Elizabeth Maynor - Never Love a Naked P.I.

Marc released a short, harsh laugh. “Upset? David, you do know how to slam a busted heart into the most innocuous cubby hole, don’t you?”

Where it will curl up and heal hopefully, he added to himself. Though there was a good chance it would curl up and atrophy. It had seemed for a brief moment that the golden brown eyes might have been able to bring him to full life again.

He stood, kicked off his shoes and began unbuttoning his jeans. “I do not need protecting, in your best Spanish duenna mode, from the clutches of a sloe-eyed seductress from Pittsburgh.” He smoothly thumbed the well-fitting denim down his muscular thighs, off his legs and onto a nearby chair, followed by his pair of heavy gray work socks. The white cotton jockey shorts remaining on his body contrasted sharply with his deeply-tanned skin.

Before Marc could think to do so, David gathered the strewn clothes, his face set. “You’re right, of course. I have no right to interfere with your modus operandi. You’ve made an incredible effort to make this whole scheme work and I’ll never be able to express my gratitude enough.” He tried a mollifying tone. “Did you…did you learn anything?”

Marc walked into the bathroom of the one-bedroom apartment and began to rub cold cream onto his eyebrows. “Nothing you hadn’t already told me. She left Pittsburgh to make something of herself in New York.”

David’s eyebrows arched. “So did Andy Warhol and God knows he created havoc enough. Though I don’t think he ever took up this particular… avocation.”

Marc stared into the mirror, concentrating on wiping the dark color from his own light eyebrows. He closed his eyes and smoothed the cream into his lashes. Behind his lids he remembered the concentration in Amanda’s brown eyes that had responded to his every pose. Those same gorgeous eyes had later reflected back the same light-hearted laughter and deep-seated joy he had felt in her presence. The Village would never be quite the same.

The older man carefully pulled off his shirt, hung it and replaced it with a silk lounging robe. “It’s my nerves.” He kneaded his hands, pulling a deep draft of air into his lungs as he went to stand at the open door of the bathroom. “I’m not used to this.” His tone was slightly petulant. “I especially don’t like the idea there may be danger involved. It seemed so simple at first to come up with a scheme that would attract the attention of our culprit. It seems to get more complicated with each step in the process.”

Marc glanced at the nervous reflection in the mirror. “You’ve got a pro on the job, David. Nobody’s going to get hurt.” He hoped.

Keep your eyes open, keep your senses sharp and the job will get done with the least amount of hassle. His eyes moved back to his totally transformed reflection. Yeah, right. Like the first pretty face that had showed him some understanding…

“The adventurous young investigator can laugh in the face of danger if he wants to,” David strained for a lighter attitude. “But this older, though-not-necessarily-wiser professor would prefer to live out his remaining years in the quiet of the studio with no more excitement than perhaps a toppled easel or a chipped plaster cast. Getting around Manhattan is excitement enough, thank you.” He wandered back into the living room and sat on the fold-out sofa, a pall of worry and distraction on his features.

Marc pulled off his shorts and stepped into the shower. Streaks of dirty, brown color ran down the drain, soon washed away by hot, clear, soapy water.

Those trusting brown eyes… What would she think when she discovered he was nothing he had represented himself to be?

AMANDA hesitated at her apartment door, her heart still racing, the blood throbbing in her temples. Even with the placating, light attitude Mr. Parkerson had attempted in striving to pacify the seething Antonio, the quick coffee they had shared in the Italian restaurant and the cab ride to drop her off at her Chelsea apartment had been a torturous example of conflicting silences and suppressed furies.

Please, please, she silently pleaded to the antic gods that had turned a magical evening into a shattering, embarrassing one, don’t let Cissy be in. Let her still be out having a wonderful time.

All Amanda wanted was to desperately plunge into a hot tub and try to soak away the romantic nonsense that had allowed her vaunted in-charge executive attitude to be totally demolished.

By a nude male model.

How utterly unprofessional of her, she tried to force herself to believe as she fumbled for her keys. But the images of the warm, comforting chocolate of his amazing eyes, lit and shadowed by the magical lights of the Village and the gleam of the mop of lustrous dark curls that framed his strong Italian face-one errant fat tendril spiraling down his forehead- kept interposing themselves between her annoyed, practical self and the warm, internal glow that refused to be diminished.

Handsome, strong, funny, clever, and with a depth that ignited her fascination. He was too perfect. Too wondrous to be believed. And yet… he was all too real.

Her fingers curled over the hard metal in the depths of her pocket. Instead of the impersonal cold of her keys, she could almost feel the silken stroke of his lustrous curling hair sliding through her threading fingers.

Suddenly her body stiffened at the memory of the senior instructor swooping down on them, shattering their beautiful cocoon, clucking his disapproval.

Even her father, in his most annoying moments, had never been as devastating in his disapproval of her dates. Her brothers, yes, but she knew how to handle them, how to retaliate.

She shoved the key into the lock with a sharp rasp of raising tumblers and gave a final silent plea.

The model’s odd response when they had passed the Village church came back to her. It had referred to his praying- how had he put it?- sometimes very hard.

The night was filled with more questions and more memories than she could deal with. Even the thought of facing her overly-solicitous roommate became almost comforting.

Cissy meant well, and was probably as good a roommate as one could hope for in this very expensive city, but the young woman’s insistent helpfulness could sometimes be difficult to fend off, especially when Amanda didn’t feel like sharing her every intimate thought.

Amanda slipped as quietly as she could through the door and instantly realized her luck for the evening had obviously been trammeled underfoot beginning with the intrusive instructor at the Italian restaurant.

“Oh my God, honey lamb, where have you been!? I have been worried sick! I couldn’t imagine what might have happened to you! Of course, I could imagine what might have happened to me, but that would be nothing to worry about at all!” She giggled girlishly.

Ugh.

Cissy collected Amanda’s portfolio, coat and hat. “Honey, you are never out this late, at least not on a school night.”

How Cissy could make her attendance at a professional level art class sound like a high-school elective taken in the desperate hope of meeting boys always amazed Amanda. But then meeting “boys” was Cissy’s raison d’etre; that and driving her simple-minded, exhausted roommate right up the wall with her well-meaning, unctuous instructions on how to live her life.

Oh dear, Amanda reprimanded herself, Cissy wasn’t really so bad. Shallow and insensitive and meddling, maybe, but basically a heart of gold who only wanted the best for her supposedly lacking-in-experience roommate.

“Well, honey,” Cissy kissed her on the cheek, “my Mandy is obviously fine and dandy, or is she?” She peered at Amanda’s face with exaggerated concern.