Backfire

64

Harry Christoff’s house

Laurel Heights, San Francisco

Saturday morning

Eve kicked back, put her booted feet on the ottoman. She was wearing the same clothes she’d worn yesterday, and she felt grungy. She leaned her head back against the sofa back and said, “My head hurts.”

Harry stood over her, a cup of coffee in his hand. “You ate breakfast an hour ago so it’s okay to drink another cup of this fine brew. Then we’ll talk.”

Talk? That opened her eyes. What did he mean, talk? Eve didn’t want to talk-a guy talk about two adults enjoying sex and no commitment? No, that wasn’t Harry. Harry was honorable to his feet. Like big statue-of-David feet. No, Harry felt guilty because he’d made love to her and now it was morning and somewhere along the line he’d realized she expected more from him, and so he regretted ever pulling down her blue bikini panties. How was he ever going to explain that to her so she didn’t shoot him?

She stared at him, unblinking. He hadn’t said a word while he’d chowed down on his cereal, one of those health-food brands she’d never heard of, while she’d slathered strawberry jam on her toast. Not a single word about how incredible she was and it was the best night of his life, and how about now let’s get naked right here, on the table? Would she climb up on the table? Yes, she would.

She continued to stare at him. To her eye, Harry radiated guilt.

Eve drank a bit of coffee and watched Harry walk to the chair opposite and sit down. He looked indolent and loose, his legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, and he steepled his fingertips together. Tap, tap, tap.

Maybe she was wrong, maybe he didn’t feel guilt about having sex with her, wanting now to shoulder the blame, to claim all the fault. Maybe she was wrong. Instead, maybe he was feeling cocky he’d scored with her. Was that better than his feeling guilty about seducing her? Seducing her? What had happened between them-what was it last night, three times? Talk about a busy two-way street.

Harry said in a brooding voice, “You’re so pretty, it drives me nuts.”

Pretty? He was beginning his guilt speech by telling her she was pretty and it drove him nuts? No, what she was was a mess. She needed a shower, she needed a couple of multivitamins, she needed to have Harry tell her it wasn’t just because she was pretty that he was attracted to her; what she wanted him to say was something very different, like it was her insides that turned him on, and he didn’t for a single instant feel guilty about making love with her, and he wanted more, he wanted-Eve pulled out her cell. “I want to speak to my dad.”

“Why now?” His left eyebrow shot up. He still looked, she thought, loose and relaxed, indolent as a lizard, and she wanted to smack him.

She managed a credible sneer. “What do you care? Oh, I see, if Daddy asks me where I am, I’ll have to confess to him I’m currently only twenty feet from a guy’s bedroom, wherein lies a rumpled bed, and the guy’s name is Harry Christoff, and sorry, Dad, he’s not in the U.S. Marshals Service, he’s a dippy FBI agent.”

Harry grinned at her. “I love to listen to you spit out a hundred words without taking a breath. Actually I’d like to speak to your dad. Don’t you think it’s about time? He really doesn’t like FBI agents?”

About time? To apologize to him for seducing his daughter, but, hey, it happened, so let’s move on? She studied his face, took another slug of her coffee, and carefully set the cup down on a magazine to spare the shiny wood surface. He wasn’t smiling. In fact, he was holding himself very quiet, his eyes focused on her face. No way was she going to let him speak to her dad. She said between seamed lips, “I was thinking you don’t really like women except to sleep with them to add another notch to your belt. But that’s not it-you feel guilty, right? You’re sorry you seduced a colleague. Were you thinking about apologizing to my dad? And then you’d like me to just go away so you can forget it ever happened.”

Harry couldn’t help himself. He smiled at her. What was her idiot talk about his not liking women? About his feeling guilty he’d slept with her? He felt calm and steady, better than he’d felt in so long he couldn’t even remember when or why. Well, Eve, the truth is making love to you made me remember that life is really a very fine thing indeed. You think I feel guilty because I made love with a colleague? Don’t you realize you’re my entire bloody army of salvation? Bring on your daddy. He said, “I’m now a reformed git. Here’s to the power of the ponytail.” He picked up his coffee cup, said slowly, feeling his way, “You think I took advantage of you?”

She thought about that for a moment. She had to be honest here. “Maybe not every time.”

Harry wasn’t about to dwell on each glorious time; he’d shake himself out of his chair and that wouldn’t put the focus where it belonged. “That ponytail of yours-it’s a big draw, Barbieri. I look into those big blue eyes of yours, listen to you smart-mouth me, and I find myself thinking I’d like to see that ponytail at the breakfast table for, say, the next fifty years, or so. Yeah, at least fifty years. I come from healthy stock, and so do you.” There, he’d spit it right out, and waited.

Oh, no, no, that wasn’t a guy’s guilty speech or a cocky speech. What this was was way too fast, way too much, even with his light hand and that intent look in his eyes. Beautiful eyes, he had. No, wait, stop it.

What was he saying? Eve couldn’t get her brain around it. He wanted to see her ponytail for fifty years? Across the breakfast table? As in marriage? Eve jumped out of the chair, grabbed her jacket, and was at the front door in under thirty seconds.

He called after her, “What about calling your dad?”

“He doesn’t need to know yet what kind of deep trouble I’m in.”

“Can you tell me about this deep trouble? Maybe it concerns me?”

She shook her head and was gone. Harry didn’t go after her. He listened to her engine rev, heard her back too fast out of the driveway, and hoped she didn’t knock over the azalea pot he hadn’t brought in yet for the winter.

Harry sat back in his chair and smiled. Sitting across the breakfast table from Eve for fifty years. It sounded fine to him, more than fine, it sounded like he’d wake up smiling a whole bunch of mornings. He loved her brain, her smart mouth, her courage, and, well, her gorgeous athletic body as well, and her gorgeous athletic body’s enthusiastic reaction with him was something to make a guy grin like a fool for a millennium.

He sat back and closed his eyes, wondering how long it would take her to come to grips with what they could be together, given a healthy chance. She’d thought he was going to give her the guy talk about not wanting it to be more than sex? How could she ever think that? Well, there’s your history, stupid.

He drank the rest of his coffee, set the cup on his knee. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He caught himself when Xu’s face intruded clearly in his mind’s eye. He was not that far away, and who was with him? The El Cerrito police had found the Honda downtown, but no trace of Xu or his companion.

There had been hundreds of calls yesterday, but nothing helpful in finding Charlene Cartwright, either. It was a manhunt now, pure and simple. Until the end played out, Judge Hunt, Savich, and everyone in their path was in danger. He had to get showered and shaved, get himself to the hospital.

As he lathered his face, he wondered what he could do that would really count. Other than chase Barbieri down and kiss her stupid and convince her it wasn’t only sex for him.

He thought he’d ask Savich to write a country-and-western song about a girl with a swinging blond ponytail and shit-kicker black boots.

Time to get yourself together, Barbieri.