Obsession

877

Another in the “Hutch’s Ladies” series:  Vanessa.

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She was furious.

Very few people would have been able to tell, however. Only someone who knew her intimately would have recognized that the exceedingly correct posture was held there by a steel rod down her back, or that the benign expression on her face was in reality a plaster mask. Even her eyes were muted and cool, which meant she was now at her most dangerous. It was when she was like this you could never predict her next move, could never pick up any clues as to what she was thinking, could never see the blow coming. It was when she was like this that her retribution was swift and painful. It was when she was like this that someone would soon regret having crossed her path.

Her head turned to the left infinitesimally. Even now his voice cut through the general din and registered individually on her brain. She couldn’t make out what anyone else was saying, but his words were defined and clear. He was yelling. He was angry.

He couldn’t begin to know what anger was.

A second voice joined his in a heated call-and-response. She could pinpoint them now; they were coming down the stairwell. She slid onto the edge of the bench and allowed herself a quarter-turn to better observe them when they reached the bottom of the stairs. The voices became louder but less distinguishable as the sound bounced against the walls, punctuated by thudding, syncopated footsteps. A thrill twined up her spine as the people who were caught in the corridor became aware of what was coming, and either hurried off to a safe haven or took up spectator positions against the wall.

He appeared with a slash of his hand and a foul phrase on his lips. A second body thundered after him, repeating the phrase as if it were a question, then suddenly throwing itself down the last few steps and landing full-face front in his path. He attempted to plow right through the body, but was forced back with a snap of his neck and a flurry of arms.

“Dammit to hell, Hutch, listen to me!” the body shouted.

“Dammit to hell, get the fuck out of my way!” Hutch yelled back.

“Not until I’ve said what I’m going to say and you’ve listened to it!” came the response.

“I don’t want to hear what you’ve got to say,” Hutch snapped back viciously. “Whatever it is won’t change what happened up there, and won’t change what happened to me!”

“I’m sorry!” the other continued. “Jeez, how many times do I have to say it? I’m fucking sorry!”

“Sorry?!” Hutch bellowed. “Sorry?! Do you think a simple ‘I’m sorry’ will make everything all better? Do you think a simple ‘I’m sorry’ will erase the suspension? Do you think–“

“I think I did what I did to try and save your stinking skin and keep you from taking a suspension!” the object of Hutch’s vehemence poked a stiffened finger into his chest.

“Fuck it, Starsky, just fuck it!” Hutch shot back.

A smile suddenly brightened her eyes but was not allowed to grace her lips. Starsky. That was a name she’d come to know and appreciate a year or so ago. Starsky. A name that now had a voice, and a face, and a body. So this is the man, she mused. Interesting.

Her attention was brought back to the brewing battle as the volume level grew.   She bemusedly watched the gallery of onlookers thin as the verbal conflict threatened to become physical.

“Get your hand off me,” Hutch warned. Starsky still had his finger implanted in Hutch’s chest. Hutch suddenly shoved the hand away viciously. She recognized the iciness in his eyes, the flush in his face, the set of his mouth. His fuse had run out. “Move,” he commanded. “Partner.”

The other man seemed to grow roots.

“Get out of my way,” he snarled. “Now.”

She could feel the roots enlarge and lengthen.

She watched him stare at the offending obstruction, then without warning ram a shoulder into Starsky and attempt to pass. The obstruction shifted ever so slightly, meeting force with force. Hutch fell back a step.

“Get the fuck out of my way!” he roared, all control gone. “Get the fuck out of my way and get the fuck out of my life!” He made a second attempt to bull his way past the fuming obstacle.

Starsky grabbed his arm and brought him up short. Hutch would have landed a hard fist against Starsky’s jaw if Starsky hadn’t grabbed the wrist and put an abrupt halt to the trajectory. It was as if everyone could feel the pressure waves emanating from their struggle, as those who had elected to stay for the main event seemed to be pressed into the walls from the force of their fray. She only felt energized and electrified, and a delicious glow ignited in her eyes.

“That’s enough! Now!” a third voice bellowed. The voice emanated from a commanding black man who appeared from the stairwell, apparently the only one courageous enough or foolish enough to propel himself into their midst. But the two men parted as though they were simply waiting for a referee to send them to their corners, and the black man emerged unscathed.

“Stop it now!” the black man thundered. “I will not tolerate this kind of behavior, under any circumstances, in my department!” Sweat left clear trails down his temples. “What are you trying to do, give Lt. Steele more ammunition, give him more rope? I won’t have this kind of behavior. I won’t put up with it, and I want it stopped. Do you hear me? Now!” He stood between them, arms outstretched. They merely glared at each other, glared around and through the black man, glared at one another. She eased back into the bench, enjoying the spectacle.

“You,” one of the outstretched arms pointed at Hutch. “I want to see you in my office, now.”

Hutch started to protest, tried to turn his fury on the black man, but he was out-matched. Out-matched by a pair of coal black eyes that bore into his blue ones and shred them. Chest heaving, face flaming, he backed into the squadroom door and kicked it open, fleeing behind its crash-and-smash. The glow in her eyes became an open flame.

“And you,” the eyes sought out the second combatant, “I’ll talk to you later. Your behavior in this fiasco has been less than professional and more than damnable.” She bit her lip. The black man was amazing. In front of her eyes he was turning what was only seconds ago a savage panther into a tamed beast. Cats are not usually so easily manipulated, she mused. The black man continued. “In the meantime, I suggest you make yourself scarce. I don’t want to see you around here until tomorrow afternoon. And where I want to see you is in my office, two o’clock, sharp.”

The panther was smarter than the other had been. He kept his head down so as not to allow the black eyes to pierce his own. But Starsky had obviously confused submission with protection, a trait she would remember. The panther mumbled something in response to the black man’s instructions, maintaining his non-threatening posture until the black man had disappeared into an office adjacent to the squadroom. Then his head came up, the fire returned to his eyes, and his body trembled with repressed activity. She looked to where her man had been, then looked at the figure remaining. Shivers raised gooseflesh on her arms, and a familiar ache throbbed lower. Strike while the iron is hot, it told her. Strike swiftly and promptly.

She rose silently and gracefully, and floated up to her prey. “I think I’ve been stood up,” she said into his ear.

Starsky’s head snapped around and he took a strategic half-step back. She held her breath, bracing for any sign he recognized her. Instead, dusky blue eyes merely appraised her. She knew what they saw.

They saw a lustrous mane of chocolate brown hair framing a milky complexion. Translucent blue eyes met his, but couldn’t hold them, didn’t even try, as they travelled down the length of her body. They noted the upward tilt of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the length of her legs. And she noted those eyes judged what they saw to be pleasurable and rewarding.

“I’m sorry?” he found her eyes again. The voice had softened in response to what he beheld, but she could still sense the underlying tension from the previous altercation.

She waved at the door through which Hutch had just disappeared. “Ken was supposed to meet me over three hours ago, but I have a feeling he’s not going to make this date at all.” She smiled with an understanding that conveyed disappointment, but not necessarily regret.

Starsky glanced back at the squad room. An ominous frown clouded his features. He turned back toward her.

“I think you’re right. We’ve got a–case–that we’re having some problems with.” He smiled. She liked the sight of his straight, even teeth.

“Are you sure the problems aren’t with you?” she smiled back. His grin widened in response to hers, and she felt the first stirrings of conquest well up inside her. “I got the distinct impression he would be very happy to see you shredded into confetti and tossed out the window.”

The corner of his grin held a hint of retaliation. “He’d have to catch me first,” he said. The hint of retaliation turned into resolve. “And before he could catch me, he’d have to find me.” His eyes skimmed her body a second time. “Three hours is a long time to have to wait.”

She licked her lips. She hadn’t even had to lead him down her trail. He’d picked up her scent immediately. “I don’t like waiting,” she replied.

“Neither do I,” he agreed. “In fact, maybe I could make up for some of the wait.” He glanced at his watch. “You may have wasted three hours, but that doesn’t mean you have to waste the rest of the evening.”

A practiced frown momentarily disrupted her satiny complexion. “Well, I don’t know,” she backed off a tiny bit. “I really just came into town to see Ken, and I don’t know how he’d feel if I–“

Starsky grasped her upper arm and gently began leading her down the corridor. A firm grasp, commanding but benevolent. She stepped into it, allowing her shoulder to brush his arm.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I took his place and made sure you were taken care of this evening,” he murmured. “Was there some place special you were planning to go?”

She looked up at him with a carefully blended mix of innocence and allure. “Not really. Actually, I was hoping to just spend a relaxing evening away from noise and people. I took a marvelous suite at the Beverly Wilshire that’s wonderfully quiet and private.”

He nodded. “I’d love to see it.”

She dropped her face shyly, a sweep of hair sliding off her shoulder and hiding her features from him. They reached the elevator.

“I’m David,” he dropped her arm and offered his hand.

She slid her fingers around his palm, appraised his hand with her touch. She thought a moment before giving her name. He hadn’t seemed to recognize her, but… “Julia,” she lied.

* * * * *

Again she held him back, forcing him to play at her tempo.

She’d begun the overture in his car, sliding in next to him, making use of the heat between their bodies. A hand on his inner thigh had led to probing fingers down the back of her neck and a ride down Wilshire Boulevard that included several questionable traffic maneuvers. When they’d arrived at the hotel she had played to the valet, to the doorman, to the elevator operator, allowing brazen kisses and caresses in their presence, finding excitement in performing for an audience. But she’d cooled upon entering the suite, easing the pace, making the timing her own.

She’d left him in the outer room, then, half-dressed but fully primed. Sequestered in the bathroom, she primed herself. She set her purse on the counter and began to go through it, then stopped and studied her image in the mirror. She could do so much with so little. She shut her purse. Instead, fingers combed through her hair, assuring the right curve around her face and the proper fall over her shoulders. Her lips were already dark and swollen and her cheeks flushed; neither needed further attention. She slipped out of her skirt and half-slip, gathering them up and hanging them from the hook on the back of the door. She undid the buttons of her blouse, adjusting it so it fell open only enough to allow a glimpse of the black bra and panties underneath. She left the garter belt and stockings on, as well as her high heels; he could take care of those.

Finally, she lifted the receiver of the telephone and dialed the number she’d just today come to memorize. One discreet phone call, one urgent message left with the desk, and she’d insured the climax of her evening. Her eyes glittered with the anticipation of what was to come.

She left the bathroom to find him pacing the room. He stopped when she entered, obviously pleased and aroused.

“Drink?” she walked around him and over to the wet bar. She could feel his eyes on her ass.

“Sure,” he sauntered over to the bar. “Beer.”

“Beer!” she laughed. “No, darling, I don’t think so. Beer,” she shook her head in amusement, producing instead a bottle of champagne. “Let’s try some of this.” She offered it to him, along with a corkscrew.

Starsky took the bottle and deftly removed the cork. He handed back the corkscrew, and she laughed again. “I wasn’t sure you’d know what to do with this.”

Starsky eyed her cautiously but said nothing. She brought out two glasses and he filled them. They toasted silently.

“That was really quite a row you were having back at the station,” she sipped her wine. “I’m curious–what was it about?”

Starsky shrugged and turned toward the center of the room. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” she smiled, feigning surprise. “It looked to me as though bloodshed was barely averted. I’ve never seen Ken so livid,” she lied. “I was honestly afraid he was going to hit you. And I’m quite sure he meant every word he said to you.”

He turned back toward her, taking a long swallow from his glass. A cloud seemed to come over his features, and his eyes fastened on the black lace that hid her breasts. “How do you know Hutch?” he asked.

She moved around the bar so her full body was in view. A finger skimmed the rim of her glass. “We knew each other back in college. I was Art History, he was Pre-Med.” She moved a step closer to Starsky. “We’ve–kept in touch–since then, and when I knew I was going to be in town I called him up and arranged to meet him. I like to keep in touch with old college buddies, don’t you?”

Starsky raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He set his glass down, then took hers and set it down next to his. His hands went around her waist and he pulled her to him.

She reached up to finish unbuttoning his shirt. “This certainly promises to be a much more interesting evening than I had planned with Ken,” she pushed the material off his shoulders. He released her long enough to free his arms, then returned his hands to her waist. His thumbs stroked her skin, and she brought her hands up to his chest.

His kisses were tentative this time, his lips barely brushing hers. The feather-light touches tingled, sending shivers along her skin. She stepped into him, her breasts rubbing against his firm chest. His hands began to trace patterns up and down her back, and she moved her leg between his thighs.

His kisses became deeper is response. Starsky’s lips pulled and sucked on hers, and then his tongue sought entry. She resisted at first, gauging his desire, judging his hunger. A moan from deep in his throat demanded entry, and she finally allowed it. His tongue, bittersweet from the champagne, explored her mouth and grappled with her tongue, and then it was suddenly gone, the pressure reversed, and she was sucked into his mouth.

She investigated for a time, pleased with the sounds emanating from his throat. Then his lips left hers. He sucked on her chin, licked the soft underside, then began nibbling the flesh on her neck. Her hands slid up into his hair, holding his head tight against her throat, and she stretched on her tiptoes to give him easier access to her shoulders. He nudged the blouse from her shoulders with his mouth, and then his hands were pulling the material off and away.

For a moment she was pinned, her arms forced to her sides as Starsky tugged the blouse down her back and continued to nip at her skin. She wriggled within the confines of the material and his arms, finally managing to squirm away from him. He stared at her dazedly, his arms suddenly empty. She took a step back, the blouse slipping from her body. She stooped gracefully to retrieve it, laying it over the back of nearby chair. Then she stood and faced him.

He continued to stare at her, his eyes fixed on her breasts. She brought her hand up slowly, tracing the lacy edge of her bra, circling the nipple barely concealed by the sheer fabric. Her fingers trailed up to her shoulder, slipping off first one strap, and then the other. She counted off three seconds, prolonging the moment, then reached behind and unhooked the garment. It fell away. Starsky didn’t move a muscle, his only reaction a narrowing of the eyes. A smile of satisfaction appeared on her lips.

* * * * *

 He rolled off her, taking in great gulps of air. She rolled over onto her side, pulling the sheet up to her body to protect herself from the sudden cold and hide her still trembling frame.

Starsky grunted and she felt his weight lift off the bed. Only when she heard the bathroom door close and the shower begin to run did she pull the sheet off her and roll onto her back. Her hand slipped between her legs and she tried to massage away the still-perceptible throbbing. Gradually her limbs relaxed and a quietus fell over her. She took a few deep breaths, then sat up and took stock of the situation. Starsky was showering, and Ken was still not there.

Perhaps another phone call–at least she could find out if he was still at Parker Center. She slid her legs over the side of the bed and reached for the phone. The shower was still running, so David wouldn’t notice the call. And it took only a few moments to learn that he had left a little while ago, and he had gotten her messages. She hung up and smiled, certain he was on his way.

The shower ceased, and she began her final preparations. It wouldn’t be difficult to keep David in the room until Ken arrived, but she wanted for David to be more than just there. She wanted him to be there. And that would be more difficult, especially after he’d just cleaned up. If only she’d caught him in the shower. No matter, though; she had taken the measure of this man and if she had to, there was a way to have him one more time–regardless of how “clean” he was. The thought brought fire to her eyes and she laughed out loud. When Ken walked in and found them like that, that way, in that way he’d never had her, the pleasure would last for a long time. This would be a night they would all remember for a long time. She had to laugh again.

The bathroom door opened and Starsky walked out. She grabbed at the sheet and pulled it up to her breasts in a show of mock modesty. But she clutched at it more tightly as she looked at the man standing at the foot of the bed. Starsky was watching her silently, his body burnished by the water, droplets still clinging to his chestnut curls. His expression had changed from the power and passion he’d displayed only minutes ago, and something violent smouldered in his eyes. She realized from his posture that she was suddenly in danger, and she had to regain control. Now. She stood up, wrapping the sheet around her.

“You look refreshed,” she admired him, her voice sugar to the fly. “Perhaps a shower is just what I need. Care to join me?” she smiled at him invitingly. “I have such trouble with my back.”

Starsky glared at her, every muscle in his body taut. His nostrils flared, his body trembled, then he suddenly looked away from her. “I’m leaving,” he announced, his voice tight and strained.

Immediate action was called for. She picked up the trailing sheet and padded over to him. She stood in front of him, preventing his departure, the scent of her sex and his soap mingling. Her face was lowered to him, her hair brushing his chest. “I’m sorry,” she spoke softly, her voice full of remorse. “I think I hurt you–I think I made you angry.” She looked up into his eyes, begging their forgiveness. “I wanted to make it good for you. I wanted you to be pleased, to feel–I’m sorry if I wasn’t–” she broke off, a slight tremor in her voice. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Starsky grabbed her arms tightly, momentarily throwing her off balance, the sheet falling away as she grabbed at him for support. His eyes blazed and she was frightened, but she used her fear and allowed tears to fill her eyes. His fingers dug into her flesh and she cried out. Starsky squeezed even more tightly, then pushed her away. She fell onto the bed, stunned.

Starsky towered over her. “You must think you’re pretty smart,” he rasped. “Luring me up here, seducing me, using me,” he hissed. “What was the plan?” he walked around to the side of the bed, her eyes following him. “Was I supposed to go back to Hutch and tell him who I’d been with? Was I supposed to tell him in detail what I’d done and then wait for him to figure out who I’d been with?” Starsky paced back to the end of the bed, her eyes never leaving him. “Or have you got this all planned out to where he’ll walk in on us any minute?” His hands clenched into fists at his side.

She rolled to her side, opting to look vulnerable and helpless. “I don’t understand,” she pleaded. “What did I do?”

The fist raised a quarter of an inch. “You lied to me, Vanessa.”

Her eyes flicked to the bathroom. Curious cop, he’d gone through her purse. And found half a dozen cards identifying her as Vanessa Hutchinson. This was not playing out to her liking.

“Yes, I lied,” she began forging her alibi. She refused to look at him, as if she felt too much guilt and remorse to meet his eyes. The explanation continued. “I knew who you were,” she said, hoping to elicit mercy with an admission of guilt. “But you obviously didn’t know me, at least you didn’t recognize me, and I was afraid you wouldn’t come with me if you knew who I was. And I desperately wanted you to come with me,” she finally looked up at him.

Starsky took a step toward her.

“No!” she stopped him. “Not like that! Not like you think! When I first saw you at the station I didn’t know who you were, and that’s when I decided I had to meet you!” She brought her legs under her and sat up. “It was only during that shouting match when Ken called you by name that I recognized who you were. And when it became obvious that Ken wouldn’t be free this evening and I saw my chance to be with you, I was afraid you would treat me the way he does now if I told you my real name.” She buried her face in her hands, and when she took them away tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I was attracted to you. All I wanted was a fair chance with you. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody.”

Confusion played over Starsky’s features. “Lady,” he managed through clenched teeth, “you–you’re–damn you!” he broke off, turning away in anger and frustration. He brought his fists up but didn’t turn back around. She held her breath.

She watched him take two ragged breaths, then force his fists open. He seemed to be struggling for control, and she prayed he’d win. She let out her breath when he stomped into the living room without looking back at her. She slid her legs off the bed in relief, calculating her next move.

“Look, I’m sorry.”

She whirled around. Starsky was back in the doorway, dressed. And while he was offering up some sort of apology, she could still sense the fury within him. She brushed her hair back from her face and found a few more tears to moisten her lashes. She sniffled for effect.

Starsky stuffed his hands in his pockets. She wondered if it was to keep himself from doing anything stupid. “I’m sorry about that scene I just made. I’m sorry if I frightened you.” He hesitated, then plunged ahead. “I shouldn’t have accused you of–of using me like that. I mean, I’m probably just as much to blame for this evening as you are. Maybe more. I don’t know. I was upset, you were upset…” his voice trailed off. He took a deep breath, his hands feeling around in his pockets. “Do you need anything?” he looked at her, embarrassed. “I mean, is there anything I can get you, or–“

She found her opening. Fire danced in her eyes, and she shot to her feet. “How dare you,” she hissed, cutting him off. “How dare you imply that I spent the night with you in some self-serving act of revenge!” She took a step forward. “How dare you impugn my reputation and try and cheapen what happened between us by suggesting you ‘owe’ me something for the evening!”

Starsky’s eyes widened and the color drained from his face. “No!” he protested. “I didn’t mean–“

“I know what you meant!” she rounded the bed and faced him, hands on her hips, her breasts heaving. “Get out,” she spat. “Get out of here now.” She took a threatening step forward, and Starsky took a step back. “Get out.” Starsky turned and began moving toward the door. She folded her arms across her chest, satisfied with her intimidations as she watched him leave from the bedroom. “Get out before I have to call a cop.”

Starsky suddenly whirled, and she took in her breath sharply. He glowered at her, opened his mouth as if to speak, then just as suddenly turned away and slammed out the door. She stood in the bedroom, rubbing her arms, breathing heavily. She’d barely turned that one to her favor. Maybe she could still salvage the next one.

She fled to the bathroom, where she readied herself. She wouldn’t wash; he must be able to smell the sex on her. And she wouldn’t fix her face, for that would also hold tell-tale signs of the previous few hours. She slipped into the robe that hung from the door hook, tying it loosely around her.

She’d just poured herself another glass of champagne when Hutch finally arrived. Too late to have run into David, she pouted, but she was ready to make do. The rapping on the door continued, and she took her time getting there to open it.

“I’m here,” he said, looking sweaty and exasperated, his anger apparently played out into exhaustion.

She continued to stand in the doorway, keeping him out in the hall. “You’re late,” she replied.

Hutch eyed her tiredly. “You going to let me in or what?”

“Maybe both,” she smiled, then stepped aside to let him in. He walked into the room, standing in the center. She watched his eyes locate the various articles of clothing she’d dropped earlier in the evening. She closed the door and walked over to the bar. “Can I get you something?” she fingered the bottle of opened champagne.

He thought a moment, his eyes a bit unfocused. “No,” he finally decided. “Nothing.”

“Ken,” she admonished, holding up bottle. “This is some of the finest French wine money can buy. Please, have some.” She looked around the bar. “Although I’m not sure what I have to put it in.” She looked up at him, a smile in her eyes. “I only had two glasses, and I’ve already filled both of those.” She watched as Hutch’s eyes found the second glass and settled on it. You’re on the right trail now, she thought.

“Wait,” she came around the bar and walked up to him. “There are some glasses in the bathroom. Let me get one of those.” She just stood there, looking up at him. He looked down at her, a frown on his face. He would be picking up her scent about now, musky and masculine, threading its way through his nose and brain and pushing the proper buttons. “Come on, let’s get you a glass,” she urged him.

Hutch suddenly grabbed her arm. “What’s going on here?” he frowned at her. “Why did you call me and tell me to get over here right away?”

She smiled up at him. “Nothing’s going on here,” she said innocently. She gently disengaged her arm. “I called you and asked you to come over here because we were supposed to meet at the station for a date tonight, and you obviously missed it.”

“A date?” Hutch shook his head. “I thought you just wanted to straighten out the sale of the stocks.” He looked around the room, obviously confused. “Give, Van. What’s this about?”

She shrugged.   “Come on,” she took his arm this time. “Let’s get you that glass.” She pulled him toward the bedroom.

He allowed her to lead him, but stopped at the bedroom door. She dropped his arm and continued on to the bathroom, turning on the light as she walked through the room. The room was in perfect condition, the bedspread on one side of the room, the top sheet on the other, pillows on the floor, and the fitted sheet in a damp, twisted knot. She didn’t bother to look herself, instead she went to the bathroom, picked up a glass, and brought it back out.

Hutch stared hard at her. She leaned against the doorjamb, swinging the glass in her fingers.   She smiled back at him.

Hutch continued to glare at her, then quickly turned and left the room. She jumped up and ran after him.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” she asked, immensely pleased with herself.

Hutch stopped, his hand on the doorknob, and turned his head to look at her. “I’m in no mood for one of your games,” he rasped. “I didn’t come here to be manipulated.”

She set the glass down on the bar and took a few steps toward him. A practiced roll of her shoulder opened her robe further. “It’s obvious you’ve made some inferences about what happened here tonight. And I’ll have to admit those inferences would be correct. But that’s why you’re a detective, right?”

Hutch closed his eyes and took a deep breath. She pushed her advantage.

“Surely you didn’t expect me to remain true to your memory after the divorce? After all these years?” she asked. “After all, that’s what a divorce is. It frees you to pursue what you weren’t able to find with that other person.” She glided up to him. “Ken, we’re both adults here.” She laughed and put her hand on his arm. “You missed your chance this evening, and I found another companion.” She traced a wrinkle in the sleeve of his jacket. “If it will soothe your fevered brain,” she followed the wrinkle up onto his shoulder, “I’d be happy to tell you who my gentleman caller was.” She removed her hand and looked up at him expectantly.

Hutch slowly opened his eyes. His body gradually lost all tension as his lids opened. There was no anger in his eyes, no vengeance, not even any hate. She suddenly saw just how exhausted he was, the dark circles under his eyes, the pasty white of his skin, and the dirty stubble of his beard all evidence of a tremendous strain. She took an involuntary step back.

“Lady,” Hutch said slowly, so softly she could hardly hear him. “For all I care, you could have slept with my partner tonight.” His eyes cleared up for a second, long enough for her to see the eyes she’d fallen in love with, and she turned away from him in anger. He opened the door and left.

Real tears began to slide down her cheeks, hot, angry tears, that stung and couldn’t be stopped. She whirled in fury, swiping at her face, gasping for breath. Everything had gone wrong tonight. Everything! She ran over to the bar, sobbing, and grabbed at the bottle of champagne. The weight felt good in her hand, and she wrapped her fingers around the neck of the bottle. She hurled it with all the force of her rage, falling to the floor dramatically as the bottle crashed into the wall, spewing its contents all over the room. It punched a ragged hole in the plasterboard but remained itself intact, bouncing onto the floor and rolling into the corner. She screamed into the carpet, her body racked with sobs. She gasped, forcing her lungs to breathe normally, and control returned. She lay on the floor, then, picking at the fiber loops. He’d pay for this one, she vowed. And he’d start by paying for her hotel bill and whatever damage she’d done. She stood up, wrapped the robe tightly around her, and picked up the phone. The cleaning staff would have to come and clean up the mess in the living room and bedroom. Now. She certainly wasn’t going to sleep in it. She wiped her face as she dialed, wondering if she had enough time before her plane left tomorrow to pay a final visit to her ex-husband. At work, of course. She smiled.