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Carter jotted down the information. “And you live alone?” He looked up. “Just trying to find out how many people regularly come in and out.”
“No roommate, no pets—no dog, no cat. I live alone.”
“And you like that?” He didn’t bother to pretend to write.
They had strayed from the purely professional again, but Eve didn’t feel troubled. Instead, she closed her eyes and sighed, thinking of his question. “It’s blissful living alone.” For the first time in her life, she didn’t have to look to see if the toilet seat was up or down. She wondered if Simone had to remind him about the toilet seat. Having met Simone, Eve knew she’d only have to ask once.
She opened her eyes and noticed the detective’s puzzled expression. “And your assistant, Melodie is it?” he asked. The pen was at the ready again.
“Melodie Benjamin. She’s my only employee, and she works part-time, fitting her hours around classes. And, yes, she came with excellent references, which I checked out before hiring her.”
“As I would have anticipated.”
His comment pleased her. Maybe a little too much.
“What about your customers?”
“Customers?”
“Who are they? Mostly women?”
“Mostly. Though we occasionally get men coming in—some cross-dressers.” Carter didn’t blink. “But in general, if men come in, they’re here to buy gifts for wives or girlfriends.” She hesitated. “Perhaps there’s something you’d like to purchase? Women cannot live by camisoles alone, you know.”
“They can’t? I learn something new everyday.” He flipped his notebook shut, opened up his jacket and slipped it back in the inside pocket, his particularly taut waist allowing for an uninterrupted motion. “I should also probably talk to Ms. Benjamin, if that’s all right with you?”
Eve shouldn’t have felt a letdown, but she did. She dropped her arms to her sides. “Of course, I’ll just take care of those two customers she’s with. That way you can talk to Melodie and check out the back door and staircase at the same time—not that I’m suggesting how you should do your job.”
“I could talk to her after you show me the exits, if you prefer?”
She did, but that sounded petty. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she protested. “Melodie is perfectly capable of showing you the store’s layout, really.”
“But can she expand my horizons about underwear like you?” His grin was tempting.
She ignored it and walked over to Melodie, nodding back in the direction of Carter. Melodie flexed her shoulders and stood up straighter. All smiles, Eve faced Carter. “Melodie can help you now.”
Eve shifted her attention—well, her partial attention—to the two young women. With graduation scheduled for the coming week, they were looking for a present for their roommate. “What about this pair of boxers with the lips? Too obvious?” she asked. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Melodie leaning more closely than was strictly necessary. Her hips, in her black stretch pants, were slung so far forward Detective Moran could have done a pelvic exam.
She focused even harder on her customers. “Maybe your roommate is more the playful type? Yes, I know just the thing. Look, these elephants sniffing petunias are great. And they’re the same red as the university’s colors. Or how about the tropical fruits? Very Carmen Miranda.” It was only a matter of time.
A few minutes to be exact. As she finished gift-wrapping the sale—the elephants won out—Melodie joined her behind the counter.
“Just a box is fine,” Carter said, reaching in his back pocket and pulling out his wallet.
Eve watched Melodie fold tissue paper around a champagne-colored silk teddy. It was virtually unadorned except for a small satin bow at the center of the neckline. Something she would have picked out—for herself. She craned her neck to try to get a glimpse of the size.
“Do you approve?” Carter asked her.
Eve hastily readjusted her posture. “I approve of all purchases made in my store, not that you should have felt obligated to buy something.”
“Just trying to expand by horizons.” Carter winked and handed over his credit card to Melodie. He pulled out a business card and offered it to Eve. “Don’t forget, someone will be around to dust the mannequin for prints. But if you think of anything else or have any more problems, give me a call at that phone number. My pager number’s there, too.”
“Thanks.” Eve took the card. It felt warm from being in his wallet. She absentmindedly rubbed it, then looked up. He was watching.
The cash register printed out the credit card slip. “Here you go.” Melodie fished a pen out of a cup.
Carter signed and reached to put the shell-pink pen back.
“Keep it,” Eve said. “It’s got the store’s phone number on it.”
“Thanks.” He slipped it into the side pocket of his pants, near his holster. “The color goes with everything.”
Eve watched, fascinated and somewhat put off by the gun.
He watched where her eyes had moved. “So,” he said.
She shifted her gaze back to his face. “So.” She offered her hand. “Thank you for coming in so promptly, and thanks for all your help.”
His hand met hers. “I haven’t done anything yet.”
But he had. Or rather, he was. True, the handshake itself was brief, one solid up-and-down motion, very brisk. But the separating of flesh—now that seemed to linger a fraction too long to be kosher. And was she mistaken, or had his thumbnail inadvertently—or maybe not so inadvertently—trailed along her palm when their hands parted?
Eve inhaled sharply and lowered her hand to her side. The skin felt hot, tingly hot, as if she’d licked her index finger and stuck it into a light socket. And the line where his thumb had grazed—well, that was like dropping a clock radio into the shower with Howard Stern on the air.
Eve didn’t know what to say. The brief contact had been wildly arousing. Yet surprisingly intimate. Definitely secret. But completely out in public. Had it provoked some latent sexual fantasy she never knew she possessed? If so, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to go there.
Melodie came out from behind the counter and handed Carter his purchase in a pink Sweet Nothings shopping bag. “I hope we see you again.” She seemed blissfully unaware that she was standing perilously close to a surging electromagnetic field.
Not so Carter. Frankly, he looked a little shocked—and by more than 110 volts. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, thank you.” He reached for the bag, and slowly turned and walked out the door.
Melodie slanted her head, angling for a better view. “Oh, my God. I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven. No check that. The way I’m feeling I’ve definitely gone to hell.”
“If you go for the type.” Eve aimed for blasé. What a joke.
“Eve-y, you’d have to be dead not to go for the type.”
How true. Still, dealing with the opposite sex was like taking on a second job. And it entailed far fewer guarantees of a profitable payoff than starting up a new business—a pretty scary thought, especially when you considered that fifty percent of all new businesses failed after one year. Since Eve had no intention of being anything but a success, all her attention had to be focused on that goal. Daydreaming of true love—or even true lust—was out. Definitely out. Especially when the current object of desire appeared to be already attached to one very nice but very scary lady.
Eve walked to the counter. “Did you call in his charge card to make sure his credit was good?” She looked at Melodie who had moved closer to the door.
Melodie didn’t bother to turn around. “Eve, he’s a cop.”
Eve straightened a pair of satin traveling slippers that sat on the glass top. “You can never be too safe.” She paused. “Who picked out the teddy anyway? You or him?”
Melodie had her nose practically stuck to the glass front door. “He did.”
“Hmm-mmm,” Eve murmured—and she wasn’t sure if it was a hmm-mmm good or a hmm-mmm bad. “Who’d have thought Detective Moran had such good taste. I figured he’d do the typical male thing and pick some red negligee with a plunging neckline.” She thought a moment. “You should have shown him the leopard-print pajama ensemble, bottoms for him and top for her.” The top portion didn’t showcase many spots since the amount of skin it covered was less than two whiskers.
Melodie stepped back from the door. The entertainment must have been over. She didn’t bother to wipe away the nose print on the glass either. “Why? You think they’re more his style?”
“I wouldn’t know. But they’re definitely more expensive.”
3
SIMONE HELD OUT a gin and tonic to Carter. “So, what did you think of the lingerie lady?”
What didn’t he think about the lingerie lady?
Not that Carter was about to admit his fascination with Eve. Instead, he rested his tennis racquet against the picnic table and lowered himself gingerly into an Adirondack chair. “I don’t know what’s going to kill me first—the thought of Eve Cantoro’s tap pants, your gin and tonic, or your husband’s kick serve into my body.” His old Grantham University T-shirt was soaked. “But since we all have to die of something, pass that drink over here.”
Ted Daniger, Simone’s husband and old friend of Carter’s, sat in a nearby chair, slouching as comfortably as if he owned the place. Which, in fact, he did. The Daniger family mansion was a tidy Georgian brick pile that oozed the right mixture of substantial wealth—hand-carved moldings, crushed-stone circular drive, servants’ quarters—and laid-back bonhomie—a horseshoe pitch in the backyard and holes in the window screens from rambunctious Labradors. A descendant of one of those canine forebears lay panting at Ted’s side, a wet tennis ball at his feet—Buster the dog’s, that is. “You’re getting old, Moran. I’ve never beaten you in straight sets before.”
“You’re the same age as I am, Daniger.” Which was thirty-four to be exact. “It’s just that you weren’t up all night on a domestic violence case, followed by a double shift.” Carter had filled in for a fellow officer who was on his honeymoon in Cancun. Carter had felt like telling him to take the money and invest it in CDs—the financial sort—rather than blowing it on a week in Shangri-La. In his experience, paradise was greatly overrated.
He watched Simone hold the tray of drinks toward Ted. “And besides, you’re constantly reenergized by the love of a good woman,” he added. Well, maybe some kinds of paradise lasted beyond a few spectacular sunsets.
Ted beamed up at Simone, who was perched on the arm of his chair. “And don’t I know it.” He reached over and took a glass, but not before offering her a full-blown kiss.
When they broke, Simone sat back with a pleased look on her face. Her own drink had sloshed on the tray during the embrace. “It must be true love. Why else would I allow your sweaty body to get this close to mine?”
“Because you love my sweaty body getting this close to you.” Ted raised his head for another kiss.
Having grown more than a little cynical and detached over the years, Carter normally would have snorted at this overt display of affection. But the thing of it was, it was genuine. And it was between two of the nicest people he knew. Check that, maybe the only genuinely nice people he knew well.
Carter and Ted had been roommates at Grantham University. Talk about opposite ends of the spectrum. Ted, the easygoing product of good taste and old money, was the archetypal scholar-athlete, a high-scoring lacrosse player who was content to graduate with respectable grades.
Not Carter. Driven could have been his middle name. He’d migrated to the elite Eastern college from just outside of Dayton, from a family that tenuously clung to its lower middle class status. His father drifted through a variety of blue-collar jobs. His mother, a homemaker, had resigned herself to maniacally vacuuming their ever-diminishing apartments and clipping coupons for Hamburger Helper.
Carter had determined not to be resigned to anything. He worked his butt off to get good grades, get into a prestigious college, and win a full scholarship to boot. He was eager to prove that he had what it took to succeed.
Did he ever. In four years, he earned a combined bachelor’s/master’s degree in economics, graduating with highest honors, while serving as editorial page editor of the student newspaper. He wasn’t sure about a career in journalism; but he knew the post was a great contact for after graduation.
He was right. One phone call, one interview, and he was fast-tracked into investment banking in New York City. Carter didn’t stop there. He became one of the youngest mutual fund managers in his firm, regularly racking up double-digit annual growth figures, even when most stocks and bonds slipped badly after the high-tech bubble burst. The “Financial Wunderkind,” Fortune Magazine had dubbed him. And he was scrupulously honest, publicly denouncing companies whose CEOs were greedy for Learjets and lackadaisical when it came to corporate accounting factors. “The Conscience of Corporate America,” declared The Financial Times.
Not surprisingly, his personal portfolio bulged as well. He acquired tidy holdings in stocks, bonds and real estate. The garage space for his Porsche Boxster cost almost as much as his penthouse overlooking Central Park. Then there was the vacation “cottage” in the Hamptons. And who could forget the tall, willowy wife with a degree in art history and a deep-seated ability to spend money—lots of money. After all, he was too hot a catch to escape the matrimonially inclined junior members of the Save Venice Society and other like-minded causes.
Not bad for a boy from Dayton.
The only problem was, Carter never saw his apartment, his country house or his wife, who he seemed to have forgotten somewhere along the way, after all. And when his wife divorced him, taking both the apartment and the summer house—not to mention a Lhasa apso he never knew he had—Carter suddenly realized he might have had it all, but so what?
And that’s when he ran into Ted, standing on a subway platform, waiting for the E-train. Ted had suggested that Carter visit him in Grantham, where he had moved back into his parents’ old place; they had retired to warmer climes and better golf courses in Scottsdale.
Carter thought of the good times he had shared with his former roomie, and he took him up on it. And he’d stayed. Quit his job and moved into the chauffeur’s apartment over the garage. First, he sat around and drank beer, swam in the pool and played tennis with Ted. Ironically, now it was Ted who was putting in the long hours building up a practice, while Carter was perfecting his two-handed backhand and sleeping in.
But retirement soon proved boring for someone who had always been a confirmed overachiever. Carter thought of joining a local investment firm, but decided that making money no longer held that much charm. In any case, he was comfortably set for life if he didn’t do anything foolish. Forsaking his Porsche had caused only momentary regret.
So, as an alternative to adding yet another zero at the end of his holdings, he worked out daily at a local gym, took an adult education course in Italian, and read the complete works of Charles Dickens and Elmore Leonard. But that was simply a way to fill in time.
And then it hit him. After years of being totally self-centered, he would help others. He no longer craved fast cars and gold watches. He created a foundation out of most of his investments, and with the aid of a local law firm—run by the husband and wife team of Ted Daniger and Simone Fahrer—he anonymously supported needy causes. He even went back to college, the state university this time, taking courses in law enforcement. He passed the state exam, and applied and got a job on the local police force.
And he loved it. Even liked the paperwork. Well, sometimes he liked the paperwork. Mostly, he liked being part of a community without having to make a personal commitment to anyone in particular. Interaction from a distance was the ticket, he decided as he contentedly sipped his gin and tonic. Secure in his new world, he admired his friends’ affection but didn’t have to feel guilty about wives he neglected or Lhasa apsos he had never known he had.
Ted, after all, was the one who had made the turnaround in Carter’s lifestyle possible, and if he and Simone wanted to smooch to their hearts’ content, so be it.
Then Carter remembered. “Actually, talking of underwear, sorry, lingerie, how’s that little number you bought?” he asked Simone.
Ted looked interested. “And what little number would that be?”
Simone grimaced. “Aw, Carter, now you’ve ruined my surprise. I was saving it for later tonight, after pizza at Tonino’s.” Tonino’s was a Grantham institution; a pizza parlor/bar that attracted adult league baseball teams and families with armies of kids. The decor was early fifties—tiny, mirrored tiles on the support columns and pink Formica on the tabletops. The waitresses had big hair and little aprons. They didn’t slop the beer, and they always remembered the ketchup for the fries.
Ted held up his glass. “Ah, the anticipation is killing me. Please, everyone, drink up, so we can move on to dinner, and get to the quote-unquote dessert as quickly as possible.” The dog, Buster, took that moment to thump his tail.
Simone beamed at Ted. “Eagerness is one of your more endearing traits, you know.” She patted him on the arm, then turned to Carter. “Speaking of eagerness, I was pretty sure I detected a certain, what you might call tension in Eve Cantoro’s store today.”
“That’s only because I’ve never been surrounded by so much black lace and sheer stretch material in my entire life,” Carter said defensively.
Ted kicked the tennis ball, and Buster lumbered across the grass to retrieve it. “You must have had an interesting day. Tell me more.”
Simone patted him on the shoulder. “It’s a new lingerie shop in town—Sweet Nothings. And it’s run by this woman, Eve Cantoro, who seems to have a good head on her shoulders.”
Carter could easily have added that she had a few other good things close to her shoulders.
Simone gave Carter the evil eye. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking.”
“So, Carter, what brought you to the land of lace and fantasy?” Ted asked. Buster returned, and Ted leaned over and picked up the ball. He threw it farther. Ted clearly was well trained.
“I was there in a professional capacity,” Carter said.
“A little fieldwork in garters and nighties?”
“Very funny.” Actually, not funny at all. The thought of Eve Cantoro, surrounded by all those sexy little under-things, was driving Carter crazy. He remembered her description of a thong. And there definitely hadn’t been any visible panty-line showing under her black slacks.
Carter sipped his drink a little unsteadily, sloshing it down his chin and onto his wet T-shirt. “Jeez,” he wiped his front. “What a waste of good alcohol.”
“So?” Ted asked again.
“I was responding to a call about a reported theft.”
Simone sat up straighter. “Theft?”
“Seems that a person or persons has a thing for red tap pants.”
“Come again.” Ted frowned.
“Apparently, that’s just what the person or persons may have done. Three times, in fact, a pair of red tap pants has gone missing from the display window.”
Ted whistled. “Three times. A regular crime spree. Next thing to disappear will be push-up bras. And who knows, from there—girdles.” He turned to Simone. “Do women still wear girdles?”
Simone swatted him on the shoulder. “Stop it. If it were a cell phone or a wallet you’d show concern. Just because it’s women’s lingerie, you feel free to mock.” She paused, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Red tap pants. I find that very interesting.”
