Guilty Pleasures (3 page)

Click, buzz, click.

She peered at the counter on the answering machine. Six calls and she’d only heard two.

“Oh, Pretty Polly, you haven’t been listening to me. I’m going to have to get very angry with you if you don’t stop disobeying me.”

Click.

She let her hand fall back into her lap. He as much hissed as whispered. Who was he? The clock on the equipment no longer functioned. Why hadn’t she fixed it or bought a new one?

Buzz. Click.

“Heavenly child, I feel you are in need of me. Come to Festus and to me. You are always so calm at Another Reality. I’ll make you some of my latest tea. Soar to Serenity. It’s a Belinda special, darling child.”

Belinda and Festus of Another Reality, a crystals, incense, taro, tea, and Wiccan-wannabe shop, had become good friends to Polly and Bobby.

Click.

“You should be there by now, Polly. You’ve had time to leave the studio and get home. Ah, but I mustn’t be too harsh with you. Perhaps that dreadful producer has kept you late. He is much too involved. Producing. Writing. Directing.
Controlling.
Be very careful of him, Pet, he wants you, you know. He wants your body, not y
our mind. I want your mind…
and your body. Bye.”

The scream Polly heard was her own. Shaking desperately, she stared at the readout that should have given her the caller’s identification. Blocked. Every time it was blocked.

Who could she ask for help? Venus was out of the question. Fabiola would panic, too. Belinda and Festus already knew and had suggested incense and a goddess to do something or other.

Once more the buzz on the line was followed by a click, and the whisperer said, “You have tried my patience, Pretty Polly. Why can’t you understand that I, and only I, am to see the woman you really are. That thin, white skirt”—he gave a grating moan—“with the light shining through. And the wind blowing. You know what that does. You do these things deliberately. Light and wind. Showing yo
ur legs. Oh, yes, your legs…”

The connection broke before the final message began. First there was only panting, then he said, “I’ve given you chances. I told you there is a connection between us. But you have denied me again. Others saw you on the dock, flaunting yourself. Disgusting. But don’t worry, little Polly, I’m going to save you from yourself.”

Two

“
S
tarstruck fool,” Dusty Miller muttered. “Goddamn idiot groupie. Man of your age ought to know better. If Roman was here, he’d have your ass for—”

“My love life—or lack of it—is my business,” Nasty pointed out.

“It’s your business till you let it mess you up, then it’s mine, too, partner.” Dusty’s brush of short, white hair and his jutting brows emphasized leathery skin burned to a permanent mahogany color by years in the sun. An ex-Navy SEAL himself, he’d been Nasty’s instructor when he’d first gone into training for an Underwater Demolitions Team. Roman Wilde, Nasty’s closest friend, had also been a new recruit. Currently Roman was Dusty’s absent show-and-tell in the paragon-for-a-man’s-life department.

Nasty was edgy enough without Dusty’s needling. “Let’s get down to business.”

“You need a clear head for business. Right now your brains are in your pants. That’s not the kind of clear head I want from you. Roman would say—”

“Roman would point out that you don’t have the best track record with women.” The instant the words left Nasty’s mouth he regretted them, but there was no going back—ever. “Don’t interfere, Dusty, okay?”

Dusty shuffled through dive cruise brochures on the shop counter. Opening time was ten, still an hour away. “My record with women is just fine, bucko. If some sonovabitch hadn’t
thrown a grenade into that schoolhouse, Sammy’d be here with me today.” Sammy had been Vietnamese and the love of Dusty’s life.

“Hey,” Nasty said. “Pax, huh? I shouldn’t have made that dig. You didn’t have any control over what happened to Sammy.”

“Drop it,” Dusty said shortl
y. “That was then. This is now. I
gotta stop what
I
see happenin
’
here.”

“Nothing’s happening,” Na
sty pointed out. He ripped open
a box of valves and started stacking them. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

Flexing his arthritic fingers, Dusty came from behind the counter. “What does that mean?”

Situated in a recessed area of shops fronting Marina Park at the north
end of the Kirkland waterfront,
Room Below was an airy space. Yellow, Dusty’s hallmark color, dominated the decor. The shelves were painted yellow, the counters were yellow, yellow plastic chairs were provided for customers to sit in and try on wet suit boots, or fins—or to shoot the breeze with Dusty. Yellow slatted blinds hung at the windows, and yellow tiles covered the floor.

“Yellow,” Nasty muttered. “Hate yellow.”

“
I
asked what you meant,” Dusty said, advancing. Despite his wiry, white regulation cut, no one would look into his laser blue eyes and take him for a man in his mid-sixties. “Nuthin’s happenin’ and maybe that’s the problem? What the fuck does that mean?”

“
I
thought you were trying to give up swearing because of Junior.” Junior was Roman’s little girl and Dusty’s favorite human being.

A smile instantly drove ripples of lines into Dusty’s thin face. “Sh
e ain’t here, more’s the pity. I
don’t see her often enough. Answer the question.”

“Forget it. I don’t know what I meant.” He meant he wasn’t cut out to be a shopkeeper—even if the wares were related to his occupation of choice.

“You miss bein’ in the service.”

Nasty flopped into one of the too-bright chairs and shoved his long legs out in front of him. He unwrapped a stick of gum. “We both miss the Navy.”

“That ankle givin’ you problems?”

Nasty looked dispassionately at the knotted scars webbing his left ankle. “It never gave me enough problems to warrant them trying to stuff me behind a desk.”

Dusty grunted. “You gotta adjust.”

“I have adjusted. How’re the sign-ups for the next classes?”

“Full. The regular series and the fast track. We got three for the rescue course, too.” He flipped through a ledger. “You still got two weeks off. But then it’s back out there with the newbies.”

“Dandy.”

“Shit!” Dusty pulled a chair to face Nasty’s and sat down. “Okay, we’re goin’ to do this now. No punches, bucko. Damn, but you’ve got cold eyes.”

Nasty laughed. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“It came from in here.” The older man thumped his chest. “I’m used to you. I forget what an icy bastard you are. Nuthin’ shows on that face of yours.”

“Useful in my line of business. You’re sneaking cigarettes again.”

“It
used
to be useful in the line of business you
used
to be in,” Dusty reminded him. He ignored the reference to cigarettes. “For the business we’re in right now it might be nice if you could crack a grin now and then.”

“I’m not a stand-up comedian. Trust is what
I
need to inspire, and I do that.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Inside his khaki bush shirt, Dusty’s chest expanded. “You’re bored. That’s what you’re tellin’ me.
I
twisted your arm to come in here with me because I was lookin’ for a way to get your mind off bein’ mad at the Navy—and the rest of the world. I should’ve let you be mad and get it over with. You got plenty of money. You don’t need this place. Never
spent a dime on anything as far as I can remember—excep
t
for that damn
fool boat you hole up on. Nuthin’ but a damn
fool ornery cat for company.”

Nasty stacked his hands b
ehind his neck and stared at the
ceiling. He shifted his gum to a cheek, and said, “
I
like m
y
boat And my cat.” But they weren’t enough.

“I might have to cut down on the classes
I
offer and ge
t
someone to stick around t
he shop, but I could manage some
of the classes on my own.”

“Meaning?” Nasty asked,
snapping his attention to Dusty’s
frowning face.

“Meanin
g if you want out, you got it. I
ain’t going to tr
y
to tie you down if you need to move on.”

The sun was up. Pale and lacking warmth, but up. A winking path of silver speckled across the lake. “I don’t want to move on,” Nasty said honestly. “It isn’t that. Something’s changing for me. There’s more than what I’ve got—what I’ve always had. Just myself. And you, of course. But
I
want more. You know what
I
mean?”

Dusty’s sigh gusted before he coughed. He’d tried for years to quit smoking, but habits of forty some years died hard. “I know what you mean. You’re picky, but your cock’s sending you signals.”

Nasty shook his head and jerked forward to bury his face in his hands. “You don’t get it at all.” Not entirely true. “Well,
I
guess
.
I mean, that could be a small part of it.”

“You said it, not me.”

“What does that mean?” Nasty looked at Dusty, then laughed. “Oh, yeah. Very funny. I think I could find some witnesses to tell you there’s nothing small about me. Geez, could we get some other color in here? Like black, maybe?”

“No. Don’t change the subject.”

“This place is so damn happy, happy. It makes me want to puke.”

“Yellow’s Junior’s favorite color.”

“Junior isn’t a partner in this business. She comes once a year. And yellow is
your
favorite color.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Yellow is my favorite color. It was Sammy’s, too. We always said we’d have a house full of kids, and a lot of yellow.”

Nasty decided to leave that alone. “We’re doing well here, Dust. It’s a success.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m glad. For both of us. You ought to have Rose down for a visit. Take her out. We’ll hire some help like you said for when we’re both away from the shop.”

From the town of Past Peak in the nearby foothills of the Cascade Mountains, eccentric, reclusive Rose Smothers was a friend of several years. There’s been a time when Nasty had acted as her sole watchdog. Now Dusty shared the job.

“Getting Rose out takes dynamite,” Dusty said. “You know that. And you’re changing the subject again.”

“Coffee?” Nasty levered himself to his feet and went to the coffeepot that was always hot. “Geez, I need a jump start this morning.”

“I’m coffeed out.” Dusty’s gnarled fingers drummed on a bony knee. “What happened last night? You said you talked to the girl.”

“Polly Crow’s a woman, not a girl. Women don’t like being called girls these days. You’ve got to catch up with the times, buddy.”

“Shit. Woman, then.”

“Rose can be persuaded out of that house of hers. She’s got a soft spot for you. And she has good ideas about things like making a place look good. Like this shop.”

“Nah,” Dusty said, but he avoided Nasty’s gaze. “Rose is one of the best. She knows I’ll never let her down if she needs me. I can’t
…
well, y’know, expect her to come running because I ask her to.”

“If you say so,” Nasty said. “But think about it. One of these days you should give her a call and lay a guilt trip on
her. Tell her you’re hurt beca
use she hasn’t come down to see
our shop.”

Dusty wrinkled his nose and furrowed his brow. “Nah.” This time he didn’t sound so certain. “You saw that
woman
last night? That Polly Crow?”

“I told you I
did.”

“And?”

“Did that shipment of decompression tables come in?”

“Yes,
dammit.
What happened with the woman?”

“Nothing happened,” Nasty said, and wished his gut didn’t take a nosedive every time he thought about Polly.

Dusty extended a hand. “
Gimme some of that coffee, too.”

“Sure.” Nasty poured a second mug. “It’s like mud.”

“Tastes good to me,” Dusty said taking a deep swallow and closing his eyes. “You messed up, didn’t you? Probably asked for her autograph and couldn’t think of more’n two words to say.”

“Gimme a break, Dust!” Despite himself, Nasty laughed. “What do you take me for?”

“You didn’t ask for her autograph? And you had a nice, long chat, then?”

“We talked.”

“She as pretty up close as she is on the television?”

“Prettier.”

“Hah!” Coffee spattered as Dusty gestured triumphantly. “Gotcha. You’re smitten. Stars in your eyes. What time is that fool show on? I gotta get a better look.”

“Mind your own business. She doesn’t like me, anyway.”

Armed with paper towel, Dusty wiped up the spilled coffee. “They sleep around, y’know.”

The logic took a second to follow. “You mean you think Polly sleeps around? Watch what you say, Dust.”

“Or what? I’m worried about you is all. These movie types sleep around, I tell ya. She’ll screw you and move on to the next candidate. I know all about it.”

The seething, jumpy agitation beneath his skin made no sense. Nasty took a calming breath. “Do you? How?”

“I read all that stuff. Married to one poor schmuck. Screwing whoever they’re screwing in the movie. Marry the guy they’re screwin’ in the movie, then screw the guy in the next movie.” Dusty considered his analysis before saying, “You’re a good-looking guy. What they call a real stud.”

Nasty looked at the clock. “It’s almost time to open.”

“Yeah.” Clearly enamored with his revelation, Dusty put himself in front of Nasty and did a thorough head-to-toe. “Yeah. A stud. Good-lookin’ if a woman likes tall, blond, muscle-bound men with cold eyes.”

“I’m not muscle—”

“Roman always said you could have any woman you wanted.”

“To hell with Roman.”

Dusty smirked. “Losing your temper. Now I know I’m gettin’ to you. You gonna see this Polly tonight?”

“Not if she has her way.”

Dusty’s impressive white brows rose. “Didn’t take the bait right off, huh. Smart girl.”

“Woman.”

“Smart woman. Geez. The smart ones never want to look too easy. You oughta know that. They tease a little. Play it like they aren’t interested. She wants you.”

This was a conversation Nasty would rather not have, not while he was still raw from being so close to her, from wanting her—and from seeing that he’d accomplished nothing other than making her frightened.

“She was there, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.” He couldn’t get her fear out of his mind. It had filled her eyes, tightened her face, driven every word she’d spoken, every move she’d made.

“And you said she always goes there the same time you do.”

“I always go there the same time she does.”

“Okay.” A march to the door and back didn’t soften Dusty’s; irritated expression. “You both go there at the same time. Yesterday you said you thought you were both doing it deliber
ately. You changed your mind?”