Lightning Strikes. Colleen Collins
height has an advantage,” commented Jerome, folding his hands neatly on top of each other. “You can store things underneath, saving room in the bedroom.”
The woman arched one unnaturally blond eyebrow. “And the brass…the color isn’t uniform.”
“It’s an antique,” Jerome explained. “It’s aged with time, like a fine wine.”
The woman sighed and placed her hand on her husband’s arm, her thin, tan wrist adorned with a sparkling tennis bracelet. “I’m not sure, darling. I want an antique, yes, but this looks so…so old…”
Jerome glanced at his wristwatch. “Well, I promised I’d hold it for you until noon, which is in two minutes…”
In the following silence, Blaine looked at the piece of magic before her. It was to die for. Ornate curves of brass that begged to be stroked and explored. A plump mattress that cried out for more than sleeping. Yes, this would be the ultimate wedding gift for Sonja, who had zilch furniture for her new life. And this way, Blaine could visit the bed, enjoy it vicariously as she’d always vicariously enjoyed other things in her sister’s life.
But it was more than just a bed. Or living vicariously through her sister. Suddenly, with a surge of desperation and defiance, Blaine realized how tired she was of losing things. Losing a sorta-boyfriend, losing her condo, on the verge of losing her business. It was time for Blaine Saunders to win something, damn it! Something glorious, exotic, indulgent.
She had to win this bed!
Blaine cocked her head and scrutinized it. She cleared her throat. “This bed is much too high,” she said in a low, blasé voice as though she often analyzed things like expensive brass luxuries. She slid a conspiratorial look at the couple. “Did you read about that incident at The Broadmoor recently?” She paused, letting the name of the nearby superexclusive hotel sink in. “Seems some old, high brass bed collapsed in the middle of the night. The wife survived…but…” Blaine made a tsking sound under her breath.
The woman glanced nervously at her husband. “Darling, can we talk for a moment?”
As the couple sauntered off, whispering, Jerome jerked his head toward Blaine. “What in God’s name are you doing?”
“Trying to not implode in front of those nice people.” When Jerome stared at her, she explained. “Allergies.”
“I didn’t know allergies turned people into storytellers.” He gave his head a shake. “Collapsing beds. The Broadmoor.”
She smiled sweetly. “Jerome, when are you paying Ralph?”
He shifted her a look. “I said you were second on my list—”
“I never put myself first, Jerome, but right now I have the urge. Make me first.” She batted her eyes with great exaggeration, which coaxed a smile from the older gentleman.
He lowered his voice. “Blaine, honey, you got your mama’s eyes. And when you put your mind to it, her wicked charm, too.”
Blaine grinned, remembering her mom’s sassy, stubborn ways. Maybe Blaine didn’t get Sonja’s curly blond hair and ultrafeminine style, but she’d happily call it even if she got her mom’s personality.
Jerome’s smile faded. “But, unfortunately, I don’t have the cash.”
Blaine glanced up at the ceiling, contemplating the situation. “Did you know that many small communities in Alaska still use the bartering system?”
There was a long pause. Finally, Jerome said, “The one thousand dollars I owe you doesn’t pay in full for this bed.”
“No, but it’ll pay for half. I’ll make up the rest.” She gave herself a mental shake. Make up the rest? Have I lost my mind?
On second thought, maybe this wasn’t such a crazy idea. It was only a quarter of her cruise refund. Besides, a thousand dollars wouldn’t save her agency—she needed a substantial loan to do that.
Jerome glanced over his shoulder. The man and woman were smiling, sort of, but inching toward the door. Turning back to Blaine, Jerome sighed. “Appears there’s no sale.”
Blaine glanced at her wristwatch. “Well, it’s noon so you’re not obligated to hold it any longer.” She grinned broadly. “Jerome, wrap it up with a big bow because this baby’s sold.”
BLAINE BLEW A LOCK OF hair out of her eyes as she stared at the apartment door, upon which was crookedly nailed a number 4. “Jerome,” Blaine muttered under her breath, “maybe you should’ve paid Ralph first.”
Ralph swore he misheard the address where he was to deliver the brass bed, but Blaine couldn’t help but wonder if Ralph was nursing a grudge that his account with Jerome was still unpaid. A really big grudge considering that when she discovered Ralph had misdelivered the bed, and asked him to redeliver it, he claimed it would cost her and Jerome double.
No way Blaine was paying double.
So, she’d decided to pick it up and deliver it herself.
She knocked. No answer. Great. Nobody’s home. Or are they?
Frowning, she pressed her ear to the door, trying to detect any telltale squeaking brass bed sounds. Her beautiful brass bed better not be being broken in by some apartment dwellers turned vigorous, sex-starved sex fiends! Because that was what that bed did to people—it ignited their deepest, lustiest desires. Their magical dreams. Their secret indulgences.
That’s what it’d done for Blaine, anyway.
She started to knock, but opted to pound on the door this time. “Get off that bed,” she whispered in a throaty growl.
“May I help you?” asked a scratchy, feminine voice.
Blaine spun around to see a diminutive little old lady wearing a strawberry pink running outfit and white high-heeled sandals. Her brown eyes sparkled with curiosity while she puffed on a cigarette.
“Uh, my bed—I mean, my sister’s bed—was delivered here by mistake and I need to pick it up.”
The lady blew out a stream of blue smoke. “You mean those big, burly fellows went to all that trouble, only to deliver it to the wrong place?”
Blaine nodded, fighting the urge to sneeze. Right now, she’d opt for Jerome’s cologne over cigarette smoke. Good thing she had her allergy pills with her. She’d pop another one as soon as she got near water.
“Are you going to pick up that big bed all by your little self?”
Blaine fought the urge to roll her eyes. She’d heard this all her life. At five-four, she’d been told she was too small to be on the girls’ basketball team, but that was before she’d shown off her killer dunk. And in high school, neighbors were impressed when Blaine took on the household repairs to help out her newly widowed dad. And not just the wimpy repairs, like a leaking faucet or a squeaky door. One summer Blaine put a new roof on the house!
“I’m stronger than I look,” she answered, for what seemed the zillionth time in her life. “Plus, I’m going to take the bed apart—” she lifted her toolbox “—and then I’ll cart it down piece by piece to my truck.” She motioned to the street, where her dad’s bowling buddy’s truck was parked at the curb. “Do you, uh, know where the person who lives here is?” If Blaine could get inside fast, she had a chance to get the bed to her sister’s before it got too dark.
“Donovan’s in…” The lady sucked on the cigarette as she thought. “…San Antonio, I think. Or was it San José?”
Blaine paused. “He’s in Texas or California?”
The lady nodded.
“How’d he accept a delivered bed, then end up in another state so fast?”
The lady waved her cigarette in the air. “Oh, no, no, no. He’s been out of town for almost a week now.