ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT? (Running Wild) (3 page)

“Vancouver, I live in Vancouver. I travel a lot, so it’s nice to be back. I’ve been out of town for a while now. And all the daffodils are blooming; I like that.” This was pure stream-of- consciousness stuff. He hadn’t really planned any of it.

“I love the daffodils too. Where did you go?" His eyes searched his desk for inspiration. “Pen . . . Pennsylvania. Do you enjoy traveling, India?”

“Not really, I’m sort of a homebody. You travel for work or for pleasure, Harold?”

“Work.” Improvise here, Harry. "I’m a businessman, corporate stuff. It, ummm, it makes it hard to meet women.”

“I guess it would.” She sounded sympathetic and understanding. “And what sort of woman would you like to meet, Harold?”

He grinned at that. “You’d do just fine, by the sound of you.”

She laughed, a gentle laugh, provocative. “That’s so sweet. But you don’t really know me yet.” That languorous voice caressed each word, and for the first time there was sexual innuendo. “Wouldn’t you like to know me lots better, Harold?”

It was the opening he was waiting for. “I would, India. Very much better, but not in the way you think. I know most men who call probably want, ummm, just sex, but I’d like it a lot if you’d just talk to me. I guess I’m a little shy.” Pencil poised over the scratch pad, he started the interview. “You ever get other guys like me who just want to talk, India?”

“Oh, sure.” She was so damned accommodating, so easy to talk to. "Lots of people are lonely. And I’m here to satisfy whatever hunger you have, Harold.”

The intimacy of her tone, the emphasis she put on the words, relaxed him for a moment, and then he was suddenly irritated with himself for being taken in by her, reminding himself of the number of times a day she must say things just like this to countless other men.
Stay focused on what you're doing, Watson.

It was far too easy to forget this was just a job to her. She got paid for the number of minutes she kept him on the line, he reminded himself. He’d better get on with the interview, or Sullivan would be billing him instead of the other way around.

"D’you mind my asking how old you are, India?”

“Twenty-four.” The answer was prompt, and it certainly sounded honest. He had a powerful mental vision of a long-limbed slender woman in something slinky and black, stretched out on a chaise longue . . . .

Don’t be such a jerk, Watson. There's no way of telling age over the phone; she could be sixty- three and four hundred pounds for all you know.

"How about you, Harold? How old are you?”

“Thirty-six.” Maybe if he was forthcoming, she would be as well. “I’m six-two, two-forty, black hair, blue eyes.” He rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin. “I’m pretty ordinary looking. I’m not in the greatest shape; traveling doesn’t leave much time to go to the gym.” Neither did being a single father.

“You sound really attractive to me. I’ll bet women find you sexy.”

They had, at one time. He grinned and shook his head. She was good at this, and he noticed she hadn’t given him a verbal on herself.

“Thanks, but don’t feed me a line, okay, India? I’m comfortable with my shortcomings; I don’t need my ego stroked.”

That teasing little laugh again. "What would you like stroked, Harold?”

He wasn’t going there, although he was beginning to understand how easy it would be. Her voice was a slide of silk on bare skin. It made the hair on his arms stand up. A certain tension in his groin made him uncomfortably aware that other parts of his anatomy were also erect.

Staying objective was going to be a lot harder than he’d imagined. 

It took all his self-control to sound casually amused.

"What would I like stroked? Oh, let’s see. My curiosity, I guess. I’d like to get to know you, like I said before.”

There was a tiny pause. "Get to know me? In what way, Harold?”

“Oh, I want you to tell me what sort of a woman you are.” He glanced at his scribbled notes. "Tell me what you like to do for fun, what you read, what movies you like to watch. Talk to me as if I were a new friend instead of a customer."

“Well, let’s see.” Again there was a small silence. Her voice was more tentative now, her diction slower.

He guessed she was feeling her way, trying to figure him out.

"I guess you could say I’m a little bit wild, Harold. I always was. I like to take chances; I like to live on the edge. I like, ummm, motorcycles. I like . . . oh, to dance by myself in the middle of the night. I read erotic poetry, nonsense rhymes, traditional verse. I like romantic movies that have an edge to them, older ones like The Thomas Crown Affair."

“I didn’t see it.” He’d gotten rather fond of Max and Ruby. It was Sadie's favorite show. He scribbled furiously, wondering how much of this was fabrication. It sounded a lot more literate than he’d expected from a phone sex worker.

"Daddy?"

Harry was so involved in the phone call he hadn’t heard Sadie waking up or coming along the hall. She stood in the doorway of the study, her acorn brown eyes still heavy from sleep, strands of silky red-gold hair caught on her eyelashes. She had her tattered blanket over her shoulder and her toy rabbit under her arm, and her face was creased from the pillow,

“Daddy? I needs a love.”

He clamped a hand over the receiver and beckoned her over to him. She always needed cuddling after her nap. She snuggled her face into his chest, and he spoke hurriedly into the phone. “I’m terribly sorry, but something argents’ just come up and I have to go now. Can I call you back this evening, say about, oh, nine?”

“Eight-thirty would be better,” she murmured suggestively, as if they were planning an intimate liaison.

"Eight-thirty it is.” He hung up and wrapped his daughter in his arms, wondering why it had been such an unsettling call. He thought it over and came to the conclusion that for some obscure reason, he didn’t like misleading the invisible woman behind that beguiling voice.

Maxine thought she’d heard a female voice in the background. Well, it was nothing to her; whoever he really was, he must have a life that included women.

When the line went dead abruptly she shrugged and thought about the call. She’d assumed that she and Edna must have heard every kind of call imaginable, but this one had been in a class of its own.

Harold had sounded polite, hesitant, a little shy, but certainly not the type of shy she was most familiar with. That kind was usually into domination and submission, and she was willing to bet that Harold wasn’t one of them.

He was intelligent, not that some of her other callers weren’t; the difference was that they were just intelligently single-minded, intent on having their needs satisfied. They certainly weren’t interested in what she was like, beyond the standard stuff such as what she was wearing and how excited she was by them and was she enjoying their encounter.

Would he call back?

She went over the conversation in her head, puzzling over it, wondering who Harold really was. There had to be more to it than just wanting to get to know her. He must have some obscure fetish that she’d never come across, she decided.

There wasn’t time to think much about it. She could hear Graham, awake from his nap and wanting to be picked up, and the business phone was sure to ring again at any moment.

Maxine dismissed Harold from her mind and hurried off down the hall to rescue her son.

That evening, however, she knew instantly who it was when the call came at precisely eight- thirty. Graham had had his bath and gone down forty minutes before, and Maxine was curled in an easy chair with the newspaper. The radio was turned low, tuned to an FM station that played hits from the seventies.

She turned the volume down still further and used her most languorous business voice.

“Hello, there, India here."

“Hello again, India. It’s Harold"—there was the tiniest of pauses—"Walters.”

“Well, Harold Walters, how nice to hear from you.” It was only then that she was aware she’d been waiting for his call. Now why would she do a thing like that?

Her heartbeat picked up. She had to work at keeping her voice normal. “Are you having an enjoyable evening, Harold?”

Too late, she realized that wasn’t a question she’d normally ask a client; the fact that they were calling her meant that they hoped to have an enjoyable evening.

She wasn’t on the ball tonight.

Snap out of it, Bleckner. This is business.

“Actually, I'm having a great evening,” he said in the deep baritone that Maxine recalled so well from their earlier conversation. It was sexy, understated, a quiet, assured voice that hinted at a man who knew who he was and accepted it.

“I have a glass of red wine going, Bob Dylan on the sound system, and now you on the telephone.” He gave a deep sigh that made her smile. "It doesn’t get much better, India."

"Glad to hear it. I like Dylan, too.” She could hear the music playing softly in the background. "I’ve got the radio on—they're playing Rod Stewart. What other music do you listen to, besides Dylan?” If this guy was going to pay her just to chat, why not talk about things that were interesting to her?

“Tom Waits, ever heard of him?”

She never had.

“Funky blues,” he explained, adding that if she liked Dylan, she’d probably like Waits as well. “I used to play blues guitar in college, a long time ago.”

"Do you still play?”

“Once in a while. To amuse myself, when I have the time.” He turned the conversation back to her. "What do you read besides poetry, India?”

“Mystery.” Thank God Edna was as good at reviewing books as she was at relating the plots of movies. "How about you, Harold?”

"Oh, bits of everything. I like science fiction, mystery, biography. I enjoy reading about how other people live their lives, what motivates them to make the choices they make.”

She might enjoy that, too, if she ever got the time, Maxine thought a little wistfully.

She heard Edna’s key in the lock. The older woman came in and gave her a wave and a smile as she hung her raincoat in the closet. She pretended to tip a teacup to her lips and Maxine nodded hearty agreement. She’d love a cup of tea. She also wouldn’t mind finishing this conversation in private, which was weird; she’d never had any qualms before about having Edna hear her business patter.

“You never told me where you live, Maxine. I assume you’re also from Vancouver?”

"How did you guess?"

He chuckled, a warm and intimate sound that brought an answering smile to her lips. “Daffodils. When I said I liked daffodils, you said you did, too. And I just assumed from that that you lived here.”

“It’s a great city; I love Vancouver.” She did, even though she lived in a suburb outside it.

Edna had come back into the living room while she waited for the kettle to boil, and Maxine suddenly felt duty-bound to add some spice to this strange call.

“It rains a lot here, but I don’t mind it. One of the things I most enjoy doing is walking in the rain with just a raincoat on; it’s such a delicious feeling, the coolness against the thin material, being naked underneath."

Edna pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow, then nodded hearty approval. It was a new line, one neither of them had used before.

Harold was less enthusiastic. “I’ve never tried it.  Don’t think I will, either. I’ve heard that guys in raincoats with no pants get arrested and thrown in the slammer. I guess gals are different, but aren’t you afraid of getting in an accident?” He laughed. He had a nice laugh, deep and hearty and spontaneous. “Didn’t your mother ever give you that old lecture about wearing clean underwear in case you had to go to the hospital?"

Maxine had to laugh too. “Come to think of it, she did, Harold. I guess everyone’s mother used that line.”

“Are you close to your mother, India?” The question was sincere and unexpected, and she hesitated before she answered, taken aback. No one except her female friends had ever asked her that before.

“I was, but my mother died when I was sixteen.” Now, what had possessed her to be truthful? And why would such old news make her feel a sudden new pang of loss?

Edna stopped on her way into the kitchen and turned, giving Maxine a puzzled look. She was talking to a client about her mother?

Maxine rolled her eyes and shrugged, indicating that she had a really strange one on the line.

"I’m sorry. That must have been tough for you, losing your mom when you were so young." His voice was thoughtful. “Think it’s hard for a girl, growing up without a mother?"

Of course, Maxine instantly thought about Graham not having a father. “I'd say it depends a lot on the other parent. Kids definitely need one person who loves them, don’t you think?” It was a subject she’d spent a lot of time mulling over. "They need one person who loves them unconditionally, who lets them find out who they really are without trying to make them into"—she hesitated, because this was an area she had strong feelings and fears about—“into something society thinks is acceptable.” She couldn’t seem to stop talking, now that she’d started. “I think at a certain stage parents should ask kids, ‘What is it you really want?’ And then listen hard to what they say, and respect it, whatever it is.”

“Hmmm.” He was considering her answer. "That’s pretty perceptive, India. I definitely agree with you. So did you have that when you were growing up? Somebody who let you just be you, who asked you what you really wanted?”

This guy was just way too peculiar.

"Not really.”
Not at all
. “My father was the type who had strict ideas about what his daughter should be and how she should act. Nobody ever asked me what I wanted.” Maxine bit her lip. She was being much too candid here. Besides, she tried not to think too much about her father. She wondered again how the heck a business call had turned so personal.

"So who has a totally happy childhood, Harold?” She made her voice deliberately upbeat. She really didn’t want to go any deeper into her family problems. “How about you? What kind of parents did you have?”

“Oh, normal, I guess. If there is such a thing. My family was nomadic, my dad was in the army, so we moved constantly. How about you, India? Did you grow up moving, or did you stay in one place?"

He was too adroit at turning the tables. “A small town in the Rockies until I left home,” she said, and before he could pursue the topic she hurried on. Two could play this game. “You said you travel a lot with your job, Harold. Ever thought about settling down? Marriage, kids, the whole nine yards?” This call was going where no call had gone before, so she might as well just let it roll. He was paying, after all.

There was a tiny pause, and then he said, “I was married once. I think that's about all I can handle.”

“Bad memories?” She knew all about those, the times in the middle of the night when there was no way to get off the treadmill of "what if” and “I should have.” She’d learned by now just to go through the scenes, counting them off like beads on a string. Even now, when she was wide-awake, thinking about Ricky gave her the familiar tight knot in her gut.

“Some bad memories, yeah," he said slowly. “She wasn’t any better than I was at marriage. It takes two to make it, and it takes two to wreck it, and looking back I did my share," he said in a rueful tone.

“Sounds like the words of a country-western time.”

He grunted, and then to her surprise went on explaining. "See, my childhood left me with wanderlust, India. I’m just not much good at everyday, mundane living, I’m afraid. I like, ohh, nice hotels and room service and executive-class seating. I want to be able to take off to Europe or Asia or Africa at a moment’s notice, no strings, no responsibilities.”

“That’s my motto too, no responsibilities.” The idea had only superficial appeal. Graham was her anchor, and she liked it that way, although there were times . . . Maxine glanced at the stack of bills that had arrived that morning. She’d put them on the top of the bookcase so Graham wouldn’t tear them up or try to eat them.

“So it sounds as if you enjoy your work, Harold."

Edna set a mug of tea on the chair’s armrest. She took a seat on the sofa, propped her reading glasses on her nose, and opened a paperback, sipping her tea, but Maxine knew she was listening avidly to this unusual conversation.

“Yeah, I do enjoy it, most of it." He sounded more relaxed than when he’d talked about his marriage. “A little less pressure would be good, but basically I’m pretty happy. How about you, India? You enjoy what you do?”

“Absolutely." There was nothing like making enough to pay those pesky bills. “I was born for this job. Where else could I be myself, be outrageous and naughty and scandalous, and get paid for it? I’m sensual and adventurous, but not indiscriminate, Harold. This is an ideal way for a lady like me to enjoy safe sex, wouldn’t you say?”