Trolls in the Hamptons (14 page)

“But I thought magic could do anything, like when witches transform princes into toads.”

“Yes, quite powerful beings, witches. But the toad is magic-wrought. It cannot reproduce. Neither can a werebeast. So no, one or two might exist if some being of great talent goes mad, but not as a race.”

I let my own ice cream melt some, but I did not try to lap it off a cookie, although watching his tongue catch the drips was definitely appealing. I went back to asking my questions. “How can you be so certain about all this stuff? I mean, if it's supposed to be so secret, how come you know? And what if the whole rigmarole is nothing but supposition, and what the Royce people want you to think?”

Grant set down his bowl and shook his head. “I do not know why you have it in your head that Royce is an enemy, but it's just another institute devoted to preserving and promoting knowledge, this time knowledge ignored or repressed through the ages. They've studied so many ancient texts that yes, they are certain of their premises. As in having the precise dates when shape-shifting entered the lists of fey talents known to man. Vampires and werecreatures are relatively modern inventions. Most likely they evolved from another forbidden crack in the barrier centuries ago, interpreted by humans as best they could. The notions stuck. Our predecessors needed something tangible to fear, something they could put a name to, rather than a dangerous unknown entity they could not really see or understand.”

That made sense, in the way “better the enemy you know” makes sense. That was the problem. What Grant said had way too much logic, but the logic itself was built of dreams on top of a mirage. I shook my head. “I have enough things to fear without inventing new ones.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

The ice cream was done. Now it was time for honesty. “Some. I think you'd do anything to attain your goals.” I think he could break my heart, but I did not say that. Too much honesty is not good for anyone's soul.

He replied, “But one of my goals is to keep you safe.”

“Do you have protection?” I blurted. “That is, do you have a weapon?” My cheeks must have been scarlet, 'cause I could feel the heat rising. Had I really said that?

He reached for his wallet—I wished the floor would open up and swallow me. But no, he reached behind him to his waistband and pulled a small revolver out from under his sweater. I'm no expert, but it looked lethal. So did the long knife he unsheathed from an ankle strap, and the thing that looked like an ice pick up his sleeve. He showed me a tiny taser on a chain in his pocket and something that could have been pepper spray on his key ring.

“I can't tell you what my watch can do. It's top secret. So are a few other items in my possession.”

I felt less safe, somehow. Now everything seemed more real, more immediate, more dangerous. Crazed people really were trying to kill me or kidnap me? People with similar arsenals?

Besides, there was the man himself. I mean, a housebreaker didn't stand a chance, but what if I pissed him off? I didn't know if Grant had a temper, if he turned surly with alcohol, hyper with sugar—I took the plate of cookies away—or just had a mean streak. I was tired of the not knowing, tired of the indecision, tired of wanting what I didn't want to want, if that made sense. It did to me, so I said, “Get naked. No weapons.”

He laughed and said, “Lady, my body is a weapon.” He started to lift the turtleneck over his head.

He must have a black belt in mind control, because I didn't care about the dangers anymore. I'd committed.

I should be committed. Susan could come out. Or Toby. I changed my mind again. “I mean, your clothes must be wet.” I'd changed my damp outfit for a T-shirt and sweat pants. “I have a bunch of my father's old shirts. I keep them to paint in. They'll do until your sweater dries.” I was surprised the cashmere didn't go up in smoke from the heat I felt rush through me at the sight of his bare chest. All flat planes and ridges, he was, with a narrow band of dark fuzz arrowing under his waistband. Oh, my.

“We could go back to my hotel where I have dry clothes.”

All coherence gone, I pointed to my bedroom, meaning I'd get him a shirt.

“I knew you were a woman who knows what she wants. Luckily, it's just what I want, too. I don't think I could wait for a taxi.” He threw his sweater on the floor.

I guess I hadn't told him I changed my mind. Before I could say it, he leaned over my chair and kissed me. This time, the kiss was no gentle brush of his lips. Oh, no. This was a whole body kiss, a seduction in suction, a tongue touch that promised fireworks, if not the whole Fourth of July. I didn't care anymore if he swept the pizza box off the table and made love to me there, in the front window. Or on the floor. Or on the couch that I'd told Susan was too narrow.

So what if I'd only known him for two days or so and half considered him a con artist? I'd never known a kiss to be such a turn on, that and his damp skin, his firm muscles, his cologne and his tongue. Did I already say his tongue? His hands stroked my back, my neck, the side of my ribs and my rear end. In two minutes I was going to fall over the edge and miss the main event. I pulled him into the bedroom. I didn't have a mind left to change.

Turn on the lights or leave the room in darkness? Find a candle? Find a nightgown?

His hand found the bottom of my T-shirt and raised it up and away. In seconds my bra was gone and his hands were cradling my breasts. I stopped worrying and pressed my body to his.

Was there anything more sensual than bare skin to bare skin, for the first time? Now I could feel his need, too, hard and thick, straining to get closer yet.

“Why don't you—?”

He held a finger to my lips, and whispered, “Shh.”

I nipped at his finger, but he stepped away. I thought he was going to finish undressing. I mean, he still had his shoes on. I was in a hurry, but not for wet shoes in my sheets. Instead of kicking off his shoes or unfastening his belt—which my fingers were itching to do, to unwrap my birthday present—he found the light switch.

Okay, he needed to find the condoms.

Under my night table?

I was admiring his ass as he bent over, but the mental fog of arousal was being blown away by his weird actions. Maybe I should rethink this whole thing, now that I could think again. “What are you doing?”

“Just disconnecting this.” He held up a thin wire, with a thin bud on its end, which he untwisted from the cord. “No one needs to listen to us.”

Now a red haze of fury replaced that former glow of sex. “A microphone? You had a microphone planted in my bedroom?”

“We had to be prepared in case someone broke in at night.”

I could barely speak. “In my bedroom?”

“Where else would a kidnapper look for you at night?”He started to unbuckle his belt.

If he took that belt off, I swear I'd strangle him with it. “You listened to me and Arlen? And when I talked to myself?”

He took his hand off his zipper. “No, not me.”

“Lou?”

“We have a central headquarters. And no one actually listened to it, just listened for distress or a call for help or a window breaking.”

“You put a microphone in my apartment?” I couldn't get beyond that. I reached past him and yanked the whole thing out from beneath the night table. The clock radio fell on the floor.

He picked up the radio and checked to see if it was working, as if that was the issue here.

“You bugged my bedroom!”

“Actually, there are several of these devices. I explained before. We have a warrant, so it's all totally legal. The Patriot Act, you know.”

“Which is a bucket of bs. You know I am no threat to national security! How dare you?”

He held up his hands. “I didn't do it. I didn't even give the orders for it. I just got to New York five days ago, after spending a month at revival meetings, listening to the congregants who spoke in tongues.”

“What, so you could invade the wackos' homes and seduce them?”

“Willy, come on, be reasonable. I'm good at languages and had some recordings of Nicky's speech. I was listening to hear if anyone spoke in similar patterns or sounds. It's part of my job. And this”—he indicated his bare chest and mine; damn, I was half naked—“was not part of any investigation. Sex is seldom on anybody's approved list of interrogation procedures. I am not a spy, just a man.”

I found a bathrobe, an old ratty one that had no belt. “Screw you, you bastard.”

“I swear my parents are married, and I thought you wanted to—”

“Say it, and I'll find that ice pick of yours.”

He must have remembered the armory in the living room because he came back with his sweater in his hands but bulges in his pants from hardware, not a hard on. “I guess this means I am not invited to stay?” He looked longingly at the king-sized bed, with its colorful quilt and lots of pillows.

“I don't share my bed—or my body—with bastards. That's what you are. Not telling me my home was bugged. I know about the phone and the computer, and the surveillance cameras in the hall and the front door, but this—”

Words failed me again, so I just pointed to the door.

“I am sorry, you know.”

“Tell that to the poor fools in Guantanamo. Or are you sending me there next? Or somewhere else, calling it protective custody? That's what my grandmother always wanted to do, have me sent away for testing. Hah.” I could tell he was getting mad, but I didn't care. “Brainwashing, arranged marriages, and fiends like you who . . . who use people.”

“I swear I did not. I like you. I want to be with you. I work for DUE, but that does not mean I cannot feel attraction for a beautiful woman, or want to touch her skin and her hair, and learn her body's secrets.”

“Then listen to the tapes, you pervert. Get out. And do not follow me to Paumanok Harbor or I'll have you arrested as a stalker. The chief of police is my father's friend. They played poker every Monday night for years.”

“I can't be arrested. I am assigned to your federal government, remember?”

“Then I'll have you disbarred or defrocked, or whatever. For . . . for abuse of power.” I realized I was near hysteria, but it was either yell or cry, and I did not want this slug to see me weep over him. “No, I'll tell everyone you're crazy, and dangerous, and that you see monsters everywhere.”

“But I don't see them, Willy. You do.”

“No, I do not. I'll deny it. Besides, I am a writer. Everyone expects us to be nuts. I refuse to do this. I won't listen to your bull anymore either. I am going to Paumanok Harbor to help my mother. To walk dogs. Nothing else. None of this crap will follow me, and you won't follow me, either.”

His lips were pursed, but he nodded. “Someone will be watching out for you.”

“Just like Big Brother.”

“Damn it, I am not the bad guy here!” he shouted back.

Then Susan and Toby were peering in my bedroom door. Toby was wrapped in one of my old single bed sheets I never saw the need to replace. Susan looked from one of us to the other, then blamed me, as usual. “What have you done, Willy?”

I pulled my robe tighter around me. “Nothing. And you are no one to talk with your friend there wearing ballet slippers on a sheet.”

Susan's eyes started to water up. Shit. I was trying hard enough to keep my composure, but if she cried I'd lose it entirely. “Do
not
cry, Susan. And I apologize. This is your happy day, and it will be happier when Mr. Grant here leaves.”

“But you need him!”

“I do not need anyone! I am a mature, independent woman. I live alone. I know karate.”

Susan turned to Grant and said, “She'll feel differently in the morning.”

Now I did not feel so bad about making the traitor cry. “I do not need anyone answering for me either.” I threw Grant's jacket at him.

“Will you call if you need me?”

“Yeah, when hell freezes over. And I suppose you'll blame that on me, too.”

I
SLAMMED THE DOOR BEHIND HIM. Then I marched into my bedroom and slammed that door, too. I did not want to talk to Susan. I did not want to see a skinny young man in ballerina sheets either.

I refused to cry.

So I called Van. He liked me, according to Susan. I liked him. I thought he was an up-front, honest kind of guy. I've been wrong, but he was my best chance for finding someone who understood the situation and who might take my side. I thought of calling Daisy, my lawyer friend, but I did not want to admit to anyone else that I'd been declared a national security risk. Besides, she was a divorce attorney. I doubt she could help me now.