Simone beamed at Ted. “Eagerness is one of your more endearing traits, you know.” She patted him on the arm, then turned to Carter. “Speaking of eagerness, I was pretty sure I detected a certain, what you might call tension in Eve Cantoro’s store today.”
“That’s only because I’ve never been surrounded by so much black lace and sheer stretch material in my entire life,” Carter said defensively.
Ted kicked the tennis ball, and Buster lumbered across the grass to retrieve it. “You must have had an interesting day. Tell me more.”
Simone patted him on the shoulder. “It’s a new lingerie shop in town—Sweet Nothings. And it’s run by this woman, Eve Cantoro, who seems to have a good head on her shoulders.”
Carter could easily have added that she had a few other good things close to her shoulders.
Simone gave Carter the evil eye. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking.”
“So, Carter, what brought you to the land of lace and fantasy?” Ted asked. Buster returned, and Ted leaned over and picked up the ball. He threw it farther. Ted clearly was well trained.
“I was there in a professional capacity,” Carter said.
“A little fieldwork in garters and nighties?”
“Very funny.” Actually, not funny at all. The thought of Eve Cantoro, surrounded by all those sexy little under-things, was driving Carter crazy. He remembered her description of a thong. And there definitely hadn’t been any visible panty-line showing under her black slacks.
Carter sipped his drink a little unsteadily, sloshing it down his chin and onto his wet T-shirt. “Jeez,” he wiped his front. “What a waste of good alcohol.”
“So?” Ted asked again.
“I was responding to a call about a reported theft.”
Simone sat up straighter. “Theft?”
“Seems that a person or persons has a thing for red tap pants.”
“Come again.” Ted frowned.
“Apparently, that’s just what the person or persons may have done. Three times, in fact, a pair of red tap pants has gone missing from the display window.”
Ted whistled. “Three times. A regular crime spree. Next thing to disappear will be push-up bras. And who knows, from there—girdles.” He turned to Simone. “Do women still wear girdles?”
Simone swatted him on the shoulder. “Stop it. If it were a cell phone or a wallet you’d show concern. Just because it’s women’s lingerie, you feel free to mock.” She paused, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Red tap pants. I find that very interesting.”
“As a lawyer who handles criminal cases?” Carter asked.
“No, as a woman. Not my style, at all.”
“Not mine, either,” Carter admitted.
Simone perked up. “So tell me, speaking of style, did you succumb and end up buying anything?”
“Why would Carter buy anything?” Ted asked.
Carter reached over to rub the dog under his chin.
Simone pounced. “You did. You bought something. I knew it. Well, fess up. What was it?”
Carter sat up. Buster gave him a droopy smile. “Some one-piece thing called a teddy. Kind of beige. Nothing too fancy, pretty tame really.” The price tag, on the other hand, had been eye-popping.
Simone raised an eyebrow. “I know the one you mean. It’s the type of thing that doesn’t look like much on a hanger—but put it on a woman’s body and ooh-la-la.”
Carter could easily imagine just which woman’s body. Only too easily.
“Pretty good taste, Carter.”
Carter raked his fingers nervously through his hair. “It’s for my mother.”
“Now as a criminal lawyer I find that very interesting.” She studied Carter carefully. “And as a woman, I would have thought it would have looked much better on someone younger, say late twenties, slim build, with dark hair and an attitude.”
“Speaking of women with attitudes.” Ted leaned over and whispered something into Simone’s ear. He saved Carter from having to respond.
Simone smiled knowingly and rose, wiggling her fingers goodbye to Carter.
Ted stood up. Buster did as well. “Sorry, Carter. You’re going to have to fend for yourself at Tonino’s tonight. ’Fraid the surprise just can’t wait until later.”
The dog wagged his tail. And he wasn’t the only one who was happy.
CARTER SHOWERED AND DROVE to Tonino’s. As soon as he opened the bar door, the air-conditioning hit him with the impact of a Minnesota blizzard. If he weren’t careful, his damp hair would form icicles.
Subarctic temperatures aside, life could be a lot worse. A baseball game was showing on the television, and beer was within striking distance. He commandeered a red leatherette stool and dug into a bowl of peanuts.
“Hey, Carter, What’ll-it-be? The usual?” The young bartender came over.
Carter nodded. “Thanks, Dave. And a large pepperoni pizza.” He suddenly thought of Eve Cantoro and her comment about secure men. He found himself smiling as he grabbed another handful of peanuts and turned his attention to the ball game, or at least his partial attention. The dark-haired storekeeper seemed to be occupying a significant portion of his thoughts, kind of like Otis Red-ding’s “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay” insinuating itself agreeably into his psyche, so he went through the day with his eyes half-closed and a devilish smile on his lips.
Still, women—even intriguing ones—came and went, and some, like Three Musketeers bars, melted in the heat of the summer. Baseball, on the other hand—and here, Carter munched philosophically on a peanut—went on forever. He studied the screen. It was an inter-league game—the Phillies playing the Yankees. This part of central Jersey tended to have divided loyalties, with the old-timers favoring the Philadelphia teams and the transplanted residents looking to New York. When the two teams mixed, Jerseyans tended to clash—loudly. Carter had grown up in Ohio with the Indians, so he couldn’t possibly root for another American League team, especially the Yankees. That meant he was a Phillies fan by default.
He tossed a peanut up in the air and caught it in his mouth as the popular Yankee second baseman came to the plate. Just don’t throw it high and outside, he thought. He tossed another nut in the air, catching it easily again.
About as easily as the batter met the high, outside pitch that the Phillies pitcher delivered. A lead-off homerun. Carter shook his head. This is what baseball taught you—humility, and the fact that you paid for your mistakes.
“All right,” a female voice shouted in triumph.
Carter reached for the bottle of Rolling Rock that Dave planted in front of him. “It was a lucky hit,” he muttered.
“Oh, p-lease. Even his grandmother could have hit that high, outside pitch,” the woman’s voice responded.
Carter smiled as he gulped his beer. Ah, a woman who knew something about baseball. Definitely a pleasing discovery. Turning, he sought out the voice, almost willing to forgive her misguided allegiance to the Bronx Bombers. It came from two seats down.
And he almost didn’t recognize her at first.
With her wet hair combed back straight from her forehead, wire-rim glasses slipping down her nose, and smooth skin devoid of any makeup, she could have been eighteen years old. In which case, she had no business sitting at a bar in New Jersey, a state with a minimum drinking age of twenty-one.
But