do not get hysterical.” He sat down next to her. She turned her head farther away. The slouch hat slouched over both eyes.
“Damn!” Amanda grabbed the limp felt and punched it into her lap, reeling in the flowing lime silk. She whirled her body to face her tormentor full face.
His tense jaw relaxed and the deep rust of fury faded from his cheeks. His gray-blue eyes softened. Her chin trembled.
“This is not going to work out.” She stiffened her back and tried not to concentrate on the way his glasses subtly enhanced the large, evening-sky blue irises. How could she not trust him with her life? His look was so direct, so honest.
“Yeah. I know.”
So maddening! How could he know what she was referring to? It could be the case she meant. How could he assume she was talking about what they both knew they were both thinking about.
He put his arm around her and gently pulled her close. His other large hand rested lightly on her small tight fists twisting Cissy’s delicate silk into an unredeemable knot in her lap.
“Ace, somebody may be lying dead somewhere in London, whose identity this guy has taken. I just don’t want anything…”
“And they may not, too, be lying dead… anybody… anywhere. You said the man at the insurance firm wasn’t certain. There’s no body, right? You always think the worst.” She would not be mollified by his strength, his concern, his willingness to be badgered the way he had badgered her.
“And you always think the best. You must have had a great childhood.” He was being grumpy and self-pitying and it shocked Amanda to realize how wrong he was.
She had always considered it a lousy childhood. No Mom. Almost non-existent Dad. Annoying little brothers. The teen-age years had been hell. And yet. Somehow she had turned out okay. It wasn’t Mom’s fault she died. Dad did the best he knew how. Now that he had gotten his brood through the worst part and they were becoming self- sufficient, he was even beginning to loosen up a bit.
Her brothers had stuck to the straight and narrow. With Amanda doing some psychological cattle-prodding to see to it that they did. They had turned out fine, had met some fine Pittsburgh girls, and were ready to settle down to being solid citizens. Bed-rock of the country. She was proud of them.
“What if I just not let you out of my sight until this case is closed?” Marc was being serious.
“Marc…”
His face shifted to chagrin. “Yeah, yeah, I know, Ace. You’re a big girl. What you did today was dumb but very helpful. More pieces to the puzzle. Nothing fits yet, but we’re getting more choices.” He leaned back, appraising her from tousled top to scuffed toe.
“And Cissy did a knock-out job, I can imagine.” He grinned as Amanda frowned, clutching at her barely together hair-do and tugged at her short skirt realizing there was no possible way to cover the shredded hose.
She slapped the exhausted slouch hat on her head, the twisted fabric dangling, and pulled the felt sides down, turning it into a disheveled bonnet. She made a face not unlike the annoyed, dislocated street person and then, changing attitude, raised her eyebrows haughtily and slumped languidly.
“Eet has been a deeficult dayee. But at the time, I was most effectif. He ees guarding my treasure weeth his life.” Her eyes flashed with Garbo-esque passion.
Marc guffawed. “Dad-gummit, m’am, I’m downright impressed.”
“Marc, you should see the drawing. It looks exactly like one of the Ingres in the Met. So beautiful. I can’t believe someone I know might have done it.” For some odd reason, considering the diatribe she had just had with herself about truth and honesty between them, she decided not to reveal who she thought the drawing might have been made by. No reason to get Mr. Wilde into more trouble yet.
Marc looked thoughtful. “Maybe I will get to see it.”
Amanda heaved a sigh. Down came the crumpled hat, in reeled the twisted silk to be formed into another knot. She stared at her handiwork. “Marc, we gotta talk.”
“Yeah.” His strong fingers helped her unwind the abused scarf. Slowly, he ironed the wrinkled fabric over her thigh, his palm sliding down to guide his fingers onto the trail of laddered nylon that spilled over her knee and down her calf. “We could talk at your place or mine.” His voice was pure lust.
And she lusted as much as he.
“Where are you from?”
It took only a moment to wrench himself onto her track. He was maddening, accepting her erraticness, her splintered trains of thought, as though they were the most natural thing in the world.
“The Island… Long Island. Upper middle class strivers. NYU.” He glanced around at the perimeter of the park. “A bummer. David went off to Europe on scholarships. I took off for the wide open spaces. Montana. Arizona. And when I got tired of the coyotes, headed for the bright lights of Vegas. That’s where I decided to try the private eye biz. I blame it all on Robert Urich, those half-naked show girls and that sports car. Reruns.”
He began to drift deeper within himself with the memories. She had to strain to hear.
“Settled in SoCal. David had tanked by then. I became a surfing dude when I wasn’t sneaking snaps of two- timing husbands. Bor-ring. So I started specializing in art investigations. Thought the clientele would at least be classier. Mr. Big Guy Heavy Hitter has proven me wrong.”
He had been around more than she had suspected. “So… so you’ve had quite a few relationships.”
“Yep. I’ve always been a very approachable guy, even before I started heaving iron and dropping my drawers. Very personable. Very charming. A real schmoozer.” He said it flatly, objectively, as he watched a couple of pigeons hustle in and out of hurrying feet to grab beaks full of something. “Enough to know the good from the bad.” He shifted his gaze to her. “This is one of the good relationships, Ace.”
“And you?”
Somehow Amanda felt on safer ground now. Or at least on ground that she knew how to navigate. Get away from the mushy stuff.
Handle the situation. More her speed. He wasn’t pushing…or pulling. He was just taking it as it came. And he seemed grateful it… they… were “one of the good ones”.
Amanda felt infinitely sad.
“Let’s go to your place… David’s place. We’ll make dinner and I’ll tell you the story of my life.”
He brightened and smiled wickedly, though the wickedness seemed tinged with a trace of sadness, too.
“You know I’ll put the make on you real heavy. They’re springing David tomorrow. After that, it’s tacky motels. A P.I.’s salary is not a consistent one.”
Amanda slapped the misshapen Garbo slouch on what was left of her French twist and looked at her watch. “Then let’s get to it, hot shot. What do you know about tossing a salad?”
His eyes shone. She could tell his pulse was up. “You sure you want to do this, Ace?”
“Do what? We’re making dinner. We’ve gotta eat. One day- one hour at a time, right? We know what today brought. We’ll see what tonight brings.” She couldn’t have been more coolly objective if she were dealing with Untermeyer and his bunch of money-grubbing venture buddies.
They decided to walk. Cabs and the subway were impossible at rush hour. It would give them a chance to discuss the modeling session on Sunday. Marc agreed it was a great idea.
“Damn, lady, I should be inviting you into the firm. Why didn’t I think of that? We go through all this hassle and then don’t focus on the prime targets. Not a smart plan.”
He remembered he had told David that he had invited her into the investigation, but she had outrun him.
“It was a smart enough plan for a couple of lunkhead males,” Amanda said. “What you needed was some cold, corporate dame figuring the angles. I’ll do what I can to help you mere men keep this show on the road.”
“So long as you don’t go off on your own again. Talk about not-smart plans.”
Before she could retaliate and they would be at it again in the middle of Sixth Avenue, Marc stuck up both index
