She recalled the time when she'd got the Tanzanian government's wire transfer for twenty-seven million dollars in US development aid mixed up. The money went missing for three days, until it popped up in her bank's error account.
The fear then had numbed her like hypothermia, slowing everything to a blur. This fear was the opposite. Everything speeded up. The blood in her veins pumped hot and fast. She could still feel it as she tried to fall asleep—the strange heat inside her, and the fevered thudding of her pulse.
Ricardo Matisse shut the door quietly as soon as the flowing hem of the woman's robe had fluttered out of the way. He scrubbed his hands over his face, feeling the rough stubble on his chin.
Christ, what a bitch the night had been. Ten hours of surveillance, cramped in an unmarked vehicle outside a suspect's house on Loma Point, and nothing to show for it but a plastic bottle full of piss, and nerves strung taut with an overdose of caffeine.
His jittery mind strayed back to the woman who'd taken the apartment above his. Something about her bothered him.
The loose white robe in some slippery fabric had hidden her body, but what he hadn't been able to see, he'd been able to feel as she squirmed against his tight hold. Slender waist, wrists like twigs. Breasts soft and perky against his arm. He'd hurried to release her, before she could feel the stirring in his loins. The moment she whirled and he got a good look at her, he'd wanted to grab her again.
It was her face that troubled him, Rick decided. The features were pretty enough, although the only thing he'd really noticed were the big frantic eyes somewhere between blue and green, first wide with fear, and then narrowed in anger. And the soft pink lips that drew into a stubborn pout once they stopped trembling.
He mulled it over, and realized she possessed a timeless quality. It made him wonder if she was real, or something out of those classic novels he'd been forced to work his way through at high school.
Miss Haversham, Jane Eyre, Heathcliff's Catherine. Women with a burning passion underneath a cool exterior. What intrigued him about Little Miss Upstairs was the possibility that there might be a flame smoldering inside the frosty shell.
Grinning at his rambling thoughts, Rick peeled off his black windbreaker and the T-shirt underneath. He tossed them over his shoulder, then thought better of it and folded the garments neatly over a chair.
He'd already stripped naked when he recalled the complaints about his total nudity in bed, and he pulled his boxer shorts back on. Then he flopped on the bed and rolled under the covers. Before his brain shut down, it replayed the sensations of holding the slender body in his arms.
Georgina squinted. Sunlight filtered in through the curtains, so it had to be morning, but thanks to that moron downstairs she'd managed no sleep at all.
She got up and hurried into the bathroom. Her plan was to get to the pool early, before anyone else arrived, and sunbathe wearing the tiny new bikini the devil inside her had made her buy. When it got busy, she'd cover up with a big T-shirt.
Standing in front of the mirror, Georgina brushed her hair, thinking of Grandma Ethel. She'd loved the old woman. It wasn't wrong to resent being dressed in baggy frocks and lace-up brogues during her teenage years, when every other kid lolled around in jeans and trainers. If only she'd gone to a school with a uniform. Then she could have been like everyone else. But it had to be her luck that the school in the wealthy suburb of Brighton where she'd grown up allowed kids to wear their own clothing.
When she complained, Grandma Ether blamed it on the devil inside her. A devil lurked inside every young woman, according to Grandma Ethel. Georgina's devil had been in action when Grandma Ethel had caught her standing under the porch light kissing Jeff Tadlingham one evening after choir practice. For God's sake, Georgina fumed as she yanked her hair into a ponytail, she'd been all of sixteen, and the boy's hand on her breast hadn't even under her sweater.
It was the last her lips or her breasts had ever felt of Jeff Tadlingham. The poor lad had blushed beetroot and fled, down the front steps and out of Georgina's life. The word must have spread quickly, because no one else had tried to kiss her, not until she left for Oxford University at eighteen.
Ten years had passed since, and Grandma Ethel had been dead for two, but the devil inside Georgina was very slow to come out.
But the white bikini was a good start.
Georgina clung to the delicious dream where a powerful arm held her tight, and a full mouth inched closer and closer to her lips. A voice whispered into her ear, but the tone was all wrong. Instead of husky and crooning, it lashed out with sharp irritation.
"Hey, lady, wake up."
The voice was real, she realized with a start, as were the fingers poking into her bare shoulder.
"What?” She opened her eyes. She lay flat on her stomach, her chin propped over her crossed forearms.
"There's no topless sunbathing here."
Georgina looked up. Hairy muscular legs towered in front of her, leading up to navy shorts and a loose white T-shirt pristine enough for a detergent commercial.
'
You're in my sun
.’ How she wanted to say it. She wanted to say it with a tone of bored annoyance which classified him as nothing more than a piece of matter blocking the ultraviolet rays. But she couldn't say it, because they were in the shade. A voluminous umbrella growing out of a circular concrete base created a canopy overhead, muting the fierce sunlight.
She surveyed the far end of the pool, where plastic tables and chairs clustered under white umbrellas. The last group of chairs had no umbrella. A few people sat at other tables, sipping drinks. A large woman in a sarong read a book, and a little boy wearing brightly colored surfing shorts raced around, clutching a piece of transparent yellow plastic shaped like a machine gun.
"Topless sunbathing is not allowed here,” the annoying cop from the downstairs apartment told her again. “Didn't you read the rules at the back of your rental contract?"
"I heard you the first time,” Georgina said. “I'm not topless."
"There's nothing covering your back."
She had to crane her neck to see him. The baseball cap had reappeared, covering the cropped dark hair. The piercing black eyes were hiding behind opaque sunglasses. A gentleman would crouch down to her level so that she wouldn't have to strain her muscles in order to see him, Georgina thought indignantly.
Of course, it would be unrealistic to expect such courtesy from her ill-mannered downstairs neighbor.
"I've undone the straps,” she told him. “I didn't want to get lines."
"That makes you topless. It's against the regulations."
"I'm not topless,” Georgina explained, holding on to her patience. “My bikini top is right here under my chest, making full contact with my skin."
"Look, lady,” he said, finally dropping to his haunches and lowering his voice. “I don't give a shit if you want to sunbathe naked, but some people here find it offensive."
Georgina sent him a steely look. “I'd like you to point out what visible parts of my body anyone has the gall to call offensive."
The man motioned toward the tables. “You see the woman over there?"
"The lady in the sarong?"
A quick grin transformed his face. “Is that what you'd call it? I'd call it a tent."
"It's a sarong,” Georgina said primly. “They can look very attractive, and they are the height of fashion this season."
The man laughed out loud. “If you say so.” His full mouth pursed into a reflective pout which, to Georgina's horror, made her insides tighten. Her face flushed as she recalled her dream about the kiss. Thank heavens for the heat. She could blame her rising color on the temperature.
"I guess it might look different on someone like you,” the man said slowly. From the way his head moved, Georgina could tell his gaze swept along the curve of her bare back.
"What about her?” she said, her voice sharp, although she didn't wish to be rude. It was an act of self defense.
"What?” He raised one hand and slipped down his glasses to scrutinize her over the rim.
"The lady in the sarong. What about her?” Georgina managed to say.
He slipped the sunglasses back up. “Her little boy has been running around, getting a little too interested in what you're not wearing."
Georgina squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them slowly and exhaled, her shoulders slumping.
The kid in the surfing shorts. He kept tearing around the pool, yelling and making machine-gun noises. She'd been too preoccupied with the grown-up version in front of her to pay much attention.
"I'm sorry,” she said hesitantly.
"You've been asleep. You haven't exactly been still, you know. You've been twisting and turning a little, giving the boy a peek every now and then."
Georgina hung her head, mortified. Heavens, she'd been guilty of corrupting a minor. Then she noticed her downstairs neighbor trying to suppress a grin, and her mouth begun to curve up at the corners, despite her best effort to maintain the hostilities.
"I only intended to stay like this until ten,” she explained. “I thought it would be all right. I didn't expect anyone else so early. I planned to put on a T-shirt if anyone came."
She pointed at the neatly folded bundle next to her canvas beach bag, which contained the September issue of Harper's and Queen, yesterday's Financial Times, and a large bottle of lime flavored Seltzer water, together with an array of Coppertone sprays in various factors of sun protection.
"Some people come down early to avoid the midday heat, but the busiest time is usually in the afternoon,” the man said, taking a half-hearted inventory of her reading matter.
"What time is it now?” Georgina asked.
He glanced at the multi-dialed chunk of steel strapped on his left wrist. “Quarter of one."
"Oh no!” She craned her neck to examine the skin on her back. “I'm toast."
"You'll be okay.” He gestured at the umbrella. “I carried the shade over before the sun got too strong."
Georgina glanced at the white canvas above them, and then over to the seating area where the man must have removed it from. She slanted him a confused look. “Umm ... thank you. It was very considerate of you. I could have burned badly."
He gave a little shrug, suddenly appearing awkward.
Behind them came a banshee cry, and the patter of agile feet against the poolside concrete. Brown skin over colorful surfer shorts streaked by, pointing and shooting indiscriminately to all directions with the yellow plastic weapon.
An icy spray landed across Georgina's back, causing her to shriek and flip up on her side. She was still fighting to get her breath back when the folded T-shirt was tossed into her face.
"You'd better cover up the contraband before I'm forced to inspect it,” she heard him say, laughter rumbling in his deep voice.
The tightening inside her stomach grew to new and alarming proportions, but to her surprise Georgina didn't lose the ability to think or speak. “At least you wouldn't be able to confiscate the contraband,” she blurted out.
"Oh, but I could.” He straightened and regarded her from his height. “I'd just have to take the rest of you with it."
She stared up at him, pressing the T-shirt against her chest to make up for the absence of the bikini top, which lay on the grass next to her, looking like a pair of discarded paper napkins.
"By the way, what does the G stand for?” he asked her.
"G?” Georgina stammered, squirming to burrow her torso into the T-shirt without offering another peep show, either to the man or the boy, who'd stopped running around and now stood by the edge of the pool, staring at her with open fascination.
"G as in G. Coleman."
"Oh,” she said. “Where did you get that from?"
"I have a list of tenants that gets updated when someone moves. There are no first names, only initials. It's supposed to protect the female tenants."
"Is it supposed to stop people from knowing they are female, or from knowing what they're called?"
"Both."
Georgina took a moment to work it through in her mind. “I see,” she agreed with a thoughtful nod. “Makes sense."
"Are you going to tell me or not?"
"What?” she said absently, running her hands over the front of the T-shirt to smooth out the creases in a manner which she hoped was doing something severe to his blood pressure. Dear God, what was happening to her? Her inner devil appeared to be alive and well, and eager to come out and play.
"What the G stands for,” the man said, and she could hear the strain in his voice.
"Georgina,” she told him.
"Georgina,” he repeated. “That's nice."
She nodded, lowering her hands down to her lap.
"I'm Rick Matisse,” the man said, but Georgina was too engrossed in her own plotting to pay any notice.
"Not related,” he added.
"What?"
"To the painter,” he said.
Georgina frowned. What was the man getting peevish about now? She'd stopped that sneaky fondling of her breasts. It had really been just a test, and boy had it worked. Scrambling up, she began to gather her belongings. Goodness, this was so exciting, she'd finally cracked it, and her life would be different from now on. She had never realized that if she turned her social life into a game, her brain and her competitiveness would take over, eliminating her nerves and allowing her to do things she'd never imagined herself capable of.
"Oh, Henri Matisse, you mean,” Georgina said, tossing her bag over her shoulder and sweeping him with a careless glance. “You could have been, you know. One of his sons, Pierre, came to live in America. He would have been around the right age to be your grandfather."
As she rushed toward the entrance of the building, she whirled back for a brief look. “Thanks for the umbrella!” she called out to him. Then she hurried inside to make plans for the revised rest of her life.
Son of a bitch, Rick Matisse thought, staring after the slender legs beneath the hem of the T-shirt as Georgina dashed indoors. What was all that about?