WHEN A WOMAN SMILES WITH HER EYES

Lunch had been with the insanely handsome studio executive from Hollywood. To his dismay, Kate refused a second martini, hoping to speed the arrival of the Arugula Walnut Delight so she could get back to the office.

Arrive it did, healthy and overpriced except for the accident with the dressing. It wasn’t their fault, she reminded herself. The dressing came on the side in a white, porcelain bowl.

She had just started to pour a delicate, little soupcon onto the leaves when her suave companion complimented her on her writing and said he would like a shot at shopping her last story to his brass—the one where she finagled her way into the Chinese Mafia and almost got herself a permanent trip to the bottom of Gowanus Bay.

It was when he looked up from his poached salmon and said he could probably get her in the “high three hundreds” for the story, a figure she quickly understood wasn’t Monopoly money as she added the final three zeroes—that was the precise moment her fingers slipped and the entire contents of the bowl of dressing, including the bowl itself, sank into the salad.

“Fuck,” she said, as politely as she could.

“I’ll get you another,” he said, signaling a waiter.

“Don’t bother,” she said, removing the bowl. Smiling at him, she stabbed her fork into a soaking red leaf. “The dressings here are absolutely obscene.”

They went on to talk about their private lives. With the scent of money in the air, she felt compelled to open the book on herself.

She told him about her scholarship to Hunter College after Catholic schools in Brooklyn, her two-bedroom floor-through in the Village, even down to her black cat with the four white feet she had cleverly named ‘Spats.’

She was a card-carrying member of ACLU and NOW, she told him, and wished she had the time to march and wave the flag.

When she entered St. Barnabas High, her social life consisted of spending every single minute of her Saturdays at the Queens Plaza Shopping Mall passing out leaflets for losing independent candidates when not urging voters to adopt stray animals from the SPCA shelter.

The exec kept looking at her eyes. That was when she knew it wasn’t her words turning him on—they were probably boring him to death.

It wasn’t even her figure, which she thought had looked ten degrees above ‘sexy-hot’ when she wiggled into her black pantsuit this morning.

It was her blasted eyes—those glittery emeralds that operated independent of her will, grinning through the good and the bad. She would scream at a man, her blood boiling, and the eyes would smile her deep-down secret longing for the bastard.

When he asked about her availability she wasn’t sure if he was referring to story conferences in Hollywood or going to bed with him tonight.

“You know what I mean,” he said, throwing in a wink for good measure. “Your place or Room 231 at the Royalton—if you want to be trite about it.” He put a smarmy little spin on each syllable of the room number before adding, “And bring those incredible eyes.”

Kate stole a look at the third finger of his left hand. It was distinguished from the others by a fleshy, pink circle. She told him she was busy tonight—with a smile, of course—and consigned him to the ‘snake’ category.

She didn’t care for philanderers, especially when they practiced extortion on the side. Since ‘the incident,’ she had become brutally tough about the kind of guy she went out with, let alone extended bedroom privileges to. When it came to the desire for sex, she was hungry but not desperate.

From THE MOUNTING STORM, first of the Kate Conway thrillers. ow.ly/s9SUB

UPON MEETING SOMEONE THE FIRST TIME

She held out her hand for Winston. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Winship.”

“Winston, please.”

“Winston? . . . Winston Winship?”  She spoke the words reverently, mesmerized at how, even as a question, the name rang with the chimes of history. As she turned to leave, she knew he was staring after her.

She hadn’t meant anything by uttering his name, she told herself later, other than how pleasant the alliteration sounded, almost like it was a name plucked from a romantic World War II movie featuring those handsome RAF pilots with the black wavy hair.

Actually, the guy had all the makings of a spoiled prick—the overly confident demeanor, the moneyed good looks. But the name wouldn’t go away. Winston Winship, she said to herself, repeating it again and again.

It was making her feel she had just slipped into a plush, royal purple bathrobe after doing thirty laps in the spa pool high in the Swiss Alps and was about to take the first sip of a martini before biting into a juicy steak.

Nothing sexual. Just a nice, comfortable feeling that all was right with the world.

 --From THE MOUNTING STORM, first novel in the Kate Conway trilogy. ow.ly/s9SUB

"BAG IT AND TAKE IT IN."

  Lacey sat up. Someone had pointed in our direction and a burly motorcycle cop in a blue uniform and black boots came over with his pad out and began writing down Lacey’s name and address.

  “Did you see the driver’s face?” he asked, without looking up.

  “I tried—his head was turned the other way,” Lacey said.

  “Did you see the license plate?”

  “It happened so fast, officer.  Surely someone did.”

  The officer shook his head. “Looks like he got clean away,” he said. “But we’ll keep trying. Sometimes people wait a while before coming forward. He asked Lacey to be available for further questioning if necessary.

  We all heard the shout—“Hey, Burnett, get a load of this.”  It came from a guy in an orange vest on his hands and knees staring at something in the gutter. The officer snapped his pad shut and we followed him.

  “You won’t believe this,” the guy in the vest said.

  The three of us bent over and stared. Staring back at us were two pairs of eyes belonging to a bride and groom sitting atop the remains of a wedding cake. Both looked surprised and helpless as they sank into the mash of white icing and yellow doughy texture. The whole thing was in a white box with a tire print on the edge.

  The officer scratched his head and squinted. “What’s this supposed to be? Someone getting married?”  He turned to Lacey. “Was your friend getting married by any chance?”

  “Good Heavens, no,” Lacey said. “That was ages ago. She was divorced.”

  “It was just lying there,” the man in the vest said. “What the Hell should we do—eat it?”

  Officer Burnett shrugged. “Bag it and take it in.”

--From THE VIEW FROM WALDEN PARK

DO YOU KNOW WHAT I'M THINKING?

   “Do you know what I’m thinking?” she asked, those soft brown eyes turning to look into mine.

  

   “I’m wondering if it’s what I’m thinking,” I replied.

   

   “I’m thinking I’d like to spend Saturday with you.  I’d like to drive you around the City in the morning, showing off all the sights my rather opinionated husband failed to mention. Then I’d like to drive you through our lovely suburbs and stop in the thick of those rolling country estates and have lunch at this romantic country inn.”

    

  She paused, waiting for my reaction.

     

  “So what do you have in mind for the afternoon?” I asked.

    

  “Let’s wait and see what happens in the morning,” she said, looking up at me. That was when I discovered how wide her smile was.  And how wet her lips seemed.

   

  “I think it’s a wonderful idea,” I said.

From THE VIEW FROM WALDEN PARK.

DROWNING WITHOUT MAKING WAVES

Hank swirled his drink again and looked over at me. “Do you know the first thing they say to bright guys like you who come to this City and try to disturb things—expecting to take over without learning how to fit in and kiss the appropriate asses?  Do you know what they say, Tom?”

I looked at Hank. “Okay, I’ll bite.”

Hank leaned back in his chair. “The first thing they say is that you must learn to appreciate the art of drowning without making waves.”

I’d never heard the expression before but I caught Hank’s drift right away and let out a chuckle. Hank gave a shriek that must have carried over to the next building. 

--from THE VIEW FROM WALDEN PARK.