"She doesn't do-wacka-doo, if that's what you mean," Engels said archly. "Not with our likes, at least. Think of Gina Vercours as one of the boys."
"But she might run off with my secretary?"
"Doubtful. Wouldn't be good business, and Vercours sounds like all business on the phone. She picked the time tonight—"
The door chime echoed. Everett stood up too quickly, then forced himself to move toward the door as though relaxed. He told himself that it was not lack of self-confidence. It was simply that he did not know how to behave with most women, never had, which was why his early marriage had failed early. He was ill at ease because—all right, then, it was lack of self-confidence with women. While traversing his carpet, Maurice Everett had made a valuable discovery.
He made another as he swung the door open. Gina Vercours, in heels, was taller than most men. Her "Hi," the smile on the wide mouth, and the handshake were greetings to an equal. He ushered her in, saw her drape the suede coat and a bag that was half purse, half equipment satchel, on his closet doorknob. Everett's crockery rattled again.
David Engels hurried toward them. "What'd I miss?"
"That's what I do," Everett said, pointing to the coat and bag. "But I put my coat in the closet tonight to—to—you know," he said feebly.
Gina nodded, then studied the closet door. "If you'd put a dozen doorknobs on that wall, you wouldn't need a closet. I'll bill you later," she said, shaking hands with Engels. "Or you can buy me off now with whatever I smell in the air."
In five minutes, Everett had forgot his fidgets over Gina Vercours. She sipped the steaming toddy and asked for more rum, then knelt to warm her hands at the fire. She meddled with the antique kettle that swung on its bracket over the hearth. "God, this iron kettle must weigh ten pounds."
"Five kilos," Everett corrected.
"I'm old-fashioned," she said, grinning.
"Sure you are. I don't think it's polite to fly false colors."
Still grinning, she said, "Then I don't think you should ever do it," and he laughed again. It was his own stance, here I am, take it or leave it; but she wore it more gracefully.
Engels, an expert interviewer, drew Gina out with ease, dropping asides on Everett now and then. A service brat, Gina had attended schools in Texas, Virginia, Texas, California, Massachusetts, and Texas before parlaying a tennis scholarship into a business degree at Arizona State.
"Funny," Engels frowned in faked concern, "you don't look like a jock."
"The hell I don't," she countered, pinching her browned forearm. "I'll have skin like an alligator when I'm forty."
"Which will be—?"
"In four years, Mr. Engels, don't be coy. I'm not." Everett inwardly seconded her observation. She had no reluctance to list her strengths or her weaknesses. Health, lack of attachments, and media training were her perceived strengths. "But I'm not really a people person, if you follow me," she admitted. "I like to live well, and I'm pretty selfish."
"That's laying it on the line," said Everett. "Why are you interested in this escort, bodyguard, iffy kind of work? It isn't exactly steady employment, Gina. As you must know, I may not need you at all."
For the first time, the smile she turned on him was wily, secretive, somehow very female, the wide-set hazel eyes steady on his. "You'll need me," she insisted softly. "Maybe not tomorrow or next month, but if you have heavy clout in media, sooner or later you're going to need somebody." She smiled to herself. "I still keep ENG contacts in Phoenix, and of course I mix around when I'm on duty with Conklin. If you never before saw reporters looking over their shoulders, you can see it now. It's a feeling you can reach out and touch," she finished.
Everett persisted. "So why do you like it?"
"I don't like it, Mr. Everett. I like the money. Let's say you use me twice a year and Wally does the same. Added to my fees in tennis, that's a new 'vette every year." She arched an eyebrow. "You could use some work on the courts, Commissioner. Work off some of that, ah, good living."
Engels laughed at Everett's discomfort. "He thinks he's a bear, Gina. Fattens up every autumn, snores all winter, runs up mountains every spring. Catch him early in the morning and you'll think he's a sure-nough grizzly."
"I don't expect to be chasing him early in the morning," she replied smoothly, and patted Everett's knee as he flushed the hue of berry juice. "Nothing personal, Mr. Everett—but it seemed worth clarifying."
Everett cleared his throat, wondering how he had triggered this conversational trap. "Understood. But you can be personal enough to call me Maury. I don't know what to call a Corvette freak, but I'll think of something suitable."
David Engels sat back, watching the automobile buffs unload on each other. Everett's dislike for `big iron' was easily supported by every datum an ecologist might cite. At one point he threatened to show photographs of Mini-Coopers beating factory Corvettes at Laguna Seca. Gina claimed to be wary of any car that could be stolen by a tumble-bug. "Not that I blame the tumble-bug," she cracked; "one little ball of crap looks pretty much like another."
Eventually, after a pizza had been delivered and demolished, Gina Vercours stretched the strong svelte legs and yawned. Everett noticed the highly developed calf muscles swelling above slender ankles, and remembered something else as she arose. "You used to have different hair, didn't you?"
"Still do," she said, tugging at a brunette curl. "It's under here. You can pile a lot of hair under a wig." A throaty laugh: "I even have a gray one. One of my mannnny dis-guis-es," she said, without elaboration.
Everett snorted good-naturedly. "You wouldn't fool a leg man at two hundred paces."
It seemed that Gina had two laughs; this one was a whoop, unabashed and piercing. She promised to wear knickers with the gray wig and readied herself to leave.
Engels strolled companionably with them toward the closet. "One thing more, Gina: what sort of martial arts training have you had?"
She broke off a sentence to say, lightly, "Nothing, really, until the past few weeks. I'm going twice a week now—"
"Horseshit. I mean before you met Wallace Conklin."
Something came into the yellow-green eyes that did not affect the voice or smile. "I told you. Oh, I picked up a few tricks from a friend in Tempe, back in college."
Engels was not smiling. "Horseshit," he repeated.
She shrugged, expressionless, and reached for her coat.
"We've both seen videotapes of you taking that kid with the Schmeisser, Gina," Engels said to break the silence. "Those were killing techniques; black belt stuff."
She continued with the coat, calm with her buttons and collar. She reached for her bag, then turned. Her face was still noncommittal, the voice calm and pleasant. "Wallace Conklin thinks of me as a brilliant opportunist, Mr. Commissioner David Engels. He would not like to think of me as a deadly weapon. Help me keep it that way." She came to some decision as her shoulders dropped. "All right. You won't be satisfied until I give you a motive. So.
"When I was fourteen, I was raped. He was a friend of my father's, an old army buddy on a visit. Bob was very macho, very old-shoe. I guess he was what he was all the way through. I knew it would destroy an important friendship with my dad if I said anything. So I didn't say anything. Six months later, Bob came to visit again." The voice was edged with obsidian now. "And raped me again."
"Oh, Christ," Everett whispered. "Hey, forget it, I understand why you'd want to gloss over it."
"You don't understand shit," said Gina Vercours. "The next morning I started looking for an academy. It made me scrimp and lie about going to the library, but it was worth it. Good of Bob paid us another visit a year later."