thought that would get your juices flowing. First one there takes a table. Say, I ran into Carly Thompson this morning. She’s here sealing a deal with Woodie’s to carry a full line of her Scarlet Woman Cosmetics. Can you beat that? The girl is gone.”
“She sure is. Last time we spoke, she said she had some hot irons in the fire, but I thought she was talking about a man.”
“She’s headed for Martha’s Vineyard,” Connie said, releasing a sigh of longing. “Wish I could go with her.”
“Me too, but I’ll settle for my new assignment. See you later.”
* * *
Jake dressed in the style associated with jazzmen of the thirties and forties, picked up his guitar, and headed for Blues Alley. Half a block from the club, he put on dark glasses to hide his telltale hazel eyes, conceal his wink, and complete his masquerade.
When that curtain rose, he was Mac Connelly. He wasn’t ashamed of what he did, but he couldn’t afford to have his name associated with the jazz subculture. If his association with the musicians was known, the reputation could deny him his coveted goal of an appointment as scholar-in-residence at his alma mater. Furthermore, his boss at the department had warned him that, on a nightclub bandstand, he was a sitting duck for the enemies he had incurred in his former work, and the bullet wound in his left shoulder was a testimonial to his boss’s wisdom. He’d taken that bullet three blocks from the department, proof at that time—if he needed any—that his enemies knew where to find him.
When the lights came up, he was already seated, tuning his guitar and waiting for the six other band members to walk onstage. His blood accelerated its pace through his veins the minute he heard Buddy’s downbeat. As usual, the dance of his magic fingers up and down the strings brought cries of “Right on, Mac”, “Kill it, man” and “Take it on home, baby” from his devoted fans. And as they did whenever he played, the crowd clamored for his rendition of “Back Home in Indiana,” his signature piece.
The third and last set ended too quickly. As always, he remained seated while the band took a bow and the lights dimmed. Still high from total immersion in his music, he picked up the glass of iced tea that he’d placed on the floor beside him to resemble liquor, emptied it, and ducked out back. He’d had a ball, but uneasiness pervaded him because, unlikely as it seemed, he was fairly certain that Allison Wakefield had been in the audience. Allison wore her hair up, and this woman’s hair hung around her shoulders, but an African-American woman with big, almond-shaped brown eyes and long sweeping lashes in a flawless, oval-shaped ebony face was not the most common sight. Besides, he not only had the facial similarity for a clue, his reaction to the woman was similar to what he felt when he first saw Allison. He’d thought her the Bach fugue type; it wouldn’t have occurred to him that she’d pay to hear jazz.
He took every conceivable precaution to conceal his identity at the club, including never being seen standing, since his six-feet-five-and-a-half-inch height and 215-pound weight might give him away. His music was his life, and he cherished those few hours on Friday and Saturday nights with Buddy Dee’s band. He’d have to watch his every move, because a reporter could damage him almost irreparably.
* * *
“He got away again,” Allison grumbled to Connie, as they waited outside the club.
Connie scrutinized Allison’s face. “Are you sweet on Mac?”
Allison glared at her. “Of course not. With those black glasses, I don’t even know what he looked like. But pins and needles shoot all through me when that man plays, and he sits there, in his element. He’s so mysterious.”
Connie’s shoulders lifted in a quick shrug. “You reporters are all alike. You have to know everything. It’s a wonder you don’t walk up to the man and interrogate him.”
“Can you see anybody intimidating that big guy?”
“Yeah. You might not try to browbeat him, but you’d dig into his business just to talk to him. He’s your type.”
“My type?”
“Sure he is. You like a man who’s four or five inches taller than your five feet nine, and you could really luxuriate and feel tiny with this guy. He must be near six feet six. Of course, I’m just guessing; he’s always sitting down.”
“Yeah, he is,” Allison replied, bemused. He’d already taken his seat when the lights went up and remained sitting after they went down, while other band members walked in and out in full view of the audience. She could only conclude that he had a disability. Maybe he couldn’t walk. She dismissed the matter with a shrug. It was of no import. A jazz musician would be the last man who’d interest her.
She put on her Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong CDs as soon as she got home and sang along with them while she sorted out her clothes for the tour. With gentle strokes, her fingers brushed the once-yellow leather rose that had long since turned brown from her loving caresses. Half a dozen times, she’d thrown it into the wastebasket, only to retrieve it and return it to her little collection of treasures—the green quilted silk box in which she kept her first bra, the lace handkerchief she’d carried to her freshman high school prom, the empty perfume bottle that had held the first gift she received from a man. The yellow rose had nestled in the elegant bow on the box in which the perfume had been wrapped. Edna Wakefield hadn’t approved of a deliveryman for her daughter, and she’d let him go. But unlike opportunistic Roland Farr—her betrayer—that man had loved her, she now knew.
What of Mac Connelly? She couldn’t get him out of her mind. Tonight, she’d sensed in him a peculiarly erotic aura that she hadn’t detected the many other nights she’d seen him play. As she watched his fingers tease those strings, an unfamiliar heat had pulsated in her. A laugh rumbled in her throat. First Jacob Covington had poleaxed her, and now this. No doubt about it; she was a late bloomer.
* * *
Early Sunday afternoon, two days later, as Allison stepped out of her Jacuzzi, she heard Covington’s voice on her answering machine, interrupted it, and took the call.
“Don’t forget that our flight leaves at eight tomorrow morning, Allison. We might as well use first names. I’m called Jake. As I was saying, please be on time. I have a ten o’clock appointment, and I don’t want to miss that plane.”
As soon as her heartbeat returned to normal, she summoned her most professional demeanor. “Mr. Covington, I’m assuming that you don’t make these statements because you want to rile me, but because you’re deficient in the art of conversation. I will be on time, dear, and I will wash behind my ears before I leave home.” His uproarious laughter cooled her temper, and she vowed not to react negatively to every one of his incautious remarks.
“Did anybody ever try to blunt that sharp tongue of yours?”
“Now, you...” she began, remembered her counsel of seconds earlier, and stopped. “Jake, do you think we automatically rub each other the wrong way?”
That deep, dark, sexy laugh again. “I think we rub each other, but I’d be the last one to suggest it’s the wrong way. Rubbing with you gives me a good feeling.”
“Well, it irritates me,” she huffed.
“In what way? I’d be happy to soothe whatever I irritate. Just let me know what I’ve...uh...inflamed, and I’ll gladly cool it off.” His laugher caressed her. Warmed her. If she didn’t
