want his hands on me,” she whimpered. “I want my hands on him. I want to peel off every article of his clothing and lick him from head to toe.”
This was pathetic. Emily Chaplin, daughter of the senior partner and the esteemed judge, did not think about licking handsome strangers, let alone say it out loud.
She gulped. Until now.
Okay, well, that was neither here nor there. Didn’t happen. Not going to happen. She repeated both those sentences a few more times. Didn’t happen. Not going to happen.
He was The Wild One and she was Pollyanna and never the twain would meet.
She felt better now that she had identified this weakness in herself—identified and dealt with it. So she had a small problem. Did that mean she had to abandon her whole quest, her once-in-a-lifetime, footloose-and-fancy-free escapade?
“Absolutely not!” she told herself. “I’m here and I’m in this thing, and I’m going to stay until I solve the puzzle and save Tyler’s adorable butt.”
It probably would have been better to leave the “adorable” out of that equation, but she felt sure it was just a tiny oversight. The important thing was that she was back on the case. She’d heard his door slam and his footsteps bang down the hall a few minutes ago, so she could logically assume that he had once more taken off into parts unknown in North Beach. And she needed to get a move on if she wanted to catch up.
Quickly pulling on her new T-shirt, khaki pants and sneakers, Emily yanked her arms into her suit jacket on the way down the stairs. She certainly hoped she could get out of there before she ran into Kate or the cook again. How embarrassing to be caught in bed with Tyler five minutes after she’d assured Kate she wasn’t interested in him.
But luck seemed to be with her this time. She didn’t see another soul. After snatching a map of the area out of a rack near the front desk, she was ready to go.
North Beach, straight ahead.
Thank God. Outside, with a silky San Francisco breeze wafting through her hair and cooling her fevered brow, her head felt much clearer, much better able to cope with the overpowering Tyler O’Toole.
Surely all that sex and sin malarkey was just a momentary reaction to The Wild One room and its leather and chrome delights. Now that she was out in the world, she wasn’t susceptible to him at all. Right?
It was dusk as she followed her map down Columbus Avenue, and that gave a romantic glow to the parade of cafés and bistros, delis and pastry shops. She didn’t want to look like a tourist, but she couldn’t help staring at the hustle and bustle of customers of all colors and shapes and sizes. Her senses were on overload as her ears filled with the sounds of opera on one corner and jazz on the next, and her nose inhaled the wonderful odors of fresh-ground coffee, garlic, cheeses, fresh tomato, and a whole lot of other things she couldn’t identify.
Her stomach growled loudly enough for her to hear it over the recorded aria drifting from a nearby Italian restaurant. Suddenly she remembered she hadn’t eaten since that banana split at the coffee shop so many hours ago. It felt like months.
As she gaped through the window at the mouthwatering wares inside a deli, a man carrying a huge salami almost knocked her down. When she backed up to avoid the salami, a woman lumbering along the sidewalk with a fully dressed mannequin—dressed like a pirate?—got her from behind. Stumbling away from the mannequin, Emily tripped over two men at a sidewalk table who were smoking cigars, drinking cappuccino and arguing at the top of their lungs.
Bohemian, eccentric and colorful, North Beach was great, even if there was no hint of a beach. After the quiet B and B, this extravaganza of sounds and smells was a bit overwhelming, but it was also the perfect setting for an offbeat adventure.
Starving, her stomach rumbling, she managed to navigate a crowded coffee bar and nab a cup of latte and some chocolate biscotti. The latte was better than anything she’d ever tasted in her life. Look what a little hunger could do for you!
As she kept an eye out for any sign of Tyler, sipping her latte, she stumbled over a lingerie store where she picked up a few pretty items, and wandered past everything from bookstores to massage parlors. She stared openmouthed at some of the boutique windows, where they had the kinkiest clothes imaginable on display. A bikini made out of plastic Easter grass? Or was that Astro Turf?
“Hey, you! You interested in some bargains?” A woman at a makeshift stand parked in the alley motioned to her, drawing Emily away from the Easter grass. “I’m closing up for the night. I got some great stuff here, and I’m slashing prices so I don’t have to drag it home.”
Discounted merchandise in the alley? Emily glanced one way and then the other, looking for the catch. This sounded like a real swindle, like someone selling stolen watches out from under his overcoat, or hot VCRs on the back of a truck. And the saleswoman had so many piercings in her head she probably whistled like a teakettle every time she drank a hot beverage.
But still…the colorful piles of clothing and jewelry did look interesting, and too unique to be stolen.
“Did you make these?” Emily asked, holding up a sequined red jacket in one hand and a pair of lavishly embroidered bell-bottoms in the other.
“It’s vintage,” the Amazing Pierced Lady replied. “I pick up all kinds of ratty things at thrift shops and then add all the good stuff, recut them, you know, spruce them up, make them cool.”
Ratty things from thrift shops, repackaged and sold in an alley? Her mother would kill her if she ever found out she’d bought secondhand clothes. But come on! These things were great. The workmanship was first-rate, and all the handiwork was beautiful.
“I’m going for it,” she said to the saleswoman. “When am I ever going to see anything like this again?” She mulled over a tie-dyed pile—did she want the halter or the crop top?
“I’d go with the halter,” her fashion advisor offered. “The cropped stuff just doesn’t make it without a pierced navel.”
Emily was willing to concede that point. She reached for the tie-dyed halter top and an embroidered denim miniskirt, holding them up to check the size. They looked like they would fit perfectly. “How much?”
But the saleswoman had more sales in mind. “Did you see these?” she inquired, coming up with a box of shoes that had been set off to one side. “These are my bestsellers. If you take the halter and the skirt, I’ll throw in the shoes and take fifty dollars for the whole bunch.”
Ooh, the shoes were to die for. Ms. Pierced had apparently taken some clunky wooden platform sandals from the seventies, and then carved and painted monkeys and palm trees into the wood. One of a kind was an understatement. Emily had to have those sandals. Without further ado, she located her size and went for her wallet. But as she peeled off a fifty-dollar bill and handed it over, she happened to glance in the other direction.
And there, on the other side of the street, Emily caught sight of a very large man, shaped something like a chunk of concrete. He was tooling down the sidewalk, headed somewhere in a big hurry.
“Oh, my God,” she said under her breath. “That’s Slab!”
As Ms. Pierced dutifully stuffed the clothes and shoes into the bag with the lingerie, Emily grabbed her purchases and rushed out of the alley, not wasting a moment. Even though it was growing darker, the street was brightly
