The Million Dollar Detective (11) get by her." "There you go. I knew it," Bart said. "I told your dad, and the FBI, and the attorney general of the United States that you would eventually escape on your own. I knew that as smart as you are, and as stupid as they are, you'd find a way to beat them. I'm almost sorry we rescued you so soon." George said, "What?" Bart said, "No, now, I was just kidding." He put a hand on Tommy's shoulder, and almost whispered to him, "We needed to rescue you quick more for your parents' sake. I was confident you'd be okay, but your mom and dad are pretty shook up. Oh, George, have you called your wife yet?" "Holy shit! I need a phone!" George yelled. "You've got one clipped to your belt," Bart pointed out. Back to Tommy, he said, "See what I mean? You're gonna have to help them cope with all this. Okay?" Tommy frowned, looked down at the ground for a while, rolled this idea around, then looked back at Bart and nodded. Bart gave his shoulder a squeeze and said, "You're a good man, Tommy." He stood up, feeling as good about that day's work as he had ever felt about any day's work. Tommy tugged his sleeve and asked, "Did you use karate on any of them?" Bart laughed. "Well, the FBI got to these two before I had a chance to. The other one, yeah, I did use karate on him. I knocked him down, and gave him a sort of Vulcan neck pinch." "Good," Tommy said, which made Bart laugh again. "That one guy works for my dad's company, you know. Computer support or something." "I'm pretty sure they're gonna fire him." "I don't think these two had jobs, maybe not ever." Bart nodded. That might explain the need for money. (In his confession, the first kidnapper said his cousin came to live with him when he lost his job. He brought his freeloading girlfriend with him. All they did was sit around the house, get high, and watch the tube (Meredith snickered at the song reference), and fantasize about big scores.) Tommy said, "They smoked weed all the time. I could smell it." With worry in his voice, Tommy asked, "Can you get hooked on weed from smelling other people smoking it?" "Hmm. No, I don't think so. You'll be okay," Bart assured him. "Well, I talked to her," George said. "I don't know if she understood me or not, she's so loopy from the sedatives." "Is Mom okay?" Tommy asked. George explained, "She's been worried sick. They gave her some stuff to calm her down and make her sleepy. So she's missed a lot." Tommy lifted his chin and said, "We should go home, show her I'm okay." George looked at his son with mild surprise, smiled proudly at his thoughtfulness, and asked Special Agent Dolty for a ride. The special agent snapped his fingers and another agent took George and Tommy home. "Then they drove off into the sunset. The end," Bart said. Chapter Seventeen Meredith clapped her hands delightedly, or perhaps sarcastically, and laughed her musical laugh. "That was a lovely story," she said. "Is any of it true?" "Parts of it," Bart said. "I may have exaggerated my own wonderfulness, and understated the contributions of the FBI." "Special Agent Dolty was correct about one thing," she said. "You are a big softy." "No, not me," he said. "I'm tough, and mighty." He flexed his biceps for her again. She gave his arm an obligatory squeeze. "You may be big and strong, and able to frighten stupid criminals so much they pee their pants, but you showed surprising compassion at every opportunity, both for the criminals and the FBI. Your thoughtfulness for George and Tommy at the end, especially trying to rebuild the young man's shattered confidence, that was very kind indeed. I think you are not so much interested in fighting evil as in doing good, in trying to be a good man." She suddenly turned to face him fully. "You want to be Sir Galahad, don't you?" "Not Lancelot?" he said. "No," she said. "Lancelot was a great knight, but flawed. Galahad was the perfect knight, noble and honorable in all things. Isn't that your goal?" Bart decided to play along for a spell. "I never thought of myself in terms of a specific knight," he said. "I do tend to think of myself as a protector of the weak and a champion of the people. You probably think that's nuts." "No, I respect that. There are not many people to whom the word noble truly applies. Yet I think it might to you." This was such a big compliment it made Bart squirm uncomfortably. "You're forgetting that I get paid really well for my services." "Do you do it for the money?" she asked dubiously. "Well, no, not really. I don't need the money. I make more from my investments and business interests. I only take a half dozen or so cases a year, more because people beg me, and out of boredom. I'm really more of a problem solver for wealthy people in expensive jams than a detective." "I have been wondering why you limit yourself to helping only the wealthy." Before he could reply, she added, "And don't say, 'Because that's where the money is.'" Bart's smile widened. "I don't think I've ever met a woman who quoted Willie Sutton before." [Author's note: Willie Sutton was a bank robber. Meredith quoted his famous answer to the question, "Why do you rob banks?"] Bart put on a more serious face, rubbed his lower lip and looked down. The collar of her shirt had belled open, allowing a breathtaking view of softly curving flesh and intriguing shadows. Bart looked up quickly, not wanting her to catch him ogling her body (her luscious, luscious body). He did not want to risk offending her and lose the chance to see her lovely figure more often and in more detail. Of course, she had caught him, and seen through his attempt to avoid capture, and responded with her characteristic amusement, simply arching one eyebrow at him. He resumed speaking, determinedly looking into the distance over her head. "Regular detectives can easily do better than me when dealing with the problems of regular people. I know a lot of rich and powerful people. I'm familiar with their ways and their problems. And Fitzgerald was right, 'The rich are different.'" "You disagree with Hemingway, then?" Ooh, she is quick, Bart thought. She was beautiful, witty, and knowledgeable enough to discuss literary quotations. Add in her smile, her laughter, and her sweetness, and she might be the complete package. He took a deep breath and said, "I agree with both. Hemingway said, 'They have more money.' That is not an absolute contradiction of Fitzgerald. It is a significant difference, and it colors everything the rich do. They always have a lot of things around them, and people eager to do things for them. They casually spend extra to get their way or to simply enjoy themselves." He rubbed his lower lip again. He continued, "Lately a lot of my work seems to involve corporate malfeasance. The board of directors or a large stockholder will invite me to scrutinize the activities of their company's own executives." "Ah," she said, "is that what you were doing with Eddie?" "I can't talk about that," he said. But he knew the respect showing in his eyes gave him away. Damn, he thought, she's a better detective than I am. This would not be the last time he entertained that thought. "You must be quite successful if people continue to hire you," she said. "I have a substantial success rate," he conceded. "Not perfect like Galahad, but pretty good. Tommy's kidnapping was an unusually good case, a really terrific day. Although," he mused, "it probably seemed like a pretty bad day to the kidnappers. So much depends on one's point of view." "'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,'" Meredith quoted. Bart said, "Dickens. I like Dickens. He's funny. 'It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness,'" he quoted back at her. "Foolishness for the kidnappers and, at times, for the FBI," she said, "wisdom for you, and more rarely for Special Agent Dolty." Then she went on with the quotation, "'It was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity.'" "Whoa," Bart said, "I don't remember any more of it. I recall something about 'a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face' and 'a king with a large jaw and a queen with a fair face.' That's about it." "They represented England and France, respectively," she explained. "'It was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.'" Now Bart began to feel alarmed. He said, "You're not going to recite the whole of A Tale of Two Cities, are you? I remember it being in excess of seven hundred pages." She giggled and said, "I'll skip a bit in the middle then, shall I? 'It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.'" "Oh," he said, "you did skip a lot. Isn't it 'than I have ever done before?' I thought I remembered the word 'before' in there." "No," she said, with absolute confidence. "It is often misquoted that way, but the word 'before' would spoil the rhyme. 'It is a far, far better thing that I do,'" she quoted again. After a short, pointed pause, she resumed, "'than I have ever done.' Another pause, then, "'it is a far, far better rest that I go to,'" followed by one more pause. Finally, "'than I have ever known.' You see? An abab rhyme scheme." "Okay, it's a little quatrain." He shook his head and marveled at her. He could have intelligent conversations with her, literate conversations, interesting conversations. She pushed him, pushed him, pushed him, intellectually, more than anyone had in years. On top of all that, she was so beautiful. He muttered to himself, not really intending for her to hear, "I could possibly fall in love with you." With an amused twinkle in her eye, she replied, "You silly man, you already have." He opened his mouth to argue with her, then closed it, realizing in the nick of time the stupidity of debating the proposition. (What if he won?) After a moment's reflection, the frightening possibility confronted him that she might be right. He knew the fear and surprise showed on his face. He feared she could possibly take offense. But the feeling was there. It took real effort to fight the growing panic down, gather his courage, and meet her dazzling eyes again. With a strained voice, he said, "It's not fair, you knowing how I feel about you, when I don't know how you feel about me. How do you feel about me, Meredith?" To his partial relief, she still looked at him with pleasant amusement, without a shred of indignation or anger. "You're the great detective," she said. "What do you deduce?" He almost launched into his standard denial of being the world's greatest detective, but caught himself. She hadn't said 'greatest,' only 'great.' His ego and his internal critic debated it, and soon agreed to accept the adjective 'great' without challenge. After all, he had worked alongside skilled professionals and held his own, outshining them on occasion. He personally rated his competence in the B+/A- range, perhaps enough to warrant 'great.' Anyway, he wouldn't argue if Meredith wanted to think so. He turned his focus back to her. How did she feel about him? He peered intently into her eyes, trying to spy on her soul. She met his gaze easily, her eyes still twinkling merrily. But amusement slowly morphed into something else. He could see that she had begun to examine the question, as well. Amusement turned into serious reflection, then into puzzlement, then into something like surprise. Other emotions mixed in--a hint of fear, and maybe anger. But the dominant one was sheer astonishment. She broke away from his gaze abruptly and pressed her cheek against his chest again. Bart rested his chin lightly on the top of her head and smiled. "I deduce," he whispered, "that I am a lucky, lucky man." Chapter Eighteen "This is absurd," Meredith complained. Maybe emotion was the opposite of reason, and should, therefore, function irrationally by definition. Yet she would prefer her emotions to behave sensibly. "We've only known each other a few hours. It's ludicrous to fall in love so quickly." She snorted contemptuously. "We should discover our compatibilities and incompatibilities, our shared values, our points of disagreement, and our complementary traits slowly, over time. And only then, if appropriate, should love blossom and grow. Instantly falling in love is foolish. And I don't like feeling foolish." "No, I get that about you." "Oh, and now you're mocking me?" "Fair is fair. You've been teasing me nonstop since we met," Bart pointed out. She made an indignant noise, but forced herself to consider his accusation. A quick review of their conversations thus far led her to conclude that he had a valid grievance. In the interest of justice, she thrust aside her irritation, and apologized. "I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, Bartholomew." Bart smiled warmly and said, "You never did, Meredith. I never for a moment detected any malice in your teasing. And I like to see you smile, and hear you laugh, even if it is at me. Feeling foolish doesn't bother me as much as it seems to bother you." There he went again, being sweet, saying something nice, and then teasing her in kind. That she could feel her heart yearning for him only made her more angry with herself, and confirmed that she had, in fact, against all reason, fallen in love with the big, beautiful brute. "If it's any consolation," he said, "you're quicker on the uptake than most people. Perhaps you simply figured out all the parameters of love this fast, and that justifies your . . . predicament." "Oh, rubbish," she said. "However, I appreciate your attempt to console me." She sighed and put her head against his chest again. He gently encircled her with his gorilla arms. It felt so good, so comfortable. It felt so right. "Ludicrous," she muttered to herself. She could feel him silently laughing. They sat together quietly for a time, enjoying the shared warmth, and the feeling of their bodies pressed against each other. Eventually, Bart broke the silence by asking softly, "When did you first fall in love with me, Meredith? And please don't say when you first saw me." She giggled for a moment. "That did perhaps lay the groundwork," she said. She decided to tease him a bit longer. "It was when you made fun of my name, when you called me 'Merry Death.'" "What? Really?" "No, of course not. Don't be an ass. In fact, that nearly ended our relationship before it began. Honestly. Making fun of my name. What were you thinking? When I first felt something for you was, hmm, right after I made fun of your name." She turned her face up to his again and continued in a low voice, "When you told me your mother had passed away. For a moment you looked so sad, so lost." "I hope you're not saying you fell for me out of pity. I don't think that would work. Like the song says, 'Life's been good to me so far,' and I know I'm far luckier than I deserve. You will find very little to pity about me." "It wasn't pity. In that moment, I saw you had emotional depth, that you possessed substance beneath the surface. That is when I first thought I might like to get to know you better, to explore your mind, and your heart." She put a hand on his chest and felt the pounding of the organ in question. "Wow," Bart said. "You're not going to whip out an IQ test now, are you?" She could see in his face that on a deeper level her words had touched him. "Do shut up," she said, affectionately. After a few moments of gazing into his eyes, she asked, "When did you first fall in love with me?" He smiled wickedly. "It was when you said, 'Nice package,'" he said. "That's when I first suspected you had feelings for me." "Feelings of lust," she said. "You do have a nice body. But that wasn't about love. When did you fall in love with me?" Now he smiled ruefully, and she knew the serious answer would follow. "It was the moment you first spoke," he said. "What? Oh no, you're not going to say you fell in love with me for my accent, are you? That's too pathetic." "No, that wasn't it. I do like your accent. I could listen to you talk all night. It was what you said. You joked with Sheila about getting lost in her own house. It was a smart joke. You made a punchline out of a GPS system. That's when I thought, 'Oh, my. She's smart, too? It might be interesting to talk with her as well as look at her.'" He looked a little sheepish as he added, "And there's another thing--one time as a gag gift I gave Sheila a handheld GPS locator." "No, you're joking!" "Honest. I really did." "Oh, dear. That would explain the snarly look she gave me. Why didn't she say anything about already having a GPS locator, though?" "I think she was embarrassed," he said, and smiled his wickedest smile yet. "You see, she lost it." "No! She lost her locator device? That's too rich." She giggled happily at this, both at the irony of it, and at the future prospects of teasing Sheila about it. When their laughter died down, Bart took a deep breath, and in a warm voice, said, "I love you Meredith." Sounding almost surprised, he added, "I really do love you." "Yes, yes, I know that," she said dismissively. But Bart was patient, and waited. He looked at her confidently, and expectantly. Finally, she took a deep breath, mentally as well as physically, and said, "Oh, all right, I love you, too." He still waited. She sighed, and shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said, then earnestly added, "I love you, too, Bartholomew." They both winced at the unfortunate rhyme, then laughed. She put her hands on his cheeks and said, "Bart, I think you should kiss me now." Bart nodded gravely. "I was thinking very much the same--" She interrupted him by stretching up and planting her lips on his. The kiss started out hurried, almost desperate, but soon settled down, and eventually became less about lips and more about everything else. When Meredith pulled back and rested her head on him again, she was breathing very hard. She noted with satisfaction that Bart's chest also heaved. She marveled at the huge volumes of air he moved in and out. Bart said, "Meredith, I have a very strong urge to squeeze you in my arms as tight as I can, but I'm afraid I may hurt you if I do. Let me try this." He
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