I arrived at the client's house and expected her to be almost violently upset. I had sent her pictures, ones that she wanted me to get. Instead, I found her outside in the driveway, waiting for me, with a smile. She was standing beside her car, a classic 1953 Chevrolet with a multi-chromatic paint job. She was quite a woman; large breasts yelled inside a too-small sweater, her dangerous curves screamed at me from her tight skirt.
She made a show of walking to me, each wiggle and step carefully measured for effect, one that was working on me. She tossed her long brown hair back and smiled girlishly. She leaned into me, so close I smelled the perfume she placed well on her neck. "Thank you, Remy," she whispered with a sultry edge.
"You're welcome, Mrs. Talbot," I answered. She reached out with her perfectly manicure hands and softly touched my chest. She looked up at me with her hazel and heather eyes, round, and wanting. A smirk came to her face for a moment.
"You could just call me Maxine," she cooed. She reached up and gently kissed my neck. "Now that you've found proof of my husband's cheating, perhaps we could be more than client/investigator." She toyed with my shirt, playfully unbuttoning and buttoning.
I wanted to push her against the car and rip at her sweater, wanted to release her heaving breasts, and force my mouth down on her flesh. I wanted to put a hand under her skirt, pull the cloth up until I reached her thighs, pushing them apart, and place my hand on her wetness. I wanted to take her immediately, show her how a man would properly treat her and her body, not cheat on her with a string of thin and paid for bimbos.
I wanted to, but back in my brain, I heard my Jiminy Cricket telling me to stay professional: The case wasn't yet over. "Thank you, Maxine," I said, trying as I might to hide what her actions were doing to me.
"Would you like some iced tea?" she cooed, tugging at my shirt, making clear that she wanted me inside her house.
"No thank you," I replied. I exhaled and looked away, her décolletage mere inches from my eyes. "I came by to hand you more evidence," I professionally added, handing her the Manila envelope my secretary handed me before warning me NOT to get involved with the client, not yet.
"Thanks, Remy," she pouted, taking the pictures from me. She looked disappointed and hurt, as if I had stomped on her heart, the heart she put out for me to have. She took a few steps away from me, her head down, looking at her stilettos.
I grabbed her hand and pulled her back. I took her chin in a hand and raised it. I looked into her eyes and kissed her softly on her deep red lips. "Until this mess is over," I whispered. A smile of awareness began to show, her eyes widened as she realized that I would wait for her, wait until she was divorced from the man she once thought was perfect.
"Good bye," she told me as I walked back to my car.
* * * * *
I pulled into the parking garage, found my spot, and turned off the 'Cuda. I held onto the steering wheel and tried to compose myself. I knew it was an act of futility; my assistant could tell when I was sexually attracted to our female clients. She had radar or something that told her if I wanted the client.
Anna-Maria Campion had been with me for twelve years, through my own divorce and the slew of less-than-acceptable women I gravitated to afterwards. She was that angel on my shoulder when I came dangerously close to being destructive to my body with alcohol. Conversely, I was there for her when she had marital problems that lead her ex-husband to become physically violent; I had a guy "talk" with him, show him the error of his ways.
I looked at myself in the rearview mirror and shrugged my shoulders. "Let's get this over with," I mumbled. I opened the door, inhaled deeply, and began my walk towards scrutiny.
"How did she take it?" my assistant asked as I walked into the office. Anna-Maria was at the reception desk reading mail while watching the phones. She took her eyes from the correspondence -- mostly bills and payment checks -- and shook her head. She frowned with anticipation of bad news.
"She took it rather well," I began. "Under the circumstances, she was quite pleased as a matter of fact." I managed a warm smile, belying the devilish grin that wanted to come out.
"Pleased? How so? We just ruined her life." I walked to my private office, she followed me in and took a seat on the warm brown leather couch I had for clients and the occasional nap.
I thought for a moment before answering, trying carefully plan out my words. I had to keep from Anna-Maria what I done, what the client had done, in the driveway when I brought the remaining photographs and evidence. "She didn't seem too broken up, didn't appear to me that she had been crying. Maybe it was all an act, a façade, put on for me, so I wouldn't worry." I lied and hoped she believed me.
"Wouldn't be the first client to hide emotions from us," Anna-Maria said, buying the lie. At least I hope she did. She leaned back and tossed an arm over the back. She crossed her long legs, stared at me with her dark brown doe eyes, and smiled knowingly. She bounced her left leg on her right, as if she was waiting for me to tell her something, an item that I was leaving out, keeping from her.
Anna-Marie looked at me with her knowing eyes. She looked me up and down, taking in my body language. I tried to act normal, tried to hide that Maxine made me sweat whenever I saw her. She sighed heavily and shook her head.
"How did her lips taste?" was all she asked me.
I was tempted to have her sit on my lap, kiss me, and have a taste, but I thought better of it. "She tastes pretty good."
Anna-Maria smiled and uncrossed her legs. "I bet she does." She stood and smoothed down the wrinkles on her gray skirt. Before leaving, she turned to me and said, "Lover boy, don't forget you have paperwork still that needs to be completed so I can get out to our other clients, and you and I are having lunch this afternoon."
I smiled at her and dove into the paperwork. I didn't want her to see that I forgot about our lunch.
* * * * *
I was still deep in paperwork when she knocked on the office door and let herself in before I had a chance to say no. Anna-Maria had changed. Gone was the pink, button-down blouse. In its stead, she had on a light blue, long sleeved Oxford shirt. A pair of carpi-length jeans had replaced her gray pencil skirt. On her feet, she wore light blue sneakers, not the six-inch stilettos she came to work in.
"Are you ready?" she asked.
"I will be once this is gone," I answered. I slipped off my tie and left it on the desktop. I had already changed my shoes: gone were the black loafers, replaced by my favorite white cross trainers. "Where are we going?" I asked.
She just smiled and said, "You'll see." She stood and walked out of the office. She pointed to a picnic basket and had me pick it up; it was heavy. She grabbed a blanket. I followed her out to the parking garage.
"We're taking my car," she told me once inside the structure. Anna-Maria unlocked the trunk; I placed the basket in. She unlocked the car.
"Still not going to tell me, are you?" I asked as I sat in her red, 1970 Mach 1. She turned over the engine and backed out of her parking spot.
She didn't answer me. She just drove out of the garage, taking a left and headed towards the river.
It was a short and quiet trip to Rotterdam Junction. I didn't ask her where we were going, and she didn't offer me any clues. Anna-Maria turned off Route 5s, turned into an empty parking lot. She parked her Ford close to a path that led towards the river. The dirt path went through some short bushes and into a wide thicket of birches and ash trees, hiding the river itself from view.
The smile on her face reminded me of those painters used on devils. "Do you know where we are now?"
