Love Me Tender

  “Have you got your dream back, Cindy girl?” Elmer slanted Cynthia a sly, knowing wink.

  She blushed.

  P.T. tried to catch her eye to see just what that blush signified, but she deliberately averted her gaze. Meanwhile, Elmer and Ruth dropped to the floor and began to put old 45 rpm records in a cardboard suitcase.

  “What are you doing?” In the midst of a presumably dangerous situation, these two dingbats were packing away records.

  “I’m not leaving without my record collection,” Elmer asserted. “And my guitar.”

  “I already packed your costumes in tissue and put them in the back of the limo,” Ruth informed him.

  Elmer smiled his approval at her.

  “And I’ve got to get the Winslow Homer,” Naomi said, heading for the door.

  “Who’s Winston Homely?” P.T. asked. “You’ve got some guy stashed here? Where? And his name is Winston? Geesh!”

  Naomi gave Cynthia a look that said “See?”

  He didn’t see, at all.

  “I’m taking the dining room chairs with me, too. No way am I leaving behind my Philadelphia Queen Anne chairs. And—”

  “Have you ever thought about getting a real life, Naomi?” he snarled with exasperation.

  “Have you ever thought about taking a good golly gander at your own life, brother dear?” Naomi snarled back. She addressed the remainder of her remarks to Cynthia. “Who knows what destruction those hoodlums might inflict on my priceless chairs!”

  “Winslow Homer is a famous artist,” Cynthia explained to P.T. “His paintings are worth a fortune. And the dining room chairs are presumably valued at a hundred thousand dollars each.”

  P.T. gaped at Cynthia and then at that sneaky Naomi, who hadn’t bothered to tell him that his castle housed such treasures.

  “Well, we don’t have the time or the space for that crap,” he decided, “worthless or otherwise.”

  “We can take that orange truck of yours and the limo,” Naomi insisted.

  “It…is…not…orange,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “You could always let the dogs loose to guard the palace,” Cynthia offered as a compromise to Naomi.

  If he didn’t already love Cynthia, he would now. What a doll!

  “Uh-uh. No way!” Elmer said, straightening to his full five-foot-five. “Wherever I go, my hound dogs go.”

  As they left the castle a short time later, each of them carrying a dining room chair, he made the mistake of tossing out a teasing comment to Cynthia. “Do you think we’ll tell our grandchildren about this one day?”

  That was when she gave him his third sucker punch of the day.

  The pickup truck was loaded high with bungee-strapped dining room chairs, not one but five paintings, a suitcase of records and a guitar. The driver was a short guy in a pink Elvis suit with his left elbow leaning on the window and his right arm wrapped around his big-haired sweetie in a matching Vegas-chic outfit. The two goofballs, oblivious to the danger surrounding them, were harmonizing—if it could be called that—on one Elvis tune after another.

  In the lead of this two-vehicle caravan was a limo driven by a Spanish prince in a red Elvis suit, complete with wide lapels, black sequins, huge shoulder pads, mini-cape and an industrial-sized belt. His fuming princess sat beside him, wearing a purple spandex dress that would cause the royal guard in any kingdom to revolt. (She was still mad over the presumed marriage plot; but then, he was mad that she hadn’t told him Naomi was about to stab him in the back.) In the back seat, Naomi was trying her best to ignore the six smelly, wailing hound dogs shedding their mangy fur all over her. P.T. suspected the yip-yip-yipping dogs had some extra sense that tuned into Elmer’s singing behind them, like dogs hearing a high-pitched squeal that no human could.

  When P.T. pulled over to a roadside gas station to fill up, one customer after another did a double take on seeing his gang emerge from their vehicles like a troupe of carnival freaks. He would have laughed if it wasn’t for the sobering fact that on the far side of the interstate he saw a black Cadillac whiz by in the opposite direction. He couldn’t tell through the tinted windows if the passengers had seen him, but since the car didn’t slow down, he figured they were safe. For now.

  He paid for the gas and the package of crackers and can of diet soda Cynthia slammed on the counter in front of him. It would serve her right if her crackers crumbled. They were about to walk out the gas station door when the pimply faced attendant observed, “Do you guys know that you’re not wearing shoes?”

  He and Cynthia looked at each other, looked down, then back up at the gape-mouthed kid. “No. Really?” they said simultaneously.

  Their sarcasm was lost on the dimwit who replied, “Really.”

  The final insult came when a gum-chewing woman with a grating Brooklyn accent came up to him. “Yo, sweet hips, whaddaya say ta givin’ a fellow New Yawkah yer autograph?”

  “You don’t want my autograph, lady.”

  “Yeah, I do. I collect Elvis impersonator autographs.”

  “Nobody collects Elvis impersonator autographs.”

  She puffed out her chest with pride. “I have seven hundred and seventy-six, including Elmer’s.” She waved to the beaming jerk, who was over at a roadside vendor’s buying six velvet Elvis paintings, along with one of those dashboard wiggly Elvis figures, all of which he proceeded to stuff into the already overloaded pickup. “Elmer said ya do the best Elvis hip swivel in da world. Will ya show it ta me, huh? That would be so soup-ah cool. I kin have Harvey haul out da Camcorder.” Noticing his glower, she added, “Oh, never mind ’bout da Camcorder, if it’s ax-in too much, but how ’bout da autograph.” She shoved a ballpoint pen and a map into his hand.

  Elmer had already signed, “Elvis Lives. Long live the King. Elmer Presley.”

  While P.T. scribbled his own moronic message, after discarding the notion of writing “Screw Elvis,” the woman cracked her gum loudly and glanced idly over at the limo. A smirking Cynthia was leaning against the hood, drinking her soda and eating a cracker.

  “Nice dress, hon,” the woman remarked, “but yer nipples are showin’.”

  Yeeesss! There is justice in this world, after all.

  The apartment doorbell rang persistently. A long, uninterrupted buzz.

  Enrique Alvarez had just emerged from the shower and was combing back his wet hair in front of the bathroom mirror. With a curse, he pulled a pair of black sweat pants up over his naked body and stalked toward the door.

  It was only three in the afternoon, but he’d come home after a round of roadshow meetings with the antsy underwriters, who were insisting on the prince being available for the last few presentations. He was planning on heading up to the Catskills this evening to see what the hell had happened to P.T. It wasn’t like him to disappear for so long without calling. Even though Naomi had called him days ago claiming P.T. had gone to the Poconos with the shark, he figured the castle was as good a place as any to start tracking down his boss.

  “Open the freakin’ door, Dick, or I’m going to kick it down.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Enrique mumbled as he flicked the various deadbolts, pleased to know he wouldn’t have to leave the city after all. He thought he heard dogs barking on the other side of the door. For one insane second he wondered if P.T. had brought some dogs back with him, but then dismissed the thought. It must be that pet walker Mrs. Livingston had hired to exercise her poodles.

  The door swung open, and Dick’s eyes almost popped out.

  The first one to enter was a raging, barefooted P.T. in a red Elvis suit.

  “Damn, you look good, boss.”

  Luckily, he was able to duck at the last minute and avoid the punch to his smiling mouth.

  Cynthia “The Shark” Sullivan walked in next, face flushed, chin held high. She was also barefooted, looking like sin-on-the-hoof in a dress, or almost dress, that could only be described as Forty-second Street haute couture. He also noted that she was
not using crutches. Hallelujah!

  “Say one word, Alvarez, and you are toast,” she gnashed out.

  He couldn’t have spoken if he’d wanted to.

  But he had no time to dwell on her or what circumstances had prompted her arrival here with P.T. in their Vegas Strip attire. Elmer-the-loonybird-Elvis and his Bobbsey Twin girlfriend Ruth, in matching pink jumpsuits, were being dragged inside by six leashed hound dogs.

  “No, don’t release those mutts on my new—”

  Too late. Elmer and Ruth dropped their leashes.

  “—white carpet.”

  Six yipping dogs went wild.

  “Meet Aron and Priscilla and Lisa Marie, The Colonel, Gladys and Grace,” Elmer said proudly.

  One made a flying leap…or as much of a flying leap as such a decrepit creature could make…for Enrique’s black leather Heidellsen sofa, fur and fleas flying in its wake. Another dog was taking a leak in the middle of the aforementioned white long-haired Turkish carpet. A third dog, obviously thirsty, headed down the hallway toward the bathroom, where a loud slurping noise ensued. The fourth was chewing on the leg of his baby grand piano, which had come with the apartment. A fifth lay down on a cushioned window seat and fell asleep…or died. A sixth had developed an intimate affection for his leg.

  He was too stunned to be outraged. That would come later. Or sooner. Just not yet.

  The only one left was Naomi, who stood out in the corridor, reluctant to enter. She was probably afraid that he would tease her, which he always did. It was one of the greatest joys of his pathetic life. Hell, he’d been doing it for a dozen years, ever since her father had practically offered her to him on a silver matrimonial platter. Dumb shit that he’d been (and still was, of course), he’d declined.

  And Naomi had been in a wrath ever since. She never had recognized that his teasing was his dumb-man way of trying to make peace. He absolutely refused to consider the possibility that it might mean he wanted a piece of her. Not Naomi. Never.

  She looked ridiculous, as usual…and adorable, as usual. Today she wore paint-spattered white workman’s coveralls over a short-sleeved white T-shirt. On her feet were heavy leather boots that could probably crush concrete.

  “Hi-i-i-i, Na-o-mi,” he drawled, crooking his finger for her to come in.

  She gave him the finger.

  He grinned.

  She glared.

  It was a game they’d been playing for a dozen years or more.

  He continued to grin and added a look.

  Her face went from pink to red as she stomped through the doorway, stopping directly in front of him. Then she pulled out a pistol, causing his heart to drop about three feet. That was just before she stomped on his bare foot, hard…really hard.

  “Owwwww!” Through the haze of pain, he realized that she wasn’t waltzing victoriously into the living room. He hoped she wasn’t planning on using that gun, especially since it was aimed at a really special place on his body, one he hoped to keep for a while longer. She waited till his vision cleared. Uh-oh!

  As in one of those slow-motion film clips, he noticed that everyone in the room had turned to them. Only then did Naomi let loose with a through-the-teeth whistle that would pierce the eardrum, causing all the hounds to rush to her.

  Holding his gaze, she put her weapon aside and reached into a large carryall looped over her shoulder. “I figured I’d give the sweet things their doggie treats,” she explained with some hidden meaning. Then she tossed out a dozen dog-eared Bolgheri ties for their chewing pleasure.

  “Don’t push me, Enrique,” she warned, sashaying past him with all the aplomb of a Mack truck. “I’ve been taking shark lessons.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I love the Dakota,” Cynthia said with a weary sigh. “It feels almost human to me—a living entity with arms wide, welcoming me home.”

  “Hmpfh! It looks like a dreary fortress,” Ferrama grumbled as their cab pulled up in front of the imposing building near midnight. The taxi driver parked, waiting for the other cab with Naomi and two FBI agents to arrive.

  Startled, Cynthia spun away from him on the seat and tried to hide her hurt by examining the famous landmark. The original jonquil yellow brick and reddish brown cornerstones of the huge eight-story cube had long since darkened with years of New York grime. But its eclectic architecture—heavy on ledges, balconies, decorative iron railings, bay windows and ornate gables—gave it a fanciful character, like a castle. “It does resemble a fortress…a majestic fortress,” she conceded.

  “It’s a castle, dammit. You’re living in a castle and loving it.”

  His vehemence shocked her.

  “My dream is to escape the whole prince/palace/royals carnival.” he tried to explain, “and you’re aching to jump on the calliope. What you don’t understand is that, despite the gilt and pretty music, a wooden horse is just a wooden horse.”

  “Huh? Are we talking about the Dakota or something else? It’s only an apartment building, for heaven’s sake.”

  “No, Cynthia, it’s much more than that. It’s a dream…the difference between your dreams and mine. It’s about souls connecting and drifting apart and…” He raked his fingers through his hair, as if amazed at his own words. “Go ahead and laugh. I have no idea where the hell that poetical ‘souls drifting’ crap came from. Probably Elmer. Mierda! I can’t believe I’m spouting this stuff now, when I should be concentrating on the stock offering and Naomi’s Mafia shenanigans.”

  Puzzled, she put the fingertips of one hand to her furrowed brow. “My soul isn’t drifting, it’s just tired. And this tired soul considers the Dakota a haven tonight, whether a stronghold or a palace. Be honest; can’t you see its ageless sense of security…its unspoken assurance that if it could withstand the barrage of time, we humans can survive our crises, too?”

  His face, which had been in a perpetual frown the past hour, softened. “Are you in crisis, cara?” With one arm draped over her shoulder, he cupped her face, turning her to him.

  “I’m in crisis, all right. No doubt about that.”

  “Ah, let me take care of all your problems, sweetheart.”

  “Are you demented?” she sputtered. “You are the problem.”

  “Me?”

  “After the past five hours of meetings in Alvarez’s apartment with police, FBI agents, underwriters and your company officials, as well as phone calls to my own distraught boss and clients, not to mention the past week of emotional battering since I first met you…well, call me a whiner, but personally I think it’s no wonder my nerves are strained to the limit. The only thing not hurting on me are my broken toes which, amazingly, seemed to have healed.” She took a deep breath, then continued, “And don’t look so jubilant; it doesn’t mean I’m not going to sue your gorgeous butt.”

  He grinned, whether at her long-winded reply or the “gorgeous butt” reference, she wasn’t sure. Either way, the grin was a further prod to her anger.

  “And while I’m thinking about it, I don’t appreciate at all your allowing those agents to assume I’m your babe du jour.”

  “Not a wild assumption when you consider that babe outfit,” he remarked, giving the edge of her cleavage a little snap.

  She slapped his hand away.

  He laughed and told her to sit tight while he stepped outside the taxi to see if he could see the other cab coming.

  Left alone for the moment, Cynthia had to admit that she was as upset with herself as she was with Ferrama. Never once that day, even when surrounded by law enforcement officials, had she brought up her kidnapping. Or contacted her lawyer, Marcia Connor. Not because anyone had demanded or even asked it of her. The time hadn’t seemed right. Yet.

  Also surprising, and dismaying, was the fact that neither she nor Ferrama, or the dingbat gang, had mentioned the marriage ceremony. Even if it had been fake, you’d think someone would have considered it of importance.

  She was still suspicious of Ferrama. They hadn’t had a chance to tal
k in private since she’d gotten the alarming news this morning that the marriage had been plotted by him and Naomi long before she’d consented.

  Was Ferrama equally confused? Was that the reason for his ornery mood? Was that why, throughout the day and evening, no matter what he’d been doing, or whom he’d been speaking with, his gaze kept coming back to her? When he’d passed by, on his way to pick up the phone or find a document, he’d invariably touched her shoulder or trailed a finger longingly over her bare arm.

  The questions, and promises, and so much more in his midnight eyes gave her hope. A dangerous, dangerous thing hope was, in Cynthia’s opinion. Did she dare surrender to its seductive lure?

  At the same time she wanted this whole nightmare over, she wished with all her heart that she could go back to last night…her wonderful wedding night…and freeze time, barring the intrusion of reality. What a ridiculous notion! Comparable to living in a dream world.

  “One swallow never made a summer,” her grandma had taught her. And one night of lovemaking does not a marriage make, she added now.

  “Ah, lassie, do not be breaking your shin over a stool that’s not in the way,” she heard Grandma counter in her head.

  “Deception is a big stool, Grandma.”

  “There’re two tellings to every story, Cindy girl.”

  Since when did Grandma refer to me as Cindy? That’s Elmer’s misplaced nickname for me. I must be going over the edge if I’m having mental conversations with my long-dead grandmother. I know what it is. I’m afraid. For the first time in ages, I’m afraid.

  “Desire conquers fear, sweet one,” Grandma advised softly.

  How can an imaginary voice be soft?

  “What do you really want? What is your heart’s desire?”

  Prince Ferrama, she replied without hesitation.

  Then immediately changed her mind. No, no, no, no!

  She was just so confused.

  How could she be in love with a man she’d met only a week before?