back of him forcing her to gaze straight into his cool blue eyes while he took her. He pressed his hand against her flat tummy, just above her Venus mound through her clothes. “Oh!” she cried, as he reawakened her g-spot simply by resting his hand there.
“You’re so responsive,” he said, continuing to pat and rub her through her clothes. “I could make you come again just doing this.”
“Will you?”
“No,” he said, sitting up. “I’d rather leave you worked up so you’ll have to go see Sloan.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” she admitted, sitting up herself and checking her lips in a pocket mirror.
“No? Why not?” Hugo took her hand and they left the summer house.
“I don’t believe we’re seeing each other, as such, anymore.”
“Oh Pamela, you told him didn’t you?”
“I had to.”
“Oh, you did not.”
“I couldn’t deceive him.”
“Well? What did he say?”
“He said he understood perfectly, reminding me he’d done pretty much the same thing with his boss, Mrs. Branwell, last year.”
“Then, he wasn’t upset?”
“No, simply detached. He said in view of my confused emotional state we ought to take some time off from seeing each other.”
“If he said that last week, perhaps enough time has elapsed,” Hugo suggested encouragingly as they began the misty walk back to the village.
“Hugo, may I have my panties back?”
Chapter Three Garda, Bettie and Brooke
Garda returned to L.A. distracted by the pleasures she had experienced so recently in Random Point but pessimistic about ever finding the like in her city.
On arriving home at her cottage in Laurel Canyon, she was delighted to find that Hugo Sands had already emailed her about a possible playmate, a creative businessman, of the proper age, personable and possessed of sterling references. But Garda perceived a possibly snag when she accessed Augie Rose’s photo online, remembering that she had already met this gentleman, across a bargaining table several months before.
The incident occurred while Garda was helping a friend in private practice with her case overload, unbeknownst to her own employers. Garda’s client, a small bookstore owner, was suing Augie Rose for recovering and retitling the same erotic paperbacks that had been sold to the book dealer several years before.
Augie Rose claimed he had bought the books without covers from a printer after a publisher defaulted on a large order and had no idea that the books had ever been printed before. A shrewd and amiable arbiter, Rose annoyed Garda by striking a deal with the bookstore owner whereby he would pay the damages in paperbacks rather than actual money. Garda’s fee was barely enough to purchase one pair of shoes on sale at Barneys.
There was a second complication involving the ubiquitous Augie Rose, for the studio had just arranged for her, in her capacity as contract lawyer, to visit his house in Nichol’s Canyon and secure it for a location shoot. She received this dispatch from Jeffrey Jardine, the new head of her division, a singularly charmless young dynamo, to whom she privately referred as: The Barking Crewcut, but whom she had no wish to irritate with potential conflicts of interest.
She was now scheduled to go up to Rose’s house, negotiate an acceptable fee and hope that through all this he wouldn’t recognize her from the previous mediation.
But Augie Rose was not one to forget a sleek, striking redhead, even if met over the bargaining table during a dull, legal dispute. In fact, Garda was fully appreciated by Augie Rose at the time, though she had treated him with the haughty contempt she felt deserved by any bandit. (Garda didn’t believe a word of Augie’s innocence in the matter of the recovered titles.)
Garda drove her convertible up Nichol’s Canyon that brilliantly sunny, hot morning, in a new fitted suit of French grey jersey that clung elegantly to her slender form and complimented her straight, shoulder length russet hair to Technicolor perfection. Augie Rose had seemed an agreeable if unctuous fellow. No doubt the oiliness was necessary to lubricate the cogs of his business, she mused, turning up his long, winding driveway to the ivy covered, pocket mansion where he lived.
It was obvious to Garda that if she did go out with Augie Rose, she could expect only the most refined wining and dining. While ringing the bell she tried to compose herself, for her heart had begun to beat fast. Something pink and luscious in bloom around the doorway was perfuming the air exquisitely. A Latina cleaning woman opened the door and showed Garda the way to the patio garden, where Augie Rose was enjoying his morning coffee and papers.
“Hi, remember me?” Garda asked, extending her hand to shake his. Augie looked at her.
“Oh, hello. Of course, you were Manny’s mediator.”
“You have a good memory, Mr. Rose. I’m Garda Hudson.”
“You get around. Have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”
“No thanks,” Garda said, sitting opposite him in the charmingly landscaped garden overlooking the canyon. “It’s lovely up here, and so secluded. Perfect for a quick, little shoot.”
“So what’s the going rate for a shoot?” he asked innocently.
“Depending on how many rooms we use, between five and fifteen thousand a day.”
“I can make the whole house available to you,” said Augie helpfully.
“May I take a quick tour?”
“Please, come with me,” Augie said, leading her back into the house while idly wondering if she’d notice that most of the rooms weren’t big enough to shoot in.
“Mr. Rose, I have a favor to ask,” Garda began as he was conducting her though the kitchen and pantry.
“Yes, Miss. Hudson?”
“Well, I took that mediation case to help a friend. The studio doesn’t like us to do that sort of thing though. I could get in trouble if it became a matter of record. May I count on your discretion?”
“Absolutely. As long as you believe me when I tell you I had no idea that Manny had ever bought those titles previously. I had a definite feeling throughout our proceeding that you considered me a species of literary pond scum.”
Garda colored. “I’m very sorry,” she murmured. “I’d never even heard of a case like that before and I didn’t know what to think.”
“I don’t want you to think that I’m some sort of chiseler.”
“Honestly, I don’t.”
“But, you did. Admit it.”
“Don’t
