Marcus took a peek at the small stack of paper and excused himself to use the men’s room. When he got back to the table, another Scotch was waiting for him.
“I didn’t order this,” he said.
“I did,” Celeste said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
He saw it was a double. “If I drink this, I won’t be able to drive for a while.”
She smiled slyly. “Perhaps, that was my plan.”
He decided that it was now okay to have a more direct look at her figure. The tight red dress and red lipstick were killers, but why was she trying to slay him? He had maybe twenty years on her, and while he was given to understand by lady-friends that he was a pretty good fifty-four, her motives were suspect. That said, did he really care? He hit the new Scotch hard and in short order, another one mysteriously appeared, courtesy of the grinning waiter.
*
Her room didn’t seem like it had been occupied. It looked as pristine as a hotel room looks on check-in, and as he stood by the bed, swaying from the drink, the part of his brain that remained sentient told him that she had squirreled away all her personal belongings before coming down to the bar. That smacked of premeditation.
It became clear soon enough that she wanted to be the aggressor in this interlude, and he didn’t put up a struggle. If it worked for her, it worked for him. In any case, his shoulder still hurt like hell, which limited his mobility. She shed the red dress the way a snake sheds its skin and pulled him by his belt buckle onto the bed. He wasn’t altogether sure how competent his performance was, but before long, she was moaning and that got to him—in a good way. When they were both spent, he felt for something to cover their nakedness, but since they were lying on top of a made bed, he came up empty.
“Here,” she said, kissing him on the lips. “Let’s get under.”
He was a little more sober now and it began to sink in. He’d slept with a woman he didn’t particularly care for. No, it was stronger than that. He was deeply suspicious of her and couldn’t figure out her angle. Were these visions of hers part of an elaborate scam? Was she about to hit Mickey up for a big payday? Was this new Torriglia thing a lead-up to the big ask? And why did she feed him liquor and lead him by the nose to her bed? Was that a bribe for him to convince Mickey she was the real deal?
“A penny for your thoughts?” she said. She was on her side, her head propped by an arm. He turned his neck and saw the tattoo on her wrist.
“That’s all they’re worth,” he said.
“Oh, I doubt that. You’re a man of uncommon substance.”
“Good to know.”
“And you’re an excellent lover.”
“Better to know.” He was eager to change the subject. “Why the Big Dipper?”
She laughed. “My tattoo? I got it when I was quite young. I always liked the way you can use the Big Dipper to find the North Star.” She ran the sharp nail of her pointer finger lightly across his chest. “You make a line from the two outer stars in the cup of the Big Dipper, then there’s the North Star.” She stabbed her finger into his breast, just hard enough to make him twitch. “It’s important to know where the North Star is, don’t you think? It centers you and guides you through life.”
He didn’t answer. His persistent dull headache had become a painfully throbbing one. His doctor had neglected to tell him that sex could make post-concussion symptoms worse. When he started to massage his eyes and temples, she picked up on it and took over, working the muscles of his head and neck.
“You’ve been through a lot,” she said. “You were very brave.”
“Also known as very stupid. I shouldn’t have chased after the ambulance.”
“I think your training took over. Mickey told me you worked at the CIA.”
“People have a lot of misconceptions about that line of work. It’s mostly sitting at desks and staring at computers.”
“You’re not James Bond?” she purred.
“I’ve got his drinking down to a science, but that’s about it.”
“I disagree. You also ravish the ladies.”
“My recollection is that you were the one doing most of the ravishing.”
Her laugh was small and sexy. “I couldn’t help myself.”
It was time to transition to an interrogation. “Why me? I’m not quite old enough to be your father, but, still.”
She abruptly stopped the massage and propped herself on pillows to sit up.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I offend you.”
“Would you mind getting me a water from the minibar?” she asked.
He was aware of her eyes on his naked body.
When he was back under the sheets, she said, “I had a complicated relationship with my father.”
“We can change the subject.”
“No, it’s okay. We are adults. We can talk. I told you he was Lebanese, no? He was a dominant man, very aggressive in his approach to life.”
“An alpha male.”
“Yes, alpha for sure. When I was young, I was in awe of him—you know, the size of him, his incendiary temperament, always like a volcano about to erupt, his thick, black moustache and the way he went to work cleanly shaved and returned for dinner with heavy stubble. His life force was strong.”
“And your mother?”
“A beautiful woman, especially in her youth—always quiet and reserved. They were both Christian, but she was more religious.” She got quieter. “She was afraid of him. He could be brutal with her. Also, tender, but it’s the brutality I remember most acutely. It was the same with me. When he was happy, when things were going well with his business, he
