reminded Mitch of Zorro.
And in less than three minutes he had created a still-life drawing that was not only incredibly accurate but bursting with vitality.
“I had no idea you could draw,” Des whispered, awestruck.
“Of course I can draw,” he said indignantly. “I’m an artist, girl. And you, Big Mitch, you’re a lucky man. To think I was trying to press Moose on you.”
“Moose doesn’t have to be pressed on anyone,” Mitch said, feeling Des’s eyes on him.
“And now I shall leave you healthy young lovers. You’ve much better things to do. But before I go…” Hangtown hurriedly scrawled his name on the lower right-hand corner of his drawing, then dropped the graphite stub in Des’s hand. “From me to you, Trooper Mitry. Welcome to Dorset.”
Des stared at him, gape-jawed. By signing his drawing he had just presented her with a gift that was worth thousands of dollars.
“You know why I did that, don’t you?” he said, cackling at her with glee. “Because I can’t make love to you tonight. I’m too damned old, and you’re my friend’s girl. But I still fell in love tonight. Madly and truly.” He leaned forward and kissed Des on the cheek. “Greta can authenticate it in case you ever need to sell it. Stuff happens. Believe me, I know.”
“I-I can’t accept this,” she sputtered.
“Of course you can.”
“But, Mr. Frye, you can’t just give me this. This is insane!”
“Beautiful, and stubborn, too.” Hangtown held a gnarled hand out, palm up. “Twenty bucks.”
“Deal.” She promptly went up to the sleeping loft to get her wallet, leaving Mitch alone in the living room with him.
“I wanted to assure you of something,” Mitch said. “We were talking about it at dinner and it’s been on my mind…”
“What is it, Big Mitch?”
“I’d never write about you. I’d never do that.”
“Hell, I know that,” he said, clapping him on the back. “But I also know that you may have to.” Hangtown fell silent, a troubled look crossing his face. “Some things can’t be avoided.”
“What makes you say that?” Mitch asked, studying him.
“You get a feeling about things at my age,” he replied darkly. “About people and what they might do. Whatever happens, Big Mitch, whatever needs doing… it’s okay by me. Better you than some effete bed wetter who can’t stand Bud and Lou.”
Des came back down the stairs now, money in hand.
Hangtown snatched it from her and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. “Easiest double-sawbuck I ever made,” he exclaimed happily. “Beer and smokes money for a week.” He started toward the door now, waving an arm at them. “Good fight, good night.”
“Are you okay to drive?” Mitch asked, heading outside with him. “I can run you home in my truck.”
“Nonsense, I’m not drunk,” he replied, climbing slowly back onto his bike. “Just crazy.” And with that the great Wendell Frye kick-started his engine, donned his helmet and goggles and headed off into the night.
Mitch threw another log on the fire, and he and Des curled up together in front of it, snuggling under the afghan that Mitch kept there for that very purpose. Clemmie and Quirt, who had disappeared with such a big, loud stranger in the house, ventured back out, Quirt rolling around on his back while Clemmie determinedly pad-pad- padded at Mitch’s tummy with her front paws. Clemmie did this with great regularity. Mitch chose to take it as a sign of affection, rather than a commentary on his weight.
“Well, well, he’s still got him some funk in his trunks, hasn’t he?”
“Quite the lady’s man,” Mitch agreed. “In fact, I’d be willing to bet there are beautiful women scattered all over the world with his signed drawings.”
“Um, okay, did you just say what I think you said?”
“I don’t know. What do you think I said?”
She batted her eyelashes at him. “That you think I’m beautiful.”
“Why, do you have a problem with that?”
“Shoot no. I just like to know where I stand-especially when I find out someone’s been pressing his daughter on you.”
Mitch raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
“I don’t get jealous. Don’t have to. I carry a loaded semiautomatic weapon, remember?”
“Believe me, that’s not something I ever forget.”
“See that you don’t,” she said, rubbing her cheek gently against his to let him know she was kidding. They were still new with each other’s feelings, and still careful with them. “I met Moose myself today. I liked her.”
“Well, you won’t like Takai, believe me.”
“She was bitchy to Bella on the phone. Really arrogant.”
“That’s Takai. She’s hooked up with Bruce Leanse-in more ways than one, I gather.” Mitch tipped her face up toward his, kissing her lightly on the forehead. “He hit on you today, am I right?”
Her eyes widened. “Damn, you scare me sometimes.”
“Hey, I have a really crazy idea…”
“What is it?” she demanded, instantly tensing.
“Whoa, why are you suddenly on red alert?”
“Because the last time I heard those words from a man’s mouth it was Brandon wanting to get us into a threesome with a paralegal named Amber.”
“And did you?” asked Mitch. “Ow, that hurt!”
“So stop talking trash at me.”
“I was going to suggest you spend the night,” he grumbled, rubbing his arm where she’d slugged him.
“Mitch, we have been over this up, down and sideways. I am brand-new on this job. And appearances matter. And until the people get a chance to know me I don’t want them getting any wrong ideas.”
“They know all about us, girlfriend,” he informed her. “Takai did.”
“But how?”
“There are no secrets in Dorset, that’s how. Gossip is their lifeblood. Face up to it-they are going to talk about us, and there’s not a thing we can do about it except enjoy doing exactly what they say we’re doing.” He kissed her gently. Or at least it started out gently. If possible, they wanted each other more than they had an hour ago. “Although I can’t imagine they have any idea just how good it is.”
“None,” she whispered, stroking his face, bathing him in the glow of her smile. “Um, okay, I’m thinking maybe I can make an exception tonight…”
“You won’t be sorry,” he vowed.
“I haven’t been sorry yet.”
“Des, I have a serious confession to make…”
“Now what?” she wondered, her voice filling with dread.
“At this very moment, in this very spot, I am the happiest man on earth.”
She let out a faint whimper, which was something she did when he said something unexpectedly nice to her. Like that afternoon in Woodbridge when he brought her those flowers and they ended up together on the kitchen floor of her old house. Right now, she threw off the flannel shirt she had on and melted right into his arms, her caramel-toned skin warm and smooth and satiny.
They stayed right there in front of the fire, making slow, tender love deep into the night. Eventually, they stumbled upstairs to bed and slept, both cats curled trustingly around them.
Mitch dreamed he was in a dungeon. Rondo Hattan was there. And so was Des. The Creeper had her stretched out on a rack, naked, just as in one of those lurid comic-book illustrations of the early fifties. And he was mashing her dainty pink toes with a pair of pliers, one by one. And she was screaming. And Mitch tried to cry out, but he could not make a sound. Except for a beeping noise…
Until with a start Mitch realized he was awake and the beeping was coming from Des’s pager. She was out of bed and reaching for the phone on his nightstand. He looked at the alarm clock, yawning. It was only five thirty. Barely light out.
