MAKE ME A MATCH (Running Wild) (13 page)

BITCH- a babe in total control of herself

Tuesday morning, Sophie called before Eric left for work.

“You can rest easy, bro. Nicols died of an aneurysm. A defective artery in his brain ruptured. I called in a favor from a friend in the coroner’s office. She just read me the autopsy report. It had nothing to do with him getting punched.”

Tension seeped out of Eric, and for a moment he was euphoric. He was finally free of Jimmy Nicols. “So what happens now? With Karen. ” A nasty thought was surfacing. “She and Nicols weren’t divorced. Is she gonna have to fork out to bury him?”

What he really meant was
he
going to have to fork out to bury the guy. Funerals were expensive, and Karen didn’t have any money.

“I don’t think she’s legally responsible, but you know Karen. She’s liable to feel it’s her duty.” “You’re right.” He sighed. “Well, at least that’ll be the end of it.”

“Unless Anna’s right and the spirits of the troubled dead hang around.”

Sophie had a perverted sense of humor.

“By the way, Eric, how’s it going with the matchmaker?”

“I’ve got a date on Thursday that I’m looking forward to.”

“Way to go.” But for some reason she didn’t sound all that enthusiastic. “Maybe you’re about to meet your destiny.”

If destiny was a pair of black trousers that fit snug around his butt and thighs, as well as the pair of cowboy boots he’d bought on a whim and never worn, then he was on the right track. Eric buffed up the boots and on Thursday afternoon, put on Bruno’s finery. He’d remembered to buy a huge cigar, and he stuck that in his chest pocket.

He’d watched enough reruns of Gunsmoke to mimic the way a cowboy walked. He parked outside the Queen E and stuck the unlit cigar in his mouth as he swaggered in the doors. He felt like a dork, and the stares he got when he retrieved the ticket and entered the lobby told him he maybe looked like one, too. This was good.

Just as he’d known it would be, the lobby was filled with refined-looking people wearing sophisticated evening dress, the men in suits or tails and the women in formal gowns. He spotted Sylvia Delecroix right away and made his way across the crowded room, directly toward her. She looked elegant, and Eric had to admit she was one good-looking lady, blond and tall and slender in her short black cocktail suit. Her eyes flickered over him, up and down, and away. It was hard to keep from grinning.

He strode right up to her and lifted the Stetson.

“Miss Sylvia?” He replaced the hat and held out his hand, talking around the cigar. “Eric Stewart. A real pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

Her pupils widened, and he saw shock, horror and dismay flicker over her face, but give her credit, after the first moment of awful recognition, she managed to collect herself.

“Eric. Eric Stewart, ummmmm, how do you do?” She touched his hand and tried to jerk away, as if he had a skin disease.

He grasped hers and held on, giving it five or six hearty up-and-down shakes.

“Really fine, Sylvia, really fine.” He pitched his voice louder than normal. “Nice to get hooked up with a pretty lady like you. Before I forget, we need to get straight with that little money deal, here we go.” He made a show of dragging a wad of bills out of his pocket, whipping off several, and holding them out to her. “I think this’ll cover our little agreement, right?”

People nearby were watching. A scarlet stain crept up her neck and suffused her face. She had narrow lips, and they were pressed together so tightly they almost disappeared.

“Not here. Not now,” she hissed.

“Oh, but I insist, ma’am.” He shook his head and waved the money in the air. “Us Stewarts are real fussy about paying our bills, specially when a pretty lady’s involved.” He gave her what he hoped was a lewd wink.

Her eyes went from side to side, assessing the attention they were attracting. Eric was delighted to notice it was considerable.

She was the type who got red patches when she was upset. She snatched the money from him and furtively shoved it into the little silver bag she wore hooked over one wrist.

“Pretty fancy crowd, huh?” He gestured at the bar with the cigar. “Can I get you a beer or something?”

“No. No, thank you. That bell means the program is about to begin, I think we should go up to our seats.”

“Is that what that dinging means? Feature that.” He stuck the cigar back in his mouth, took her arm and tucked it firmly under his crooked elbow. “You just hang tight there, Sylvia, and I’ll herd us through this crowd of heifers.”

A strangled yelp was her only response as he bulldogged their way to the carpeted stairs. The seats were excellent, front and center in the lower balcony, about the same place he usually sat several times a year when he came to the symphony. Eric grinned, touched the brim of his hat, and apologized in a booming voice to as many people as possible as he shouldered his way to their seats.

“This was one damned fine idea, this symphony thing,” he said as soon as they were seated. “I been to concerts before; last time was at the Pacific Coliseum, where they have the hockey games? Man, I do love hockey. How about those Canucks, eh? Anyhow, I saw good old Garth Brooks out there. You ever see Garth live on stage, Sylvia?” She gave her head a slight shake. She was huddled in her seat, slumped as low as she could get without sliding right off onto the floor.

“We’ll have to take him in next time he’s in town. He’s a sight for sore eyes.”

Fortunately, Bruno had filled him in. “The man’s a living legend. He got lowered to the stage by a crane, and he smashed his guitar when the show was over. I got me a little piece for a souvenir.”

“How nice,” she croaked, staring straight ahead.

She flicked her eyes at him just once, staring at the cigar. “You do know there’s no smoking in here?”

“Oh yes, ma’am, I just like to sorta munch on the end, if you know what I mean. I enjoy a chew of snuff, but I guess there’s no place to spit in places like this.” He started to wonder if he was overplaying this just a little.

She closed her eyes one long moment. “Don’t you think you better take that hat off so the people behind can see?”

He gave her an astounded look. “Yes, ma’am. Don’t usually, but anything to please you, Sylvia.” With a show of great reluctance, he removed his hat. He placed it on his lap just as the lights dimmed and the symphony director began his introduction.

Eric made sure he clapped harder and louder than anyone else when the man was finished, and he also put his fingers in his mouth and whistled.

When he did that, Sylvia put her hands over her face and muttered, “Oh, dear God.” Her face was more mottled than ever, and Eric sort of hoped she wasn’t one of these women who had heart attacks early and easily.

As for him, he was having an interesting evening. He hadn’t thought about Nicols or Karen or even Tessa for a good hour or two, and the Russian music was superb, filled with fire and passion. But when the haunting strains of the love theme from Zhivago filled the theater, his spirits plummeted and a sudden bolt of pure loneliness shot through him.

It would be fine to sit here beside someone he cared about, hold her hand, share this breathtaking music. It would be fun to talk about it afterward over an intimate late night dinner. It would be exciting to drive home and make love with the melodies still alive in their minds and their cells, enhancing the raw physical need for each other.

And how come the lady in every one of his fantasies these days resembled Tessa McBride?

Maybe he ought to give this Sylvia an honest chance, tell her that he’d been teasing, laugh a little with her and make the most of what was left of the evening? He turned toward her and changed his mind.

She was sitting as far away from him as she could get, arms crossed over her quite nice perky breasts, shapely legs in dark hose angled so that no part of her touched any part of him. Her narrow mouth was clamped tight as a vise, and she looked mad enough to bite the heads off small animals.

He’d thought earlier that if she was quick witted and had a good sense of humor, she’d see straight through his elaborate charade and they could have some fun with it, but she’d fallen for it, shiny shirt, boots, and cigar.

He wasn’t surprised, when intermission came, to have her say, “I have a migraine. I’ll skip the rest of the program and go straight home.”

“Can I give you a lift?” It was the least he could do, considering.

“Oh no, no, no.” Her vehemence left no doubt as to how eager she was to get rid of him. “I’ll take a cab, thank you.”

He waved one down right outside the theater, handed her in, and gave the cabbie a twenty. He lifted his hat to Sylvia, who ignored him. When she was safely out of sight, he meandered back inside. The bell was tolling for the beginning of the second half. No point wasting the seat. He sat back and allowed the heart-rending music to transport him.

It made a nice change from talking about Nicols. And he had an interesting conversation to look forward to with his own personal matchmaker.

Before Tessa could get the office door shut on Friday morning, the phone was ringing. She picked it up.

“Good morning, Synchronicity.” She was feeling chipper, even though she hadn’t slept much. She kept thinking about owning Synchronicity, and finding more of her own clients.

Sylvia Delecroix was on the line, and she was definitely having a queer spell—queer as in raving, spitting mad.

“
How
could you be stupid enough to match me up with a drugstore cowboy? I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. ”

It didn’t sound right, but this had to be Eric they were discussing.

“He not only turns up looking and sounding like John Wayne, with that stupid, asinine cowboy hat and that humiliating jacket, he had a cigar in his mouth.”

Tessa frowned. Since when had Eric traded garbage trucks for horses? She’d vowed not to touch a cigarette, lit or unlit, until at least noon. Sticking a pencil in her mouth, she sucked hard on the wood as Sylvia spewed invective down the line. She was in full rant.

“How could you do such a thing to me! I knew I should have insisted that I deal only with Clara. I registered with Synchronicity because she assured me the service had a number of quality gentlemen, and then you line me up with this loud mouthed, crude, rude—why, he shoved money at me right there in the lobby. People must have thought I was some kind of, of… paid companion. I don’t know how I’ll ever face the Symphony Committee again. I blame you personally for this, Bessie.”

“Tessa.” She bit the pencil in half and put the rubber end back in her mouth. This one was a proper bitch, and for five cents…..

She thought of the business that would soon be hers and held her tongue. Sylvia was still rolling along, gathering steam.

“—never been so humiliated in my life, he was wearing cowboy boots and this—this horrible turquoise satin shirt, and he had a cowboy hat on, at the symphony, and there are people who recognize me—”

Tessa made sympathetic noises, horrified noises, placating noises, and tried to keep herself from grinning at the mental images Sylvia’s words created. She propped her feet on the desk and admired her ankles as Sylvia ran down.

By the time Sylvia petered out, Tessa had a clear picture of what Eric had pulled, and an even clearer one of why four men so far had flatly refused to date Sylvia Delecroix a second time. It sounded as if she’d spelled out where, when and how to Eric, which didn’t excuse his asinine Hopalong impersonation, but it did point up how totally, utterly dismally dumb Ms. Delecroix really was.

And the amazing thing was that the daft woman had not a clue that he’d been acting. If there was one thing Eric wasn’t, it was stupid. He’d set out to piss Sylvia off, and he’d succeeded in spades. The way he’d done it might have been downright funny, but what made her temper sizzle was the way he’d made a fool out of Synchronicity, and more exactly, out of her.

Well, maybe he could piss in Delecroix’s ear and tell her it was raining, but it wasn’t going to work with yours truly.

She dialed Junk Busters without having to look up the number.

A woman with a lilting voice answered.

Wouldn’t you know he’d have some slavering little schoolgirl working for him.

“I’ll see if he free to take your call, miss,” she caroled, and then Tessa jumped when she heard her holler, “Boss, one your lady friends wants to talk to you, you here or not?”

Maybe the voice was deceiving.

“Hello?”

One of your lady friends? Not bloody likely, Cowboy
.

“Just exactly what kind of game do you think you’re playing with me, Stewart? I go out of my way for you to meet a perfectly nice woman, and you treat the entire thing like a stupid childish joke, one that only your pathetic little pea brain can appreciate.” She was building up a nice thundercloud and it felt great. “I know exactly what you’re doing, you know, and it isn’t gonna work, so give it up.” She snatched a breath. “Just on principle, and out of respect for your sisters, Synchronicity is not refunding the money they paid, no matter what. I’m going to do my best to find you a suitable match, and if you had a whit of consideration or respect, you’d stop acting like a total bloody jerk.’’