Bedroom Eyes (3 page)

Penelope, with great reluctance, lifted her eyes to the stranger’s.

He stood there staring at her.

He looked good, more than good, even better than the first time she’d seen him. That day he’d been dressed in the conventional downtown uniform. Today he wore a T-shirt that showed his broad chest to advantage. The white cotton contrasted beautifully with arms tanned a golden bronze. Khaki shorts revealed the kind of well-defined thighs Penelope had known only in her fantasies. Fighting a blush, she said, rather crossly, “You don’t know me from Adam.”

One brow quirked wickedly. He raked his dark eyes over her and shook his head slowly. “Oh, there’s no way I’d mistake you for Adam.”

Penelope sensed both her mind and body reacting to the implied compliment. Then she remembered herself. He had to be toying with her. She glanced down at her navy slacks and white linen blouse. Her Saturday shoes were loafers, her navy leather belt a prim and proper choice to match. She was not a woman that men—especially men like this—flirted with.

“I’m sure we’ve met before.”

She tugged again at the placemat. “I’m not Adam or Eve or some woman you met in an airport. So please let go of my purchase.”

He grinned and snapped his fingers. “The elevator! You’re the woman who forgot your briefcase in the Oil Building.”

Penelope nodded, though it hurt her pride to do it. She felt flattered to be remembered, but embarrassed he’d caught her being absent-minded. Absentminded! Call it what it was, Penelope, she lectured herself—fantasizing and completely out of touch with reality. And not once but twice. She tugged on the fabric and it gave way.

“You new in town?”

She half-turned, collected three other place-mats, stacked them together. Over her shoulder she said, “I’m sorry. I don’t talk to strangers.”

She saw him grin again, then sketch a salute. “So I’ll just have to get to know you,” he said, then walked away, whistling.

Frogs and fairy tales! Talk about presumptuous. The man was as annoying as he was attractive.

Besides, if he intended to get to know her, why had he walked away just now? Or had he? Something like an itch overcame her as she battled the desire to turn her head to see whether he’d left the store.

Penelope was made of sterner stuff. She moved instead in the opposite direction, focusing on a display of napkin rings. Swans in pewter, curling leafwork in brass, fanciful spirals in shaved steel—designs for setting every possible mood filled the oversized basket.

What was it about that man? And what was he doing in Pottery DeLite? She fingered one of the swan rings, willing to bet the man didn’t know a paring knife from a pair of poultry shears.

New Orleans wasn’t a big city. So what if she had bumped into him a second time? Penelope shrugged, attempting to erase the tiny voice that whispered the meeting was less than coincidental. Twice—okay. But if he popped up again, she’d have to figure out if he meant trouble.

“Oh, dear, could you help me, please?”

Penelope looked around for the high-pitched female voice. No one else stood nearby.

“Yoo-hoo, over here,” the voice called again.

The voice came from the basket of napkin rings. Penelope shook her head. A talking napkin ring? Honestly, she had to cure her bad habit of drifting into fantasies. Deciding to buy the jacquard weave placemats and get out of the store swiftly, Penelope turned away from the display.

“Please don’t go!” This time the voice shrieked and Penelope detected panic.

Panic? In a basket of napkin rings? She couldn’t think of any reason she’d imagine such a thing.

She shook her head, but her curiosity overcame her. Turning back to the display basket, she edged closer.

“That’s an angel,” said the voice, definitely coming from within the center of the basket.

Maybe she should have gone into therapy, Penelope thought, as she looked into the basket. It worked well for millions of others.

But Penelope had to admit she enjoyed her fantasies, at least most of the time. Right now, though, she might be willing to agree that a bit of professional tinkering was in order.

Perched next to one of the swan rings, clinging to a carved wooden banana, sat a talking figurine in the shape of a woman dressed in a purple and orange caftan, holding on to a thin brownish stick almost the same six inches in height. The design was such that the figure moved fluidly even as it spoke.

“Clever,” Penelope said under her breath, wondering how the device worked.

“Not so very,” came the reply. “If I were half so clever as I tried to be, I’d never end up in these pickles.”

“Pickles?”

The tiny figure shrugged its shoulders and pointed to either side. “Just look where my latest spell has landed me.”

The figure beckoned to her and Penelope bent her head toward the basket. The rational part of her mind had begun sending the message loud and clear: This was not a talking mechanical device cleverly fitted with a microchip.

So had Penelope slipped into one of her fantasies without being aware that she’d done so? As a child, she’d learned to escape into daydreams to avoid the drudgery of her life. Now that her circumstances were far more comfortable, Penelope continued the habit, even as she acknowledged that she used it to buffer the lack of emotional involvement with others that marked her life.

Best not to get involved.
Unbidden, the voice of her childhood echoed in her mind. Wasn’t that what her mother had tried to teach her?
Stick to your path, become the success I never had a chance to be. Don’t be led off your course by other people’s problems or other people’s dreams.

Penelope sucked in her breath. She’d missed out on so much. Cheerleader tryouts, her senior prom, sorority life.

All because she’d never become involved.

Glancing around, Penelope saw the store remained unchanged. No one stood nearby. She pinched herself and her neurons registered the pain.

So, no, she hadn’t lost touch with reality. Speaking in a low voice, she said to the figurine, “So what are you?”

The figure stared at her, head cocked to the side, one lilliputian forefinger tugging lightly on an even tinier earlobe. Raised eyebrows greeted Penelope’s blurted question. With a great deal of dignity, the figurine said, “I think perhaps you mean
who
am I. The name is Merlin. Mrs. Maebelle Merlin.” She extended a hand and Penelope found herself lifting hers in return. Then she hastily dropped it to her side.

“No need to be afraid,” Mrs. Merlin said.

“I’m not afraid,” Penelope said, then added, “I’m just not sure of the protocol for this sort of meeting.”

“I don’t think one worries about protocol in a life-and-death situation,” came the response in a dry voice, followed by a brisk clap of her hands, accomplished without letting go of the dusty brown stick. “Help me out of this basket and we’ll take it from there.”

We? Penelope wondered at Mrs. Merlin’s choice of pronouns. Glancing around, Penelope noticed the sales clerk staring in her direction, but no other shoppers milled about. A check of her watch revealed the store would close in two minutes. She’d all but forgotten the placemats and napkins clutched under one arm. But she needed them for the meal she’d planned for David. She shifted her body so the sales clerk couldn’t watch her face and said, “I’m afraid I need to go. I’m expecting company for dinner.”

“So you are afraid! And more concerned over protocol than aiding a sister human.” Mrs. Merlin sighed and shook her head. “How you could eat dinner knowing I’m stuck in this store overnight, as ravenous as a nutria, is beyond me.” The tiny voice rose in pitch. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Even if you’re no Good Samaritan, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I—I—” Penelope gaped at Mrs. Merlin. She swiveled her head. The sales clerk had turned the other way. “I do too have a sense of adventure. I just don’t use it very often.”

“Then brush it off a bit.” The tiny woman raised her arms toward Penelope. “Pop me into that purse of yours and get me out of this store.”

“But that’s shoplifting!”

A sigh much larger than the six-inch-high figurine escaped its lips. “What are you, a lawyer?”

She nodded.

“Well, that’s too bad, but let me assure you it’s not shoplifting because I’m not for sale. Ergo, no crime.”

Penelope smiled despite herself. For all she knew, despite the severe pinch she’d administered to herself, she might be imagining this entire interlude, but something about Mrs. Merlin was impossible to ignore. “Hop on,” she said, bending over and opening her palm.

“Pottery DeLite is now closed,” the sales clerk’s voice rang over the PA system. Penelope almost dropped her passenger on the floor.

“Careful, now.”

She lowered Mrs. Merlin and what Penelope nervously thought of as the creature’s magic wand into her purse, breaking out in beads of perspiration as she did so. Whatever clever arguments the tiny woman had made, Penelope still felt like she was stealing a napkin ring. Certain she’d be caught, she licked her lips nervously and tried as nonchalantly as possible to walk toward the front of the store.

She’d made it only inches from the door when the sales clerk called out.

“Stop!”

She literally froze. They’d search her and find Mrs. Merlin riding sidecar in her purse. Visions of disgrace filled her mind. Maybe the creature was right and she had no sense of adventure. Slowly Penelope turned to meet her fate.

“Your placemats. I don’t believe you’ve paid for them, miss. I’m just closing the register but if you still want them I’ll ring them up.” Though she spoke politely, the woman kept looking at her as if she thought she might need to call for help at any moment.

Weak with relief, Penelope giggled. “These silly things?” She held out the placemats. “I’ve changed my mind.” She dropped them on the nearest display and backed from the store.

From within her purse, she heard what was clearly a chuckle.

From his vantage point outside the windowed front of Pottery DeLite, Tony crossed his arms over his chest and marveled at the mix of emotions he experienced watching Penelope Sue Fields as she browsed in the store.

He’d be willing to bet she described herself as conservative, proper, and totally earnest about her professional appearance. Just look at those loafers she had her feet tucked into on this gorgeous July afternoon when most of the people enjoying a day in the French Quarter sported sandals or tennis shoes.

He glanced down at his sandals and smiled. Did she even own a pair?

But the question uppermost in his mind was whether she had any idea how utterly sexy she was inside the protective wrapping she wore.

Tony considered himself something of an expert on women, and prided himself on being able to spot a hot babe a mile away.

Twice now he’d seen her soften and drop the armor when she thought no one was watching her. He’d give his favorite fishing rod to know what had been going through her mind before he’d spoken to her in the store. Her lips had been parted slightly, eyelids lowered, cheeks kissed with a rosy tone—all these signs promised a woman who warmed well to a man’s touch. Oh, yeah, despite her icy surface, this one would be hot and slick underneath.

A picture he had no business dwelling on.

Damn!

He uncrossed his arms and jammed his hands in his pockets, as his sense and sensibility returned full force. Just then she turned her back and Tony, caught between tracing the path of her neck with his gaze and reminding himself his interest in this woman was purely related to David Hinson’s nefarious activities, almost missed her slick move.

“My, my, my,” he murmured, watching her stash an item from the display basket in her purse. “Wouldn’t the Bar Association love to know what Penelope Sue does for fun?” He shook his head, registering his own disappointment. He wished now that she’d proven as proper as she appeared.

“Fool.” He propelled his body free of the supporting wall where he’d been lounging. He had to keep reminding himself this woman was David Hinson’s latest interest. His initial contact might have been incited by a tearful request to check on Hinson’s romantic liaisons, but things had gotten much more complicated in the past few days.

He’d delivered the proof of Hinson’s dallying to his erstwhile girlfriend. She’d sobbed and called Hinson all sorts of names, then clung to Tony as if he were her only friend in the world. He should have been surprised, but somehow he wasn’t when the chick threw her arms around him and begged him to help her drown her sorrows. She’d offered more, but Tony had declined all services. He’d also declined to ease her grief.

People sure were predictable little shits.

And here he was discovering Ms. Prim and Proper Tax Attorney got her jollies by shoplifting. My, my, but what wouldn’t the firm of LaCour, Richardson, Zeringue, Ray, Wellman and Klees pay for this nugget of information?

His expression hardened. He observed her as she walked toward the doorway, those boring blue placemats clutched in her hand. To his amazement, she seemed about to brave her way right out the front door when the clerk called to her.

She turned. She dropped the placemats. Twin crimson roses staining her flawless cheeks, she scurried from the store.

“Now, wasn’t that clever.” Tony heard the disgust in his whisper. Holding the placemats out, pretending to forget she had them, leaving them inside the store—all a clever ploy to distract from whatever she’d lifted and hidden in her purse. What he wouldn’t give to still be able to whip out his badge.

He’d bust her. Cuff her. Drag her down to the station.

He stopped in mid-image.

His very next thought had been how he’d enjoy strip-searching her, which of course was ridiculous, as any such search would have been conducted by female officers. Whew, was he out of control or what? The lady was a thief and he still wanted to wrestle her out of that buttoned-to-the-neck blouse.

The strength of his reaction infuriated him. And for that, he wanted to punish her.

Torn between desire and disappointment, Tony pushed out of the mail’s side exit just as she stepped into the revolving door. He wouldn’t frighten her, but he intended to catch up with her and make sure she went away with Tony Olano imprinted on her mind.