Fire Under Glass

Chapter One Harris & Hartley was three blocks down the street. I had ten minutes to make the trip with a portfolio of the most important drawings of my career tucked under my arm. Exiting my office building, a blast of Chicago cold wind whipped my face, and the damp pavement made me turn my heel. Splat! I was on the cement, looking up at six half-amused pedestrians, while the contents of my portfolio spilled, the breeze taking away a sheaf of papers like propaganda leaflets tossed into the sky. I failed to react until they were sailing down the street, where they met KC Gable—a hip looking twenty-something actor/biker/all around unusual person—who, at the moment, was the only one on the street kind enough to retrieve my valuable documents. Witnessing his painstaking efforts to fight the wind—and do it with a manly poise which made it look as though he plucked paper from the air as a regular practice—I didn’t bother to rise from my awkward sprawl as quickly as I might have. He approached me, trying to put my drawings back in order while I stared at his muscled chest and the slight swagger of his slim hips. He was wearing leather pants and a white tee shirt. I’d never seen a man in leather quite so close. He certainly wouldn’t fit with my circle of downtown friends. KC’s dark hair was trimmed short on top, shaved close at the sides, while a neat goatee outlined his lips and chin. Peering into the depths of his brown eyes, the shudder of fright that went through me was distressing, since I had no idea where it came from. Men like him had never attracted me before. “Thank you,” I said, as he held my papers in one hand and lifted me to my feet with the other. “Dickerson said I should wear a short skirt,” I started to ramble, as my less than graceful rise was hampered by the tiny skirt beneath my pert suit coat. I’m sure I showed my ass to half of Chicago. “Says it would distract their attention.” “Who’s Dickerson?” KC asked. (This all before I knew his name, or he knew mine.) “Oh, I’m so sorry, just my associate—who sometimes has no common sense, and neither do I right now. We have an important meeting…” I checked my watch hurriedly. “Three minutes. I will be late. Thank you so much,” I caught his eyes again, shaken even more. He was standing close, looking amused. I found his gaze unnerving. “I think I got them all. The papers,” he said pointing to drawings, as he noted my bewildered look. “You okay? You want to sit a minute, maybe? Have a cup of coffee?” “No, no, I don’t have time. But thanks.” “I was just going into the diner,” he said, pointing to McGill’s, a retro 50’s coffee shop where I often ate lunch. “No, thanks. I do have to fly—if I could.” I laughed. As I moved on, I turned back to see him staring at me. I waved, smiling, then turned to face the wind and fought my way down the street to Harris & Hartley. An hour later I returned to the offices of Ripley & Wingardt, Architectural Engineering, much less rattled and more composed. About to walk through the formal doorway—the site of my earlier reckless plunge to the ground—I suddenly gazed into the coffee shop window next door spotting my benefactor of the day. I smiled. He smiled back, and then, in a move so impulsive I have no idea where it came from, I changed directions. A minute later, I was standing by his table. “You’re still here? Still offering that cup of coffee?” “Sure,” he said. He was handsome, bold and refreshingly different from any man I’d ever been with.“KC Gable,” he offered his hand for me to shake. “Gail Henry.” “Did you get the job?” he asked next as I slid onto the vinyl seat opposite his. “Job?” “Job? Contract? Assignment? Your appointment was about money?” “Yes, it was. And I’m not sure,” I paused. “I’m not sure I didn’t botch the whole deal.” “Rushed in late, your hair a little messed,” he turned his head to inspect my short red curls, “but not too much, it does go back in place pretty easily. But then there was the run in your hose.” I almost blushed. “I was in too much of a rush to change.” “You probably keep an extra pair of pantyhose in your purse.” He was amazing. “What is your angle?” I asked, nervously trying not to spill the coffee just poured in my cup, while at the same time inspecting my sanity. Why was I having coffee with this man? KC shrugged, saying, “Nothing. I observe, make judgments, and see if I’m right.” “That sounds pretty smug to me.” “Well, try me then,” he quipped. “We’ll see how well I do. Ask me what I’ve observed about you.” He intrigued me: the charm, the smile, the leather, the look of casual confidence as though nothing could rattle him. Even if he was impossibly young for a thirty-two year old professional woman, this could be intriguing. “Okay, tell me.” “You’re an architect, that’s pretty obvious. But getting to your position hasn’t been easy. In fact, it’s been a f*****g b***h for the past few years, maybe even longer. Sometimes you’re worn out. You’re often weary. And you never have enough time for anything. You have a wealthy family, but they’re distant and not too supportive; and I don’t think you’re in a relationship now—nor have you been for some time. Once, maybe twice you were serious about a man, but they were so complicated that you gave up and let your work consume you. You probably have a small but perfectly designed apartment in an expensive neighborhood. You eschew your family money and spend only what you make while a handsome trust fund/inheritance sits in the bank waiting for you to claim it.” He stopped abruptly, perhaps in response to my shocked expression. “Enough?” “That’s amazing,” I whispered so quietly I’m not sure he heard, but I know he understood. “What did I get right?” “A lot,” I vented a deep sigh before beginning, “the overworked architect—which was probably pretty obvious from this morning’s fiasco, but the family, the men, even my apartment, you were almost dead on… I have, however, had four serious relationships, and almost married twice. But I haven’t had anyone special for over four years. There’s no trust fund—not yet anyway. But my parents are filthy rich and they travel everywhere but to Chicago—which is really all right with me. I see them in their New York condo once a year at Christmas.” “And your apartment?” “One bedroom, loft style and it’s perfectly home. The most perfect place on earth, and usually the only place I really like to be.” He smiled. “So, where do you like to be, KC Gable?” “On my bike or at the theatre.” “Really?” I’m not sure I was surprised, except that for a minute I think I viewed him as a regular person. These two bits of information put him in that other world again where I felt odd and uncomfortable. “What theatre?” “ACT—Actors, Creators and Technicians Workshop.” “I’m not familiar with it.” “Experimental theatre, probably not your interest.” “And why not?” “You have an interest in avant-garde playwrights?” “No, at least not that I know of. But it sounds interesting.” “Maybe you should stop by.” And maybe this was going too far, I was thinking. Overstepping the bounds of a friendly ‘thank-you’ sort of chat. I had little desire to pry into his world even though he seemed to have so easily stepped into mine. “Maybe,” I offered a vague reply. The moments intervening seemed uncomfortable for me, though KC appeared perfectly content. I finally asked, “Do you always do psychic readings on women you pick up off the street?” “No. Just the interesting ones. My occupation makes me curious to peer into people’s minds.” I really liked his gentle wit, the bold eyes, and beyond his obvious physique, his hands. I probably stared at them too long but I was fascinated by their strength. They were thoroughly masculine, and my imagination was inspired to take a few interesting flights of fancy wondering how they would feel on my flesh. “So, what do you see in my mind beyond the obvious,” I asked when I looked up again. It was an almost flippant question, which revealed much more than I asked for. “You know I haven’t a clue about you, or anyone,” he sniggered, “I make up stories. Some probably hit the mark while others are so far-fetched they’re laughable.” “So what would you say is inside my mind?” “Honestly? I imagine you a s****l maverick inside your perfect apartment—a seething lioness underneath that staid librarian exterior.” (Ooo, that bit!) “You like certain crudities but you don’t tell your lovers what they are because they would shock them.” (How could he get this close to the truth without knowing me?) “What kinds of crudities?” I asked. “Oh, spanking, maybe bondage, perhaps, a fascination for leather—but then that might just be me. I love leather.” I was sure he did. The leather jacket at his side was expensive and well worn. But spanking? Why would he say that? This conversation was suddenly making my clothes itch and my skin hot. “I think you’re scared of what’s inside, and that’s the kind of material we put in our plays. For a lot of people it’s their crazy emotions—but I don’t see you as an emotional person, not in the crazy sense.” “But I’m crazy about s*x?” I tried to joke as I said it. “Hummm…maybe not crazy, just pent-up because you don’t get everything you need. I’d see your mind being very quirky.” “But why would you mention spanking? That seems kind of odd.” I hoped he didn’t know the wild panic that suddenly grabbed my stomach and twisted it like a screw. “Just came to mind.” “You ever spank a woman?” I made myself ask. “Few times.” “For what reason?” “Mostly for s*x, and occasionally because they deserved it. Spanking was the simplest way of dealing with their neuroses. Some women need the discipline.” That word—discipline—made me quake as much as the mention of spanking. “You think women are neurotic?” I tried to squelch my rising feelings and sound sane. “No, but the interesting ones are,” he replied simply. “My, you are quite a find.” “Am I?” “I think so. But then, I really don’t know what to think about you.” “Maybe as a friend would be okay.” “All right.” “I know,” he chuckled. “Right now, you’re thinking, I hope my other friends don’t suddenly walk by and see me with this guy.” “I was not thinking that!” I retorted. “Maybe not, but I’m not your usual kind of guy, or even your usual kind of friend.” “And maybe that’s okay.” I was actually telling myself this and believing my thoughts. But I wasn’t sure what I wanted to communicate to KC Gable. “How old are you?” I suddenly asked. “Twenty-six. Is that a problem?” “It shouldn’t be?” I said, sounding flustered. I wondered why I bothered to ask. I may not know what I wanted from him, but I was turned on. I think my face was flushed and I tried ignoring that. But the grinding in my belly, that was something else. Luckily, it wouldn’t be obvious to him. “You know I’d better go. I’m late again.” “You didn’t seem to mind being late this time.” “No, I needed the break after that presentation.” “All bad?” “Not really, I think we actually sold the guy, but it was not a first class performance.” “I imagine it wasn’t.” He imagined many things. I shook my head in wonder. He just seemed to know everything about me from the inside out. On any other day, KC Gable was a write-off kind of guy. He would be forgotten long before my head hit the pillow. But either fate, or psychic forces, or just a little accident of life had pushed him in my path, and I knew I wouldn’t be forgetting him that fast—or the panic that was finally easing off. “Here,” he said, pushing a business card across the table. “It’s the theatre where I work. If you want to drop by, you’re welcome.” “Thanks. And thanks again for rescuing me this morning.” I tried to drop some bills on the table but he pushed my hand back to my purse. “On me,” he said. “Then thanks again.” I had to get out of there fast since I was quickly losing my practiced poise. My body and brain had not been this challenged or this excited in months. And my prior conceptions of the men who could seduce me had been abruptly altered.