Rated yellow star for adult themes, violence and sexual references.
CWE#6 It was a dark and steamy night...
The heat shimmered and bounced off surfaces, its enervating effect making him slump further into the uncomfortable contraption he was now all too familiar with. His gaze, as it had so often recently, scanned the courtyard, encircled by the mismatch of New York buildings, noting the microcosm of humanity—exposed and made vulnerable by the unrelenting scorch of the sun.
Brian Belden was bored. Tired, sore and bored. He hated it. He shifted in the chair. He felt trapped and he didn’t like it. He watched those cavorting outside, or desperately sheltering within their apartments, oblivious to the sanctity of their freedom. Some of them enjoyed it, some squandered it, and others seemed even more depressed than he was. He tossed the Doctors Without Borders newsletter aside— it served more as a reminder of his discontent than as an inspiration. Fatigue washed over him and he closed his eyes and gave into it.
Darkness blanketed the courtyard, its tendrils reaching into Brian’s apartment, while around him, his neighbours flicked on lights that allowed on-lookers continued access. His lashes fluttered against his cheeks, and he felt a trickle of perspiration run from his brow. As he opened his eyes, adjusting to the darkness outside, a shadow fell across his face. A mouth— wide, full-lipped— descended, and he was thoroughly kissed.
“Hello,” the vision said when she raised her head.
“Hello,” he returned with a half-smile.
“How’s your leg?”
“It hurts a little.”
“And your stomach?”
“Empty as a football.”
“And your love life?”
“Not too active.”
“Anything else bothering you?” Her hazel eyes were warm, her voice low, throaty, impossibly sexy.
“Who are you?” He quipped, trying to ignore the stirring in his blood that she inevitably caused. Hadn’t he decided she wasn’t the right woman for him? Right at this very moment he wasn’t so sure.
She moved away from him and smiled. “Reading from top to bottom—Honey, Madeleine, Wheeler.” As she spoke, she moved around the room, flicking on lamps and suffusing the room with their soft, warm light. She turned slowly, displaying her exquisitely dressed form.
He might not know much about fashion, but he did know his girlfriend, and he gave her a knowing look. “The Honey Wheeler who never wears the same dress twice?”
“Only because it’s expected of her.” Honey may not have given up on her long-term goals but she’d grown accustomed to her current role. She was good at what she did— an asset to Wheeler International. She did know that her serious-minded boyfriend considered her work frivolous. She fingered the fabric of the designer gown. “Right off the Paris plane,” she said lightly, trying to ignore that look behind his eyes. “Think it will sell?”
Brian studied the extravagant black and white gown knowing that while she looked stunning, he preferred her in capris and flats with no make-up, but he couldn’t say that, could he? Women were sensitive where clothes were concerned. He made a joke of it. What else could he do?
His reaction didn’t surprise Honey, no more than his response to the dinner she’d had delivered from 21 that was now warming in his tiny oven. She refused to let it get to her. Their relationship was complicated—he was complicated, and she wanted a life with him, more than anything, and in spite of his sometimes casually dismissive attitude, she sensed her loved her, really loved her. At least, right at this particular moment in time he couldn’t pick up and run out on her. She’d tried to talk to him previously but now he was a captive audience and it was time to use that to her advantage. She played with her glass of wine and moved a little closer to him.
“Brian, isn’t it time you came home? You could pick any one of the major hospitals.”
“I wish there was one I wanted,” he returned, running a hand through his dark hair, straining his head in the direction of the open window as if willing a breeze to stir and disturb the heat.
“Make the one you want,” she urged, dark gold hair falling across her shoulders as she leaned towards him.
“Leave Doctors Without Borders?” Brian’s dark eyes narrowed, and he raised his black brows.
“Yes.”
“For what?” The idea was inconceivable.
“For yourself—and me.” Her huge hazel eyes were at their widest, imploring him. “I could get you on the board at one of the best hospitals in New York.”
Brian couldn’t help laughing, and she eyed him reproachfully.
“Don’t laugh! I could do it.” Her family’s position and her willingness to work on fundraiser after fundraiser meant she had more than enough connections, if only he’d let her use them. He was so damned stubborn.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said, shaking his head. “Could you see me—driving down to some swanky hospital board meeting—wearing combat boots and a three-day beard?”
“I can see you looking very handsome and successful in a dark blue flannel suit.” In anything, she thought, so long as you’re here, safe—with me. Damn him—he knew she meant he could keep on working as a medical consultant—even if the old injury prevented him from performing surgery.
“Let’s not talk any more nonsense, huh?” He’d seen that look in her eyes, that mixture of longing and accusation, and he didn’t have the strength to deal with it.
“I’d better start setting up for dinner.” Honey was smart enough to know when to back off, but she wasn’t done with him yet. He would be back on his feet in a week, and she needed to sort him out before that.
Brian watched Honey as she stretched her long, slender legs beneath that ridiculous gown and settled on the divan bed after their dinner was finished and the dishes cleared away. What was it about her that left him almost incapable of coherent thought? He was a well-travelled, well-educated man who’d seen plenty. How the hell had he fallen for a high society, Park Avenue girl who would be more at home at a gala event than in some tent in Africa? Not that he believed there was any real future for them—they were too different. He was a pizza and beer kind of guy, and she was gourmet lobster dinner at 21—delivered no less. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed every bite. But still…
He knew he’d hurt her feelings during the evening, more than once—the dress, the food, the music coming across the courtyard that had captured her attention—but he was not a man who could settle for a quiet life. Not like his composer neighbour with his haunting tune, or the couple with the shaggy little dog, or the curvy dancer across the way, with her endless parade of men, none of whom she loved—according to Honey, anyway. And as for the sad little woman all alone in her grand floor apartment and the angry sales guy above her with the nagging wife…he would be glad when they all faded into the background where they belonged.
Way too much time had been spent lately examining the ordinary antics of those around him. He preferred to spend his time looking at scenes that meant something—in fact, after the first accident and the injury to his hand, he’d taken up photography, knowing that that, coupled with the medical treatment he could still provide, meant his place on the team was secure. He’d learned to capture what he saw in a way that made a real difference, and his work, varied and exciting, sometimes even dangerous, made him a valuable commodity and took him into some pretty bad places. Honey Wheeler had no place in that world—of that, he was quite sure. And yet, a little voice whispered inside his head—here she is, in your hot tiny apartment when she could be cool and comfortable in her air-conditioned 63rd street penthouse with its doorman and marble lobby— that meant something, didn’t it? It was the heat getting to him, just like it was getting to everyone in the entire apartment complex—the heat and Honey Madeleine Wheeler in all of her sophisticated glory. She was living in a land of delusion, but how did he make her see sense?
“There can’t be that much difference between people and the way they live. We all eat, talk, drink, laugh, wear clothes—” Honey broke off as Brian held up his hands in a gesture that might have meant surrender, but she was fairly certain indicated “stop talking!” She’d intended playing it cool, but somehow her feelings couldn’t be contained. He’d always had that affect on her.
“Well now, look,” Brian said, realising he needed to set her straight before those eyes and that voice, with its persuasive entreaty, made him agree to something he shouldn’t.
Honey, apparently, was not in the mood to be fed anymore of his convoluted protests and explanations and she cut him off “If you're saying all this just because you don’t want to tell me the truth, because you're hiding something from me, then maybe I can understand—”
“There’s nothing I’m hiding. It’s just that—”
“It doesn’t make sense to me,” Honey continued, tossing her head, unwilling to let him derail her. “What’s so different about it here from over there, or any place you go, that one person couldn’t live in both places just as easily?”
“Some people can,” Brian said, doing his best to sound calm and reasonable. “Now, if you’ll let me explain—”
“What is it but traveling from one place to another, helping people and taking pictures? It’s just like being a kind tourist on an endless vacation of sorts.” Honey didn’t care if her words upset him. Brian had done his time practicing medicine in war-torn, poverty-stricken places, and she’d hoped he would come home when the agency agreed he’d done his share, but this whole photography thing was obviously here to stay and surely there was no reason she couldn’t be with him if he was waving a camera around instead of a scalpel.
“All right. That's your opinion. You’re entitled to it, but—”
“It’s ridiculous for you to say that it can only be done by a special, private little group of anointed people.” Her lip dropped in a perfect pout and her beautiful, wide, hazel eyes flashed at him; he was glad for once that the chair stopped him from running to her and pulling her into his arms.
Left with no other choice, he did what he had to—told her to shut up and gave her a few home truths.
Brian fidgeted and shifted in the chair, gazing into the harsh morning light without enthusiasm. Honey Wheeler had haunted his dreams. She’d almost given him what he’d asked for, and he would never forget the feeling in the pit of his stomach when she’d said goodbye, in that cool final way—standing in the doorway, a metaphoric and literal departure. He thought he might actually have begged her to reconsider if she hadn’t relented. Maybe she wasn’t right for him, but it didn’t stop him from wanting her in his life, in his bed.
He’d had a lousy night, interrupted by rain that wrapped the apartment and its surroundings in sticky, uncompromising humidity. Usually, darkness brought with it the chance to hide, but the continuing weight of the heat forced people to remain out in the open.
Crime statistics, he knew, went up during a heatwave. Desperate for even the faintest stirring of air, sleepers left windows open, exposing them to unknown peril. And unseen gazes, he thought, recalling his own voyeuristic pursuits. He’d woken several times, and across the courtyard, his neighbour, the salesman with the nagging wife, had fuelled his imagination big time, by making several trips into the damp, steamy night carrying that aluminium suitcase.
Celia, his feisty insurance nurse, had ridiculed his suspicions about the man’s bizarre middle-of-the-night behaviour, and told him off again for sleeping in the chair—she was already in his ear about the way he treated Honey--and it was still too damned hot for comfort. Life was definitely not looking rosy. He hated his confinement, his girlfriend was doing his head in, and his nurse thought he was losing his grip on reality.
The problem was, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was right about the burly man across the courtyard—even if he’d barely registered his existence until recently. After Celia had left, he’d seen the man with what looked like some kind of machete or saw, or oversized knife—that couldn’t be regarded as normal, could it? And the nagging wife hadn’t been seen all day. Maybe he’d share his suspicions with Honey; she just might see things his way.
She hadn’t, at first. She’d arrived at his apartment, after dark, and should have looked out of place in a black chiffon dress that more properly belonged at an uptown night spot, but somehow worked in his slightly shabby home. She’d shaken her perfectly styled dark gold head and raised those finely shaped brows in disbelief. And when he’d persisted, interrupting a pretty damn fine make-out session, she had not been impressed. But that was one of the things he loved about her—Honey was a thinker. In spite of the ridiculously expensive clothes and the trappings of her wealth and her protected upbringing, she thought about things. She examined evidence and reviewed facts and when she saw the heavy ropes wrapped around the oversized trunk she began to believe that he may be right, though the thought that a human being might be inside of it had made her shudder. She’d even checked the mailbox for him, giving him a name—F. Lytell—to pass on to his cop buddy, Dan Mangan.
The following day, with the sun back at its ferocious best, Dan Mangan, a lean rangy man who’d been very popular with the ladies until a trip down the aisle a couple of years earlier, arrived but he was less than enthusiastic when Brian aired his theories. Still, they were old friends, and he agreed to look into it. When Dan returned later that afternoon with some cock and bull story about the wife taking a trip, and a lame excuse about a postcard, Brian felt his frustration growing. He knew there was more to it and was relieved when Honey, who arrived in the early evening, refused to be convinced by his relaying of Dan’s so-called evidence—she had evidence of her own.
One of the things that had helped bring her around to his idea of foul play in the first place had been his description of Lytell fingering jewelry as he was going through his wife’s handbag— the same handbag they both recognized as hanging off the couple’s bedpost. More than trips in the night and saws and trunks bound with rope, this caught her attention. No woman would go on a trip without her jewelry or favourite handbag, Honey insisted. He’d been impressed by the way she’d thought things through, coming up with counter explanations for all of Dan’s claims.
She’d surprised him even more when she announced her intention of spending the night, and for a while all he could think of was Honey, divest of the pale green linen skirt and white halter, her soft, bare warm flesh pressing against his. The way her hazel eyes tilted at the edge when she met his dark gaze, and that absurd overnight case… This was one night he wouldn’t need encouragement to get him out of the chair and into bed. Maybe there was some advantage to being stuck in one place—he and Honey rarely saw this much of one another.
When Dan dropped by again, it took Brian a minute to focus on the task at hand as anticipation momentarily stole his attention.
“I checked the railroad station. He bought a ticket. He put her on the train ten minutes later. Destination: Merritsville. Witnesses. This deep,” Dan said, holding his hand out to demonstrate, though his dark eyes flicked in Honey’s direction.
Honey didn’t flinch and met the detective’s gaze squarely. “It might have been a woman—but it couldn't have been Mrs. Lytell. That jewelry—”
Dan was surprised—these society dames were usually easy to manipulate—especially when he did his best detective swagger. “Look, Miss Wheeler. That feminine intuition sells magazines—but in real life, it’s still a fairy tale. I don't know how many wasted years I've spent running down leads based on women’s intuitions.”
If Brian hadn’t been stuck in the stupid chair he’d have landed one of Mangan’s jaw for that—and another one for the way his eyes ran up and down over Honey’s slender form. Dan drove his point home, but Honey’s cool responses showed that she wasn’t cowed by him, or his status, leaving Brian to wonder if maybe he’d underestimated her a little. Of course, Dan couldn’t prevent the smirk that crossed his handsome face when he spied Honey’s overnight case. He made a dig or two, which Brian resolutely ignored. And then, playing the super cool cop, Dan firmly squashed their suspicions with what seemed to be incontestable proof that Mrs. Lytell was indeed alive and well.
It could have ended there, if it hadn’t been for the dog. Once Dan had left, Honey had quite rightly pointed out that they were a pair of ghouls, sulking about the non-demise of a woman neither one of them had ever met. She had started to draw the blinds, finally securing some privacy, when a scream shattered the heavy pseudo stillness of the night outside. Death had visited their little corner of the world.
The cute, playful little dog—Lytell was the only one in the whole complex who didn’t come to his window after its lifeless body was discovered. Neither Brian nor Honey needed more proof after that that their original suspicions were on the money. Brian had seen the film of tears in Honey’s hazel eyes as she watched the poor creature, hoisted one last time in the wicker basket, and he’d held her close. What was it about cruelty to animals that was so hard to come to terms with?
They were sure it wouldn't carry much weight with Detective Dan Mangan, but the unsavoury incident had confirmed their theory as far as they were concerned and with the light of the following morning came determination. He, Honey and the bluntly spoken, and now outraged, Celia, knew they needed to take action. To make the police see the truth. But how? They’d spent the whole day after the dog was found, watching and waiting to no avail. They’d talked and stared out the window until their voices all but gave out and their eyes were gritty and weary.
But this had been a crime that unfurled under the cover of darkness—maybe they needed that darkness to see things more clearly. So, when night had fallen yet again and the strange assortment of people, above, below and beyond went about their lives, while the heat continued to intrude upon their right to privacy, Brian took another look.
Staring for so long at his surroundings, Brian wasn’t sure when he realized that there was something wrong with the courtyard, or at least with the way it appeared to him. But luckily, his enforced captivity and boredom had led him to take an array of shots from his window. Asking Honey to hand him some slides, he slipped them into the viewer and went through them. Sure enough, he was right. With grim satisfaction he showed the two women and they nodded their agreement. Flowers did not grow shorter. The plant had been dug up and replanted. The dog had died because it had been too curious.
He leaned back in the chair, chaffing at his inability to get up and stride about, the way he used to when he trying to work out some problem or puzzle. The flower was proof to him and to Honey and Celia, but it probably wouldn’t convince Dan Mangan; the guy was too jaded—too sure his friend had lost the plot.
Brian went back over what he’d seen, using his photographer’s eye and the reasoning and analytical skills that had gotten him through medical school. He looked up at Honey who stood by his side and added slowly, “Suppose Mrs. Lytell’s wedding ring was among the jewelry he has in the handbag. During that phone conversation he held up three rings—one with a diamond—one with a big stone of some kind—and one plain gold band.”
Honey’s eyes lit up. “And the last thing she’d leave behind would be her wedding ring!” She turned to the petite nurse. “Celia, do you ever leave yours at home?
Celia shook her blonde head. “The only way anybody could get that off would be to chop my finger—” she broke off and the three exchanged looks. Celia squared her shoulders, knowing that with Tom for a husband she would never have to be afraid. Suddenly, she wanted justice for Mrs. Lytell. “Let’s go down and find out what’s buried in the garden.”
Honey tilted her head to one side and lifted one brow. “Why not? I’ve always wanted to meet Mrs. Lytell.”
It was so daring an idea it made Brian’s head spin. He forced the two women to wait until he’d come up with a way to lure Lytell from the apartment. He watched as Honey ran out and made her way to Lytell’s apartment, slipping the note that would definitely get the man’s attention, under the door. His breath caught in his throat, his dark eyes full of fear as Honey barely escaped Lytell’s prying eye and then he watched again as his love and Celia dashed into the night to examine the garden bed.
He watched as the two climbed over the wall and Celia slammed the shovel into the earth with a strength that belied her diminutive stature. There was nothing to find, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Honey didn’t give him time to think about it. He gazed out of the window open-mouthed, while with an athletic grace and a speed that defied her full-skirted yellow floral print dress, gave him an almost casual wave, and climbed the fire escape to Lytell’s apartment. She swung herself over the balcony and disappeared into the bedroom. He wanted to scream out to her to stop. He did call her name. What was she thinking? She was crazy, brave, amazing—his.
Brian’s eyes remained fixed on Honey as she made her way through Lytell’s apartment. Why would she take such a risk? Celia came flying back into the apartment as amazed by Honey’s actions as he was. He turned an agonized gaze in her direction, but her gaze was fixed on another altogether.
“Miss Lonelyheart!” she cried, nodding towards the sad woman living in the apartment beneath Lytell’s.
Brian saw the pills, the note and the expression on the woman’s face—and knew they had to get help. He reached for the phone, dialled the police and was about to give details, when music from the composer’s room began to float across the courtyard. Miss Lonelyheart looked up, distracted by the sound.
“The music stopped her,” Celia breathed, and Brian nodded. Maybe Honey was right about that music. He and Celia looked at one another in relief.
It was short-lived. Celia grabbed his shoulder and the two watched in horror as Lytell returned and Honey was left with nowhere to go.
The burly man was upon her within seconds, and Brian writhed in his chair as Honey called his name desperately from across the courtyard, while Lytell shook her, grabbed her, marking that smooth pale flesh with his brutal hands. The phone still clutched in his hand, Brian rattled out his name and Lytell’s address, knowing he sounded frantic, crazy even. He twisted and turned, even as Honey twisted and turned in the hands of the man he knew to be a murderer.
He strained on the arms of the chair. He would go there himself, dragging his useless body along the ground if he had to. What if he lost her now? He should never have let her go. Even as the thought stumbled through his mind he knew he could not have stopped her. Just as he was about to launch himself out of the chair, he saw them—police, coming down the hall to Lytell’s apartment. Brian took a short sharp breath.
What followed would always be slightly blurred in Brian’s usually ordered, meticulous and detailed memory. There was Celia, one minute by his side, the next racing to bail out Honey—clever, clever Honey, who had managed to get herself taken off by the police and out of Lytell’s clutches, leaving Brian relieved and proud at the same time. The phone had shrilled, and Dan had listened to his garbled explanation of the evening’s events, and then the phone rang again and this time it wasn’t Dan.
Brian had known then he was in danger—the murderer’s apartment had plunged into darkness and there was no tell-tale red glow of a cigarette. He’d quickly realized he had few options when it came to defending himself. The door wasn’t locked, and he had no way of escaping. He barely had time to grab flash bulbs before Lytell himself was there—dark and menacing; there were flashes of light as Brian tried to stave off his attacker, and then the murderer was standing over him, ready to end Brian’s very existence. He cried out, calling for Honey, and then, as he saw movement in the distance, for Dan. As Lytell overpowered him, he was pushed through the open window and when he could hold on no longer, plummeted below, the ground rushing up to meet him. And then he was safe, his head in Honey’s lap, her sweet, brave, beautiful face looking down at him.
“Gee, I’m proud of you,” he said, unable to take his eyes off her. She had been magnificent. And it could have gotten her killed. Honey smiled and Brian allowed the pain to overtake him and closed his eyes.
The shimmering heat faded, leaving soft, warm summer days behind that caressed through the open windows. And Brian, his thick dark lashes brushing his cheeks, slept, still stuck in that chair. But this time his slumber was peaceful. Honey Wheeler watched over him as she reclined on the divan bed, stretching out her long, capri-clad legs, knowing now that there was a future—with a little compromise on both sides. Of course, it hadn't hurt that the hospital she had just made contact with was cash strapped, understaffed and in the Bronx—Brian liked a challenge and it suited him better that the well-equipped Manhattan Institution they'd discussed once before. And he would have leave to spend a couple of months overseas to continue his aid work. And he would come around to the idea of her joining him. She was metaphorically dipping her elegantly painted toe into his world while her slender fingers kept a firm grip on her own, and a half-smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she laid the book aside and picked up the latest issue of Harper’s Bazaar.
The days following Lytell’s arrest had been fraught, chaotic, and when Brian had been informed he now had not one but two broken legs, she’d expected an uprising. But she had been surprised. He’d shrugged his broad shoulders and turned those dark, dark eyes in her direction and smiled.
“I don’t think Celia can cope with all this nursing on her own,” he’d said. “You got something more substantial than that overnight case?” He’d lifted his chin and she’d kissed him—then and there, in front of Dan Mangan and numerous hospital medical staff.
So here she was—in his apartment, in his bed, in his life—and that was how it was meant to be. If this tiny space was where he wanted to make his life, she was just fine with it. She glanced across at him, noting that he smiled as he slept. Was he dreaming?
Brian had grown accustomed to sleeping lightly—his old job and his recent injuries ensured that. But he slept easily now, slipping in and out of dreams, vaguely aware of Honey’s comforting presence and the sounds and movements of his neighbours—going about their lives. Unconsciously, he inclined his dark head towards the light, tantalizing breeze. And the world outside the window turned, and slipped back into its old, familiar patterns and waited for night to fall.
Trixe Belden et al belong to Random House and not to me. No profit is being made from these scribblings.
Biggest thanks to my wonderous editor, Dana, who jumped in and did this for even though she has had heaps on her plate lately. As always, she makes everything better, catches my Aussisms and puts up with my comma regression. All errors, mistakes etc are mine. Word count 4700
