After another yawn, I could feel him staring at me, probably wondering why the hell I was still there. “I’m planning on moving out.”
He nodded. “Where to?”
I couldn’t get the words “my parents’ house” to come out of my lips, so I just shrugged. “Haven’t looked around yet.”
“Rent gets expensive . . . alone.”
What? Was Jagger insinuating that we should move in together or had the Viagra rebounded?
“Tell me about it. You know of any cheap places? Oh, I don’t mean cheap as in crummy. I mean nice, safe places that aren’t too expensive.”
“Do you think I’d set you up in an unsafe place?”
I let out a sigh. “I’m overtired and not responsible for what I say all day today.”
Ring. Ring!
We both looked at the phone together. “Funny how sometimes even the ringer sounds impatient.” I picked it up. “Hello.”
“Pauline?”
“Yes, Mother. Who else would answer when you called my number?”
“Pauline, where have you been? I’ve been trying to get you all morning!”
I was about to tell a lie, but her voice sounded too concerned about something. “What’s wrong, Ma. Daddy all right? Uncle Walt?” Oh, no! Had something happened to Uncle Walt like Mr. W? “Uncle Stash?”
“That one.”
“Something is wrong with Uncle Stash?”
“Get over here right away, Pauline.” She sniffled.
“Oh, my God, Mom! Call an ambulance!”
Her voice stiffened. “An ambulance couldn’t fix this, Pauline.” She hung up.
Jagger had already picked up the rest of the dishes and stuck them in the dishwasher while I had been on the phone.
“My mother—”
“I’ll take you over there.”
“I . . . I’ll go alone. She sounded strange.”
“You can’t drive.”
I grabbed my purse and keys from the table. “Yes I can.” My vision blurred. Another yawn. He was right. I hadn’t slept enough last night. “You’re probably as tired as I am.”
He walked to the front door, opened it. “I slept, Sherlock.”
All the way to my mother’s house, I kept thinking of Jagger sleeping and me a wreck all night. I vowed never to go on a “midnight mission” with him ever again.
Then again, I’d also vowed I’d never take a nursing job again, and here I was. If I learned anything, it should have been not to make any vows to myself where Jagger was concerned.
He turned down Pleasant Street, taking the back roads. He’d been to my parents’ house last Christmas.
My mother liked Jagger.
No telling what was going on now, or what she’d say when I showed up with him at this time of the morning.
When we pulled into the driveway, I hurried out. Jagger was right behind. On the way over, I’d assured myself that Uncle Stash couldn’t be sick or an ambulance would be needed.
Then again, if he were dead . . .
“Mom!” I shoved open the front door and ran inside.
“In here, Pączki,” my father called out from the kitchen.
Running in, I said, “Daddy, what is going on?”
Mother stepped forward with a coffeepot in her hand. “Why didn’t you tell me you were bringing company, Pauline? For heaven’s sake, where are your manners?” She set the coffeepot on a hotplate shaped like a strawberry in the middle of the table. “How are you, Mr. Jagger?”
She always insisted on adding the “mister” and I couldn’t explain that he only had one name—which I knew of anyway.
“He’s fine, Ma. I didn’t tell you because you had me so upset. What the hell is going on?”
Jagger touched my arm. “Relax, Sherlock.”
“That’s right, Pauline. Mind your manners and get Mr. Jagger a chair, and let him answer for himself.”
“I’ve been fine, Mrs. Sokol.”
Uncle Walt and my father sat at the table. I nodded to them and grabbed the chair near the wall phone. I looked at Jagger. “Here. Sit.”
Mother shook her head. “Let me fix you some scrambled eggs.”
“We already ate, Ma. What is going on?”
“What did you eat? Coffee? A donut?” She got up and went toward the refrigerator.
“Jagger made us pancakes!” I couldn’t control myself now. Being summoned here for some emergency and then being fed again (because I didn’t want her to know that we’d spent the night together no matter how—hopefully—platonic it was) was too much to take.
My entire family locked eyes with me. Mother’s were the strongest, pulling the truth out of me.
“He came . . . we had work to do. After the work he made breakfast. Now why the hell am I here?”
Mother wiped her hands on her favorite winter apron. The one with red cardinals sitting on naked brown branches highlighted with snow. She looked me in the eye.
At first I thought she was going to go on about breakfast, pancakes and Jagger. But instead she cleared her throat. “Your uncle is getting married.”
My eyes bugged out. I swung around to Uncle Walt. “Congratu—”
“Not him,” Mother said. “Uncle Stash.”
I felt my knees weaken. Jagger must have noticed, because his arms were on mine. I leaned into his chest for support. “Uncle Stash. Uncle Stash is getting married to someone he knows from back home in Florida?”
“No, Pączki,” Daddy said. “Stash is marrying that woman. Helen Wanat.”
I turned to see a tear run down Uncle Walt’s cheek.