I scribbled some notes on a pad I keep near the phone. After stuffing the notes in my jacket pocket, I pushed the erase button, leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes to listen to the soft whir of the machine.
Wind blowing in my face woke me up. A forerunner of Big Al’s promised storm, a stiff breeze was blowing in off Puget Sound through the still-open window. The lights in the room were turned off, but as I got up to close the window and go to bed, my way was lit by the hazy glow of moonlight reflected off low-hanging clouds.
Half asleep, I tried to remember exactly how the evening had ended. Had I ever called for a cab to send Jasmine Day back to the Mayflower Park Hotel? Had I turned out the lights, or had she?
I shed my tie, jacket, and shoulder holster, leaving them hanging, in that order, on a chair at the dining-room table. I kicked off my shoes and padded down the hall in my stocking feet. After stopping off briefly in the bathroom, I stripped and headed gratefully for bed. The red numbers on my clock radio said 3:45 as I slipped my feet under the covers.
“So you finally decided to come to bed,” a voice said softly.
The mattress dipped slightly as someone on the other side of my king-size bed turned toward me.
If I were ever going to have a heart attack, it would have been then, that very moment. I had thought I was totally alone in my apartment—I wasn’t. Someone was there, not only in my apartment but in my bed.
Jumping to my feet, I frantically groped behind me, fingers searching blindly for the switch on the beside lamp. At last I found it. With a click, the room was awash in light.
On the other side of the bed, leaning sleepily on one elbow, was Jasmine Day, or at least someone who looked vaguely like Jasmine Day. Her long, blonde hair was gone. The lady in my bed had hair cut as short as a 1950s crewcut.
“What happened to your hair?” I croaked.
Jasmine gestured toward the dresser. I looked. There, indeed, was the familiar mane of blonde hair, perched on what I recognized as the silver cocktail shaker from my bar.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“Waiting for you,” she answered. “I figured you’d come to bed eventually. Do you want to get into bed or not?”
Suddenly self-conscious, I got into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. I lay there, holding the covers with a death grip, staring up at the ceiling.
“You asked about my hair. Does it shock you?”
I glanced over at her without answering. She was lying on her belly, chin resting on her arms, with the golden curve of one naked breast pressed hard against the firm surface of the mattress.
“When I was in the seventh grade back in Jasper, one of the kids in our class, Bruce Cantwell, got cancer. The treatment made all his hair fall out. I came up with the brainy idea that everybody else in class should shave their heads. I was the only one who actually did it. My mother pitched a fit. She made me wear a wig until it grew out. For a long time, I forgot how good it felt to wear my hair that short.
“Last year, while I was in treatment, I remembered. So I cut my hair off. It’s like a disguise now. People expect me to look a certain way. When I go out without a wig, no one knows who I am. I get my anonymity back. I can walk down the street and be Mary Lou Gibbons and nobody knows who’s there.”
She moved toward me on the bed. “Are you mad that I’m here?”
“Surprised,” I answered.
“So you don’t mind?”
I was smart enough to see that any reply I might give to that question would be treacherous, so I kept quiet. Her hand reached out, tentatively touching my shoulder. A solid sheet of gooseflesh spread from her fingertips over the entire length of my body.
She inched closer to me. Now I could feel the warm, supple softness of her body against mine, hip to hip, breast nudging gently against a rib. I was conscious of the noisy thump-a-thump of my own heartbeat. I turned to look at her. Jasmine Day’s finely molded face was only inches from mine, her blue eyes intense and watchful in the bright light while her fingers traced an absentminded pattern on my upper arm.
“Maybe I’m nothing but a sexist at heart,” she continued, smiling a little. “I’m used to being pursued. If a man wants me, I don’t want him. It’s as simple as that. I’m not used to being sent packing in a cab.”
Deftly, she pried the covers loose from my fingers, lay my arm flat on the bed, then nuzzled into the curve of my neck.
“Besides,” she murmured, her lips grazing the sensitive skin over my collar bone, “I wanted to get to know you better.”
And so she did. It took a little encouragement on her part, but eventually I rose to the occasion.
Jasmine Day didn’t seem to have any complaints.