Her Man Friday(52)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Because this street of pristine, spotless, honey-colored brick townhouses was no low-rent district. On the contrary, the tree-lined, cobbled sidewalks and the potted chrysanthemums on stoops and in window boxes—not to mention the Jaguars and Mercedes parked along the curbs—attested to how much pride the residents took in their homes. And in their cars. And in their social standing.

Mr. Freiberger, Lily had noted before—only in idle curiosity, naturally—drove a cherry-red, vintage Mustang convertible, just like, oh… the one parked in front of this particular house. Keenly, she observed that it was yet something else to clue her in to the fact that she had, indeed, arrived at the right address. His choice of car hadn’t surprised her at all initially. She’d imagined him rebuilding the classic vehicle from the ground up, reveling in his weekend endeavor, slaving away in some suburban garage, all hot and shirtless, and sweaty and grease-stained, with his bare biceps pumping under the strain of wrench and tire jack, and his bare back slick with perspiration, and… and…

Well, she’d just had a pretty good idea of how he spent his spare time, that was all.

But now she wondered if he drove the car not because it had been affordable once upon a time, but simply because he liked vintage cars. Because if Leonard Freiberger could afford this kind of real estate, then he could certainly afford to drive a vehicle of a much higher monetary class.

Still, she was glad he didn’t. The Mustang suited him perfectly. This house, however… She sighed as she studied the address again, and wished she knew for sure what was going on.

Smoothing a hand over the long, baggy white sweater that she’d donned over a full, blue printed skirt and boots, she extended a hand toward the doorbell to push it. But before she completed the action, the door was jerked open from the other side, and Marlon Brando nearly ran right over her.

Oh, wait. Not Marlon Brando. He hadn’t been that svelte since On the Waterfront. No, this was just someone who looked a lot like him.

"Excuse me," Lily said as she tried—without success—to step out of his way.

But the man evidently had his mind on other things, because he just kept coming until he’d nearly toppled her, catching her at the last possible moment before she would have tumbled backward down the steps.

"Oh, Miss Rigby," he said as he righted her, surprising her. "I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there."

Right behind Marlon came Mr. Freiberger, who, upon witnessing the scene, smacked his open palm against his forehead. Hard. And then he grumbled something under his breath that sounded a whole lot like, "You idiot."

Well, all right, Lily thought huffily, she would confess that she was just a tad early, but that was no reason for him to go off like that, now, was it? Okay, so maybe thirty-five minutes was just a tad more than just a tad, but still…

"Hello, Mr. Freiberger," she said coolly as Mr. Brando, with one final check to be sure she could stand on her own, released her on her own recognizance. She skimmed a hand down her sweater, then patted it back over the hair swept up into what she had hoped was a sophisticated look. Because suddenly she felt anything but sophisticated. Being called an idiot by a man one had just come to fool around with rather did that to a person. "Look, I admit I’m just a tad early," she went on, "but that’s no reason to resort to name calling."

He eyed her in obvious confusion for a minute, then shook his head hard once, as if to clear it. "No, no," he quickly denied, "I wasn’t calling you an idiot. I was calling him an idiot. He nearly knocked you down." He turned to Marlon Brando with a frown and added, "You idiot."

But the other man only smiled in return. Smiled knowingly, too, Lily thought, something that roused her suspicions even more because he also knew her name. She was about to ask him just how he’d come by that information, seeing as how she’d never seen him before in her life—except in On the Waterfront, of course—but the dark-haired man stuck out his hand in greeting.

"Eddie Dolan," he told her with a smile that was dazzling, and really kind of sexy, if you went for that dark, brooding, am-gonna-make-you-an-offer-you-can’t-refuse kind of thing, instead of that rumpled, tweedy, Goodbye, Mr. Chips kind of thing.

"Mr. Dolan," she replied with a quick nod, shaking his hand once before releasing it.

She opened her mouth to ask him how he knew her name, but Mr. Freiberger cut her off with a hastily offered, "Eddie is my, uh… my, um… That is, he’s… Ah…"

"I’m Leo’s astrologer," he announced, his smile growing unmistakably mischievous now.

Lily arched her eyebrows in surprise, then trained her gaze to Mr. Freiberger. "Astrologer?" she asked him. Leo? she asked herself. Then, immediately, she decided she approved of the moniker. Somehow, that name suited him much better than Leonard did.

But instead of answering her, Mr. Freiberger—Leo, she corrected herself—only grumbled something unintelligible under his breath again. So Lily turned her attention back to Mr. Dolan. "How did you know my name?" she asked him.

His dazzling smile dimmed some. "Uh… I… That is…" He furrowed his brow in thought for a moment, then quickly replied, "I’m, uh, I’m Leo’s psychic, too. Yeah, that’s it."

"A psychic astrologer?" Lily asked dubiously.

The man nodded.

"How extraordinary." And how suspicious. "Do you charge for each service, or is it an all-inclusive package?"

Eddie Dolan shrugged in a way that no self-respecting astrologer or psychic would ever dare. "Depends on the client’s needs," he said.

"Really?" she asked. "And just what are Mr. Freiberger’s needs?"

The man chuckled. "Oh, Leo. He’s got needs, all right, lemme tell ya."

"Eddie…"

The threat in Mr. Freiberger’s warning—or was it a warning in Mr. Freiberger’s threat? she wondered before completing the thought. Well, no matter. In either case, threat or warning, his intent was unmistakable. Simply put, if Mr. Dolan continued with his description of Mr. Freiberger’s needs, then Mr. Freiberger would hurt him. Badly.

"And what have the stars—and you—predicted for Mr. Freiberger’s immediate future?" Lily asked, wondering what exactly made her pose the question. Other than her own curiosity about just what on earth the evening ahead was supposed to hold.

Mr. Dolan’s smile turned into a supernova at her question. "Lemme think on it a minute," he said. He furrowed his dark brows, as if consumed by great concentration. "Oh, okay. Here it comes. I see a dark stranger."