Bachelor Cop

Kids, plural? As in more than one? Adopted? Artificial insemination? In vitro? Old heterosexual relationship gone sour?

“Aunt Marcie, come watch me lift weights.”

Streak’s kids, then. More baggage. Randy looked down at them as the boy ran into the back of Marcie’s legs.

“Ow, watch it, Milo. That hurt.”

“I’m sorry, Marcie.”

Whoever Daddy was, Streak—uh, Helena—was certainly their mother. The boy was probably nine or ten, the girl six or seven, depending on whether they had inherited their mother’s tall genes. Same dark hair, long bones, high cheekbones and wide mouths. Same intelligent dark eyes.

“Should you be lifting weights?” Marcie asked the boy.

“Not heavy ones. I might tear a muscle or something. Vi’s too little, anyway. She just rolls them around on the floor.”

“I’m strong as you.”

“Are not. Bet you can’t do this.” He ran over to the rack of free weights in the corner of the workout room, rolled one off the bottom and managed to heft it to his knees before Randy took it and set it back on the rack.

“We all start light,” he stated mildly. The boy glared at him, then took a deep breath and nodded, though the frown stayed on his face.

Marcie said, “Milo, Viola, go say goodbye to your mother and tell her we’ll see her when she gets home.”

“Can’t we watch her kick butt?” The boy glowered at Randy. “She gonna kick his?”

“I don’t think she’s up to butt kicking yet,” Marcie said, with a shrug of apology to Randy. “Go.”

The kid hesitated, then took the girl’s hand and trotted across to Streak. Randy watched her open her arms to the children. She lit up. He must be losing not only his touch but his eyesight, as well. This was the woman he thought wasn’t beautiful?

Marcie grinned. “Sorry about that. Sibling rivalry rears its ugly head. Milo and Vi are scary smart, but they’re still children.”

“I’m sure they make you both very happy.”

Marcie cocked her head. “I rent the other side of Helena’s duplex from her, Detective. I’m her tenant and part-time nanny. I’m also assistant librarian at Weyland, where she teaches, so we’re colleagues as well as friends. We’re not lovers.”

“I didn’t—”

“Sure you did. That’s okay. The last time I checked we were both heterosexual. Milo and Viola’s hideous father is a journalism professor.”

So he was still around. “Hideous?”

“Makes Darth Vader look like Saint Peter. Should have been strangled at birth for the benefit of the human race.”

“But then you wouldn’t have…Milo, was it? And Viola?”

Marcie’s smile was luminous. “Mickey is completely out of the picture, and they’re worth it.”

He felt his heart give a small kick. Streak wasn’t off-limits, then. Why should he care?

Marcie waved at Helena, picked up the children and walked into the main gym, where the latest workout machines shared space with a professional-style boxing ring.

Through the picture window, Randy watched Marcie help Milo hoist a small dumbbell, then carry it one-handed over to stare at the two young men sparring in the ring.

Marcie was younger than Streak, and being somebody’s tenant and babysitter didn’t precisely count as baggage. Now that he knew she was hetero, he should have been on her case like a praying mantis on a june bug.

So why wasn’t he reacting?

“Detective?”

He turned at the sound of that smoky baritone. For some nutso reason, he reacted to Streak. Maybe it was the slim body he could imagine under those sweats. Maybe it was the voice. She reminded him of Lauren Bacall after five years in a salt mine.

She stood at the corner of the exercise mat with his other students, her legs splayed and her hands on her hips. She wore the same old gray sweats tonight, and her hair was pulled back tight with a rubber band, showing off those cheekbones. The look she gave him was not so much provocative as provocation.

“We’re five minutes late getting started,” she said.

Ellen—Mrs. Claus—sighed. “Oh, for pity’s sake, chill.”

“Let’s get started,” Randy said quickly, before Streak could react to that. “Now, we’re going to begin with some stretching exercises to warm up our muscles.”

“So we can do yoga while the mugger’s cleaning his nails?” Streak sniped.

“Honey,” said Sarah Beth, “relax. You put up with hecklers in your classes?” she asked, glancing at Randy.

“How did you—”

“Everybody knows about everybody in this gym,” said Bunny. She flashed a killer smile that included the group, extended her arms and put her palms flat on the floor in front of her.

“Wow,” breathed Francine. “I can’t reach my knees.”

“Bless your heart,” Ellen said, and patted her hand. “There are other talents. I sure wouldn’t try to mug you.”

Francine shrugged. “Got to be something fine about being a heifer.”

“So maybe Francine can get to take me down tonight. Game?” Randy asked.

“That mean I get to go upside your head with my purse? Probably break your skinny neck.” She snickered. “I carry my life in my purse.”

“I was thinking more about unarmed combat. What do you do when somebody tries to clothesline you?”

The rest of the class went smoothly. Even Streak began to relax, although she still looked ready to chew nails. Or some more sensitive part of his anatomy—interesting idea if she didn’t geld him in the process. Randy worked hard to show her that force wasn’t necessary. Her forward momentum landed her on the mat every time. Did she hate all men, or just him?

By the time the class was over, everyone was sweaty, but exhilarated. Even Streak glowed. Real pity. She could be a knockout. He couldn’t believe she’d always been dowdy and enraged. What had screwed her up?

As they were leaving, he put a hand on her arm. She glared at it. He dropped his hand and said, “Got a minute?”

The others kept walking, but he knew they’d be gossiping.

“I wondered how long before you tossed me out of your class,” she said. “Fine. I won’t come back.”