“I meant the cat. Us? We’re already buddies.”
“I’m glad I got to see your apartment before your move. I like it.”
Peter took her hand. “You won’t once I give you the tour. Excuse us, Henry.”
“I may have been born an L. L. Beanite,” she said, “but I like modest digs. And this qualifies as modest.” In a surprise, she laughed.
Peter felt relief. Messy apartments and lazy cats were good medicine, he decided.
“Here,” he said, taking her hand. “Let me show you the most disgusting bathroom in the history of bathroomdom.” In a successful attempt to create an abstract nightmare, Peter’s landlord had selected orange floor tiles, a blue toilet seat, and bright yellow walls. In addition, all the fixtures were a third too-small, making them look as if they belonged in a nursery school. “This”—he opened the door to his rainbow-outrageous bathroom “—is a bad dream, disguised as a bathroom. It’s suitable only for color-blind midgets.”
He flipped on the lights, illuminating the room and Kate’s face. “Oh my, God,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m having a hard time coming up with a word for this.”
“Dreadful,” Peter deadpanned.
“No. Wonderful. At least in a bizarre kind of way. Can two fit in that tiny bathtub?”
“I don’t know.”
Kate immediately stepped out of her shoes, dropped her shoulders, and gave a left-right shrug. Her jacket rolled off her back, piling at her heels. Before Peter could react, she unzipped her skirt and stepped out, displaying pantyhose and white cotton panties. She reached into the tub and turned on hot. Stretching her hose at the waist, she pulled them off in a smooth left leg, right leg march. Peter stared. She didn’t have former paramour Ellen Goodman’s perfectly sculpted legs, but they were smooth, white, and lovely. Kate also had narrower hips, with a less round backside. Maybe she wasn’t as beautiful as Ellen, but he found her infinitely more attractive. Without a word, Kate unbuttoned her white blouse. She clutched the garment in her hand and dropped it on top of her skirt. All that remained were her panties and plain white bra.
“We have two options, Mr. Neil,” she said, sounding professorial. “Either you get out of here in the next five seconds, before I strip and step into this tub, or you stay, take off your clothes, and we see whether or not this sucker will actually hold two adult bodies.”
Peter stayed.
From a sedan that had tailed them from the moment they left Leeman, Johnston, and Ayers, a stranger took telephotos of the couple. He had pulled to the curb across the street from Peter’s apartment and parked.
“Need to do better than this, George,” he had said to himself over the click-click of his camera. At under six feet, dressed in jeans, Adidas running shoes, and wood-cutter plaid shirt, he appeared intentionally unremarkable.
Ten minutes after Peter closed and locked the front door of his apartment, George slithered from his car, careful to keep away from the orange glow spraying from a solitary street light. The private detective approached the second-story apartment from an alley in the rear of the building, carrying a high-tech recording device—slung across a shoulder—as if it were an unused walking stick.
Where he stood, looking up at Peter’s lit window, he appreciated the indigo nothingness. His current location had no overhead lighting, no moonlight, and a six-foot fence dividing this property from the next. “Very good logistics,” he said in a low voice.
George twisted the five-foot pole, taking care not to bump the mounted microphone. He slid a link, extending the stick like a television antennae. He made this move one more time, producing a twelve-foot pole. He put a set of headphones over his ears, then positioned the mike at the window with billowing steam, escaping from a hot tub of water. He began to listen and tape-record just as the female voice said: “take off your clothes . . .”
For the next hour, George enjoyed the voyeuristic aspects of his job. When the couple moved to the bedroom, he repositioned himself and, though he hadn’t thought it possible, the show got even better. He guessed he’d get a bonus for this work. Too bad Peter Neil didn’t have a first floor apartment. He’d have loved to have a set of
When the couple fell asleep around three, the private investigator left. On the way home, he replayed his audio tapes, fast-forwarding to the good parts.
For three weeks, Oliver Dawson and Angela Newman worked separately, and left the office separately, then met for dinner. If happiness were an earthquake, Dawson measured a ten on the Richter scale.
Intimacy, once it came, nearly overwhelmed him. In orchestrating that bold next step, he had trembled, afraid that Angela’s love wouldn’t manifest itself in the same achy physical way his did. When they entered his apartment that night, it was different from the handful of earlier visits. Relaxing classical music hung in the background, while muted light veiled the living room. He had spread a thick blanket across the floor and piled pillows against his sofa.
“I feel like an adolescent,” he had said. “I love you, Angela. How could we have been so afraid to tell each other for over a year?”
“People like us lose their courage. If others could see through our eyes, Oliver, they would understand beauty more fully.”
Every time she spoke, Dawson felt as if he were a student, learning lessons about life.
He took her hand and led her to the sofa. A smile spread across her face, giving him additional resolve. When guided to the floor, she had put a hand through his thinning hair and combed his scalp with her slim fingers. He closed his eyes, amazed at how wonderful the gesture felt. She leaned over and kissed his ear. He turned and looked at her through moist eyes.
It had begun slowly—like a ballet, he imagined. An hour later, she engulfed him and he felt only contentment. He had never imagined he might bring pleasure to another person. From that moment, they spent every night together.
Now, Saturday morning, a week into their new lovers’ routine, Angela’s head rested on Dawson’s slim chest. “You aren’t angry I went ahead with the transfer, are you?” she said.
At first Dawson had tried to talk her out of changing departments. Now he was glad he had failed. While nobody would care if two ugly duckling co-workers dated one another, it was easier this way. On the one hand, she was still in the building, so they could see each other on an intermittent basis during the day. On the other hand, their relationship was not the subject of lewd speculation.
“No,” he said. “I agree. It’s better this way.”
“Monday, I start my new job. I’ll miss being outside your office, but I’d trade that for seeing you, touching you, having you in this way, any day of the week.”
Her words aroused Dawson. As if she sensed his need, she reached under the sheets and touched him. “Oh my. I do believe you like me, Agent Dawson.”
Oliver Dawson spent the next hour proving her correct.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PETER AND KATE AWOKE, STILL ENTWINED. THEY TOUCHED, KISSED, THEN gave in to their passions all over again. Afterwards, Kate pushed herself from the bed. Peter watched her float towards the bathroom, naked and wonderful. Henry, grateful for the restored peace, reclaimed his spot at the foot of Peter’s bed. For Peter, a tinge of guilt lingered. When Kate gave him the option to hold her all night and not make love, he had intended to do just that.
“This is a problem, and I’m an idiot,” he said to himself as Kate disappeared around the corner.
Peter sank into his down pillow, fingers laced behind his head, sheets pulled mid-chest. What the hell had he gotten himself into? If it had just been a casual acquaintance, like that salesperson from Gordon, Ashe, the uneasiness might quickly pass. But this was different, and he felt the guilt leaking from his brain to his heart. He
