Storymania - The Million Dollar Detective by T C Lambert

The Million Dollar Detective (12)
T C Lambert

proceeded to squeeze her slightly, then froze his arms in position and flexed
them isometrically, opposing one set of muscles against the other.

     She could feel his strength surrounding her, his muscles quivering with
the effort, his arms and his body now transformed into vibrating steel. She
felt sure such strength could easily crush her ribcage or snap her spine. Yet
she felt safe, protected, sheltered from any threat. She moved her body against
him, savoring the feeling, exulting in his power, power that seemed to exist
for her benefit, her power now as much as his. "Mmmmm," she purred.

     Bart could not hold this pose forever. When he had to relax into a more
normal embrace, he breathed deeply but easily, far from panting. "Thank you,
Meredith," he said. "I enjoyed that very much."

     "Mmm, me, too," she said. "I like feeling your strength all over me." She
was breathing harder than he was, even though she had exercised her muscles
scarcely at all. She felt urges, too. She swallowed hard and said, "Bart, I
know I made you a promise earlier, but I was wondering if you would mind
letting me out of it."

#

     Bart had to reflect for a moment before remembering her promise to not
seduce him. In a flash of insight he saw that years from now he would kick
himself if he said no to a chance to have sex with this brilliant, beautiful,
eager woman because he wanted to make some sort of point. What reason did he
have to justify waiting? He wanted sex with her to mean something. He wanted
real feeling, not just physical pleasure. Well, hadn't they just established
that feelings did exist, sooner than expected, but there nonetheless? He said
to her, "Meredith, I extracted that promise from you because I don't want to
have casual sex with you. I want it to be about love."

     She looked disappointed during the first sentence, but smiled at the
second. Her nostrils flared, and in a husky voice, she said, "I think we could
accomplish that."

     Then Bart slapped his forehead, suddenly thinking of one other obstacle.
"Oh, I forgot the health and safety issue."

     "What?" she said. "Health and safety? Well, I presume we would use a
condom. Is that a problem for you?"

     "Only because I don't happen to have any," he said.

     "You don't have any condoms? A handsome, swinging bachelor like you
doesn't have any condoms?"

     "I'm not as 'swinging' as you might think. I'm really pretty square."

     "Yes, obviously, if you use terms like 'square.' But, Bart, you own a
genuine Rubens, and a fake Mona Lisa, and you have a bloody great cannon on
your roof!"

     "I don't see what any of that has to do with condoms," he said, genuinely
puzzled.

     "You own a number of highly expensive items, with no practical value, but
a condom, an item of great practical value, yet highly inexpensive, that
you don't own."

     "Oh. When you put it that way, I sound like a damn fool. Okay, maybe I am.
In my own defense, may I point out I did not expect to find myself in this
situation, or any situation remotely like this on such short notice." Then he
had another brainstorm. "Oh. Henderson! Maybe Henderson has a condom I could
borrow."

     She burst out laughing. "I don't believe 'borrow' is quite the right word
choice, at least not in the sense of temporarily taking something with the
intent to return it later."

     "Right. Eww. Maybe he could give me one. I don't know, though, if I
could stand the embarrassment of asking him for one."

     Briefly, Bart imagined his own obituary: "Man dies of embarrassment.
According to the medical examiner, 'He blushed so hard, his brain couldn't get
enough blood. Hypoxia resulted, followed shortly by death.'" The obit would
also mention he was survived by his father, sister, and sexually frustrated
girlfriend.

     "Bart," Meredith broke into his reverie, "you are aware, are you not, that
every chemist's shop sells condoms?"

     "Chemist?"

     "Yes, chemist. Apothecary. Pharmacy."

     "Drugstore! Yeah, of course I know that. But," he looked at his $20,000
gold-plated wristwatch, which ran a little fast, "it's pretty late. I'm sure
all the drugstores are closed by now."

     She pulled back and stared at him in amazement. Bart spread his hands
questioningly. She tilted her head and pursed her lips at him. "Do you never do
your own shopping?" she asked.

     "Sure. Naturally. Well, Mrs. Crocker buys all the food. Henderson and Mrs.
H. buy the household stuff. And Max takes care of the cars."

     "Who's Max?"

     "My driver slash mechanic."

     "Wasn't there a TV detective--didn't Banacek have a driver named Max?"

     "No, Banacek's driver was named Jay, Jay Drury, I believe," Bart said.
"You're thinking of Hart to Hart." Before she could distract him again,
he said, "Anyway, I shop for my own clothes. Sometimes." He made a sour face
and admitted, "Okay, I usually hire a personal shopper to pick out clothes for
me." While she laughed at him for the hundredth time, he mused, "When did this
happen? I used to do all my own shopping, back in college. Honestly, I can't
remember the last time I went to a drugstore. And why do you ask, by the way?"

     "Because you seem blissfully unaware that many pharmacies are open twenty-
four hours a day."

     "Oh." He suddenly sat up very straight. "They are?" He reached for her
eagerly, but at the last moment placed his hands on her shoulders ever so
lightly. Staring straight into her eyes, he asked, "Do you know where any of
these twenty-four hour drugstores are located?"

     Still bubbling with laughter, she said, "Not offhand. But if we were to
drive to several shopping centers, probably by the sixth, we'd find one."

     Bart raised his index finger in the air and said, "Orchard Lake Road. It's
shopping center after shopping center. Let's see, money? Check. Car? We can
take the Lincoln Navigator. Lincoln is part of Ford, right?" He didn't want to
offend her company loyalty. "So, car, check. Wallet? Check. Sexy girlfriend?"
He looked at her expectantly.

     "Would you mean me, by chance?" She turned her head to the left, then to
the right. "As I'm the only female here, I suppose I'll have to do. Check," she
said.

     Though still sitting on the floor, Bart was practically jumping up and
down in place. "Well, let's go!" he said.

     "Yes, let's do," she said.

Chapter Nineteen

     Bart rinsed their wineglasses and put them in the dishwasher. He caught
Meredith smiling oddly at him. "What?" he said. "Haven't you ever seen anyone
do dishes before?"

     "It's nice seeing a man do something domestic like that, especially when
he has a butler and a housekeeper to clean up after him."

     Not sure if he were being teased again, he said, "I hope I never get that
spoiled. Besides, the staff would, well, not complain exactly, but they would
mutter. I hate it when they mutter."

     Arm in arm they walked down a back staircase to the main floor, then
across the house to the garage. Bart put a finger to his lips. "Their apartment
is right above the garage, so we need to be quiet," he said.

     From outside, one might mistake it for a three-car garage. Inside,
however, was a parking lot that could hold a dozen cars. Vehicles occupied six
bays--two SUVs, two large cars, a pickup truck, and a stretch limousine. Tool
cabinets, a desk, and a worktable filled others. Max had parked the limo
sideways across two spaces, probably the only practical way for it to fit. One
car was under repair, its hood open and work blankets draped over the fenders
and grill. Bart pushed a button that turned on a light and activated the middle
(of three) garage door openers. With a loud whirring and squeaking, it rolled
the door up. Bart cringed. "So much for quiet," he said.

     Meredith looked up at the ceiling. "I don't hear anything," she said.
"Maybe they slept through it."

     "Or Henderson's putting on his robe and looking for a shotgun. He's in
charge of household security, too. If we hurry, maybe we can get going before
he opens fire."

     Bart grabbed keys from a rack, and hurried to a big SUV. In moments, the
roar of the V8 filled the air. Meredith giggled. They pealed out and Bart
pushed a button on a device that rivaled a television remote control for
complexity. The garage door began its noisy descent. In the rearview mirror, he
could see the door to the house opening again. He said, "Whew, that was close."

     Meredith said, "Honestly, Bart, such drama. What would he do if he caught
us?"

     "He might ask where we're going."

     "Oh, it's the embarrassment you fear."

     "Well, yeah, of course." Another button on his remote made the gate roll
open. He said, "Whew," again when they escaped to the open road. Meredith took
Bart's hand and hugged his arm against her body.

     "Ah-h," he said, and, "Where are those drugstores?"

     It turned out exactly as Meredith predicted. The sixth shopping center had
a drugstore with a neon sign saying, "Open 24 hours." After they sat in the
parking lot for a full minute, Meredith said, "Bart, I can't help noticing you
haven't left the car yet. You do understand you have to go into the store,
don't you?"

     "I'm not sure I can," he said. "I'd be embarrassed."

     "To buy condoms?"

     "It's not so much the buying of the condoms. This is, well, something
else."

     "Something else?" She looked at him quizzically. Then the light dawned and
she said, "Oh." She put her hand in his lap.

     Bart sat up straight and said, "That doesn't help, Meredith!"

     She said, "I see the problem. Well, I don't see it, exactly. We'll
save that for later, I think. I must say I'm flattered. Can't you temporarily
exercise some self-control?"

     "It doesn't help to have your hand in my lap," he pointed out.

     "Sorry, dear." She pulled her hand back. But the coy, amused look she gave
him also threatened his efforts at control.

     "My problem is I'm trying not to think about sex, or how sexy you are, how
beautiful you look, how little you're wearing, how you looked in that bikini--
auugh! It's practically all I can think about." He turned away from her and
rubbed his forehead.

     She laughed a measure or two of music at him. "It reminds me of a joke we
used to have as children. One of us would say to another, 'Try not to think of
a rhinoceros.' Of course, the more you try not to think of a rhinoceros,
the more you do, until rhinoceros thoughts fill your mind."

     Bart now gave her a quizzical look.

     She went on, "The trick to not thinking of a rhinoceros is to
intentionally think of something else. In your case, however, you could, if you
wish, try deliberately thinking of rhinoceroses, which are very unsexy
creatures. It might help."

     "You are insane," Bart stated. "Wait. It might be working. You're a
genius. Wait. Oh, no. Rhinoceros. Rhinoceros. They are very unsexy creatures. I
wonder how they breed at all."

     "They are an endangered species," she pointed out.

     "Their mating rituals must involve large amounts of alcohol," he
speculated. "The male would need to imbibe a really prodigious amount to make a
female rhino look hot. Back in college, we used to call that a three keg
party." Suddenly he opened the car door. "Okay, I'm ready. I'm going," he said.

     "Oh, my hero," she said and reached to grab his face and kiss him.

     "Yah! Don't do that!" he said.

     She pulled back. "So sorry, dear."

     As he stepped out of the car, he said, "Are you coming along?"

     "What? Dressed like this? I should think not!"

     "Chicken," he said. He couldn't blame her, though. She wore a button-up
shirt over her bikini, a short button-up shirt. That was all. It left a lot of
leg showing. Thinking of how little she was wearing threatened to set him back
again. "Rhinoceros, rhinoceros, rhinoceros," he muttered.

     "Quit ogling me and go!" she said. He could hear her delightful laughter
as he made his break for the store, determined not to let his lady down. He
found it easier to maintain his composure once inside. The pharmacy part of the
drugstore made up only one small corner of the whole place. Bart walked across
the store, reading the signs for each aisle, but found none that listed condoms
or prophylactics. He spotted the cashier leaning on the counter eyeballing him.
He considered asking for help, but embarrassment decided him on the strategy of
walking up and down each aisle. He finally found the condom display, in the
aisle marked "Foot Care." He didn't try to make sense of their filing system.

     Now he faced a new dilemma. The condom display stretched six feet wide by
six feet high, racks upon racks of latex ingenuity. He had not anticipated such
a profusion of styles and variations. He didn't know which to choose, and he
couldn't face going out, perhaps several times, to relay information to
Meredith for her input. In truth, he didn't have much experience with the
subject, and felt hesitant to admit it to her. His cursed responsible streak,
or whatever it was, made him take sex seriously, with the result that he had
been intimate with only a few women. He felt unsophisticated and backward
compared to many of his peers who boasted of sexual conquests by the score. He
comforted himself with the belief that these casual Casanovas would not have
gotten far with the beautiful and brilliant Meredith. But they could have
chosen their favorite item from this display and been out of the store already.

     Then he remembered something. Hey, I'm rich. I don't have to
choose. He picked up one of each kind. This made quite an armload. He
braced himself mentally, determined to brass it out, walked up to the front,
and dumped his pile of booty on the counter.

     The cashier couldn't resist making a comment, "Having a party?"

     Bart said, "I didn't know which kind she might like."

     "So one of each," the cashier deduced. Everybody was a detective now.
While scanning the bar codes, the clerk held up one package and said, "I've had
good success with this kind."

     Bart said, "Uh, thanks."

     With some apparent struggle to keep a straight face, the cashier said,
"With sales tax, that comes to one hundred eighty-seven dollars and twenty-
three cents."

     Bart pulled out a gold money clip and peeled two hundreds from it.

     The clerk frowned. "Do you have anything smaller? We're not supposed to
take anything larger than twenties."

     Bart checked his cash. He had five twenties. Not enough. He sighed. Back
to the dilemma. Wait. "Do you take credit cards?"

     "Sure, all the major brands."

     Bart handed over a card. "Is this one okay?"

     The cashier said, "I think so. I see a lot of gold and platinum cards.
This all black, does that mean something special?"

     "I think it comes with some extra services or features. I'm not really
sure what."

     The charge was approved, the booty bagged, and Bart walked back out to the
car, triumphant. When Meredith saw the size and fullness of the bag, she raised
her eyebrows. When she opened the bag and scrutinized the receipt, she said,
"Bartholomew, darling, did you just buy one hundred and eighty-seven dollars
worth of condoms?"

     "I think you'll find some of that is sales tax," he said.

     "Yes, so it is," she conceded. "Still, I think this might be a trifle . .
. optimistic."

     "I couldn't decide which kind to get. I don't know your taste, er,
preference in such things."

     Meredith's mirth bubbled over into open laughter. Bart smiled, picked one
small carton out of the bag, and said, "The cashier recommended this one."

     Meredith laughed an entire aria at this. "The cashier gave you a condom
recommendation? Oh, my word. Was she hitting on you?"

     "He," Bart corrected. "And he might have been."

     Henderson met them inside at the door from garage to house. Even in a
patterned silk robe over pajamas, his upright carriage somehow proclaimed him a
gentleman's gentleman. "Sir. Miss Adler," he greeted them. "Is everything quite
all right?"

     "Hallo, Henderson," Meredith said brightly.

     "Yes. Fine," Bart said. He held one hand on Meredith's shoulder, keeping
her positioned between himself and Henderson. (He had not concentrated on
rhinoceroses sufficiently on the way home.) "We needed to pick up a few things
at the store." He waved the bag to prove his statement.

     Henderson's eyes flicked momentarily to the bag. Bart realized the bag
proclaimed the name of the drugstore in very large letters. Though not a
trained detective, surely Henderson would deduce what they needed so urgently
from a drugstore this late at night. However, professional that he was,
Henderson maintained his stoic expression, though amusement might lurk beneath
that carefully clipped mustache or behind those steely gray eyes. He said,
"Very well, then. I'll wish you both good night. Sir. Miss Adler."

     "Good night, Henderson," Meredith said brightly.

     "Yeah, right," Bart said, much less brightly. Henderson went one way, Bart
and Meredith another. Bart said to her, "Whatever physiological system controls
blushing, I must have overtaxed mine today, and it'll be sore as hell
tomorrow."

     "I hope not," Meredith said. "Blushing largely involves capillary
expansion and blood flow. There are aspects of that system I rather had plans
for."

     "Is that dirty science talk?" he laughed.

     "Enough talk," Meredith murmured, "I want action."

     Bart said, "Let's go."

     "Yes, let's do," said Meredith.

Chapter Twenty

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