Longing (Unexpected Attraction) Read online

  "Who was aware you planned to spend time in the gym today?"

  "Nobody," Pierre said, standing up and facing him. "Not a single soul. I just went there for a few basic exercise routines before tackling some of my boxes. As you can see, I've got many hours of unpacking ahead of me."

  "Expect to see me again soon, Mr. De Bellefort."

  "I hope so."

  "Pardon?"

  Pierre's grin faded. "I meant, I'd like to get an update on the case."

  "Of course."

  "When will I hear from you next, detective?"

  "As soon as you get access to a new phone, call me at the station. My direct line is on the card I've left on your kitchen countertop."

  Pierre stared at him and seemed on the verge of responding. Detective Simon matched his gaze, thinking Pierre might reveal something more about the case than he'd dared to yet admit. But Pierre remained uncannily silent. Finally, with a flick of an eyebrow, Detective Simon broke their eye contact and exited the condominium.

  Chapter 3

  Detective Simon's impressive presence seemingly lingered in the penthouse after his departure. Chocolate brown eyes that caught the light from the windows. A pleasantly ridged, resolute nose. The strong jaw line. The cleft in his chin and robust eyebrows further conveying masculinity. Thick dark hair in an unassuming cut framing his classic features. Athletic build, even shoulders, perfect posture. And it wasn't any isolated feature being nearly as remarkable standing on its own. Instead, it was the blend, the combination, that seemed to elevate the detective's appearance to dizzying heights.

  He's breathtaking, Pierre thought. Absolutely breathtaking!

  Pierre understood that Detective Simon's appeal was made even more powerful because it was subtle. Awaiting discovery. Pierre wondered what the detective would look like when he laughed, winked, or joked. He then felt a tinge of sadness realizing he'd never know. These were things he'd never see. Pierre wouldn't get the chance to see his candid glee, unearth his secrets, and discover the full range of the detective's reactions.

  People in Pierre's world and line of work—more entertainers than athletes—made every effort to draw attention to themselves, usually with muscular bodies, brash personalities, branding emblems, and outlandish or provocative attire. But while assessing the detective's handsomeness, Pierre decided there was equal, if not more power in beauty that did not force, plead, or scream for attention. He contemplated the type of appeal beheld by someone probably unaware of his own magnificence.

  It was a form of timeless male beauty—whether a Roman god sculpted in ancient eras, or a man working today in Rugged Heights in a police detective's uniform.

  Besides admiration, Pierre had undoubtedly felt sexual attraction to the detective, too. Despite what he himself would describe as a roaring libido, the ironic reality was that Pierre rarely found himself intensely attracted to others. Pierre's sexuality thrived in his imagination, not in escapades, and the detective, he felt, fit an ideal template from his imagination.

  Aware he was idolizing the detective, Pierre laughed aloud. If he ever really saw the detective again Pierre was sure he'd probably be let down. Pierre would notice his flaws and faults. The spell would be broken. But, at least for the moment, the detective had triggered his curiosity.

  His crushing thought, however, was that no matter how rich or successful he became in wrestling, Detective Simon would never be his. Even if the detective happened to be attracted to men, which was not at all clear, Pierre couldn't have him anyway.

  Pierre wished he'd made the effort to spot whether the detective had been wearing a wedding ring, to see if Detective Simon was fulfilling someone else's dream. If so, he sure hoped she or he—the luckiest of the lucky—appreciated the modest, yet awesome wonder they'd landed!

  Trying to refocus his thoughts on less fanciful matters, onto to what had just happened in his new penthouse suite during those minutes in the locker room while he rested in the sauna after the thief had stolen his key, Pierre decided to recount his packed cardboard boxes in numerical sequence. How had Logan, presumably the thief, known which floor he lived on in the complex, much less which unit? Was Logan's knowledge of his whereabouts happenstance or conspiracy? A simple opportunistic burglary or a planned strike for purposes beyond a snatch and grab?

  Once again, sure all of his boxes were accounted for, Pierre double-checked their seals. All of the boxes were still taped, except for the few in his bedroom that he'd already opened. Focusing on those specific ones, he searched them carefully and found no signs that anything had been swiped.

  It was time to get out of his robe and sweaty shorts. Pierre needed to tackle a host of responsibilities, after a hot shower, from acquiring a new phone to canceling credit cards, and so much more. Stripping as he passed by his guest bathroom, he hung his robe over the edge of the half-open door. He then stepped onto the tile floor and slid out of his shorts and jockstrap, which he hung over the shower curtain reel to dry until he could wash them. A dark object on the vanity caught his eye and Pierre flicked on the light switch. There, on the basin near the sink, was a pocket-sized notebook with a pen attached, cocooned inside the spiral binding.

  Pierre was befuddled until he determined this had to be the detective's notebook. He didn't open it. Its contents didn't tempt him. But he cocked his head and stared at it, curious whether the detective's mistake to leave it behind when he used the facilities was purely accidental, a contrived stunt, or a matter of fate.

  Pierre brightened, realizing there would indeed be another encounter between himself and the detective. Very likely, it would be quite soon, too, with Detective Simon having to return to reclaim the notebook. A mischievous smile erupted as he considered how he might best be able to take advantage of this unexpected opportunity.

  Chapter 4

  The sun was beginning to fade but Detective Simon had no difficulty reading the message scrawled in wide, curving letters before him on the condominium complex sidewalk. "Smiles are free," it said. Another, a few feet away, next to a happy face icon, used orange chalk to say "Always find the high road."

  Though now in jeans, boots, and a long sleeve button down shirt tucked under a weathered belt, Detective Matthew Simon was instantly recognized by the doorman at 2000 Soleil Terrace, due to his presence earlier in the day, and granted immediate access. The men spoke for several minutes before Detective Simon rode the elevator up to the top. Standing outside of Pierre De Bellefort's door, he could hear a husky voice singing along to loud music, with some success hitting the notes, harmonizing with Aimee Mann's melancholic voice on her song Red Vines. The detective rapped his knuckles on the door and the music dimmed.

  When Pierre opened the door Detective Simon started to explain the reason for his visit, but Pierre interrupted and ushered him in. "Quick, we can't miss this panorama!"

  Detective Simon followed Pierre through the rooms, eyeing the way a worn-out pair of beige painters pants hugged the wrestler's bulbous buttocks under the jagged hem of a maroon t-shirt. Out of the corner of his eyes he also noticed that Pierre had made some progress unpacking boxes into his kitchen and living room during the past few hours. The men reached the vast windows and stepped outside through a sliding glass door onto a crescent-shaped balcony that wrapped around the corner of the penthouse. They stopped in their tracks, almost shoulder to shoulder, once their view of the sky was unobstructed. Fiery tendrils glowed behind buttery clouds turning violet and gold. The Bluestone River below them, luminous with kaleidoscopic brilliance from the reflections, meandered with grace past them. Small boats were scattered about and the grand St. Joan Marie—an ornate paddle wheel boat that replicated a luxury steam ship that had traveled the river more than a century ago—was just leaving the nearby port of Halo Point, full of passengers for the sunset dinner cruise.

  "Can you believe it?" Pierre asked.

  Transfixed, Detective Simon responded after a long pause without averting his gaze. "It's like the heavens have c
ome alive."

  "Exactly."

  "I'm half expecting an epiphany or revelation of some sort."

  Pierre chuckled, then added, "I love paintings, whether abstract or realistic. But no one has ever painted anything as colossal or enrapturing as this."

  "Agreed."

  Pierre slid away for a minute and returned with two longneck Coronas with lime wedges tucked into the lips. He pressed one of them against Detective Simon's arm, pushing the cold glass surface against the thin fabric of the uniform over his skin. Instinctively, Detective Simon accepted it, then hesitated and looked with surprise at Pierre for offering him alcohol while on official business.

  "Come on, detective. Evenings like this are to be savored. You're off duty now. Can't you just have a beer with me?"

  Before Detective Simon could respond Pierre maneuvered two patio chairs closer to the balcony railing and sat down in the one on the left.

  "I take my job, and my ethical standards, quite seriously, Mr. De Bellefort."

  "I expected nothing less. I just don't see how sitting down with me for a few minutes hurts anything."

  Detective Simon glanced back at the horizon, paused, then eased into the chair beside Pierre and took a pull from the bottle.

  "Please call me Pierre. Can I call you Matthew?"

  "No, it's Detective Simon, at least for the time being. No offense."

  "No offense taken, detective," Pierre said.

  "Your doorman is a rather astute fellow with a knack for identifying and remembering people. He's going to get me details on the individuals you described being in the building's workout studio with you this afternoon. He agreed with me that the camera surveillance for the complex is woefully inadequate around here, especially considering this is one of the city's most high-end properties perched along the river. Still, I expect some interesting results could emerge."

  "We don't have to talk about the case right now. I have no doubt about your abilities to solve cases."

  Detective Simon squinted and set his beer down by his feet. He appeared about to stand to leave, then instead leaned back in the chair and splayed his elbows out over the armrests. He said, "Famous people vacation here, occasionally, but I don't know of any who live in our neck of the woods. So, Mr. De Bellefort, you're the first one."

  "Dispense with the formality and just call me Pierre. I insist."

  "I'd like to, but that's not how we do things."

  "You're wondering why I chose Doyle for my home, instead of picking a bigger city?"

  "Yes, I am."

  "I graduated from college here—from Niven University—about a decade or so ago, and I retained very fond memories of the area," Pierre said, after taking two swigs of his drink. "Where else can you hike all morning and spot eagle nests near the river, canoe or kayak away a lazy afternoon, enjoy a hearty dinner and then ride motorcycles up to the observation spot on Milligan Hill and watch the boats floating on the currents? I've been all over the country, and far beyond, thanks to some international matches, and I think nothing compares to Doyle. The Rugged Heights neighborhood, in particular, is where I want to be when I have any free time from the pro tours."

  "How does the wrestling work? Do you get large chunks of time off before and after annual seasons, like other sports?"

  Pierre grinned and repeated the word "sport."

  "Well, it's at least partially a sport, no?" Detective Simon asked.

  "Sure. Performance theater or sport, or acting, or frivolous entertainment—whatever it is, I accepted it long ago and made my peace. I'm in the business of making people happy. Or, most often actually, I stir them up against my character, getting them to despise me, so eventually they'll see me defeated and be excited that justice prevailed in the end."

  "So you lose most of your wrestling matches?"

  "Yes, I lose more than I win. You could say I'm just victorious enough to be considered a real threat later on, so the producers can set up a grudge match or whatnot. I'm the bad guy, detective. The rotten rogue."

  Detective Simon smirked and arched his brows. "It's not hard to watch other dudes get all the glory?"

  "Sometimes it is, sure. I can't deny that. But the International Power Wrestling League is in control of everything, from the choreography to the story narratives. None of us characters really get a say. If our fan bases are big enough we get some leverage, but at least ninety-five percent of us are at the complete mercy of the league. We're treated well. Don't get me wrong. We are valuable assets to the company and treated accordingly, for the most part. But if you ask if we're in control of our destinies, then I have to answer that question with a big fat no."

  "The way I see it, in real life, most bad guys and rogues, by contrast, are in full control of their destinies."

  "Amen," Pierre said. "Catch the real criminals and put them away behind bars, detective. I respect what you do very much and root for your success keeping people safe."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Uh, uh, uh. Don't call me that."

  "Okay fine, Pierre, I'll use your first name, at least until this beer is gone."

  "I have plenty more in the fridge."

  Detective Simon noticed the dimming sunset radiated scarlet hues across the balcony, giving Pierre's eyes the illusion of flickering flames. He was aware he'd captivated Pierre's attention, that was clear, but to what ends? It could be as much toying with him in a battle of machismo and dominance as it was anything to do with prurient lust or sincere interest in the detective's life outside of a uniform. The intensity of Pierre's gaze, perhaps as it did in the wrestling ring, camouflaged his specific feelings or emotions at any given time. The whole cobra thing—the mesmerizing and hypnotic stares—could, in reality, be akin to wearing a mask. Nevertheless, Detective Simon wanted to stay there a while and find out what would happen. He glanced at his diving bell wristwatch, however, and then leaped to his feet.

  "I was hoping you wouldn't have to go so soon," Pierre said, not trying to hide his disappointment by the detective's sudden move to leave.

  "Sorry, I didn't realize the time had grown late."

  "Let me get your notebook."

  "Please."

  Pierre fetched the notebook, handed it to him, and walked him to the front door.

  An awkward moment ensued when Detective Simon offered Pierre a handshake and thank you.

  "I'm a hugger, detective."

  Detective Simon allowed an embrace, expecting it to be akin to a pat on the back. But there was a warmth in being encased by Pierre's large arms around his shoulders and he let the moment last a couple of seconds longer than necessary. Pierre's neck had a nice soap and water scent that was both clean and refreshing. Finally, Detective Simon thought of the time and broke away from his grip, offering Pierre only a smile as a goodbye as he charged out of the penthouse.

  Chapter 5

  Pierre De Bellefort couldn't clear his thoughts.

  Despite all he'd accomplished in the days since the burglary—which included changing locks and installing a home security system with an exterior hallway camera and several interior cameras—some nugget of a problem tugged at his mind. Comfortable now, in a first class airline seat, awaiting takeoff, Pierre wanted to shut his eyes. The flight to Albuquerque, New Mexico, offered him a good stretch of rest, but he continued searching through his mind, trying to solve the unknown quandary.

  I swear, he thought, this is ridiculous. He recalled the fairytale story of The Princess and the Pea for a minute. I can't shut off my frigging brain until I figure out what annoyance is tucked under my figurative mattress.

  As Pierre ordered a jack and coke from the flight attendant, his new phone buzzed. The screen indicated the call was from Olivia Bowers, the director of International Power Wrestling League's marketing and communications teams. He and Olivia were fond of each other and often engaged in jovial banter when in contact.

  "Olivia, talk about calling at the ideal time—except that I'm on a plane—but tell me, how've
you been?"

  "Pierre, promising news today," she said, skipping a reply to his question. It sounded like she'd just swallowed a gulp of coffee.

  "Those are words I welcome to hear. Tell me what's going on."

  "We've got a major energy drink company interested in sponsoring you."

  "Which one, Olivia?"

  "I'm not answering that quite yet. We'll reveal more if the negotiations advance."

  "Give me a hint."

  "The company makes and distributes one of the top three energy drinks in the North American market."

  "Wow. That is big news!"

  "So, besides our own due diligence and research, to ensure that company's not violating labor laws or otherwise exploiting workers, can you foresee any reason you'd personally balk at this opportunity for yourself and the league?"

  "I trust the background digging you'll do. The only thing at this point that comes to mind is that I wouldn't want to promote a company that practiced any form of animal abuse. No cruelty at all, whether as a sponsor or as a part of their business practices. Being kind to animals is essential to me, okay?"

  "Gotcha, sweetie," Olivia answered. "Duly noted."

  "How many of us wrestlers are they considering in their ad campaign?"

  "Just you."

  "What!" Pierre jolted forward in his seat. "Is there more to this story?"

  Olivia tapped her phone screen three times with her fingernail and it sounded like an admonishment. "Don't act so surprised when positive developments emerge. You deserve your success."

  "Yeah, but villains rarely get the glory, at least with commercial things like this."

  "Oops, I've got a call coming in that I have to take. Gotta run now. Be well."

  The flight attendant brought Pierre's drink as he slid his phone back in his pocket. He took a sip and, as expected, it was a bit watered down. That, however, didn't dampen his good cheer. Olivia's call was a terrific surprise. The sponsorship could very well fall through, he guessed, as these things often did for other wrestlers. Nevertheless, it was encouraging news worth at least some celebration.