Hawke

Still, the woman lowered the light from the red-shaded lamps by the couch where the man was lying, and said, “Enough light?”

“It’s fine, thank you.”

She pulled a chair closer to the couch and sat down, crossing her long legs. There was the faintest whisper of silk on silk as she did so.

“Comfy?” she asked.

“Quite.”

“Then let’s begin, shall we?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“What would you like to talk about today?”

“My addiction.”

“Addiction? I wasn’t aware that you had one.”

“Neither was I. Until quite recently, that is.”

“Are we talking about drugs? Food? Alcohol?”

“We are talking about sex.”

“Sex?”

“Yes. I’ve discovered I’m a sex addict.”

“I see. And how did you come by this amazing discovery?”

“I’m constantly overwhelmed with … thoughts. Day and night. I can’t sleep at night. I can’t function by daylight.”

“These thoughts. Can you describe them?”

“Some of them. Others—”

“All right. Let’s begin with the ones you’re comfortable describing.”

“Well, a recent one, then. I’m in your office, lying on the couch, and there’s a fire in the fireplace. It’s early evening. It’s sleeting outside, you can hear icy pellets beating against the windowpanes and—”

“Wait a minute. My office?”

“Yes.”

“And where am I? Am I in your dream?”

“Yes. You’ve turned the lights down, so most of the light comes from the fire. I can see its shadows flickering on the ceiling above my head.”

“And where am I?”

“You’ve pulled up a chair next to the couch. My eyes are closed but I hear you. You’ve crossed your legs. I hear a rustle of silk when you do it and open my eyes. I try to catch a glimpse of—”

“Yes?”

“You know. When you cross them, I try to see.”

“What I’m wearing, you mean. Underneath my skirt.”

“Yes.”

“And in the dream, do you see?”

“No. I see nothing.”

“But sometimes I do this. Is that part of your dream, too? What do you see then?”

“I see everything.”

“In these dreams. Do I ever unbutton my blouse like this?”

“Yes. Just like that.”

“Remove it? Drop it to the floor? Like this?”

“Yes.”

“And you can smell my perfume when I bend over you, can’t you.”

“Yes. I breathe it. Deep into my lungs.”

“Perhaps I kiss your mouth. Like this?”

“Yes.”

“And touch you … here.”

“Yes.”

And how does it make you feel?”

“Like I’m drowning. Like falling.”

“I’ve missed you, Alex. So much.”

“Be here, Doc.”

“Yes. I’m here. I’m here now.”

22

Victoria Sweet took one last look in the mirror in her front hall.

Hair? Check.

Makeup? Check.

Dress? Check.

Jewelry? Check.

Sanity? Well, maybe not, but what the hey? She was in love. She and Alex had spent a wonderful hour together earlier, and, already, she was aching to see him again. Getting dressed, she had imagined him standing before his mirror shaving, perhaps even feeling just the way she was feeling.

“Ta-da,” she said to her reflection, as she slipped into her warmest winter coat and opened her front door. Stokely was out there at the curb with the engine ru

She somehow managed to negotiate her icy walkway without ending up ass over teakettle. And there was Stokely standing on the curb, holding the passenger side door open. Holding the door open? It was not a Stokely thing to do.

“Evenin’, Miz Vicky,” he said in his best Driving Miss Daisy accent. “Y’all lookin’ partickly fine, this evenin’. Yas’m. Y’all in partickly fine fettle tonight all right.”

“Fine fettle?” she said, climbing in. “Let me guess where you came up with that.” Stokely smiled, shut her door, and went around to the driver’s side. He eased his big frame behind the wheel.

“Fine fettle, yes indeed!” he said.

“Okay, Stoke,” she said. “What’s all this stuff about?”

“What’s all what stuff about?” He cranked up the Hummer and pulled out into the snowy neighborhood street. It was mercifully warm inside the bizarre vehicle.

“Oh, holding my door open,” Vicky said. “All this ‘shufflin’ shoes and silver trays’ stuff.”

“Actin’ on orders, is all,” Stoke said, pulling away from the curb. “Bossman say jump, old Stoke, he leaps around like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs!” Stoke slapped his knee. “Yassuh!”

“Are you on some kind of medication, Stoke?” Vicky asked, gri

“Alex, he says, ‘Stoke, you be nice to Vicky,’ is all I’m sayin’,” Stokely said. “So, I’m bein’ nice to Vicky.”

“Fu

“Try to be, mostly. But the boss, now he thinks I need noodging. That’s what folks call encouragement in New York.”

“Noodging.”

“That’s it. He asked me put on this damn sport coat, just for you. Sharp, ain’t it? Boss looks sharp tonight, too. Got on his tux. Man is fixated with tuxedos. Hell, wouldn’t surprise me he wore one he was taking you to KFC.”

“I know. Weird. Do you think he’s weird?”

“Hell, everybody’s weird. You ought to know that more than most folks.”

Vicky nodded her head and said, “I mean, do you think he’s a little bit … abnormal?”

“ ’Course he’s abnormal! Normal folks is a dime a dozen. Now, maybe I ain’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I do know one thing. Alex Hawke is a fine man. Maybe the finest I ever knew. Rich as he is, that man will do anything for anybody at any time. You know what I’m sayin’ ?”

Vicky was silent the rest of the way, lost in thought. Stoke had taken a series of turns that brought them to the entrance of the Georgetown Club. A doorman stepped out from under the canopied walk and opened Vicky’s door.

Before she got out, she said, “Thanks, Stoke. I wasn’t trying to get you to say anything negative about Alex, you know. I love him, too. I just thought you could help me understand him a little better.”

“I know what you’re sayin’. He does act fu

“Chipper?” Vicky said, shaking her head. “Yeah, now that you mention it, he is chipper.”

She blew Stoke a kiss and turned away to go inside. It was freezing out in the wind.

“I’m going to tell you something, Vicky,” Stoke said then.

“Yes?”

“I seen ’em come and I seen ’em go. Women been chasin’ Alex all his life. Ain’t no thing. He never cared about one of them. Until you, I mean.”

“Thanks, Stoke,” Vicky said.

“See, you figured the boy out. You want to catch Alex Hawke, rule number one is you don’t chase him.”

“Nobody’s chasing anybody here, Stoke,” Vicky said. “Believe me.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s right. Must be the reason why he’s so happy these days.”

The maоtre d’ didn’t bother to look up as she approached his podium. He was new, she saw, and didn’t know who she was. When he deigned to lift his head from his reservations book, he was somehow able to look down his nose at her at the same time. Even though Vicky was a good foot taller than he was.

“Oui?” the man said, assuming she was French for some unknown reason.

“I’m meeting someone,” Vicky said. “He may be waiting.”

“The name of the reservation?”

“Hawke. Alexander Hawke,” Vicky said, and started a mental countdown to see how long it took the name to have its predictable effect. One point five seconds.

“Ah, mais oui, mademoiselle! Monsieur Hawke. Oui, Monsieur Hawke, il attenderait au bar. Mais certainement!” the man said, bowing from the waist.