For my Starsky friends, an indulgently fat Starsky-hurt story as promised!  And because I can never ignore Hutch, he gets a yummy detailed side plot too (I really made a valiant effort to satisfy everyone this time around! J ).  As usual I am utterly transparent when it comes to Hutch, so you’re bound to trip over a few excessively fawning paragraphs.  But hey - - I threw in a bunch of juicy Starsky descriptions too (and that’s coming from a Hutchie girl, folks! LOL!).  

 

As with all of my stories, this is a stand-alone.  It does, however, contain references to “The End of the Daylight” and “Storm Gathering.” (And for the really sharp of eye, it has a few minor easter eggs related to “Payback” and “The Jade Club.”).  Thanks to my stellar beta reader, Theresa (who really pushed for a Starsky-hurt story . . . and what Theresa wants, Theresa gets *g*   - - After I’ve satisfied my Hutch obsession, of course!).  Thanks as always to Kass who provides a lovely haven for all of my S&H fic.

 

This one gets a “R” rating for a few bad words and sexual content. I hope you’ll take the time to drop me a line and let me know what you think of it.

 

 

 

Dance Celestial

By Kate (CMT)

 

It was dark in the room but not nearly dark enough to erase the horror of the last few hours.  A sharp medicinal tang mingled with the crisper taint of antiseptic, creating an odor Ken Hutchinson was all too familiar with - - the unmistakable reek prevalent in most hospitals.  He’d experienced it on more than one occasion, both as a patient and in sitting worriedly at his partner’s bedside waiting for Starsky to heal from some heinous injury or ailment.  Tonight was no different, his friend wrapped in drugged slumber after emergency surgery to remove a bullet from his back. 

 

Hutch grimaced. 

 

The slug had been put there by a hired killer - - a little too vindictively, a little too gleefully.  Joey Martin, along with the more restrained but no less cold-blooded Tom Lockly, had been hired to kill Vic Monte, a prominent underworld figure.  But assassination appeared to be more than a lucrative income for Martin. It was a game too. He’d been wired, operating on a hair trigger all night, set to go on a slaughtering spree at the slightest provocation. There was no question he’d taken perverse pleasure in gunning Starsky down . . . would have been overjoyed to turn the quaint Italian restaurant where the hit was scheduled to take place into a grisly blood-soaked tomb.

 

In the end Hutch had killed him and wounded Lockly, but not before a brutally taxing hour of caring for a wounded Starsky while trying to devise a plan that would keep the other restaurant patrons safe. It was a fine line to tread - - friend, partner and cop - - his loyalties constantly pulled and strained with each nerve-wracking minute.  Every time he turned around, Joey or Lockly had been there, waving a gun in his face, ordering him where to stand, where to sit, what to do.  He’d recklessly tested their limits on a few occasions, never knowing if his defiance would get him shot.  Thankfully, he’d found an ally in Theresa Difusto, the late-night waitress who’d initially been coerced into betraying Monte.  With her help, he’d devised a rash scheme that had miraculously gotten everyone out of the impossible situation alive.

 

Everyone but Joey Martin.

 

Hutch was too exhausted to feel any kind of remorse over Joey’s death.  The scumbag had shot his partner.  It was a little hard feeling regret for someone who’d deliberately hurt Starsky.  Compassion allowed him to forgive a lot of wrongs, but maliciously hurting his best friend was not one of them. 

 

Even now, just thinking about his partner’s excitable childlike enthusiasm made a lump rise to his throat.  Starsky had been bouncy and eager, dragging him through the rain to Giovanni’s for a late-night dinner, never realizing they were walking into a potential death trap. 

 

Hutch sighed and shifted in the bedside chair.  A hush hung over the room and hallway, appropriately fitting for the early morning, pre-dawn hour.  Rather than disturb another patient, the staff had found Starsky a private room at the end of the eighth floor hallway.  The view was spectacular, a canvas of twinkling city lights strewn on a cascading tapestry of black.  Streetlamps, headlamps, highrises, nightclubs, hotels and assorted venues all added a dazzling element of glitter to the panoramic scope spread below.  Hutch had opened the blinds, thinking Starsky might like the gaudy vista, but his friend was still too sedated to notice.

 

It was just as well.  He needed the rest.  He’d had a bullet lodged in his back for over an hour - - an excruciating wound just off the rim of his shoulder blade that left him alternately drenched by cold and sweat, crushed by the debilitating flush of fever.  Even then Hutch had known the wound was bad, the bullet stubbornly lodged against sensitive tissue and bone. Later, after Starsky’s surgery, he’d learned the slug had caused internal bleeding  . . . that its placement, wedged against a critical nerve, might have caused paralysis had there been any further delay of treatment.

 

As much as Hutch was thankful the wretched night was over, he couldn’t help feeling cheated.  Everyone else had been able to walk from the restaurant unharmed, but Starsky had needed an ambulance.  Despite proper medical care and attention, it had been touch and go until the despised bullet was finally removed, allowing Hutch to breathe semi-easily again . . . until the queasiness in his gut relaxed into something moderately resembling relief. 

 

Strength spent, he slumped in the chair, propping one elbow on the arm, tiredly massaging his eyes.   Miss you, Starsk.

 

How was that possible?  His partner was in the room with him, yet the very thought Starsky was injured and hurting created a gulf between them he couldn’t cross.  As much as he wanted to help, to alleviate that discomfort and pain, he was relegated to the mind-numbing role of waiting.  There was nothing more singular or alone.

 

“ . . . ughnn . . .”  A plaintive moan came from the bed, jarring Hutch to instant alertness.

 

“Starsk?”  Sitting hastily upright, he dragged the chair as close as it would go, his knees colliding painfully with the metal bedframe.  Barely conscious of the distraction, he leaned forward, arms braced on the mattress as he collected Starsky’s limp hand in both of his.  “Buddy, it’s me.  Can you hear me, Starsk?”

 

Another groan, deeper this time.  Starsky turned his head marginally, his brow crimping in a concentrated crease of pain. The loose curls of his inky hair fanned against the ivory pillowcase, creating a riotous mass as black as the night itself.  Hutch bent closer, gently threading one hand through dense ringlets of ebony and sable. The touch was electric  - - warmth and fusion, a melding of heart and soul into the blissful entity of one.  It suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe.  “Babe?”

 

Starsky’s eyes cracked open, sending a giddy ping of relief racing through Hutch.  The blond-haired man flashed a smile.  “Hey.”

 

Starsky wet his lips.  “Hey, yourself.”  With eyes heavily at half-mast, he looked right then left, groggily trying to make sense of his surroundings.  The reality registered at the same time pain did.  Grinding his teeth together, he averted his face, panting into the pillow.  “Hurts more . . . than before,” he gasped.

 

“Take it easy,” Hutch said quickly, softly, every speck of concentration riveted on his distressed friend.  “You just had surgery.  I know it hurts, buddy.”  His fingers stroked Starsky’s hair, found the curve of his cheek then dipped lower to curl behind his neck.  Gently, he massaged bands of corded muscle.  “Just try to relax, Starsk, and give the pain meds a chance to catch up.  You’ve had a rough night.”

 

And that, partner, is the understatement of the year.

 

“You didn’t have much better.”  Face still averted, Starsky closed his fingers over the hand Hutch rested on the mattress. His grip was weak, the touch papery and dry, but the connection between them pulsed with magnetic intensity.  He swallowed audibly, a clear signal he was battling more than minor discomfort. “What . . . restaurant . . .?” he managed, his gaze swiveling back to catch Hutch.

 

Too blue and too bright.

 

Twining his long fingers around Starsky’s, Hutch tried not to become overly alarmed about the glint of fever in his friend’s eyes.  In addition to the pain medication, Starsky had been given a healthy dose of intravenous antibiotics to ward against infection.  Realistically, Hutch knew it would take awhile for the drugs to combat the extensive trauma Starsky’s body had suffered, but that didn’t make waiting any easier.

 

“Everything’s fine,” he assured quietly, understanding the vague question in reference to the restaurant.  “No one was hurt, Starsk.  I had to take out Joey - - the wild man - - and his partner ended up winged, but none of the patrons got a scratch.”  Smiling affectionately, he scraped a knuckle down his friend’s cheek. “Word is, they’re all worried about you, Gordo.” 

 

Hutch swallowed the lump in his throat, giving voice to buried fear before he had sense enough to squash it.  “I am too.”  His fingers tightened over Starsky’s hand. “I almost lost you.”  And that just isn’t an option, partner.  Not now.  Not ever!

 

Starsky watched him wide-eyed.  “Dummy,” he chided.  “Think I’d leave . . . you alone?”

 

Hutch closed his eyes, his stomach clamping down hard.  But you almost did!  Ohgod, Starsky, what would I have done if that gun hadn’t worked?  If Monte had walked in and Joey and Lockly started shooting?  They would have killed me . . . killed everyone else, and you would have been last. Hearing it all, knowing what was happening . . . waiting . . . unable to defend yourself . . .

 

The thought was too much.  He drew a shaky breath, viciously shoving it aside.  There was no denying he’d been scared, terrified over the prospect of losing his best friend and partner.  The clinging residue of fright still scampered along the edges of his nerves, wrecking mental and emotional havoc. “Forget it,” he said a little too thickly, not wanting to dwell on what could have been.  “I’m just glad you’re safe.”  The hint of a smile touched his lips as he freed his hand to gently stroke the inside of Starsky’s arm.  “I want you to go back to sleep now.  The rest will do you good.”

 

Starsky grimaced.  “ . . . hurts . . .” he said simply.

 

“I know.”  Hutch hated to think of his friend in pain but knew there was little he could do to alter that circumstance.  He offered what small amount of comfort he could, the pressure of his fingers firm and steady against Starsky’s arm. The stroking action was calming for both of them, strengthening their ever-present bond through the reaffirming channel of touch. 

 

Starsky tensed as a spasm of pain shot through him.  He ground his teeth together then slowly relaxed, breath hissing between the strained white line of his lips.  “Feels like there’s a hot poker in my back,” he slurred, shifting a little to ease the abdominal pressure.  An involuntary whimper tumbled from his throat, and he instinctively tucked closer to Hutch.

 

“Babe, I’m right here,” the blond detective said quickly, his heart lurching into overdrive at the mournful sound.  Lowering his head, he pressed his brow to Starsky’s hair.  He could feel the heightened thrum of his own pulse ticking frantically in his throat, feel the wretched tightness of Starsky’s fatigued muscles as they cramped yet again with erupting pain.  “It’s okay,” he soothed, hearing his friend suck down a distressed breath.   “You’re going to be okay, buddy.”  He didn’t know if he was reassuring Starsky or himself.  He turned his face, breathing deeply of the soft black curls pressed against his cheek. Through the window he could see the cold white glitter of stars and moon, the filmy haze of scattered lights on the horizon.  In a little over a week it would be Christmas.  What kind of holiday would his friend have, recuperating from a bullet in the back?  Starsky had been planning to fly home, intending to spend the holiday with his mother and brother, but would a long, uncomfortable trip by air even be an option now?

 

Hutch had made his own plans, booking a flight to Duluth, though it was from sheer sense of duty more than any true longing to return home.  There was no question he’d enjoy seeing his mother and sister, but the at-odds relationship he had with his father assured the visit would deteriorate into something unpleasant before it ended.  If Starsky couldn’t go to New York because of his injury, Hutch had every intention of sticking by his side through the holiday season.  Whether it was spent in a hospital or at Starsky’s apartment, just knowing his dark-haired friend was safe and under Hutch’s watchful eye was all the festive cheer he needed to celebrate.  He’d already gotten his gift this Christmas season, one more precious than any material possession or family reunion - - the life of his beloved partner and friend. 

 

Starsky moaned again and this time Hutch tensed, wrenching backward.  “Maybe I should get a nurse,” he said worriedly, reaching for the call button.

 

Starsky caught his hand.  “Just . . . stay,” he mumbled on a faint breath.  He looked tired, his face strained and white beneath the tumbled mass of his dusky curls. The glimmer of fever hovered in his eyes, turning dark blue to brighter turquoise.  “I . . .” He licked his lips.  “I’ll be okay . . . if you stay, Hutch.”  His fingers tightened, his grip lacking strength but conveying a desperate need for company.  And not just any company.  He needed Hutch.

 

The realization made the blond-haired man swallow hard.  When did our lives become so intricately entwined? 

 

Aristotle had called a friend “a single soul in two bodies.”  There’d been a time in Hutch’s life when he would have termed the thought poetic philosophy with no grounding in reality.  But that was before Starsky . . . before his heart ached and his soul shuddered at the mere idea of his partner in pain. He held onto the hand wrapped over his, understanding the potency intrinsic in their shared touch.  It reached where medication couldn’t, soothed when nothing else worked.  Starsky had turned that same miraculous balm on him when he’d suffered through heroin withdrawal, comforting with his mere presence and the attentive stroke of his hands when all else failed. 

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised.  Exhaustion, the need to sleep, the heavy backlog of nerve-fraying hours - - none of it mattered.  Starsky needed him and that need in itself was a salve to ease Hutch’s tattered emotional state.  “Go to sleep buddy,” he coaxed.  “I’m just going to hang out here and watch the view.”

 

Starsky’s eyes slid to the side, noting the wide window with its glittering vista of sparkling jeweled lights. “Hey . . . it’s kinda pretty,” he relented, the distraction momentarily chasing lines of pain from his face.  “Almost like Christmas.”  The thought immediately sobered him.  Shifting marginally, he eased onto his good side, his back to Hutch as he gazed moodily out the window.  “Guess I probably ain’t gonna make it home for the holidays.  Ma’ll be disappointed.”

 

“That’s still a week away, Starsk,” Hutch inserted quickly. “A lot can happen in a week.”  Always in sync with his friend’s moods and thoughts, Hutch immediately knew where Starsky’s mind was headed.  A missed flight to New York combined with Hutch visiting his own family in Duluth, added up to a depressingly lonely holiday for a man who thrived on festive occasions.  Starsky might be Jewish, but that had never stopped him from celebrating Christmas just as enthusiastically as his gentile friends. “We’ll have a quiet Christmas here if you can’t fly anywhere,” Hutch said softly, soothingly tracking one thumb across his partner’s wrist.

 

Surprised, Starsky glanced over his shoulder.  The strain of physical discomfort was back in his eyes, but at least he was managing the pain.  “You’re goin’ home to Duluth,” he reminded his friend.

 

“Not if I’ve got an option to hang around with my partner.  You don’t really think I want to go home, do you, Starsk?  I’ll just end up in an argument with my dad and ruin everyone’s holiday.  If you’re stuck here, I’m staying.  And don’t try to talk me out of it.  I’ll make us a turkey.  How’s that sound?”

 

“Like shit.  You are a turkey, Hutchinson.”  The words were strong, but Starsky’s tone was light, brimming over with fond affection.  His eyes grew heavy, fatigue pulling on the lush black line of his lashes.  With a sigh he settled into the meager plumpness of the standard issue hospital pillow, content to let the calming track of Hutch’s thumb usher him toward sleep.  “I don’t wanna screw up your plans,” he mumbled sleepily.

 

“Then let me worry about them,” Hutch said, relieved when Starsky’s eyes stayed closed.  Even then . . . even when he heard his friend’s breath slide into the peaceful rhythm of sleep, Hutch continued the gentle, steady caress of his thumb across Starsky’s limp wrist.

 

A single soul in two bodies.

 

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

+++++

 

Five Weeks Later:

 

January was cool, but not cold in California, something Starsky still found a little unusual.  In New York the temperatures would be dipping into the teens by now, whereas they hovered pleasantly in the mid fifties in Bay City.  He enjoyed the semi-warmth and delicious freedoms the balmy air brought, like shedding his clothes in the middle of the night.  It had been over a month since the incident at Giovanni’s, and while he still had occasional pings of discomfort, and was only just now returning to active street duty, the restrictions hadn’t cooled his love life.  If anything, they’d helped.

 

He’d met Kay Whitley at the hospital.  She’d been one of two roaming lab assistants who drew blood from him every other day.  Not a pleasant procedure, but the fact she was cute, blonde, and more than a little flirty had made the whole thing bearable.  Eventually, he’d even started looking forward to the sound of her rolling cart with its assortment of needles and vials if for no other reason he got to spend a few minutes practicing his come-on lines.  By the time he was discharged, they had exchanged phone numbers and agreed to a tentative date, albeit something tame with Starsky’s arm still in a sling.  

 

Tame had eventually fallen by the wayside, as did the sling.  Now, five weeks later, he rediscovered something he’d learned fairly early in their relationship  - - they were good together in bed. A little too good, as the last few hours had proven.  Kay wasn’t always the most accommodating person, but she became pure sensuality in his arms the moment his kisses grew impassioned and hot.

 

He couldn’t even remember how they’d ended up on his waterbed when they’d originally planned to spend the evening at a dance club.  Somewhere between answering the door, offering Kay a glass of wine and playfully demonstrating a seductive new dance step he’d learned, they’d detoured to the bedroom.  Which was fine with Starsky. 

 

Spending the night under the glitz and glitter of a disco ball had its attractions, but he’d been feeling more than a little carnal lately, and they hadn’t seen each other in three days.  Hutch was normally the one to indulge his over-eager sexual drive at the drop of a pin, but Starsky wasn’t above a healthy romp with a woman he cared about when the moment was right.

 

“You taste like silk, you know that?” he murmured huskily against her bare shoulder.  His lips contoured the knob, guided by the exquisitely light brush of his fingertips. 

 

She shivered, giggling a little in anticipatory desire. “What’s silk taste like?”

 

“Mmm . . .”  He found her neck, sucked briefly at the frantically throbbing pulse in her throat.  He liked the fact he could send it racing out of control, that even now her naked flesh tensed against his, her entire body primed for his touch.  “Cool,” he decided.  “And sleek.  Like frosted crème and chilled champagne. Or dew on grass.”  He brushed the hair from her face, languidly inspecting her earlobe with the tip of his tongue.  He took his time - - a tantalizingly slow exploration that tracked into the shell of her ear, moisture and heat sizzling together.  She shuddered, moaning softly.  The sound went through him like a jolt of live current, streaking directly to his groin.

 

He groaned aloud, control instantly forgotten.  Painfully aroused, he crushed his mouth over hers, hunger and excitement sealing their lips together.  She tasted of the wine they’d shared, of raw desire and electric passion.  The waterbed bobbled as he shifted on top of her, all sinew and lean muscle, his body planed with shadow in the night-draped bedroom.  Tilting his head back, he caught a glimpse of naked skin in the mirrored canopy of his waterbed.  Her blush-pink nails raked over his bare back, sinking into the firm flesh of his buttock.  He wanted to love her - - gave his heart as much as the heat of the moment allowed though he knew it would never be forever. She was pleasant and loving and satisfied the ache in his heart, but he knew she wasn’t the one. For now it was enough to please and be pleased in return, the press of her fingernails on his bare backside wantonly erotic. She caressed and kneaded even as she moaned her pleasure, moonlight glinting off a slim silver bangle encircling her wrist.  He felt the brush of metal against his hip, the brief contact a scalding lick of fire on his overly sensitized skin.  Kay clutched him tighter, arching her back to meld their joined bodies in a crackling fusion of heat. 

 

Starsky groaned, certain he’d explode.

 

He dropped his head, eagerly slanting his mouth over hers.  His fingers threaded into her hair, cradling her skull as his tongue teased her lips.  Time unfolded in a slow sensual dance, golden and glorious until he felt drunk with passion . . . until the throbbing pulse of heat in his groin became unbearable and their pleasure erupted in simultaneous release.  Shuddering, he buried his face in her hair, his heart hammering fiercely as it climbed down from a giddy high. She wrapped her arms around him and clung tightly, her breath a quivery hitch in his ear. A moment passed, and then:  “Silk?” she asked a little breathlessly.

 

Starsky kissed her and rolled away, flopping onto his back. Already, he could feel sweat drying on his skin, pulling the matted hair on his chest.  In another moment she was nestled up against him, her hand embedded in that dark mass. “You’re awfully poetic tonight, David.”  Resting her head on his shoulder, she glanced up at their reflection.

 

He lay sprawled bonelessly, legs spread wide, the heat of their lovemaking slowly dying between his thighs.  Somewhere on the floor, the new black silk shirt he’d bought lay crumpled with his jeans, hastily discarded as they’d kissed and petted their way into the bedroom.  Who would have thought a simple glass of wine and a brazenly intimate dance step would have turned into an all-nighter?

 

“Well . . . I might not be seein’ you for awhile,” he reminded her, turning his head to brush a kiss against her hair.  He tipped her chin up, gently tasting her lips before settling her back against his shoulder, the heat of their bodies a languorous narcotic that left him feeling drowsy and sated.  He’d already told her Dobey had sent up some smoke signals late in the day, hinting about putting him and Hutch on a case that would take them out of Bay City. The captain had been brief, telling them only to report early in the morning when he’d explain the details. 

 

Kay smiled a little wickedly.  “Well,” she said, tracing his collarbone with the tip of one long fingernail.  “If I’m not going to be seeing you for awhile, then I think I need another encore.”

 

Starsky blinked, reluctant to admit that even he had limitations.

 

+++++

 

Hutch beat Starsky to Metro the following morning, more than a little anxious to see what their captain had planned for them.  He didn’t particularly like the idea of an assignment that would take them out of the city when Starsky had only just returned to active duty.  He knew he was feeling overly protective of his partner but couldn’t easily shake that instinct after the long night at Giovanni’s and Starsky’s post recovery. 

 

Dobey had been vague when he’d caught them in the hallway as they were leaving yesterday, stating only that he needed to see them in the morning regarding a new case.  He’d been a bit on the terse side, either the result of a bad day or the case itself wasn’t sitting right with him.  Whatever the scenario, Hutch wasn’t entirely sure he wanted his newly-healed friend involved.  In the end he knew his opinion wouldn’t matter.  Starsky and Dobey would have the final say, his edgy partner anxious to be back in the thick of street action.

 

At his desk, Hutch shrugged from his green-and-white football jacket, hooking it over the back of his chair.  It was a little cooler this morning, a fact that had made him opt for a black turtleneck to go with his dark denim jeans while dressing. The temperature would climb to something pleasant and mild by mid-afternoon, but for now, the thought of warm coffee had welcome appeal.  He poured himself a cup, impatiently eyeing the wall clock before considering the closed door to Dobey’s office.

 

“Hey, Blondie - - you gonna hog up all the coffee?”

 

He jerked, surprised to find Starsky at his shoulder.  He could usually tell the moment his partner entered a room even without looking - - they were that in tune with each other.  This time he’d been caught napping, his mind on the closed door and the yet unknown case.  Sensing his distraction, Starsky snatched up a Styrofoam cup and reached for the coffeepot.  He yawned widely, more than a little bleary eyed. “You aren’t the only one who needs caffeine, you know.” 

 

Amused, Hutch watched him dump an obnoxious amount of sugar into the cup. Obviously his date with Kay Whitley had some lingering side effects.  “Late night?” he asked knowingly.

 

Starsky scowled.  “The damn girl’s insatiable, Hutch.  We were gonna go dancin’ and then - -”  He shrugged, swigging a mouthful of coffee.  “Let’s just say we got sidetracked, and she kept me up all night.”

 

“Well, there’s dancing and there’s dancing,” Hutch tossed back with a grin.

 

Smirking, Starsky took another gulp of coffee.

 

Probably couldn’t work up a good comeback if he wanted to, Hutch thought looking at his bedraggled friend. Starsky appeared more rumpled than usual, dressed in a bleached pair of jeans and a faded denim shirt, his worn leather jacket almost pristine by contrast.  Hutch might have even fretted a moment or two, worrying over his partner’s still spotty health but for the vibrant spark in Starsky’s eyes.  It had been missing at Giovanni’s, missing in the weeks immediately following, but it was back now, almost at full potency. Inwardly, he felt himself relax.

 

“Hutchinson!  Starsky!”  Dobey’s abrupt bellow cut through his thoughts, dragging him back to the present.  He glanced over his shoulder to find the rotund captain framed in the doorway of his office. “In here - - now!”

 

“Always nice to be wanted,” Starsky muttered from the side of his mouth as he fell in step beside Hutch.

 

They filed into the office, Hutch hesitating near the door while Starsky slouched into the nearest chair, looking a little too much like an insolent teenager expecting a lecture.  Hutch attempted a more diplomatic approach, flashing an easy grin at Dobey.

 

“Good morning, Captain,” he said as the black man swept the door closed.

 

“Not for long,” Dobey snapped.  Giving Starsky’s leg a kick to make him sit up straighter, he skirted both detectives, prowling behind his desk and dropping heavily into the chair.  With an irritated grunt, he tugged a pencil from behind his ear, bluntly stabbing the point in their general vicinity. “Thanks to your inspired shenanigans the end of October, I now have the Police Commissioner assigning you cases.  Personally.”  He spat the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “The next time either of you gets the hare-brained idea to party with the jet set, I suggest you leave your sorry-assed Romeo routine on the shelf where it belongs.  Is that clear?”

 

Dobey’s voice rose in a frustrated bellow, a sound that surely crackled beyond the door for the entertainment of anyone in the squadroom.  Uncertain what they’d done to deserve the dressing down, Hutch exchanged a confused glance with Starsky.  His partner looked just as befuddled as he felt.  “Uh, excuse me, Captain.”  Clearing his throat, he spoke calmly, a direct counterpoint to Dobey’s blistering irritation.  “What exactly is the problem?”

 

“The problem, Hutchinson, is I like to assign cases to my own men. It gives me the crazy illusion of actually running my own damn precinct.  What I don’t like is being called by the Commissioner and being told he wants you two on a death-threat case as a personal favor to him.”

 

“Commissioner Westlake?”  Starsky parted with a disbelieving snort.  “Cap’n, that doesn’t make sense.  He don’t even like us.”

 

“It makes perfect sense from a political standpoint,” Dobey countered.  Somewhat grudgingly, he eased his bellicose attitude, leaning back in his chair to speak a bit more conversationally. “The man’s back is up against the door.  What else is he supposed to do when one of Bay City’s most prominent citizens contacts him personally, requesting Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson and his partner be assigned to her case?”  He sent a tight smirk in Hutch’s general direction.  “Apparently you made quite an impression on her the end of October.”

 

Hutch blinked, still confused.  “October?” He tried to resurrect the timeframe and ended up stumbling over a host of unwanted memories:  Darryl Corman, Eddie Fish, Art Pellar’s society bash. The only woman who fit Dobey’s description was one he hadn’t seen since Halloween night.  One he didn’t think he’d ever see again.  Bewildered, he shot Starsky a trapped glance then quickly refocused on Dobey.  “Vivian Clarke is receiving death threats?” he asked incredulously.

 

Intrigued, Starsky sat up straighter.  “Cap, you mean - -?”

 

His question was cut off by a sharp knock on the door.  Rather than grow annoyed at the interruption, Dobey merely frowned as if he’d been expecting it all along.  “Get that, Hutchinson,” he instructed levelly.

 

Somewhat hesitantly, Hutch tugged open the door, not entirely surprised when he came face to face with Vivian Clarke.  What did surprise him was the unexpected skip of his heart.  He swallowed to keep from flushing.  “Vivian.  I . . . it’s good to see you again.”

 

She smiled, as sophisticated and smoothly seductive as he remembered.  “I should hope it’s better than good, Ken.”  Breezing past him, she swept into the office, trailing a delicate whisper of gardenia, lotus and calla lily.  Dressed in a fitted pantsuit the color of ripe eggplant, she looked like she’d just come from a high-end fashion shoot.  A gold silk scarf and metallic gold handbag accented her immaculately tailored outfit, the jacket cut low to reveal the shimmery satin of a black camisole. Styled neatly in a long smooth bob, her chestnut hair curled sleekly against her slender shoulders.  More than a little mesmerized, Hutch shook away his distraction.  Sometimes it was hard remembering she was fifty years old.

 

“Mrs. Clarke.”  Dobey stood graciously to shake her hand, rummaging up a civil smile in the process.  “I believe you already know Detective Hutchinson.” He couldn’t help the small frown he directed at Hutch, silent reprimand for their present predicament. “And this is his partner, Detective Sergeant David Starsky.”

 

Vivian’s polite attention shifted from Dobey to Starsky. “Yes,” she said, smiling a little as he stood.  “I remember seeing you at Art Pellar’s party.  Ken told me his partner was there, but we were never formally introduced.”  She extended her hand, clearly confident in her authority.  “It’s good to meet you, David.”

 

Taken aback by her straightforwardness, Starsky hesitated before catching her fingers in his.   “Uh, you too.  I mean - - ”  He faltered, grinning clumsily but with unmistakable charm.  “I mean, it’s good to meet you - - Vivian.  Uh, Mrs. Clarke - -”

 

She chuckled, enjoying his fumbling.  “Vivian is just fine, David.”  She looked between the three men, all of whom were standing awkwardly, hovering in a semi-circle like a pack of cloddish canines, uncertain what to do in the presence of a graceful swan. “Perhaps I should sit, gentlemen?” she suggested with a meaningful glance for the nearest chair.

 

“Oh, yeah - -”

 

“Uh-huh - -”

 

“Of course - -”

 

All three spoke at once, fumbling and tripping over their words.  Hutch reached the chair before Starsky, holding the back while Vivian curled gracefully onto the seat.  The flush he’d felt earlier crept up the back of his neck.  He’d forgotten how unsettled she could make him feel, his reaction all the more absurd for the differences in their ages. 

 

“Should we get down to business?”  Recovering, Dobey returned to his desk chair, falling into the commanding role of police captain.  Starsky took the seat adjacent to Vivian which left Hutch hovering between them.  He settled for perching on the arm of Starsky’s chair, a station he frequently took when he and Starsky conferred with others in Dobey’s office.  This time, however, it seemed uncomfortably nonchalant with Vivian sitting so close.  He felt like he had when he was a kid, attending one of his parents’ society galas, knowing he didn’t quite measure up to his father’s expectations.  Only it wasn’t fear of disapproval that bothered him, but rather acceptance.  Vivian’s refinement complimented his more casual attitude a little too flawlessly, and that was the problem.

 

Sending him a speculative glance from beneath her lashes, she studied him from head to toe, noting the Magnum strapped beneath his arm and the body-hugging fit of his dark denim jeans.  Intrigued, she flashed a sultry smile.  “I think I like this look better than the tuxedo, Ken.”

 

Dobey cleared his throat.  Loudly.  “Mrs. Clarke - - Vivian,” he corrected, momentarily flustered by the brazen undercurrents in the room.  “I haven’t had the opportunity to discuss your situation in detail with my detectives.  Perhaps you’d like to explain the circumstances yourself.”

 

“If you wish.”  She inclined her head, crossing one shapely leg over the other.  Unable to stop himself, Hutch followed the movement, noting everything from her high-heeled black shoes to the elegant curve of her ankle.  Perfectly poised, she turned her attention on the two detectives.

 

“Your captain is no doubt annoyed, gentlemen, that I contacted the Commissioner directly, but having the police involved in personal matters is a delicate issue in my social circles.  It’s paramount I have a detective - - or detectives - -” She extended her hand to include Starsky, “I can trust.”

 

Dobey made a contradictory sound, having the decency to at least appear magnanimous. “‘Annoyed’ is such a strong word, Mrs. - - uh, Vivian.”

 

“Well if you aren’t irritated, Captain, you should be.  All of that aside, I’m a woman who knows what she wants.”  She smiled a little too pointedly.  “And I want Ken.”

 

Hutch balked.  “Excuse me?”

 

Vivian’s light laughter floated on the air.  “For the case, Sergeant,” she clarified, but the double meaning was blatantly obvious to everyone in the room.  Settling comfortably into her chair, she folded her hands in her lap.  “It seems I’ve made an enemy of a young man I was romantically involved with for a brief period of time.  Robbie Harker is a show performer - - acrobatics, exotic weaponry, stunts.”

 

Dobey flipped open a manila file folder.  “Harker,” he said, sliding an 8” x 10” black-and-white photograph across the desk.  Hutch leaned forward, retrieving it so both he and Starsky could study the image together.  Obviously meant to be a publicity still for a professional performer, the picture was a high gloss close-up of a young man with dark eyes and curling ringlets of blond hair.  Somewhere in his late twenties, he might easily have been termed beautiful, the chiseled lines of his face perfectly precise but also unmistakably haughty and cold.  

 

“We met at a Christmas party,” Vivian continued as Hutch passed the photo to Starsky.  “Robbie was a bit eccentric, but I overlooked that in the beginning because we had fun together.  Unfortunately, he grew possessive and clingy in a short time.  Two weeks ago I broke off our relationship.”

 

“And that’s when the problems started?”  Hutch guessed.

 

Vivian nodded.  “Just phone calls at first - - begging me to take him back, insisting he couldn’t live without me.  Then he started hinting around it would be dangerous for me to see anyone else.  I eventually met James Fackler, a club dancer, but three days into our relationship, he was jumped leaving work and beaten very badly.  Of course I can’t prove it was Robbie - -”

 

“What about Fackler?” Starsky asked.  “Didn’t he get a look at the guy who jumped him?” 

 

“No.”  Vivian shook her head.  “The man was wearing a ski mask, but he did match Robbie’s height and build.  And he said something - - only two words:  Dance Celestial.”

 

Starsky scowled.  “T’rrfic.  A thug with culture.  What the hell - - er, um . . . excuse me,” he blushed, flustered by his instinctive use of profanity.  “What exactly does that mean?”

 

Vivian grinned, appreciating his frank reaction.  “ The Dance Celestial is my brother-in-law’s latest extravaganza.  He holds a large party every January to celebrate our birthdays since they’re just a week apart.  Although his brother - - my late husband - - has been gone over twenty years, Alex and I have always remained close.  He’s a bit of an astronomy buff and decided to use that as this year’s theme.  It’s not a formal affair, but he always comes up with something on the extravagant side.  His family is from ‘old money’ so he does have a tendency to splurge, particularly when it comes to our joint birthday celebration.  He owns a private island off the coast and holds the event there.   It’s scheduled to take place in two days.”

 

“And Harker knew about this?”  Starsky persisted.

 

“Yes - - in detail.  I had planned to take him with me, so we talked about the party quite a bit. Robbie was looking forward to attending and meeting some of my friends.  Then yesterday afternoon, I returned home and found someone had killed my eight-year-old Irish Wolfhound. The sick bastard shot her through the throat with a razor-tipped hunting arrow.”  Vivian’s voice grew unmistakably sharp. “Robbie is an excellent archer.  He even does a routine in his show using a bow.  And just in case I didn’t make the connection, he left a note  - - unsigned, of course - - stating I would be next.”

 

“The lab got a partial fingerprint from the arrow,” Dobey added.  “No question it belonged to Harker.”  Exhaling loudly, he leaned back in his chair.  “We’ve had an APB out on him since last night, but he isn’t turning up.  No one’s seen him in three days.  In the meantime, Vivian is still planning to attend her brother-in-law’s party, but there’s legitimate concern Harker may follow through on his threat.  With all those people in attendance, he could easily slip in undetected.  We don’t want to arouse suspicion, but we don’t want to leave her unprotected either.”

 

“So that’s the assignment?”  Hutch raised a brow.

 

“Well, you’ve already been my escort once, Ken,” Vivian reminded him.  “And Alex is used to me showing up with a young, blond date.  I’ll just tell him you’re my latest diversion.”  She smiled audaciously.  “You can pretend to be a male fashion model or something equally self-indulgent and vain. After all - - you certainly look the part.”

 

Exhaling at the flippant remark, Hutch stood and began to pace.   “What about me?” he heard Starsky ask.

 

“We have you pegged to play the part of Vivian’s nephew,” Dobey interrupted before the woman could add anything further.  He scowled, clearly not sold on Vivian’s flirting and straight-forward approach with Hutch. Briefly, he consulted the file in front of him.  “David Vance,” he relayed with a glance at Starsky.  “Nice first name coincidence. He’s a freelance writer who’s been living in the Bahamas since he was twenty.”

 

Hutch stopped his pacing, shooting a surprised glance at Vivian.  The last time he’d seen her, she’d been planning a trip to the Bahamas and had even tried to coax him into accompanying her.  He’d just assumed she was indulging her love of frivolity and excessive living. “That’s why you were flying there the end of October?” he said, making the connection. “To visit your nephew?”

 

“My late sister’s son,” she confirmed. “He’s never met Alex or any of my other family members, and the last photograph they’ve seen of him was taken during his childhood. They’ll be pleasantly surprised when I show up with my latest fling and David.”

 

“Now, wait a minute.”  Hutch was already tripping over red flags.  It was one matter for him to undertake the assignment, but Starsky had just come through a serious injury.  He didn’t like the idea of his partner on a remote island where anything might go wrong, let alone a botched murder attempt.  “Vivian, have you just considered skipping this party and keeping a low profile until Harker can be rounded up?”

 

“Definitely not.  I look forward to this party every year.”  Standing, she confronted him face-to-face, the top of her head barely reaching his nose even in her three inch heels. “I am not a coward, Ken, and I am not in the habit of allowing pretty men to dictate my actions just because I take a momentary interest in them. Present company included.”  She planted her hands on her hips. “You told me you were a cop.  Maybe it’s time you started acting like one.”

 

He flushed.  “Hold on just a minute - -”  A single index finger snapped on the air between them.

 

“Where’s the island?” Starsky asked, abruptly cutting the brewing argument short. 

 

“At least someone’s thinking like a police officer,” Vivian complimented, favoring him with an enchanting smile.

 

Hutch followed it up by shooting his partner a hostile glare.  Amazing, but with her back turned, Hutch could easily imagine the slender and oh-so-chic Mrs. Clarke as a twenty-year-old. And just like any sultry twenty-year-old aware of her feminine appeal, she knew exactly what to say, when to say it and who to say it to. He fought the urge to place his hands on her shoulders and wheel her back around. 

 

“It’s small - - southeast off the coast, accessible only by boat.”

 

That at least gave Starsky pause.  He’d been grinning admiringly at her, but his indulgent fawning dimmed with the news.  “Boat?”

 

“Starsky hates water,” Hutch said flatly.  He didn’t know why he was suddenly being so difficult.  He didn’t like the idea of Starsky on the case, let alone the island, but also didn’t care for Vivian cooing over his partner.  It wasn’t that he had any interest in her himself - - well, not exactly - - but it just didn’t feel right.   She was playing a game - - as she’d played it with him at Art Pellar’s party - - and he didn’t want her doing it with Starsky.   He could handle her.  Growing up as the son of a high-society doctor, he was well accustomed to the manipulations of the haughty and powerful.  Starsky, however street smart he might be, had an innocent side that tended to take people at face value and left him vulnerable to being hurt. 

 

“I ain’t crazy about water,” Hutch heard his friend say, “But if that’s the only way of gettin’ to the island and this Celestial thing - -”

 

“Dance Celestial,” Vivian supplied.

 

“ - - yeah, that thing - - then I guess we go by boat.”  He squiggled his eyebrows at his partner.  “What d’ya say, Blondie?  You wanna play boy-toy and flash that megawatt smile of yours at Mrs. Clarke’s friends?”

 

Vivian laughed in pure pleasure.  “David, you are a true delight!”

 

“He’s a true pain in the ass,” Hutch muttered, but knew any protest he’d make now would only fall on deaf ears.  Starsky and Vivian had become a unified front, one appearing to enjoy his frustration as much as the other.  And the truth of the matter was he didn’t like Vivian going off to some affair unprotected, the target of a deranged killer.  Although their acquaintance to date had been brief, it wasn’t without heat of its own.  He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t concerned about her, or that he hadn’t enjoyed kissing her. 

 

The fool woman needed to find a responsible older man and settle down, not run around with a bunch of plastic Adonis-clones, twenty-some years her junior.  Parting with a resigned sigh, he reached for the door.  “Anyone want some coffee?  If we’re going to work out details, this could take awhile.”

 

+++++

 

Hutch rinsed the last of the dinner dishes, casting a glance over his shoulder at Starsky who sat slumped in the couch.  After a day spent finalizing the details of the “celestial case” as they’d come to call it, Hutch had invited Starsky back to his cottage for dinner.  He still worried over his friend’s health, a habit he really couldn’t shake, including whether or not he was eating the right kinds of food.  Left to his own devices, Starsky probably would have gulped down a burrito, chili dog, or several slices of leftover cold pizza with a root beer.  Instead, Hutch broiled a few steaks, added two plump baked potatoes, some dinner rolls, and a green bean casserole.  He wasn’t chef material by any means, but he didn’t fare too badly in the kitchen - - a fact supported by Starsky’s hearty appetite when he cleaned his plate in a relatively short time.

 

His friend had been a little preoccupied throughout the day, listening to weather reports.  Earlier, he’d been excited about the case, even taking Vivian to lunch while Hutch worked on fine-tuning a number of details with Dobey. 

 

“We don’t need you around, Blondie,” Starsky had said with obnoxiously posed smugness, one arm draped possessively over Vivian’s shoulders.  “I’m stealin’ this lovely lady and takin’ her to lunch so we can get better acquainted.  You stay here and play cop.”

 

Vivian had eaten it up, Starsky too. The real reason for their time together was so that Starsky could learn as much as possible about Vivian’s nephew, David Vance, since he’d be assuming his identity for Alex’s party.  But the “lunch” had eventually spilled over into a two-hour detour, making Hutch certain they’d discussed everything under the sun, including him.  By the time they’d returned to the precinct, they acted like they’d known each other for years, laughing together and even taking a moment to stage-whisper behind his back. 

 

“Just ignore him,” Starsky had instructed Vivian, a few feet from where Hutch was briskly flipping through file folders.  “He gets grumpy when I stick him with the paperwork.”

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him scowl quite like that before.”

 

“That ain’t nothin’.  Let him get really ticked off and the Hutchinson finger’ll show up.”

 

“Like in the captain’s office today?”  Vivian chuckled lightly.  “He is awfully cute when he’s angry.”

 

“Ain’t he though?”

 

It might not have been so bad except Hutch could actually hear an obscenely amused grin in his friend’s voice. And so it had gone until they’d finally had enough fun and Vivian left, gracing Starsky with a showy kiss on the cheek.  Shortly after, irritated that Starsky had spent the afternoon flirting with Vivian while he’d been stuck looking for leads on Robbie Harker, Hutch had casually mentioned the possibility of a storm brewing in the weather forecast.  It was all his ocean-shy friend needed to hear to immediately grow unhinged about crossing open water in a boat. 

 

Mention of a possible storm had kept Starsky glued to the radio or TV every few hours, anxiously looking for a weather update.  Even now he waited for the evening forecast, eyes riveted to Hutch’s small television, bottom lip tugged worriedly between his teeth.

 

At the time he’d tossed off the remark Hutch had been hoping to rattle Starsky with the news, but he was beginning to regret it now. He knew his friend had a very real fear of water, though Starsky had never explained why.  All he would say was that it had something to do with a childhood friend.  The moment Hutch tried to pry further, he’d grow evasive, cutting short the conversation.  It was enough to know that open water and Starsky didn’t mix. 

 

Two days from now they would board a private charter from the Bahia Bay Marina to Alex’s reclusive island. Until that time, a police cruiser would remain stationed outside Vivian’s swank estate, tucked high in the hills overlooking the city.  If the weather grew exceptionally bad, their plans would be altered or cancelled altogether, but the way it stood now a little rain and a few waves weren’t going to rescind the Dance Celestial.

 

“Starsk, will you quit watching that thing?”  Hutch frowned over his shoulder, grabbing two beers from the refrigerator.  Settling beside his friend on the couch, he passed one of the bottles to Starsky. “Lighten up already, will you? I was just yanking your chain.  There’s no storm coming, just a little rain.”

 

Starsky shrugged as if it didn’t mean anything one way or the other.  “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.  I just wanna see what’s happenin’ on the news.”

 

“Nothing we haven’t already seen on the streets.”  Leaning forward, Hutch switched off the TV.

“Hey!”  Starsky immediately moved to turn it back on, but Hutch caught his arm and held fast.

 

“I’m serious, Starsk - - just rain.”

 

Starsky looked like he would protest it didn’t matter again, but quickly dropped the façade when Hutch refused to release him.  “Okay,” he relented in defeat.  Exhaling loudly, he slumped back into the cushions, legs sprawled in front of him. “But just so you know - - it might’ve only been rain earlier today, but it’s lookin’ like a full blown storm now.”  Dropping his eyes, he studied the foil label on his beer, using one fingernail to nervously peel back the corner.  “Think Alex will still have this celestial thing if a front blows in?”

 

Inwardly cursing himself for bringing up the damn storm in the first place, Hutch tried not to place too much emphasis on his partner’s subtle apprehension.  “Charter Captains deal with rough seas all the time, Starsk.  I’m sure if the weather’s anything out of the ordinary, the party will be postponed.  So, uh . . .”  Hoping to divert Starsky’s over-active mind elsewhere, Hutch latched onto the first thing he could think of.  “You had a nice long lunch with Vivian today.  What’d the two of you talk about anyway?”

 

Starsky’s lips curled upward in a slow grin, the tactic successful.  “Oh, you know - - a little of this, a little of that.  Did you know she’s going to be fifty-one?”

 

Intrigued, Hutch blinked.  “She actually told you that?”  In his experience, most women were unwilling to volunteer their age, especially when they looked a good ten to twelve years younger than they actually were.

 

“Sure, why not?”  Starsky shrugged. “She thinks I’m adorable and cute.”  His grin inched higher, sly and immensely pleased.  “Must have told me that five or six times.”

 

Hutch snorted, his reaction half skepticism, half annoyance.  Once again, he found himself wavering between attraction and ridiculous absurdity where Vivian Clarke was concerned.

 

Starsky chuckled.  “Don’t’ sweat it, Blondie.  She might think I’m adorable and cute, but she thinks you’re hot and sexy - - and yeah, she told me that too.  I guarantee she’s only got one thing on her mind when she looks at you, and it ain’t got nothin’ to do with parties or celestial bullshit. Dobey’s already thinkin’ you’re the one who needs the bodyguard, not her.”

 

Hutch felt heat creep over his cheeks, worried to learn his captain had noticed the strong sexual undercurrents in the office earlier.  Vivian had a well-known reputation as a woman who enjoyed frivolous flings with younger men, and she’d made no effort to hide that preference today - - especially as it related to him. 

 

Uncomfortable discussing the subject even with Starsky, Hutch shoved it aside.  He still hadn’t decided how he felt about Vivian, and that wavering hesitation made the whole thing a topic he’d sooner avoid. “I’m only going to be her date for one night - - just like at Pellar’s Halloween party,” he said, feeling the need to clarify their relationship. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he realized his mistake.

 

Starsky grinned brazenly.  “Uh-huh.”

 

Hutch scowled.  “Stuff it, Starsky.”  Wedging his back into the corner of the sofa, he took a long swig of his beer.  He knew he deserved the razzing after trying to rattle Starsky with news of a storm, but that didn’t make the teasing any easier to take.  On one hand he was secretly intrigued by Vivian, imagining several lust-inspired “what if” possibilities.  On the other, he just wanted to protect her . . . to see her settled and happy with a man who would cherish her for her own merits and not because she was rich and influential.  It was a fine line to tread, and Starsky’s insinuating comments weren’t helping. 

 

“No date with Kay tonight?” he asked, hoping to change the subject.

 

“Tomorrow,” Starsky supplied.  Yawning, he dragged a hand through his hair, loosely rumpling his crown of dark curls.  “I already told her she can’t keep me up all night like last time.”

 

Hutch chuckled, sour mood instantly forgotten.  “You’ve really got it rough, buddy.  You ever think about ditching that waterbed?”

 

“What - - and miss out on all that fun?”  Grinning, Starsky shoved his beer onto the coffee table.  Easing forward, he attempted to work a stubborn kink from his back, stretching his neck to the side, lifting and flexing his left arm.  The movement sent a shadow of discomfort skittering over his face.

 

Watching, Hutch felt his spirits dim.  “What’s the matter?  Is your arm bothering you?”

 

“Huh?”  Starsky shot him a distracted glance.  “Yeah.  No.  Not really.”  He ran through the gamut, twisting his left hand over his shoulder in an attempt to massage the stiffness from his back. “It’s just a knot,” he said dismissively.

 

“Sure it is.”  Sitting forward, Hutch motioned him closer.  “Come here.”

 

Starsky stopped what he was doing long enough to blink in Hutch’s general direction. 

 

“Starsk, come here,” Hutch repeated, a squiggle of alarm crawling into his gut.  He knew the stiffness in Starsky’s back and arm wasn’t anything critical or health-threatening, but that didn’t stop him from resurrecting ugly memories of Giovanni’s restaurant. “I won’t bite, partner - - I promise.”  Giving him a gentle tug, Hutch shifted until he could reach Starsky’s shoulder and back.  Applying pressure, he used his long fingers to firmly knead cramped muscle and joint.  “How’s that feel?”

Closing his eyes, Starsky groaned in appreciation.

 

Hutch grinned.  “I guess that means it’s passable.”  He could feel hunched tension in his partner’s body, balled up in restrictive knots.  It wasn’t the first time the wound had bothered Starsky and probably wouldn’t be the last.  His doctor had said even after it healed, it might still cause occasional grief. 

 

Applying firm pressure, Hutch felt Starsky gradually relax beneath the manipulation of his fingertips.  With an appreciative sigh, the dark-haired man listed to the side, sagging into the rear of the sofa. Strangely, the close contact of the massage was as therapeutic for Hutch as it was for Starsky.  The bond of touch, so often an anchor between them, flooded him with gratifying warmth.  It had been their source of strength at Giovanni’s, a solid connection that held them rooted together despite the chaos and insanity of everything that happened around them. 

 

Hutch knew Starsky had needed him then - - the calming, reassuring stroke of his hands, the gentle encouragement of his voice.  But Hutch had needed that link just as desperately.  It was what had helped him endure the harsh, unsettling night.  Being able to touch Starsky  - - to feel the warmth of his friend’s skin beneath his hands, the whispery brush of tumbled black curls against his fingertips had given him the strength to hold steady when he hadn’t known up from down. He’d soaked up that contact like a man in dire need of water. The truth was he’d needed Starsky as badly if not more than Starsky had ever needed him.  Second after second, the agonizing hour in the restaurant had forced him into a nightmare of survival, his primary concern protecting his partner and the other patrons.  His own life had been at the bottom of that chain, demoted to least priority.

 

“You’re too quiet,” Starsky said, his words slurred by the blissful pleasure he took from the massage.  He shifted, leaning into Hutch for better positioning. “What’cha thinkin’ about, Blondie?”

 

“Nothing.”  I’m thinking I was a jerk for ever bringing up that stupid storm. He was quiet for a minute, mulling over what an idiot he’d been, thankful to have Starsky content and resting against him.  He could feel the heat of his friend’s body seeping into his . . . feel the same phenomenal bond of closeness he’d experienced at the restaurant.  “We’ve got some shopping to do tomorrow,” he ventured at last. “ - - suits for Alex’s party.  I think Vivian’s already planning on picking them out.  You want to get an early start, maybe check out the charters at Bahia Bay Marina in the afternoon?  Harker’s got to reach that island the same way as the rest of us - - by boat.  It wouldn’t hurt to know the ins and outs of how the marina operates.”

 

“Sure.”  Starsky gave a sleepy nod and yawned. 

 

Never breaking contact, Hutch twisted his arm to glance at his watch.  It was already going on 9:30, the day hurtling past at light speed.   He thought about letting Starsky crash on his couch, but knew his friend would never get a good night’s sleep.  “You sound tired, Gordo. I don’t want to kick you out or anything, but maybe you should take that striped tomato of yours and head home. I think Kay played you out for real.”  Grinning, he propped his chin on Starsky’s shoulder.  “Do yourself a favor - - next time, take her dancing like you planned, instead of trying to match my pace.”

 

Starsky snorted.  “You’re a real comedian, Hutchinson, you know that?”  Parting with an elaborate yawn, he raised both arms above his head and made a flamboyant production of stretching.  Five minutes later, Hutch was ushering him out the front door, reminding him they had an early shopping date with Vivian.  He waited until he heard the rumble of the Torino fading in the distance, then switched off the lights and hit the shower.  

 

Before he knew it, his alarm clock was shrieking in his ear, a bright haze of morning light streaming through the bedroom window.  In a matter of hours, Vivian was gleefully dragging him and Starsky from one high-priced tailor to the next, spending money on them like they were kept men.  For tomorrow at least, Hutch knew he would be required to play that role to perfection.

 

Somewhere just before noon, he caught the tail end of the weather forecast and frowned to hear the chance of rain had been upgraded to a likely storm.  Fortunately Starsky was nowhere around. Cataloging the information for later, Hutch prayed they would be safely on the island before the weather turned sour.

 

+++++

 

Starsky adjusted his tie, smiling politely as he slipped from the small group of party guests he’d been conversing with for the last twenty minutes. He and Hutch had reached the island without incident, arriving fashionably late so Vivian could make a splashy entrance as befitting a guest of honor.   Starsky had to admit she looked dazzling in a gold sequined, form-fitting gown.  Sleeveless, with a mandarin collar, the dress was slit on one side to mid thigh, exposing the shapely line of her leg.  Her hair was swept into a becoming up-do, a style that only accentuated the graceful column of her neck.  Tasteful and chic, her jewelry was elegant without being ostentatious - - an oversized gold bangle bracelet, drippy diamond earrings and a smoky topaz ring. 

 

The same could not be said of Alex’s home which was lavish and sprawling with twelve-foot ceilings, marble floors and massive interior columns.  In keeping with the celestial theme, a nighttime skyscape was projected on the ceiling of each room much like an elaborate planetarium, creating a stunning kaleidoscope of colorful asteroid belts, moons and planets. Iridescent stars hung suspended by invisible wire, slowly revolving in subtle currents of air.  Circular hors d’oeuvre stations and drink tables were staggered throughout connecting rooms, each exquisite display boasting a lighted centerpiece in the shape of a planet.  Wherever Starsky looked, he could see glowing orbs, softly pulsing in shades of blue, green, red or amber.

 

Alex himself was down-to-earth, not at all as Starsky had envisioned.  Somewhere in his mid fifties, he’d been a widower for over twenty years.  Unlike the haughty, distinguished looking man Starsky had pictured, Alex was bookish and unassuming with rumpled gray hair, dark eyes and thick-framed glasses. He had a firm handshake and a contagiously eager smile.  Obviously delighted to meet “David Vance,” Vivian’s favorite nephew, he was considerably cooler with Hutch, giving the blond-haired man a quick once-over before extending his hand.  For the sake of Vivian’s safety, even Alex had been kept in the dark about their true identities and reason for attending the party.       

 

Deciding he needed some fresh air, Starsky headed for the covered veranda and outside bar.  Thankfully, the affair wasn’t overly stuffy. The last party he and Hutch had attended with Vivian had required them to wear tuxedos.  Tonight he’d gotten by in a dark navy suit with crisp white shirt and striped tie. Even so he felt hemmed in, glad for the cooling air when he stepped outside. It had been drizzling off and on throughout the night, but had yet to amount to anything significant.  Overhead, the sky was a starless black, blanketed with a heavy mass of clouds.  The air smelled strongly of rain, yet another reminder of the potentially severe storm lurking on the horizon.  Already a number of guests had left, fearing the impending bad weather.

 

Starsky knew it was somewhere after 1:00 a.m. and found himself thankful that he, Hutch and Vivian didn’t have to worry about catching a charter.  They would be spending the night on the island as Alex’s special guests, departing sometime tomorrow afternoon.  If a storm did strike, hopefully, the ocean would be considerably calmer by the time they headed back to the mainland.

 

Moving to the end of the bar, Starsky stood beneath a glowing representation of Saturn.  The softly pulsing light was only one of several colorful planets and stars bobbing overhead, suspended by invisible wire. Just beyond the veranda, an Olympic-sized swimming pool glimmered in the glow of underwater spotlights and ornamental lighting.  Whereas most any sane person would have closed the pool for the season, Alex had kept it open, converting it into a unique and decorative lawn accent. The entire surface was littered with floating spheres of various shapes and sizes, each glittering in metallic shades of emerald, amethyst, ruby and gold. 

 

Careful to drink only tonic water all night so he’d be alert for anything out of the ordinary, Starsky decided one beer wouldn’t hurt.  Motioning for the bartender, he ordered a Heineken.

 

“Make that two,” someone said behind him.

 

Half turning, he found Hutch at his shoulder.  For someone who’d cut his teeth on social functions, the blond-haired man looked irritated and frazzled.  After watching his friend circulate with Vivian all night, it wasn’t hard for Starsky to guess the reason why.

 

“What’sa matter?” he prompted, not above a moment or two of fun at his partner’s expense.  “You don’t like all these people thinkin’ you’re a shallow, money-hungry gigolo who’s willin’ to put out just to get a few trinkets - - like that pricey suit you’re wearin’?”

 

Hutch glared, but Starsky only grinned.  He knew the suit was a sore topic with his friend.  Ridiculously expensive and immaculately tailored, Vivian had insisted on buying the elegant apparel for him. She’d spared no expense, insisting he look like a “kept” man or no one would seriously believe they were sleeping together. Hutch had initially balked at the idea, but eventually consented with a sigh, letting Vivian have her way.  Starsky secretly thought the socialite was having entirely too much fun, slyly turning her urban street cop into a trophy date. There weren’t many men who could pull off white without looking like an ice cream attendant, but Hutch was easily one of them.  A black tie with tiny white specks provided the only contrast to his otherwise all-white suit and impeccably tailored shirt. 

 

Nodding a thank you to the bartender, Starsky upended most of his Heineken into a tall pilsner glass.  “Shouldn’t you be with Vivian?  I thought the idea was to keep her in our sights at all time.”

 

“She went to the bathroom, Starsk.  Besides - -”  Hutch grabbed his own beer.  Forsaking the glass, he took a short swig from the bottle. “I don’t think Harker is anywhere near here.  Another hour or two and, hopefully, this party will be over.  If I have to answer one more question about where I’ve modeled, have one more prima donna slyly insinuate I must have done it without clothes, or hear one more smug bastard snicker behind my back, I’m gonna puke. Either that, or I’m gonna pull my gun and blast one of these frigging planets into another orbit just for the sheer hell of it.” Angrily, he waved at a luminous blue orb dangling above his head.  

 

“I think that one’s Venus,” Starsky said mildly, knowing his casual tone would get under Hutch’s skin.  Grinning, he took a slow sip of beer.  “Me, I’m kinda partial to Jupiter and Saturn . . . wouldn’t want you ventin’ on that big red spot or those blue and yellow rings.   If you’re gonna blast something, how about addin’ some color to that pansy-assed suit?  You look like a freakin’ choir boy, Hutch.”

 

 Hutch shot him a warning glare.  “You aren’t racking up any points, buddy.”

 

Starsky chuckled.  “Yeah, but I’m havin’ a hell of a fun time doin’ it.  Hey, look - -”  He motioned toward the veranda opening.  “Here comes your lovely lady now.”  He used the term lightly, intending to tease, but Hutch straightened up at the sight of Vivian, immediately setting his irritation aside.  

 

He greeted her with a soft smile, slipping an arm around her waist.  “Can I get you something to drink?”

 

Starsky frowned, surprised by his quick turnaround.  Hutch in a snit didn’t usually meld into Hutch being considerate and charming. 

 

“Hmmm . . .”  Leaning against him, Vivian slid one hand over his stomach, playfully fingering the end of his tie.  “I’ve been gone too long.  I think I’d rather have something else.”  Pushing on tiptoes, she locked her hand behind his neck, drawing his head down for what quickly became a lengthy kiss.

 

Starsky blinked, surprised to find his partner not only allowed the brassy familiarity but also made no effort to stop it.

 

“Vivian, we talked about this,” Hutch said quietly when the kiss ended.  Keeping his head bent, he lowered his voice, gazing down on her.  “Please don’t do that.”

 

She splayed one hand on his chest, long ginger-painted fingernails slipping beneath his tie to toy with a shirt button. “But it’s expected of me, Ken - - and of you too.  If you’re going to play the part of my trophy date, play the part.”  She turned, smiling at Starsky as if seeing him for the first time.  “Isn’t that right, David?”

 

“Uh - -”  Bewildered, he flashed a dazed glance at his partner.  Judging by their conversation, this wasn’t the first time Vivian had publicly kissed Hutch tonight.  No wonder his friend had been subjected to all manner of insinuation and snickers.  “Uh - -” he said again, brilliantly playing on his social skills. 

 

Vivian made a tsking sound.  “You’re supposed to be a freelance writer, David.  Is that the best you can do?”

 

“I - -”  Not normally at a loss for words, Starsky looked to his partner for help.  Before he could say anything, Alex approached their group.

 

“I should have known I’d find Vivian with her nephew and, um . . .”  Alex’s eyes flicked coolly over Hutch.  “ . . . friend,” he settled for at last.  There was nothing snide or dismissive about the term, but it lacked the warmth so apparent in his gaze when he glanced at Vivian.  “I hope you’re enjoying your party, my dear.  I had the planets made special by an outfit on the East Coast.  Neptune just arrived earlier today.”  He gave a jittery laugh. “I wanted to make sure the whole galaxy was intact for you.”

 

“You’ve outdone yourself as usual.”  Vivian slipped her arm beneath Hutch’s jacket, possessively encircling his waist.  “And my escort is enjoying it too.  Aren’t you, Ken?”

 

Starsky caught a glimpse of the Magnum holstered beneath his friend’s arm and hoped Alex was too distracted to notice. The mention of her “escort” sent a cloud over Alex’s face.

 

“Very nice.”  Hutch flashed a plastic smile.  It worked well for a man pretending to be a shallow male model, using a wealthy older woman as his meal ticket. 

 

A blast of cool air blew across the partially open veranda as the wind and rain picked up in intensity. The breeze smelled moist and untamed, underscored by the brine of the ocean and the rawness of the coming storm.  Starsky could see beyond the swimming pool with its underwater spotlights at the rear of the property to the ragged shoreline bordering the coast.  He could almost imagine the surf crashing against rocks and sand, sending up a glittering spray of white foam as high tide swelled with the deluge of wind and rain.

 

Alex shook his head, listening to a murmur of unease run through the crowd gathered on the veranda.  “I have a feeling the weather is going to close our party down early, Viv.   Maybe I should have postponed it.”

 

“Nonsense.  It was wonderful.”  Smiling, Vivian leaned forward to grace him with a kiss on the cheek.  “I know you like your parties to swing into dawn, Alex, but honestly, I’m a little tired.  It’s been such a lovely night.  If it ends early, Ken and I certainly won’t mind some private time in our bedroom.”  She smiled sweetly at Hutch.  “Will we?”

 

For the first time that night Starsky saw a thread of panic enter his friend’s eyes.  Neither he nor Hutch had really considered the fact they would be staying overnight on the island, and there would be sleeping arrangements to think about.  Surely, in a house the size of Alex’s estate, there were plenty of bedrooms, but there were also appearances to uphold - - and that included Vivian and Hutch’s perceived affair.

 

Alex merely cleared his throat uncomfortably, failing to notice Hutch’s alarm.  He mumbled something about needing to check on the status of the boats he’d charted, politely excused himself, and melted into the crowd.  A number of people had already left the veranda, heading back indoors as the wind intensified, blowing rain-dampened air through the open bar.  Suspended above Hutch’s head, Venus bobbled madly in the frolicking draft, colliding with Mercury.

 

“Vivian.”  Hutch spoke sharply, slipping free of the possessive grip the comely socialite had on his waist.  He glowered down on the woman, his alarm giving way to icy determination.  “We are not - - I repeat - - we are not sharing a bedroom.  I don’t care what you have to tell Alex. This farce only goes so far.”

 

“Is that what you think this is?”  Studying him coolly, she folded her arms over her chest. “I forgot you’re only here because you’re doing your job, Detective Hutchinson.  God forbid you’d actually enjoy yourself.  You certainly wouldn’t want to waste your time and spend an evening with me otherwise.”

 

Hutch exhaled in frustration. “Vivian, don’t be ridiculous.” 

 

“Oh, so now I’m ridiculous?  I suppose that’s a compliment given my other options appear to be lecherous, vain and selfish.”

 

The wind kicked higher, matching her glacial fury, sending a stack of drink napkins blowing from the bar.  Cold rain slanted onto the fringe of the veranda, scattering a handful of lingering guests.  Laughing nervously at the abrupt change in weather, they scurried inside, a few casting curious glances behind them at the couple who appeared to be having a tiff.

 

Striving for patience, Hutch tried again.  “Vivian, if you’d just listen for a minute - -”

 

“No, you listen, Sergeant.”  Her eyes flashed dangerously.  “I am not going to backpedal and explain all of this to Alex now.  Besides, he needs to think I’m romantically involved.  He . . . he . . .”  She shook her head, momentarily losing her poise. “Oh, it doesn’t matter.  All I care about is that you do your part and play your role.  You’re supposed to be watching over me  - - including tonight after the guests have gone.  If it makes you feel any safer, I promise to keep my hands where you can see them.  Satisfied?”

 

“Vivian.”  Hutch reached for her arm.  Before he could say another word, she wrenched away and swept from the veranda.

 

“That wasn’t too bright,” Starsky commented mildly, leaning into the bar.  Above his head, Saturn veered from its orbit, swinging back and forth like a pendulum in the blustery rain-damp air.  He eased a little to the right, making sure he was out of its careening path. “In case you forgot, the plan is to keep her with you, not have a public lover’s spat.”

 

“Damn it.”  Hutch rubbed his temple. “Starsky, this just isn’t working.  She and I . . .”  He looked at his friend helplessly, irritation forgotten.  “It’s not going like I planned.  We flirted at Pellar’s party, but this . . . this is . . .”

 

“Yeah,” Starsky agreed, understanding his friend’s confusion.  Hutch was only partially playing a role.  The longer he stayed in Vivian’s company, the closer he came to crossing the line.  Even Starsky had to admit he was enchanted with the woman.  She was flirtatious, brassy and bold, elegant and poised at the same time.  And she was beautiful - - gracefully slender with lustrous chestnut hair, flawless milk-and-honey skin, and sparkling gray-green eyes.  “Look, it ain’t gonna be that bad,” he said encouragingly.  “So you’ll sleep in a chair or something, and let her have the bed.  All you gotta do is get through the night.  Tomorrow afternoon we’re outta here.”

 

He stopped abruptly, remembering a candid bit of information he’d inadvertently let slip about Hutch when he and Vivian had gone to lunch together.  They’d been having such a good time, laughing and enjoying one another’s company, clicking like long lost relatives.  And somewhere among all that contagious frivolity, he’d decided to poke fun at his partner, privately enjoying how smitten Vivian was with Hutch.  It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. He and Hutch often took potshots at one another, setting each other up for some harmless fun.   Of course he hadn’t understood that beneath his protests, Hutch was secretly attracted to Vivian.  Had Starsky known at the time, he never would have ventured the information.

 

“Uh, look, buddy . . .”  Awkward, he tugged his bottom lip between his teeth.  “I mighta . . . I mighta told Vivian something about you I probably shouldna have.”

 

“Oh yeah?”  Abruptly suspicious, Hutch raised a single eyebrow.  “Like what?”

 

Starsky gulped a mouthful of beer to bide his time.  “No biggie.”  It was silly when he thought about it but considering Vivian and Hutch would be spending the night in the same bedroom, his friend had a right to know.  Starsky could easily see Vivian buying just the right item to entice her favorite blond cop.  “I sorta let slip how much you like black and pink - -”

 

Hutch stared.

 

“ - - you know.”  Starsky tensed, afraid to move.  He motioned expansively with one hand.  “In the bedroom.”  Still no reaction.  “On your ladies,” he clarified. “In bed, dummy.”

 

That one definitely did the trick.  Hutch’s expression morphed from frustrated to seething in the blink of an eye.  “Starsky - -” 

 

Just the way he said it, pressing his lips together and turning his head away like he couldn’t believe what he’d heard, Starsky knew it was the set-up for a heated verbal explosion.  Hutch hadn’t really lit into him since before Giovanni’s.  If he went off on a tangent now, it was likely to be a doozy.  Fortunately, except for the bartender and a few people entranced by the storm, the veranda was mostly deserted.

 

Starsky flashed a toothy smile.  “You don’t wanna get your pretty white suit all spotted, do ya?  It’s gettin’ wet out here, Hutch.  Let’s go inside.”

 

He knew he was pushing his luck, not to mention pushing his friend’s buttons.  Before Hutch could so much as spit a syllable in reply, Starsky heard a loud snap from somewhere over his head.  Too late he realized the thin wire holding Saturn aloft had broken under the combined stress of strong winds and the globe’s massive weight.  A woman screamed somewhere in the background, then suddenly Hutch collided with him, violently shoving him clear of the deadly planet’s path. 

 

Starsky grunted at the rough impact, stumbling beneath his friend’s weight.  His back hit the ground, brutally jarring the breath from his lungs.  Pain exploded in his still-healing shoulder, igniting a crazed dance of stars in front of his face.  From the corner of his eye, he saw the glass globe hit the bar where it hung for a breathless second.  Just as quickly, the weight of its rings sent it crashing in a spectacular top-heavy dive to the floor.  It shattered on impact, shooting deadly glass projectiles in every direction.

 

Already half on top of Starsky, Hutch flung up his arm to shield his friend’s face.

 

“Hey - - ”  In another second it was all over.  Starsky sputtered and gasped, trying to collect his breath.  His ears rang atrociously and a hot lick of pain needled his shoulder. “I like you and all, Blondie, but you mind gettin’ offa me?”  Groaning, he tried to sit up.

 

“Starsk, you okay?”  Hutch’s early anger was instantly forgotten.  Concerned, he helped Starsky to his feet, steadying him with a firm grip above the elbow.  “Sorry about the tackle.”  He used one hand to brush dust and debris from Starsky’s navy jacket. 

 

“Is that what you call it?”  Rolling his shoulder, the dark-haired man tried to displace a stubborn ache.  “I thought maybe you just got the hots for me all of a sudden.”

 

“What happened here?  Are you two okay?”

 

Clearly shaken, Alex rushed up to them, followed less closely by a hoard of curious onlookers who pushed onto the veranda, straining to see what had happened.  It was only then that Starsky registered the actual devastation.  Shards of glass and ceramic littered the bar and flagstone floor, what remained of the planetary globe lying on its side just a few feet away.  Cracked in half, its jagged ends jutted skyward, each deadly tip the equivalent of a well-honed knife.  No two ways about it - - Starsky would have been a bloody mess had that orb shattered over him.

 

“Yeah.”  Shaken by the thought, he flecked dust from his pants. Owe you one, partner.  Overhead, the remaining planets and a few stars swayed ominously in the growing wind, each straining on their wire suspension. “We’re fine, but maybe you oughta get everyone inside.  It ain’t exactly safe out here with the wind pickin’ up like that.”

 

Alex nodded quick agreement.  With his bartender’s assistance, he began rounding up guests, ushering them indoors.  Starsky hesitated, rubbing the tender spot to the back and left of his neck. “Remind me to hire you out to the Rams,” he said with an overly theatrical groan for Hutch.

 

The drama didn’t sit well with his edgy partner. “Maybe next time I’ll just let you become a permanent part of Saturn,” Hutch shot back, then immediately shelved his hostility.  Blowing out a tense breath, he tugged on his friend’s arm, forcing him around. “Let me see.”

 

Since he knew his partner was reacting from fear and concern rather than anger, Starsky quietly complied.  He’d tried to joke away his discomfort, but the truth was Hutch had hit him a little too hard, aggravating the bullet wound.  He felt his friend’s fingers gently prod his back and steeled himself against a sudden flicker of pain. 

 

“Nothing’s torn is it?”  Unaware of his distress, Hutch kept up the steady pressure.  Unlike before, his voice was soft, laden with a trace of guilt. “Buddy, I really didn’t mean to hit you that hard.”

 

“Will you forget it already?”  Turning, Starsky shoved his hands away.  The last thing he needed or wanted was to have Hutch wallowing in one of his famous guilt trips. Given a little time, the ache would eventually fade into submission. “I think the party’s windin’ down,” he said, trying to distract his melancholy friend.  “Maybe you oughta go find Vivian.”

 

“Damn.”  As if only just remembering the woman he was supposed to be guarding, Hutch nodded.   Still he hesitated. “You sure you’re gonna be all right?”     

 

Starsky snorted.  “The day I can’t survive one of your pansy-assed tackles is the day Ill quit the force.  Get outta here, will ya?”

 

“Don’t hang out in the rain.”  Grinning, Hutch touched his cheek.  “Shit melts, you know?”

 

Starsky watched him turn and dart inside, a streak of luminous white and gold against the darker night.  Shaking his head, he sidestepped the glass, skirting around the broken shell of Saturn to slump against the nearest wall.  Deserted, the veranda looked eerie - - empty drink glasses and cocktail napkins littering the bar, the glowing orbs of remaining planets swaying and spinning crazily overhead.

 

Tilting his head, he lifted his face to the rain-damp air, appreciating the waft of icy coolness across his face.  The Dance Celestial had turned out to be an interesting event, but he would be more than happy to see it end.

 

+++++

 

Many of the guests had already departed by the time Hutch reached the main banquet room.  The impending storm sent them scurrying in droves, collecting hats and coats as they bid Alex goodbye and headed for the charters lined up at his dock.  Vivian’s name constantly came up as guests hovered by the door, hoping to see her before they left.

 

“I’ll find her,” Hutch told Alex and headed down a connecting hallway.  If he were Vivian, likely angry and upset, not wanting the distraction of company, he would have headed for a private bathroom.  Vivian had detoured to one when they’d first arrived, saying she wanted to check her makeup before her entrance.  Retracing her steps, Hutch found a closed door at the end of the hallway and tested it with a knock.  “Vivian?  It’s Ken - -”

 

There was a shuffling on the other side, then the barrier opened to reveal a shapely brunette.  Petite, somewhere in her late twenties, she wore a snug-fitting, rose-colored gown with a plunging bodice. “Ken, huh?” Clearly interested, she grinned mischievously and looked him over with a playful glance.  “I’m Trudy, but I could pretend to be Vivian if that’s what it takes. Why should she always have all the fun?”  The tip of her tongue appeared in the corner of her mouth.  “I bet you could keep me entertained for hours.”

 

“Uh . . . sorry.”  Hutch felt a flush of red seep into his cheeks.  “Wrong bathroom.”  He’d already been propositioned several times tonight, but still couldn’t get used to the shamelessly bold proposals. The fact he was Vivian’s latest boy-toy seemed to make him fair game in the minds of most of the women , even a few of the men.  It was as if they’d already decided he had no social conscience or ethics and would do nearly anything for money. “I think the charters are leaving,” he said awkwardly, taking a step back into the hall. “You should head to the main room.”

 

“Whatever you say, handsome.”  Smiling, she waited until he was halfway up the hall before gleefully heading off in the direction of the other guests.  Flustered, Hutch turned a corner, stumbling into a connecting corridor and encountering a second door. This time, he caught a faint whiff of Vivian’s perfume.

 

“Vivian?”  He rapped sharply on the wood.  “Come on, Vivian - - open up.  It’s Ken.”

 

He thought she’d protest, refuse to respond, or simply tell him to get lost.  Instead, he heard a soft scuffle of movement and the door was drawn open.  She stood on the threshold, anger replaced by dark frustration. It sparked in her eyes and bubbled over into her voice when she spoke.

 

“You’re too late.  He’s already here.”

It took Hutch only a second to realize who she was talking about.  “Harker?”

 

For answer Vivian held up a small, slender gold object.  “I found this in the hallway.”

 

“A tie clasp?”  Hutch took it from her, turning it over to examine it more closely.  Sporting a single diamond stud and the engraved initials “R. H.,” it was elegant and clean without being gaudy.  “Vivian . . .”  He shot her a patient glance, not wanting to upset her further after the incident on the veranda.  “Look  - - I don’t mean to belittle this, but there could be a half dozen guys with the initials R.H. at this party.  Just because - -”

 

“I gave it to him,” she snapped, bluntly cutting him off. “Don’t you think I recognize my own gift?”  There was steel in her voice now - - frost that told him she hadn’t forgiven him and didn’t appreciate having her judgment questioned. Fire snapped and crackled in her sea-mist eyes. “Well?  Aren’t you going to do anything about it?”

 

Hutch hesitated, his gaze dropping briefly to the clasp before returning to her face.  “You’re sure about this?  You’re sure it’s his?”

 

Annoyed, Vivian cocked her head and glared.

 

“Okay,” Hutch conceded, his voice softer.  He reached for her elbow, gently drawing her from the bathroom.  “I want you to show me exactly where you found this, then I want you stay with Alex. Most of the guests are leaving, so you can say goodbye.  Starsky and I will look around the house, but I don’t want you to leave Alex’s side.  Do you understand, Vivian?”

 

Her expression softened marginally.  “Are you worried about me?”

 

Sensing her irritation with him had passed, he pressed his lips to her forehead.  “What do you think?” 

 

She wrapped her arms around his waist, tilting her head back to smile up at him.  “I think I like it when you’re concerned.  I just wish the circumstances were different.”

 

“You aren’t the only one.” Hutch bent, brushing a light kiss across her lips.  Only then did he realize the action felt alarmingly natural.

 

+++++ 

 

In another hour Alex’s estate was emptied of visitors.  Starsky helped Hutch do a thorough search of the house while Alex and Vivian were occupied saying goodbye to their numerous guests. Despite an exhaustive exploration they came up empty-handed, finding no sign of forced entry or even evidence supporting Harker’s presence on the island.  Admittedly, the rapidly progressing storm kept their investigation restricted to the inside of the sprawling home, but they made certain all points of entry, including windows and doors, were locked and secure.

 

By the time they were done, the last charter had departed from the docks, leaving Starsky, Hutch, Vivian and Alex the only remaining occupants of the island - - plus Robbie Harker, if he was in fact, skulking somewhere nearby. 

 

Starsky listened to the wind prance outside, seemingly growing stronger with each passing second.  As late as it was, he was actually far from tired, strangely invigorated by the leftover party-trappings scattered around him.  The wait-staff, who’d been present during the gala to ensure buffet tables were replenished and drinks refreshed, had hastily cleaned up the perishable items before taking the last charter from the island.  Dirty plates, glasses, metallic streamers and clumps of glitter remained, strewn room-to-room.  Alex had arranged for a clean-up crew to arrive the following afternoon, having expected the party itself to last well into the morning hours. 

 

Unaware of the situation involving Robbie Harker or even that Hutch and Starsky had already done an exhaustive search of his home, Alex offered Vivian a belated birthday toast.  He found Hutch and the comely socialite standing just inside the veranda, talking quietly, heads bent close together.

 

“To a lady who only gets lovelier and lovelier with each passing year,” Alex interrupted in a jovial voice.  He hefted a glass of brandy.  “Happy birthday, Viv.”

 

She smiled indulgently, pleased with the attention.  But even as she thanked him, wishing him much joy in return, her free hand curled possessively around Hutch’s arm. Watching discreetly from the distance, Starsky saw Alex frown.  The older man had been cool with Hutch all night, but Starsky was beginning to sense growing animosity from him.

 

“So . . . what is it you do again, Ken?”  Alex straightened his tie.  The long evening had left his clothing wilted and rumpled, the tie similarly limp. “An exotic dancer?”

 

Hutch flushed.  “I’m a model,” he said tightly.

 

“Oh, yes.”  Alex appeared momentarily thoughtful.  “I tend to get Vivian’s young men confused.  The dancer must have been the last one she dallied with.”

 

“Alex, be nice,” Vivian warned.  Outside, wind and rain hammered the windows with sudden force, echoing shrilly in the empty house.  She shivered.  “What a dreadful night!  I certainly hope the charters will be all right.”

 

“They’ll be fine,” Alex returned.  “They’re halfway back to the mainland by now.”

 

“Any other docks on this island?” Starsky asked, thinking of Harker.

 

Alex shook his head.  “Just the main one.  The rest of the shoreline is too rugged to allow any kind of approach.  Someday I’ll get around to having the east point dredged.”

 

“What about a boat?”  Hutch asked.  “I assume you have one?”

 

“Of course.”  Alex shot him a disdainful glance.  “Not that I’d expect a dancer - -”

 

“ - - model,” Hutch snapped.

 

“Model,” Alex corrected with a smug tip of his head.  “Not that I’d expect a model to know anything about seamanship, but I keep a 36’ power cruiser moored on the island.  Right now it’s on the mainland being serviced at a boatel.”

 

“Boatel?”  Starsky blinked.  Given the fact he was supposedly from a Caribbean island and had a fair idea that a boatel was just a fancy name for a service/storage marina, he went with the obvious:  “So you mean right now, we’re basically stranded on this island?”

 

“David.”  Alex smiled with fond amusement. “This ‘island’ as you call it, is my home.  And it’s only until tomorrow afternoon when the charter returns to take us back to the mainland.  In the meantime, I want you to consider yourself my privileged guests.”

 

“Well, I don’t know about the rest of you,” Vivian inserted, “But I think this privileged guest is ready to collect her stunningly sexy escort and go to bed.”  Smiling, she slipped her hand into Hutch’s, twining her fingers with his. 

 

Starsky saw a hint of red on his friend’s cheeks and instinctively knew Vivian was testing the blond-haired man - - minor payback for the incident on the veranda and also an experiment to see how far she could push. 

 

“Tired, Ken?” she asked innocently.

 

He took his time replying, his eyes locked on hers.  “Let’s go to bed.”  It might have looked like acquiescence, a kept man doing as he was required, but Starsky’s knew by the glint in his partner’s eyes the moment Hutch and Vivian were out of earshot, the charade would end.

 

The couple said goodnight then left, Hutch shooting him a stray glance as he exited the room.  Several years of partnering together, coupled with an even longer friendship, allowed Starsky to easily read into the look:  Give me fifteen minutes.   He frowned slightly, thinking of the last time Hutch had made that same request in Vivian’s company.  On that occasion, his partner had been kidnapped and drugged, targeted by the vindictive twin brother of an officer he’d been forced to kill. Starsky had arrived in the eleventh hour, saving Hutch from a lethal cocktail of heroin and fentanyl  - - not to mention the unwanted attentions of a slobbering thug named Eddie Fish.

 

Ain’t goin’ down that road again.

 

Strolling behind a crescent-shaped bar, Starsky rummaged through the built-in icebox until he located a Coke.  Behind him, he heard Alex part with a disdainful snort, his eyes still glued to the doorway where Hutch had disappeared with Vivian. 

 

Uncapping his soda, Starsky shot the older man a curious glance.  “You don’t think much of Ken, do you?”

 

Alex looked momentarily startled by the observation.  “Is it that obvious?”  Shaking his head, he gave a resigned sigh.  “I can’t help it.  I detest anyone who willingly sells sex for money and position, and let’s face it - - that’s exactly what that blond leech is doing.  He doesn’t love Vivian.  He’s just using her to get whatever he can.  And if he’s got to hop into bed with her - - so what?  He’s young and pretty, and knows it.”  His voice soured, growing abruptly bitter.   “He makes me sick.  They all make me sick.”

 

Starsky looked down the opening of his soda, wondering just how far he could push.  Vivian was supposed to be his favorite aunt, after all. “She didn’t look like she was puttin’ up too much of a fight,” he observed mildly.  “Aunt Viv’s always been a free spirit.”

 

“What do you know?”  Alex’s voice was harsh.  “You’ve been living on an island for the last ten years.  I’ll tell you something right now, David.”  Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on top of the bar. “Vivian’s running.  She’s been running for the last twenty years, ever since Gavin died.  Sure she married twice after that, but how long did those last?  Three months on the first one, sixteen on the second.  The first jerk cheated on her inside of two weeks and the second, the moment he thought she wouldn’t find out.”  Disgusted, he shook his head.  “That’s what she gets for hooking up with gigolos who are only interested in her money and how much it can buy them.  They don’t deserve her.  If she had any sense, she’d grow up and start acting her age.”

 

“You mean datin’ men her age?”  Starsky asked mildly.

 

Alex brushed off the observation.  “I’m worried about her, all right?  She’s still my sister-in-law.  Gavin would never forgive me if anything happened to her.”

 

“Yeah.  I hear you.”  Starsky took a swig of his soda.  “Look, I think I’m gonna call it a night too.  Great party, but I’m gonna follow Aunt Viv’s lead and crash.”

 

“Sure, sure.”  Alex nodded quickly as if only then realizing he’d said too much.  He gave a short, nervous laugh.  “Sorry for spouting off.  I hope you don’t repeat any of that nonsense to Ken.  He’s probably a fine young man.  It’s nothing against him personally . . . just that I worry about Vivian.  She’s special to me.  She really doesn’t have anyone to look after her - -”

 

“ - - and you’ve taken on that role.”  Starsky grinned.  “I think it’s great you’re that protective of her.”  He lifted his soda in a semi-salute.  “See you in the mornin’, Alex.”

 

He headed for the stairs but detoured almost immediately, skirting down a back hallway once he was beyond Alex’s line of sight.  The house was large enough to easily get lost in, and that worried him. They’d found no sign of Robbie Harker or forced entry, but with nearly ten thousand square feet of living space, it was like trying to locate a needle in a haystack. If Harker were on the island, he would have had to come on one of the charters, dressed appropriately to mingle among the other guests.  The lost tie clasp was proof of his semi-formal attire.  With as many guests as there’d been in Alex’s home, he could have easily slipped from room to room and might even now be lurking in some darkened corner, waiting for a chance to hurt Vivian.

 

Starsky was all for telling Alex who they really were and what they were doing there, but Hutch had relayed Vivian's reluctance to part with the truth.  “She wants to keep him out of it,” his fair-haired partner had explained.

 

Probably doesn’t want Alex thinkin’ less of her than he already does, Starsky thought sourly.  It was one matter for their host to basically label Hutch a male prostitute while painting Vivian as a selfless woman who was simply misguided in her judgment.  He gave a none-too-delicate snort.  From what he’d witnessed, she knew exactly what she was doing and was damn good at doing it.  There weren’t many women who could make his sophisticated and smoothly confident partner feel awkward and boyish.

 

Starsky drained the last of his soda and set the bottle on a nearby end table. He’d chosen a small den overlooking the pool to wait for his partner.  He and Hutch had spied it earlier during their search of the estate and had agreed it would make an ideal meeting place - - small, easily accessible from the front or rear of the home, conveniently tucked off the main living area away from prying eyes. 

 

Bending, he switched on a single lamp, letting the soft butter-churned glow chase slumbering shadows to the corners.  Outside the rain continued to hammer the windows, turning the thick pall of darkness to something oppressing and chill.  Decorative shades of gold, brass and brown infused the den with warmth, generously reflected in walnut furniture, each piece richly upholstered in thick brocade.  Starsky drew the drawstrings on the nearest window, parting the heavy drapes for a better glimpse of the storm.  His own reflection leaped back at him - - the white of his shirt a luminous triangle wedged between the darker navy of his suit and the near-black ink of his hair.  Beyond in the swimming pool, planets and stars bobbled wildly on the rain-churned water.  A cavalcade of orchid, jade, pink and blue, each self-illuminated orb glowed eerily in the darkness.

 

“Okay, partner.”  Starsky shot a glance at his watch. “Any day now.  Your fifteen minutes are up.”

 

+++++

 

Vivian wasn’t exactly sure when she’d gained the upper hand, she just knew she had it.  She’d been toying with Ken all evening, playing him the same way she played most of her men.  In the beginning it hadn’t worked simply because he wasn’t the fawning, suck-up, do-anything-she-wanted type of freeloader she was used to dating.   That, in itself, was a double-edged sword.  His lack of self-indulgent qualities made him all the more attractive but also difficult to handle.

 

Except now. 

 

She knew she was getting to him, slowly whittling away his reluctance to act on buried impulse.  There was no doubt he was attracted to her  - -  she’d been around men enough to know when she’d hooked them.  He just refused to do anything about it, too caught up in the role of protector and what she suspected was a ridiculous hang-up over the differences in their ages.  He’d as much as told her that in October, at Arthur Pellar’s party.

 

She’d expected another lecture when they’d left Alex and David, but instead he’d merely guided her upstairs, one hand resting intimately on the small of her back.  That scant bit of pressure had kept her senses in a tailspin, his presence beside her a tantalizing blend of raw masculinity and elegant grace.  Unlike most of the men she’d dated, he had a rough-edged side to his personality.  The suggestion of underlying danger was exhilarating - - an intriguing counterbalance to his classical looks and normally soft-spoken manner.

 

She doubted he would stay the night in the same bed, but the signals were all there - - the longer, smoldering looks he sent her, lingering glances from the corner of his eyes.  Even now he paced outside of the bathroom, waiting in the adjoining bedroom while she changed clothes for the night.

 

Vivian took her time, checking her makeup and hair, adjusting the thin spaghetti straps of her slinky pink nightgown.  It had started as a joke when David laughingly told her about his partner’s weakness. Pink and black.  It was nice to know even the rigidly controlled Detective Hutchinson had fixations.    

 

She smiled, executing a graceful pirouette before the bathroom’s floor-to-ceiling mirror, watching the silky material flow effortlessly over her skin.  It clung in all the right places, accentuating the slender curve of her hips, the firm line of her breasts.  Years of private dance lessons had kept her body firmed and toned, the clingy nightgown making the most of her elfin physique.  Floor-length, cut extremely high on one thigh, it left her right leg bare and mostly exposed, the neckline dipping in a seductively revealing vee. Trimmed in black and belted with flirty jet lace, the negligee was the perfect compliment to her heeled slippers and satiny black robe, edged in pink sequins.

 

She really didn’t expect the outfit to entice Ken anymore than she already had, but she enjoyed the sexually charged air between them - - constantly testing how far she could push him, waiting to see the spark of reaction in his sky-colored eyes.  In the past, conquests had come easily - - men simply didn’t refuse her.  She found herself enjoying the game with Ken more than she would an actual victory.  If nothing else, he was starting to kiss her - - not just when she initiated it and not just for show.  That was triumph enough, for the moment, and all too enticing to ignore.

 

Someone knocked impatiently.  “Vivian?  Are you almost done?”  Ken’s voice reached her, slightly muffled.  “Come on . . . I’ve got to meet Starsky.”

 

Grinning seductively, she opened the door.  “You’re always welcome to join me,” she countered, posing a little too obviously in the slinky nightgown.  She’d left the robe open, a shimmering fall of shiny black silk to compliment the clinging lines of the negligee.

 

Ken stared openly before he realized what he was doing.  Flushing, he averted his eyes, his mouth thinning in a tight line.  “Starsky put you up to that,” he said tightly.

 

Vivian feigned innocence.  “I don’t know what you mean.”  Yes, she was definitely getting to him - - even better, David hadn’t been lying about his partner’s fondness for a certain color combination.  Ken’s eyes strayed back almost reluctantly, lingering in a sideways glance before he turned away and walked into the bedroom.  He’d already discarded his jacket, the Magnum still holstered under his left arm.  She watched him loosen his tie and toss it onto a chair where the pristine white coat lay draped over the arm. 

 

“I want you to stay here,” he instructed. “I’ll come back later.”

 

He was giving orders again, playing detective sergeant.  Distressingly attractive when he was in command, he was also annoyingly unapproachable. 

 

“I’m not tired,” Vivian replied, sweeping into the bedroom.  Large and plush, it had a separate sitting area with a fireplace, loveseat, flanking chairs and a mahogany coffee table.  She’d been careful to turn on only a few of the lower-wattage lamps, ensuring the lighting was muted, perfect for romance.  Across the room, a king-sized canopied bed stood flanked by tall arch-topped windows, its wooden posts draped with shimmering gold shears.

 

“Then stay here and read,” Ken told her.  “Or just relax.  I’ll be back after I check in with Starsky.”  He retrieved his jacket and was halfway to the door before she slid in front of it, blocking his escape. 

 

Pressing her back to the wood, she stared up at him, hands looped behind her, holding the knob in place.  He’d opened the top two buttons of his shirt, leaving the immaculately starched material gaping over his throat.  She was tempted to let her eyes stray, but kept her gaze locked on his face.

 

“For a man who kisses me off all the time, you might try kissing me for real.  You catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar, Ken.” 

 

He grinned, a reaction she didn’t expect.  “I don’t think of you as a fly, Viv.”

 

Viv. 

 

The nickname sent a tiny thrill racing through her.  Tilting her head, she gazed up at him.  Even in heeled slippers, she felt dwarfed by his height, a sensation that suddenly had her reeling off kilter.  It was hard maintaining the upper hand with him standing so close.  She expected him to back away, but he didn’t move, sending an underlying crackle of something purely sexual between them.  She felt abruptly weak-kneed and mentally admitted that maybe - - just maybe - - she was the one out of her league.

 

“Don’t you . . .”  She swallowed hard, unnerved by the tremor in her voice.  Somewhere in the last few seconds she’d surrendered the game without even realizing what she was doing.  “Don’t you like what I’m wearing?”

 

He looked at her.  Took his time and really looked at her.  With any other man she would have been poised and in control, but his glance was no longer guarded as it swept her slowly from head to toe.  She shivered involuntarily, the smoldering heat in his eyes making her feel unclothed.  Her heart pounded fiercely in her chest, and she cursed herself for being a love-struck idiot.  Enraptured, she met his gaze.

 

“I think you look good enough to take to bed.”  He stroked the back of his knuckles across her cheek, leaning close to whisper against her lips.  “But I’m not the man to do it.”

 

She might have struck him then for making her feel like such a fool, except he kissed her, sending all thought of retaliation crumbling at her feet.  This time, the touch of his lips was different - - possessive and hungry like he truly wanted to seduce her.  For a second she thought he was merely playing, trying to upstage her and teach her a lesson.  Then she heard him groan, felt his arms wrap around her as he gathered her close.  A shock coursed through her when she realized he wasn’t acting.  That this kiss - - shockingly raw and wildly sexual - - was Ken Hutchinson indulging in something forbidden.  She slipped her hands behind his neck, exploring the crisp edge of his collar and the warm flesh beneath, the sun-whitened edges of his platinum hair.  He caressed her hip, spread his hand to mold the inward dip of her small waist before his fingertips skimmed higher, lightly feathering her breast.  His touch was electric, a jolting infusion of erotic heat burning through the cool silk of her negligee. 

 

It ended far too quickly for her to appreciate what she’d done to him, what he’d done to himself.  Breathless, she stared up at him, arms still looped around his neck, wanting him to touch her again.  His eyes were darker than usual, stormy with suppressed desire.  She thought about the bed across the room and how perfect they would be together if he’d only part with his inhibitions and antiquated hang-ups about her age. She’d been with men who’d kept her entertained, even satisfied, but knew he would make her senseless.  Shaken, she managed to conjure a sultry smile.  “Do that again.”

 

Talking broke the spell.  He drew back, disentangling himself.  She watched him drag a hand through his hair, hastily smoothing the edges where she’d rumpled it.  “I’ve got to meet Starsky,” he said, not meeting her eyes.  He shrugged into the jacket, his movements abruptly clipped as he struggled to reassert self-control.  When he met her eyes again, the heat was gone, replaced by professionalism and something mildly aloof.  “We’ll talk about this later, Vivian.  I’ve got to check in with Starsky.”

 

“This?”  Shocked by his abrupt turnaround, she felt herself flush. David had warned her his partner could be annoyingly detached when he wanted to be, but she hadn’t expected him to do a complete Jekyll and Hyde.  “You just kissed me like you wanted to make wild love to me and suddenly it’s a-a . . .”  She groped for the word, her voice lurching higher.  “  . . . a ‘this?’”

 

He deserved to be slapped - - skewered and roasted over an open pit.  Thumbscrews were too good for him.  All night he’d kept her emotions on a seesaw, one moment allowing familiarity, the next holding her at a distance.  Annoyed with herself, she didn’t know why she continued to put up with it except that somewhere along the way she’d moved past being intrigued to surrendering a small piece of her heart. 

 

Snatching her robe shut, she swept past him, infuriated she’d conceded the upper hand.  “Get out of here, Sergeant.  And if you come back, come as a professional police officer.  Carrying that badge doesn’t entitle you to a paw me whenever you feel in the mood.”

 

That did the trick.  Mortified, he took a step in her direction.  “Vivian - -”

 

She turned her back, clutching her robe tightly at her throat as if she were staunchly puritanical, and he was a defiling womanizer set on stealing her virtue.  Ironic, given the opposite was closer to the truth.  He hesitated briefly, parting with a ragged exhale.  A second later she heard him leave the room, the door snicking in place behind him.  

 

Irritated, she flopped into the nearest chair.  Okay, so she wasn’t exactly chaste, but she had standards too. They certainly didn’t include being treated like a cheap floozy only to be brushed aside because the all-too-noble Detective Hutchinson suddenly had a belated streak of conscience. 

 

“Pink and black,” she spat disgustedly.  “Let him come within three feet of me again, and I’ll introduce him to black and blue.”

 

+++++

 

“You’re late,” Starsky said the moment Hutch stepped into the den. 

 

Irked, the blond-haired man felt his already sour disposition plummet another notch.  He’d been stupid and wantonly unprofessional with Vivian. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking, their mostly harmless flirting veering in a direction he hadn’t expected.  He’d kissed her and put his hands on her while in the capacity of a police officer. If she wanted to call him on the carpet, he could lose his badge over the shameful incident.

 

He had Starsky to thank for that - - Starsky babbling about pink and black, putting ideas into Vivian’s head.  Ideas she didn’t need and Hutch certainly wasn’t self-controlled enough to navigate.  Then again, his partner was simply having fun.  He didn’t understand that almost from the beginning, Hutch had been secretly intrigued by the woman.  It was hard remaining detached when she was so aggressively forward - - kissing him, touching him, taking liberties he never would have allowed if they hadn’t been playacting.  Only somewhere along the way, the line between playacting and reality had grown blurred, and he found himself responding to her overtures.  She was beautiful and sexy, elegant and worldly.  She made no excuses for her bold and free behavior.  Another woman might have backed off, but she constantly challenged him, standing up to him even when he grew angry. 

 

It was a game. 

 

At least it was supposed to be.  She was twenty years older than he was - - twenty-one, now that she’d had her birthday.  He wouldn’t be thirty-one until the end of August.  Of course by that time she would have moved on to some other blond model or dancer, living for flash-fulfillment, never understanding something deeper could be attained if she only slowed down long enough to let it happen.

 

“Hey.”  Crossing the room, Starsky snapped his fingers in front of Hutch’s face.  “You in there, Blondie?  You’re already ten minutes late.  At least make an effort and pay attention.  I got rivetin’ news here.”

 

Hutch frowned.  Not trusting himself to be sociable in his present frame of mind, he went straight to the heart of the matter.  “Like what?”

 

“You want the bad news or the good news?”  Deciding to get comfortable, Starsky dropped into the nearest chair.  Outside, the rain continued to beat against the windows, thrashed and driven by excessively high winds.  Without the heat of summer, the stormed lacked thunder and lightning, but the onslaught was just as severe.

 

Hutch stuffed his hands in his pockets.  “Give me the bad news.”

 

“Alex thinks you’re a cheap blond leech.  Uh, wait a minute - - ”  Starsky grinned breezily.  “I added the cheap part.”

 

“I can live with that.  What’s the good news?”

 

“No sign of Harker.”  Stretching, Starsky rubbed his left shoulder.  He grimaced slightly, too caught up in his thoughts to realize the reaction was visible. “I’m thinkin’ maybe the guy hopped on one of those charters and hightailed it back to the mainland with the rest of the party guests.  I mean, who wants to be stuck in Storm Central, right?”

 

“Maybe.”  Hutch bit his lip.  He didn’t like the way Starsky was rubbing his shoulder or the way a flicker of discomfort passed through his eyes.  He hadn’t considered the fact Starsky was still healing from a gunshot wound or the amount of force he’d used to hit his friend when he’d barreled into him on the veranda. He’d been too concerned with shoving him out of the way, worried about the lethal orb of glass and ceramic dangling over his head. 

 

His encounter with Vivian instantly forgotten, Hutch focused on his partner.  “What’s the matter, Starsk?  Your shoulder hurt?”

 

“Huh?”  Starsky grunted in surprise, only then realizing what he’d been doing. He shook his head sheepishly, dropping his hand.  “It’s nothin’.”  His eyes came back up, a grin spreading over his face.  “I just - -”  His gaze shifted abruptly, blatant alarm replacing humor. 

 

The change was instantaneous, so lightning-quick, it took Hutch a moment to make sense of his violent reaction.  “Starsky - -?”

 

He half turned toward the door, caught a glint of silver poking through the opening.  Before he could identify the object, Starsky was out of the chair, lurching forward and crashing into him with enough force to knock him off his feet.  He grunted at the impact, surprised when a shriek of displaced air whistled past his ear.  He saw a flash of black and knew instinctively that Starsky had drawn his gun. Then his back struck the floor, knocking the breath from his lungs with enough intensity to make his eyes water.  He heard a sickening thud from somewhere to the left, followed immediately by an agonized groan. The sound went through him like the shock of an electrical cattle prod - - the sound of his partner in pain.

 

“Starsky!”  Hutch rolled as soon as he hit the ground, drawing his gun in the same fluid motion, but the doorway was empty.  “Starsky.”  Unnerved by the mental echo of that pain-filled groan, he crawled to his friend’s side. 

 

He saw the arrow first - - a slim yellow-ringed shaft jutting from Starsky’s abdomen - - then the blood. Wet and freakishly red, it leaked in a grisly ebb over the front of Starsky’s navy trousers.  Too red.  Too bright.  The arrowhead had wedged just beneath his belt line, splitting the soft leather at the point of penetration to the left of his zipper. The mere thought of that obscenely cold metal buried in his partner’s flesh left Hutch shaken and trembling.

 

“Shit!”  His heart somersaulted into his throat, dragging his stomach with it.  “Buddy.” 

 

Starsky’s eyes found his, wide and dazed, clouded by the numbing shock of impact. It took only a second for the pain to register . . . for the confusion to be obliterated by raw horror and the choking fear that came with the realization he’d been hit.  Hit badly.  “Ohgod, Hutch!”  His face contorted, twisting beneath the first bludgeoning onslaught of pain. 

 

“Starsk - - don’t.”  Hutch felt useless.  He made a feeble brush at his friend’s cheek even as Starsky turned his face away.  This was nothing like Giovanni’s, that injury and nightmarish wound something Hutch hoped he’d never see his partner experience again.  But this was worse - - a barbarous and shocking attack, one that had clearly been meant for him.  If not for Starsky’s selfless and quick reaction, he’d be the one on the floor writhing in pain.

 

The thought made his throat tighten. “Buddy, please.” Gathering Starsky’s hands, he ringed them around the shaft, applying gentle pressure to stop the bleeding.  The arrowhead was completely buried, all three barbs enveloped by ruptured flesh.  Blood seeped eagerly between Hutch’s fingers where they rested over Starsky’s hands.  “Press down, Starsk.  Hang on for me.”  

 

He had only a second for Starsky’s pain-filled eyes to find his . . . time only for a brush of trembling fingertips against sweat-dampened skin, a second more to assure Starsky was breathing without obstruction.  They both knew he couldn’t stay.  Not with Harker on the loose and Vivian a potential target.  As much as Hutch ached for his partner . . . as much as he wanted to stay and ease his friend’s pain, he couldn’t ignore the threat of a killer on the loose.

 

“Hang on for me,” He pleaded again. Reluctantly he tore himself away, racing from the room, thudding down the hallway in pursuit of Harker.  His mind never left Starsky, crushed by the acute pain and tightly-leashed fear he’d seen in his friend’s eyes.  Buddy, please hang on.  I promise I won’t leave you.  I promise I’ll be back.  He ran only as far as the end of the corridor before abandoning the search as fruitless.  Harker was likely already on the opposite side of the mammoth estate by now.

 

“Alex,” Hutch called loudly, sprinting for the staircase.  If Harker were in the house, he would go after Vivian next.  “Alex!” he called again, desperate to have the man phone for medical aid as quickly as possible. But their host had either called it a night and gone to bed, or vanished into another wing of the house.  

 

Hutch was halfway up the staircase when the lights abruptly died, plunging him into darkness.  He cursed, uncertain if the power failure was the result of the storm or Harker cutting wires.  He’d almost reached Vivian’s door when a few emergency lights kicked on, springing weakly to life.  It only made sense that a man who lived on an island would have a contingency plan for power failures, likely a generator.

 

Guided by a series of strategically placed hall lights, Hutch made his way to Vivian’s room.  She stepped into the hallway before he could knock, her robe untied, flowing around her legs in a cloud of ebony silk.

 

“Ken.”  Startled, she almost collided with him.  “What happened to the power?”

 

He shoved her back into the room.  “Grab some towels.”

 

“What for?”

 

“Just do it, damn it, and hurry up!”

 

She spied his gun, free of its holster, the sight of the Magnum enough to make her understand something was dreadfully wrong.  Rushing to the bathroom, she was back inside of a minute, three plump towels clutched under her arm.  Hutch snagged her wrist, belatedly realizing his fingers were still covered in Starsky’s blood.  She gave a frightened squawk, but he jerked her from the room before she could recoil.  There simply wasn’t time for explanations or arguments.  Thankfully, she was wise enough to follow his lead, trotting obediently behind him as he kept one hand clamped around her wrist.  He knew she was frightened, could hear it in the heightened hitch of her breath.  He thought about calling out for Alex again, but the semi-dark made him uneasy.  It could shelter Harker just as easily as their host.  If he kept Vivian with him, he’d know she was safe, allowing him to concentrate on his injured partner.  Tugging her behind him, he made his way back down the staircase and into the den. 

 

“Close the door,” he ordered, releasing her and moving instantly to his partner’s side.

 

She stared for a minute, dumbfounded by the sight of Starsky lying on his back, an arrow embedded low in his abdomen.  A small squeak built in her throat and bubbled into the darkness.

 

“Starsk.”  Ignoring her, Hutch knelt by his friend’s side.  “Hey, buddy, I’m back.”  Hastily, he shed his jacket, folding it into a square and gently lifting Starsky’s head to slide it beneath the silky black curls.  He got a groan for the effort, watched Starsky’s long lashes flutter open.

 

“Hutch?”  The cloud of confusion was still in Starsky’s eyes, made brighter by a fierce glitter of pain.

 

“Yeah, pal, I’m right here.”  He didn’t know where to touch first, the length of the arrow obscenely long.  If it was anything like the one Harker had used to kill Vivian’s dog, he knew the tip would be broad and edged like a razor.  A hunting arrow, the sick bastard.

 

Hutch grimaced.  He settled for loosening his friend’s tie, pulling it free and opening his collar.  Blood had spread from Starsky’s waist to his white shirt, soaking the ivory fabric in a glut of glistening fluid.  In the glow of half-light cast from the emergency lamps, it looked almost black, sickeningly iridescent like oil.  More spread over Starsky’s trousers, soaking into his crotch, dribbling down his side and puddling onto the floor.

 

Hutch leaned close, gently stroking his friend’s arm.  “You still with me, babe?”

 

Starsky blinked, trying to focus through the pain, the effort of control plain on his face.  “Didja. . . didja get ‘im?” he asked.  He wet his lips, reeling in a paper-thin breath.  “Didja get Harker?”

 

Hutch shook his head, flashing back to another time when Starsky had lain bloody and wounded on the floor, Hutch crouched over him, trying to stop the bleeding.  His instinct at Giovanni’s had been to protect and comfort, just as it was now.  And just as he had then, Hutch felt overwhelmed and helpless, the little solace he could offer appallingly short of what Starsky really needed.

 

“Vivian, bring the towels here and try the phone,” Hutch instructed.  A chopper couldn’t fly in this weather, but a boat could make it - - a boat that could bring medical aid and would transport Starsky to a hospital. 

 

“Robbie did this.”  Crouching at his side, Vivian passed him the towels, her voice a tangle of remorse and dark anger. Her eyes shifted to Starsky.  “I’m so sorry, David.  I never should have involved the two of you in my problems.”

 

“Just call for help,” Hutch said. He waited until she moved across the room, dragging the phone beneath one of the two working emergency lights.  His eyes had already adjusted to the semi-darkness, making him guess hers had as well. 

 

Looking back to his partner, Hutch unfolded a towel.  He knew to remove the arrow would likely cause hemorrhaging, but also knew the deadly tip couldn’t stay in Starsky’s abdomen.  Aside from the internal damage it wreaked, it increased the odds of blood poisoning and gangrene.  The best he could do was immobilize it until medical help arrived.  Hopefully that wouldn’t be too long.

 

“Hey, buddy?”  Hutch spoke gently, scuffing the knuckles of one hand down Starsky’s sweat-dampened check.  His friend seemed only half coherent, filtering in and out of consciousness, the normally vibrant spark of his eyes muddied with pain and fatigue.  “I’m gonna press this towel around the base of the arrow . . . try to stop the bleeding and immobilize that thing.” He bit his lip, deciding to be truthful. “It’s gonna hurt.”

 

“You ain’t tellin’ me  .  . . anything new.” Starsky’s voice was raspy and dry.  He grimaced and made a feeble attempt to clutch the wound.  Hutch batted his hand aside. 

 

“ . . . hurts . . .”

 

The singular word went through Hutch like a knife.  “I know it does.”     

 

Starsky hissed in an anguished breath.  “Get it out,” he gasped, his eyes darkening beneath a brutally acute spike of pain.  “Just yank the damn thing out.”

 

“No!  Listen to me, Starsk.”  Hutch touched his hand, desperate to make him understand.  “I know it hurts, but pulling it out is just gonna make you bleed.  Try to lie still.”  He felt sick - - sweaty and lightheaded at the same time.  They’d both been shot before, but an arrow!  A fucking arrow!  As gingerly as he could, Hutch curled the towel around the base of the shaft, pressing to stop the bleeding.   He steeled himself for Starsky’s reaction, expecting him to cry out, possibly even scream at what had to be a bubbling eruption of pain.  Instead, Starsky turned his face away, parting only with a vulnerable whimper.

 

The piteous sound cut through Hutch deeper than any scream ever could.  “Oh, shit, buddy, I’m sorry.”  Even as he said the words, he pressed harder, wrapping the towel as tightly as he could, hating himself for heightening his friend’s pain. Blood squished beneath his hands, making a wet sucking sound as it oozed up between his fingers.  Even with the arrowhead embedded in Starsky’s flesh, the wound still bled freely.  A dark puddle spread on the carpet, greedily seeping into the pristine wool of his tailored white slacks.  He tried not to think about it - - tried to block out the vulgar feel of Starsky’s blood, warm and wet against his knees.

 

“Starsk.”  Hutch raised one hand, lightly brushing his fingertips against Starsky’s cheek.  The stroke left a ragged smudge of blood in its wake, a sight that made his stomach curdle.  He wanted to wipe it away, but his hands were covered in it.  “Babe, stay with me,” he coaxed, worried when Starsky’s eyes rolled back as if he were about to pass out. 

 

Scrunching his eyes closed, Starsky moaned in distress.

 

“Ken.”  Vivian’s voice cut through his thoughts.  “Ken, the phone’s dead.  I can’t get a dial tone.”

 

Frazzled, Hutch parted with a vulgar oath - - something that never would have crossed his lips in front of Vivian under normal circumstances.  “Try again,” he snapped.

 

“It won’t do any good.  Ken, it’s dead.  Either the storm knocked it out or Robbie cut the lines.”  She shoved the phone onto a roll-top desk.  “There’s no other way of summoning help to this island.”

 

“There has to be!” he spat.  His body jerked with the outburst, the abrupt movement transmitted through the hand he held pressed to the blood-soaked towel. 

 

Starsky moaned, jarred by the motion.

 

“Ssh.  I’m sorry.”  Hutch paled.  Immediately contrite, he touched his friend’s hair.  “Buddy, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to hurt you.”  Gathering Starsky’s hand, he laid it on top of the towel.  “I want you to hold this in place.  Press down and don’t let go.”

 

“I . . . I can’t.”  Starsky squirmed, gulping down a tortured breath. Even in the semi-light, Hutch could see his face was streaked with sweat . . . that his skin had turned an unhealthy shade of oyster-gray.  Harsh ridges of shadow molded his cheekbones, sharply defining the angular planes of his face.  By contrast his eyes burned gild-bright, stoked by pain and barely contained fear.

 

“Yank it out,” Starsky pleaded again.  He wheezed for breath, each labored pant wrenching his ribs in a strained inhale.  “Please, Hutch.  God, please, it hurts!”

 

Clearly shaken, Vivian knelt beside him.  “He’s right, Ken.  It has to come out.”

 

“No.”

 

“My first husband was a surgeon,” Vivian persisted. She laid a hand over his, unmindful of the blood staining his fingers.  “I know you’re worried about bleeding, but we can stop that with enough pressure bandages.  Leaving it alone creates a higher risk of internal damage.  He’s in pain, Ken.  Can’t you see that?”

 

Stricken, Hutch met her eyes.  Of course he could see it.  It was ripping his heart out.  Ohgod, Starsky, I know it hurts!

 

He knew she was right, but the thought of wrenching the barbed tip from Starsky . . . of brutally yanking it from his flesh, left Hutch waffling with indecision.  It was bad enough to know Starsky was suffering, and he could do nothing about it.  Before he could make any type of judgment call, Alex appeared abruptly in the doorway. 

 

“My God!  What happened here?”  Dumbfounded, the older man looked from Starsky lying sprawled and bloody on the floor, to Hutch and Vivian.  He took two uncertain steps into the room, his face white with shock.  “I was in the library when the lights went out.  I thought I’d better make certain everyone else was all right, so I came looking and - - ”  Unable to finish, he motioned helplessly at Starsky.  “Who . . . what . . . for crying out loud, who did this?” 

 

“Robbie Harker,” Vivian said quickly.

 

Confused, Alex shot her a bewildered glance.  “Who?”

 

“Robbie - - you remember, - - the man I originally intended to bring tonight. He’s somewhere in this house, Alex, and he’s armed with a bow.”

 

“What?”  Alarmed, Alex started for the phone.  “We need to call for help . . . medics and police.”

 

“The phone’s dead,” Hutch said flatly.  His attention immediately returned to his friend.  The bleeding seemed to be slowing now, at the very least under control, yet another reason he dreaded removing the arrow.  Blocking out Vivian and Alex, he rubbed Starsky’s arm, speaking soothingly.  “I’m right here with you, partner.  Just hang on a little longer until I can figure out how to make you comfortable.”

 

Comfortable?  He gave a mental snort.  Who was he kidding?  There was no being comfortable with an arrowhead buried in your gut.  And the end result of that dire rationalization meant the damn thing had to come out regardless of his reservations.  Maybe it really would be best if Starsky simply fainted, bowled under by the fluctuating waves of pain he continually strove to navigate.  Even now his hands twitched where they rested on the towel, his left leg jerking irregularly with muscle-induced spasms.  Hutch knew each involuntary lurch, however minute, sent new splinters of pain rocketing outward from the gruesome wound. 

 

Drawn to the scene, Alex paced closer.  He did a double take, noticing Hutch’s shoulder holster for the first time.  “What’s going on here?  You’re not really Vivian’s date, are you?”

 

“He’s a police sergeant,” Vivian supplied quickly.  “And David is his partner.  They came here to protect me from Robbie Harker.”  She looked away, gently touching Starsky’s shoulder in an effort to offer what comfort she could.  “I’ve made a horrible mess of things.”

 

“It wasn’t you, Vivian,” Hutch countered.  “It was Harker.  He was trying to kill me, but Starsky got in the way.”  He swallowed hard, undone by the selflessness of his friend’s action.  Overwhelmed, he gripped Starsky’s wrist, his impulsive need to touch as blindly instinctive as breathing.  “He saved my life.” 

 

Had their positions been reversed, Hutch knew he would have done the same without a moment’s hesitation, but it didn’t make the outcome any easier to accept. 

 

Beside him, Vivian looked to her brother-in-law.  “I’m sorry, Alex, I didn’t want to involve you,” she explained quietly. “All of that aside, the priority now is helping David.”

 

She was right.  She was also right about the damned arrow.  Hutch wet his lips, looking sideways at the socialite.  “Vivian, take Alex and give me a minute, okay?  Maybe the two of you could round up some more towels . . . see what’s available in the way of first aid supplies.  Just be sure to stay close to him.  We don’t know where Harker is.”

 

“All right.” She hesitated only briefly, intuitively understanding he wanted privacy.  Giving his arm a quick squeeze she stood and beckoned Alex to accompany her.  Seconds later, Hutch was alone with his injured partner.

 

The sick feeling was back in his stomach, flirting at the edges, making him feel lost and uncertain.  It simply wasn’t possible a short five weeks after Starsky had survived the violent shooting at Giovanni’s, he was battling something even more grievous.  I wish I could take it from you . . .ease your pain.  It was meant for me, dummy.  Why’d you have to go and be a fucking hero?

 

Hutch grimaced.  He was the one posing as Vivian’s date, the one Harker had reason to hate and wish dead.  Knowing the arrow had been meant for him . . . that Starsky had willingly and unselfishly shoved him out of the way, spooled his emotions into a turbulent snarl of anger and remorse.  He didn’t want Starsky to see how terrified he was, but with Vivian and Alex no longer scrutinizing his every move, he did away with distance.  Crouching closer, he threaded his hand knuckle-deep into the ragged curls of Starsky’s hair. It was amazing, but even through the blood and fear he could still smell the warmly distinctive scent of his partner - - something rich and comforting that was wholly and completely Starsky.  It made his heart throb and his throat ache, his fingers tightening in a silky black weave of tumbled curls. 

 

“Starsk.”  The name came out a croak, barely audible.  Hutch wet his lips and tried again.  “I don’t know if you heard, but the phone’s dead.  That means no help anytime soon.”  Gently, he massaged the glossy hair beneath his fingertips, taking comfort as much as he gave. He didn’t know when, but at some point he’d practically stretched out beside Starsky, his own body draped beside his friend, as if presence alone could shelter Starsky from the grim realities of pain.  “I don’t want to hurt you - -” Ohgod, babe, I don’t want to hurt you!  “ - - and I don’t want you to bleed.”

 

Starsky knew exactly where he was headed.  “Take the damn thing out, Hutch.  It’s killin’ me.”

 

Silent, Hutch dropped his head, pressing his brow to Starsky’s forehead.  He was terrified that if he did as Starsky asked, he wouldn’t be able to stop the bleeding.  The thought of his friend - - his vulnerable partner, the other half of his soul - - bleeding to death at his hands was almost too much to bear.  And yet he knew he couldn’t let Starsky suffer further . . . that every second the cruel arrow remained lodged in his abdomen was yet another of blistering agony.

 

“I’ll wait for Alex,” he whispered, still threading his hand through jet-tipped curls . . . still touching and soothing.  He reveled in the contact, the unfathomable unity that leaped between them, intensely present whenever one or the other was hurt.  “I’ll wait,” he said again. “I’ll need Alex’s help.”

 

“No.”  Starsky shook his head. His face was slack, his skin abnormally white and stained with sweat. “Now,” he prompted, the word a pained hiss between graying lips.  “It hurts, Hutch.  I-I don’t wan’ them here . . . seein’.”  Both hands clutched at the bloody towel, his back arching beneath a swell of pain.  “Please, Hutch . . . God, please - - it’s killin’ me.  Take the fuckin’ thing out!”

 

His voice cracked on a shudder, the sound ripping through Hutch with the force of a rocket blast.  Powerless to help his friend, he scrambled to his knees.  “Okay . . . okay,” he promised, eagerly touching Starsky’s face, his hair, his neck - - anywhere he could place his fingertips and encounter skin.  The touch was both connection and promise, a desperate attempt to calm and soothe.  “I’m right here, babe, right here.  Just bear with me.”  He fumbled for the extra towels, dragging them close with papery hands.  Even the sweat had dried on his body, sucked into nothingness by the arid taint of foreboding. He knew he had to do it - - rip the damn arrow out and hope for the best.  He couldn’t stand to watch Starsky suffer any longer, but the fear of what might go wrong left him mentally questioning the decision. 

 

Irked, he bit the inside of his mouth.

 

He had some spotty medical training and his father was a renowned surgeon, damn it!  Hadn’t he learned anything all those years he’d tried to please Grant?  And what about all that misbegotten time spent in medical school?  Surely that had to be good for something. 

 

Crouching beside his friend, Hutch pressed his palm over the towel.

 

Instantly, Starsky tensed, sucking down a flighty gulp of air. Twisting his head away, he ground his teeth together. “Oh . . . okay,” he panted.  His fingers dug into the carpet, crawled further and knotted in the blood-streaked fabric of Hutch’s white pants.  “G’head.  I’m ready.”

 

Hutch bit his lip, terrified to move, terrified to breathe.  Tentatively he touched the shaft of the arrow, acutely aware that every feather-light brush of his fingertips sent a shock of pain trip-wiring into Starsky’s gut.  He was afraid to close his hand, petrified of the agony it would unleash.  He was no expert, but knew he had to pull the arrow upright in a perfectly clean motion.  Exerting pressure, however marginal, in any other direction would cause further damage.  If he didn’t act quickly, with blunt force, the shaft might break, leaving the head embedded in Starsky’s flesh.  Without immediate medical aid, that would likely prove fatal.  When it came right down to it, Starsky’s life rested in his hands - - in whether or not he could stomach hurting his friend.  Hopefully it would be quick.  If not, he’d have to endure Starsky’s tortured cries while he tried to free the wretched thing . . . knowing that every infinitesimal tug, every fleeting pull on the shaft only brought his friend greater pain. 

 

With effort, Hutch tuned out the incessant hammering of his heart and focused on the blue eyes upturned to his.  Eyes brimming with pain and fear, yet blatantly trusting all the same.  Starsky’s silent faith in him was almost too much to endure, freely given, rooted in a devotion they rarely ever verbally addressed.  It was an unspoken bond, grounded in something that transcended words and even thoughts.  It simply was.  Trust, love - - infinitely undying, wholly unselfish.  The rapturous unity of the highly idealized and devoted friendship he shared with Starsky gave Hutch the conviction to continue.

 

“You gotta lie still, Starsk,” he instructed gently, holding his friend’s gaze.  “It’s gonna hurt like hell, but if you move - -”  He swallowed with difficulty, gingerly flexing his hand on the shaft, curling his fingers around the slender tube.  “If you move, the shaft could break or . . . or you could hemorrhage.”  He paled at the thought, a single trickle of sweat dribbling down the back of his neck to seep into his collar.  He was suddenly cold, the warmth leeched from his flesh by fear.  “Do you understand, babe?   It’s important.  If I jerk when I’m pulling, I could cut you open.”

 

The thought sickened him, but Starsky only nodded, sweat beaded in dewy drops on his upper lips.  “ M’legs,” he mumbled, his words slurred by pain.  “Sit on m’legs, Hutch . . . ‘ll keep me from movin’.”

 

“Yeah.”  He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of that, except he feared the motion would jostle the arrow.  Regardless, his options were limited.  Starsky would buck on reflex, instinctively jerking his legs up the moment Hutch applied pressure to the shaft.  The end result would be disastrous - - ruptured flesh, hemorrhaging, a broken shaft.  Hutch would have preferred to have Alex hold Starsky down, but he understood his partner’s wish to suffer the agony without an audience.

 

“Okay,” he agreed, moving as gingerly as he could.  Carefully, he straddled Starsky’s thighs, easing back until his weight rested on his friend’s knees. 

 

Starsky grunted when the addition of excess pressure pulled the split skin over his abdomen.  “ . . . could stand to lose a few pounds,” he muttered, a weak attempt at humor.  His hand found Hutch’s pants again, knotting in the stained fabric like a lifeline.  “Don’t let me go, partner,” he whispered.

 

“Promise,” Hutch vowed, his chest so tight he thought it would explode.  Starsky’s eyes were riveted to his, glittering with the fierce assertion of unflagging trust, the fear-sharpened edge of vulnerability.  This is it, Hutchinson.  Go ‘head - - freaking hurt him while you still got the balls to do it.  Hating himself, Hutch locked his free hand over the arrow and jerked brutally upward.  

 

Starsky screamed.

 

Shit, no!  Hutch didn’t know which was worse  - - Starsky’s anguished wail or the ghastly realization the arrow wouldn’t budge, the barbs wedged deeply in pulpy strings of muscle and tendon. Sweating profusely now, Hutch pulled harder still, unwilling to ease his brutal hold on the flimsy shaft. 

 

“Hutch!”  Tormented by pain, Starsky gulped for air, desperately clawing his friend’s leg.  Hutch’s pants tore beneath the savage strain, the expensive material ripping across the knee. “Stop!” Starsky pleaded.  “Hutch, please  . . . ohgod, it hurts . . .”

 

Committed to freeing the arrow, Hutch had no choice but to continue.  A hot deluge of blood spewed from the wound, but he only tightened his grip. “Starsky - - babe . . . please, buddy, you have to lay still.”  It was a futile request given the excruciating agony his friend was in.  Starsky writhed, nearly senseless with the punishment, all rationality blown to dust by torture.

 

Desperate to end his partner’s suffering, Hutch pulled harder.  He heard a crack, unnerved when the shaft weakened unexpectedly.  “Starsk! The shaft is gonna snap!  Damn it, Starsky!  Ohgod, please lay still!”

 

But his friend was beyond hearing, his world comprised of escalating torment and needle-hot pain.  Even as he fought to restrain himself, Starsky groped frantically for the arrowhead. “Can’t . . . I can’t,” he panted.  Frantic, he clawed the single blood-soaked towel still bundled around the rupture in his gut.  Something wretched and horrible built in his throat, part groan, part strangled desperation - - the sound of a very strong man about to shatter.

 

It went through Hutch like a knife.  He bore it as long as he could, knowing in a split-second more the shaft would snap if Starsky continued to fight him.  And that was something he simply couldn’t allow if he wanted to save his partner’s life.  “I’m sorry, babe,” he choked, unsure if Starsky even heard, lost in his bleak whirlwind of pain. From the corner of his eye, Hutch saw Alex and Vivian appear in the doorway, but by then he was already committed.  Starsky’s head snapped back and their eyes locked for a flash-second, the contact like a high-voltage jolt of electricity. 

 

Hutch cursed.  Before he could think it through, he drove his right fist across Starsky’s cheek knocking him senseless.

 

His friend went limp.  And just that quickly, the arrowhead blundered free.  Disgusted, Hutch flung the shaft aside, immediately pressing both hands over the towel, mashing the saturated material against the gushing wound. 

 

“Vivian, get me another towel,” he shouted.

 

She was there in a heartbeat, pressing a bulky piece of terry into his hands.  He reacted on instinct and sheer adrenaline, his heart pumping into his throat as he jammed the cloth on top of the existing towel, struggling to staunch the massive glut of blood.  He’d feared hemorrhaging all along, knew the pressure he was inflicting had to be severe, but thankfully Starsky remained unconscious.

 

I hit him.  I hit him when he was hurt.

 

He couldn’t contemplate that ugly reality right now, blood gushing up between his fingers, covering his hands like drenching paint.  “Alex . . . find a cushion or a pillow.  We’ve got to elevate his lower body . . . try to stop this bleeding.” 

 

The jerky, stop-and-go sentences reflected how he felt, his whole world wrapped up in Starsky.  I just got you back, safe and whole.  Don’t do this to me, Starsk.  Please, babe.  You’re scaring the shit out of me!

 

Alex grabbed the seat cushion from the nearest chair, crouching to help Hutch ease Starsky’s hips onto the pillowy top.  Hutch never released his hold, pressing hard against Starsky’s abdomen until finally the gory leak abated. He didn’t know how long it took - - just that he never let go, his knees and back eventually cramping under the strain of hunching over his unconscious friend.  When he was sure the bleeding had finally stopped, he sighed raggedly, sitting back on his haunches.  Vivian knelt beside him, silently passing him a towel to wipe his hands.  He performed the action mechanically, vaguely aware his pants were soaked with Starsky’s blood, the immaculate white wool looking like something from a cheap horror movie.  A long tear gaped over the knee where Starsky had ripped the fabric in a violent paroxysm of pain.

 

“You should have waited,” Alex said suddenly.  “The shaft might have snapped.”

 

“Don’t you think I know that?” It was hard maintaining any type of objectivity where Starsky was concerned.  Hutch could be reasonable about any other matter, but his rationality went flying out the window when it came to his partner.  Starsky, hurt and vulnerable, had Hutch practically tripping over himself, willing to go to any extreme to comfort and protect his friend. “He didn’t want an audience,” he explained moodily, bitterly.

 

So I hit him.  I hit him when he was hurting. 

 

That part still stung, regardless of his motives.  He thought of the shaft shattering . . . of what it would have meant for that cruelly barbed head to become permanently lodged in Starsky’s flesh. Sometimes their job was just too dangerous.  Hutch enjoyed his career, loved his partnership with Starsky, but somewhere along the way their friendship had eclipsed everything else.  He’d gone to the Police Academy to become a cop, having spent the vast majority of his life living up to the standards of others - - his father, his teachers, college professors, even Vanessa.  In the end, he’d finally done something for himself, eager for a career he’d once only dreamed about. 

 

He’d never guessed that same job choice would lead him to an extraordinary, once-in-a-lifetime friendship, or that he’d find a soulmate in a bewildering New Yorker who was part excitable child, part sauntering street tough.  Admittedly, his first impression of Starsky had not been favorable, but he supposed he’d come across just as annoying - - rigidly correct and cooly aloof, so clean-cut and uppercrust he’d been dubbed the “golden boy” of the Academy.  It was amazing Starsky had bothered to give him the time of day, let alone get him to ease up on himself.  Mr. Perfection to Starsky’s shoot-from-the-hip attitude. 

 

Hutch had set out to become a cop, and while that was still important, it wasn’t nearly as important as Starsky. 

 

Tossing the used towel aside, Hutch shoved tiredly to his feet.  “Is there a bedroom on this floor  - - preferably one that locks?” he asked Alex.  “I want to get him as comfortable as possible.” 

 

“Of course.”  Alex nodded quickly, eager to help.  “Just at the end of the hall, around the back.  It’s a complete guest suite with two bedrooms and a bath.”

 

“That’ll work.”  Still kneeling, Hutch brushed his fingertips through Starsky’s hair.  Moving him would likely force him awake, jarring him back into a world consumed by pain.  It was unavoidable if Hutch wanted to tend the wound - - make sure it was clean and properly bandaged to ward against infection.  Hopefully he could even coerce some pain relievers into Starsky, then get him to sleep until the charter arrived or he could find a way to summon help.  Hutch might have managed to remove the arrow, but he knew that wouldn’t automatically blunt the pain.  When Starsky woke, it was going to be to a world bathed in undercurrents of agony.

 

“Vivian, take this.”  Hutch passed her Starsky’s Beretta. Kneeling, he slipped one arm under Starsky’s back, the other under his knees. “Once I get him settled, it’d help to have candles for additional light.”  He shot Alex a quick glance. “Think you could round some up without running into Harker?  I want Vivian with me so I know she’s safe.”

 

“Makes sense.  Here let me help - -”  Alex lent a hand, taking Starsky’s shoulders while Hutch maintained his hold high on Starsky’s knees, alleviating strain on the wound.  His friend moaned as he was lifted but didn’t regain consciousness. Five minutes later with Alex’s help, Hutch eased him onto a king-sized bed, removing his jacket, holster, and shoes to make him more comfortable. 

 

“I’ll get the candles,” Alex called, heading for the door.  “There’s extra blankets in the closet and the medicine cabinet is stocked.”  He hesitated, eyeing Vivian in her filmy negligee.  “There’s probably a robe too.”

 

“I’ll get some clothes from our room later,” Hutch said, standing to rake a hand through his hair.  On the bed, Starsky stirred and parted with a faint moan.  “Ssh, buddy, I’m right here.”  Hutch was at his side in an instant, bending to stroke his arm, lightly dusting his fingertips over the blood-streaked sleeve of Starsky’s shirt.  The sight of the soiled garment made his stomach churn. Starsky’s navy trousers were in even worse shape, saturated with blood over the crotch and left thigh.  “It’s okay,” Hutch whispered, maintaining the steady stroke of his hand until his friend quieted. 

 

He sensed Vivian behind him . . . felt her fingers slide onto his shoulders, gently massaging.  “You care about him deeply.”  It wasn’t a question so much as an observation.

 

He couldn’t really answer that, too choked up to speak.  Yeah I care about him. Somehow my whole life got wrapped around his.  Not trusting his voice, he gave a brusque nod.  Damn idiot just keeps getting himself hurt, ripping me up inside.  He felt physically sick . . . didn’t know if he could hold it together again like he had at Giovanni’s. What if he’d injured his friend internally by yanking out the arrow?  What if Starsky didn’t make it this time?

 

The thought was too heinous to contemplate.  It would mean the end of his world, the end of his soul.  Shaken, he dropped his eyes, fixating on his reddened hands.  Even after he’d wiped them clean, they were still stained with blood.  It made him feel ugly and vile - - a repulsive monster inappropriately parading in angelic white.  Starsky’s blood was everywhere - - on his sleeves, his shirt, his pants - - repulsive vermilion streaks against the saintly ivory hue of tailored clothing. 

 

What a fucking joke.

 

He wanted to puke.

 

“Ken . . .”  Vivian eased onto the bed beside him.  “I know you’re hurting, but we’re going to get through this.  He’s going to get through this.”

 

He wished he could believe her, nodded dumbly just for something to do.  Reaching for Starsky’s hand, he twined their fingers together - - life to life, pulse-beat to pulse-beat. 

 

Ten minutes later, he still hadn’t moved when Alex returned with the candles.

 

+++++

 

Hutch eventually went in search of Harker.  He scoured the estate from top to bottom but found no clue to indicate the man’s whereabouts.  Hopefully, Vivian’s jealous boyfriend had decided to hightail it to another part of the island after botching the attempt on Hutch’s life.  The blond detective preferred to think of Harker off somewhere licking his wounds rather than lurking in the shadows, waiting for another opportunity. 

 

The phone and power lines appeared to be secure and intact, making Hutch think it really was the storm and not Harker who was responsible for the outage. With any luck, he was as disabled as they were by the utility failures.

 

Pausing briefly, Hutch listened as the winter squall blustered against the walls and windows, kicking up a sizable ruckus.  Rather than abate, it had grown stronger, spewing a lethal combination of wind and torrential rain.  Agitated by the disturbance that kept him prisoner, Hutch prowled through the silent house.  Emergency lights guided his way to the second floor bedroom he shared with Vivian where he stripped off his soiled clothes, pulling on a pair of black jeans and a walnut-brown shirt.  The bleaker colors suited him, keeping with his somber frame of mind.  He gathered up fresh clothes for Vivian, then detoured to Starsky’s room, doing the same for his friend. 

 

By the time he returned to the first floor bedroom, knocking on the locked door and calling softly for Vivian, he was beginning to feel the strain of separation from his partner. Inside, the room was lit with numerous candles, the wash of rum-colored light moody and golden.

 

“Here.”  Hutch pressed the clothing he’d gathered into Vivian’s arms, moving immediately for the bed. The room was much the same as the one he shared with Vivian, comprised of a plush four-poster canopied bed and a separate sitting area.  A door to the left led to a Jack-and-Jill bath, shared with a twin bedroom on the opposite side.  Alex sprawled half asleep on a silver and plum settee, Starsky’s Beretta resting on an end table beside him.  Raised on a platform, a short distance away, the king-sized bed was swathed in shimmering drapes of amethyst and smoke.  It looked like something from a tawdry romance movie or a honeymoon couple’s secluded getaway.  Any other time Hutch would have joked with his partner about the flirty surroundings, but now all he wanted to do was assure himself Starsky was resting. 

 

The dark-haired man shifted groggily, parting with a sluggish moan as he approached the bed. An ugly bruise rose on his cheek where Hutch had struck him, a grim reminder he’d deliberately hurt his friend. The sight sent hot acid streaking through his gut.  He cringed, sadly aware he’d never hit Starsky before.

 

I’m sorry, buddy.  I’m sorry for this whole frigging mess.  

 

“Starsk?”  Worried, Hutch stretched out his hand.

 

+++++

 

Starsky groaned, buried chest-deep in a debilitating limbo of heat and pain.  Something cool brushed his temple, tracking lower to contour his cheek.  Unconsciously, he turned his face into that blissfully soothing pocket.  His thoughts were scattered, splayed in a thousand jumbled pieces on the inner wall of his mind.  Every time he tried to make sense of them, he got trapped in a pulsing spiral of pain.  It nipped at the edges of consciousness, sending witch-fire shrieking across his abdomen.

 

“Ughnnn . . .”  Moaning, he groped for the source of ungodly heat.  Someone snared his wrist and tugged his hand aside before he could complete the action.  Frustrated, he bit his lip and whined.

 

“Buddy, you can’t.  You might break open the wound.”

 

The voice was velvet-soft and melodic, a voice he knew as instinctively as his own.  “Hu . . . Hutch.”  His eyes felt eternally gummed shut.  With effort, he forced them open, blinking through murky confusion. Awareness crackled over him with the shock of rolling thunder.  He felt fire in his gut, steel and flame together, a tide of icy heat that ripped a tormented whimper from his throat.  His hand blundered free from Hutch’s grip, clutching his friend’s sleeve in mute desperation. 

 

Hutch had hit him - - hard.  He knew that, but couldn’t remember why.  Had he done something to anger his partner?  Is that why his stomach hurt so badly?  “I’m sorry,” he blurted.

 

“Sorry?”  Hutch’s voice wavered, sounding like it would crack.  “Aw, buddy, don’t . . . you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

But he did.  Hutch had hit him with enough force to knock him senseless. He remembered that even if he couldn’t remember anything else.  Whatever he’d done, it must have been unforgivable to make Hutch react so violently.  He wanted to apologize but didn’t know what he was apologizing for.  His head hurt just thinking about it, and his gut was on fire. 

 

Terrified Hutch would leave, Starsky clung tighter.  “Don’t go.”

 

“Babe, I’m not going anywhere.”  Hutch’s voice remained soft, directly contradicting his physical violence of just moments before. 

 

Was it moments?

 

Starsky couldn’t think.  His head felt like it wanted to explode. In some barely sane corner of his mind, he realized he was lying on a bed, staring up at a wooden canopy draped with filmy sheers of grape and pewter.  He stirred sluggishly, grimacing at the knife-like pain in his gut.  Flame consumed him, burning from the inside out. The mutant warmth terrified him, made him writhe on sheets already soaked with sweat.  “Hutch . . .” he moaned again.

 

“I’m here, buddy.  I’m right here.”

 

Starsky felt the bed give . . . knew that his friend sat beside him.  As hot as he was, he curled against Hutch, resting his cheek on his friend’s thigh.  He trembled, desperate for the contact, mentally trying to piece together the last few hours. He could handle the pain, even his fear as long as Hutch was around - - as long as he knew his friend still cared about him and he wasn’t alone. “What . . . what h’ppned?”

 

“You got shot . . .with an arrow.  Remember?”  Hutch threaded a hand through his hair, his touch blessedly comforting, tender and gentle as his voice.  “Harker’s here somewhere.  The phone’s down and the power’s out.  We’re stuck until the charter arrives tomorrow afternoon.”

 

Starsky wheezed in a breath, sucking on his bottom lip.  It came back in fragments - - the storm, the den, the glimpse of a razor-tipped arrow jutting through the doorway and his horrified haste to shove Hutch out of the way. Unconsciously he tensed.  He remembered lying on his back, Hutch straddled over his legs, sweat dripping from the ends of his friend’s pale hair as he struggled to free the arrow. 

 

Starsky swallowed, abruptly dry-mouthed.  “I remember now.” He remembered the pain, the terror, Hutch’s snapped insistence that he lay still. Shaken, he burrowed closer. “Knew you wouldn’t hit me for just any reason.”

 

“Starsk.” Hutch slid a finger down his jaw, tipping his chin up until their eyes met.  “I’m sorry about that.”  Mortified, he shook his head.  “I didn’t know what else to do.  You just . . . you wouldn’t stay still and I was afraid the arrow - -”

 

“S’okay, Blondie.”  Accustomed to his friend’s overly rampant sensitivity, Starsky leaned into him, making sure Hutch understood he had nothing to be sorry about.  His cheek was sore, throbbing slightly where Hutch had hit him. He guessed he had a nasty bruise, a ridiculously absurd distraction compared to the hole in his gut. He tried not to think about the pain rooted below his belt or the fact it was steadily gnawing at his insides.

 

Hutch looped an arm around his shoulder, drawing him closer.  Thankful for the comfort, Starsky settled against him without complaint.  It felt familiar and natural to be resting in his friend’s embrace, a situation that made him realize just how truly unnatural it really was. Thinking back over the years, he realized he had never let another man hold and soothe him, yet it had become almost habitual with Hutch.  He’d grown to rely on it, depending on the attentive affection of his partner whenever he was injured or upset.

 

“So we’re screwed, huh . . . some lunatic runnin’ around the island with a bow and arrow and all you’ve got is a mini cannon.”  He tried to keep his tone light, but a stabbing knife of pain shattered the levity.  Shuddering, he grimaced.  “ . . . hurts.”

 

“Ssh . . . it’s gonna be okay.”  Hutch’s long fingers slid into his hair, his touch like the warm fusion of light and sun.  “Just hang on for me, buddy.”

 

He could do that, pain or no pain, as long as Hutch was close by. Tensing involuntarily, Starsky pressed his face into his friend’s shoulder.  He wanted to curl up and vanish into a ball where the slick torment in his abdomen couldn’t reach.  Instead he tucked closer to Hutch, the edge of his pain blunted by the touch of his partner’s fingers firmly embedded in his hair. “Vivian?”  he asked.

 

“Safe.” Hutch cleared his throat.  “She’s in the bathroom, changing clothes.  Alex is safe too.”

 

Alex.

 

Starsky frowned, disturbed but uncertain why.  Maybe it was simply the discussion he’d had with the older man.  While Alex was clearly staunchly protective of Vivian, he hadn’t been exactly friendly toward Hutch.  Then again  - - Alex thought Hutch was a game player, earning his money by performing in Vivian’s bed.  His fingers crimped in Hutch’s sleeve.  “Does he know . . . we’re cops?”

 

“I told him.”  With a ragged sigh, Hutch dismissed the subject. “Starsk . . . I want you to rest now.”

 

“Can’t.”  He shook his head.  He’d like nothing better than rest, but it was impossible plagued by constant pain and heat, the sick churning in his gut.  Everything felt tottery and blurred, cracked with edges like glass.  He wanted to sleep - - was freakishly tired - - but the throbbing pain below his belt refused to let him doze. 

 

“Stay,” he whispered, content if only momentarily to have his friend against him.  It was amazing what that contact did, how it made him feel loved and protected, banishing the worst of his fear.  Hutch had done the same thing at Giovanni’s, freely stepping into the role of fiercely devoted guardian.  It often amazed Starsky that he’d had so many casual friends over the years without really understanding what friendship - - true friendship  - - was about.

 

One man had taught him that.  One man who was the total opposite of everything he’d once considered important in a friend.  “Maybe . . .” he whispered, growing drowsy with warmth . . . Hutch’s warmth.  “Maybe if you stay, I could sleep.” 

 

Hutch stroked his cheek.  “I’m not going anywhere, babe.  Close your eyes and rest.”

 

It didn’t eradicate the pain, but it made it bearable for the moment.

 

+++++

 

Vivian changed clothes, slipping into the charcoal slacks and cranberry blouse Ken had brought from their room.  He hadn’t bothered to grab shoes, so she paired the heeled black slippers from her negligee with the more serviceable clothing he’d retrieved. She knew Alex had gone into the other bedroom, attempting to catch some real sleep, but Ken was still sitting up with David. 

 

She’d been furious with the blond-haired sergeant after the way he’d gone hot then cold in their bedroom earlier, but found it difficult to summon any true irritation now.  She’d seen how worried he was, stricken by the bleak turn of events the night had taken.  The informal lunch she’d had with David two days ago had alerted her to the fact the partners were close - - that much was obvious - - but she hadn’t realized how close until she’d watched Ken hovering over his injured friend.

 

Dismayed, she said a silent prayer for David’s recovery. If she hadn’t personally approached Commissioner Westlake, she would have been assigned two detectives randomly, but she’d selected Ken Hutchinson and David Starsky, thereby making her responsible for anything that happened to them.  She’d known Robbie was unbalanced, even dangerous, but she hadn’t expected him to go after anyone other than her.  True, he’d hurt her previous boyfriend, James Fackler, but to try to actually kill Ken . . .and with a bow and arrow!

 

She shuddered.

 

Attempting to be useful, she collected what first-aid supplies she could rummage together.  They didn’t have much that would be of help, but she gathered some gauze packing, a bottle of Tylenol, surgical scissors, and medical tape from the vanity cabinet. Filling a glass half full of water, she collected the hodge-podge of items and stepped into the bedroom. 

 

Instantly, her eyes were drawn to the bed.

 

When she’d left earlier, Ken had been watching over his friend, but he was practically entwined with him now.  The blond detective sat on the mattress with his back to the headboard, his long legs stretched before him.  He’d pulled a pillow into his lap, allowing his partner to curl up against him.  David’s left arm was sprawled over his friend’s legs, his head cushioned by the plump pillow.  He appeared to be asleep, his skin still drawn and gray, but not as waxy as it had looked in the den.  Ken’s head was tipped back, his eyes closed, left arm draped snugly over his friend’s shoulders.  Even as she watched, he kneaded David’s hair, the fingers of his right hand maintaining a slow, steady massage in the thick sable curls.

 

Her throat tightened at the sight.  Accustomed to men who were mostly superficial, interested only in how something benefited them, she found the display of devoted affection heart-rending.  Approaching the bed, she set the items she’d collected on the nightstand.

 

Ken stirred and opened his eyes before she could retreat.  A wan smile flickered over his lips when he noticed the supplies she’d gathered.  “Thanks,” he acknowledged appreciatively.  “He’s a little warm.  He’s going to need the Tylenol.”

 

Vivian bit her lip, unsure what to say.  She was so used to seeing him confident, even smolderingly sexual at times. He looked less certain now, the wounded light in his pale eyes making her uncomfortable.  She’d involved them in her personal life solely for selfish reasons - - because she’d been wildly attracted to him from the moment she’d set eyes on him.  Now his partner was fighting a critical wound as a result of her meddling.  Ken had every reason to be angry, but instead she sensed only worry and fatigue.

 

Reaching behind her, Vivian pulled a plum wing chair closer to the bed.  She spoke softly, hoping to converse without waking David.  “In a few more hours it’ll be dawn.  Maybe the worst of the storm will be over by then and the power will come back up.  If he can just hang on . . .”

 

“Fever’s the problem now,” Ken responded glumly.  Glancing down at his friend, he smoothed a clump of sweat-tipped curls from his forehead.  “Fever and infection.  I really should clean the wound and try to get some Tylenol into him, but I hate to disturb him.  At least asleep, he’s not in pain.”

 

Vivian nodded, understanding his reluctance.  Even as she watched, David stirred slightly, parting with a soft moan.  He tucked closer to Ken, trying to get comfortable, one hand unconsciously curling around his partner’s knee.

 

“Ssh, Starsk.  It’s okay.”  Ken spoke quietly, his voice hypnotic and smooth.  Slowly, he slid his palm up and down his partner’s arm, his fingertips imparting drowsy warmth and affection. “Go back to sleep, buddy.  Everything’s okay.” 

 

“ . . . stay . . .”  David protested sluggishly.

 

“Yeah, I’m staying.  Couldn’t kick me out, dummy.”  Ken smiled gently, his fingertips repeating that same sedating dance up and down his friend’s arm. 

 

To Vivian, it looked like the touch of a shared narcotic, as if the blatantly entrancing stroke brought tangible comfort to both of them.  She found herself mesmerized by how quickly Ken was able to quiet his partner, coaxing David to slumber before he’d even really regained consciousness.  Even then, the blond-haired man maintained physical contact, his hand caressing the inside of his friend’s arm then dipping to curl possessively around David’s wrist.

 

“You have an extraordinary bedside manner,” she observed quietly, watching the interplay.  “I have no doubt you’re an excellent detective, but you would have made a great doctor.”

 

Still stroking his friend’s arm, Ken gave a soft snort.  “My father’s a doctor - - a surgeon.  He’d probably agree with you, at least for appearance sake if nothing else.  I did a short stint in medical school before I realized it wasn’t for me.”

 

Surprised by the admission, she tilted her head.  He was considerably more complex than she’d originally guessed when she’d met him in October. “You’re happy with that decision?”

 

“Perfectly.” His mouth quirked up in one corner, the lush gold tips of his lashes dipping to veil his eyes.  She’d seen that look on him before and immediately recognized it as pensive reflection. He really was very young, one moment dangerously male and overconfident, the next plagued by regret.  “I’d be a lot happier if my father accepted it too.” 

 

River-blue and tinged by doubt, his eyes flashed to her face.  “I grew up privileged, Vivian.  If I’d followed my father’s plan, I’d be a regular at his country club and have my own high profile practice by now.  He and I would be the best of friends instead of constantly being at each other’s throats.  Trust me - -”  He gave a short, bitter laugh.  “ - - an inner-city street cop is not what the renowned Dr. Grant Hutchinson had in mind for his only son.  He’s made that abundantly clear more than once.”

 

Startled, Vivian sat straighter.  “Grant Hutchinson?  Your father is Grant Hutchinson?”  Bewildered, she shook her head, certain she’d heard wrong.  “The same Grant Hutchinson who heads up surgery at Superior-Colbarton Hospital in Duluth, Minnesota?  My God - - ” She choked, barely able to manage the coincidence as bits of long forgotten memory fell into place.  “Ken - - you and I have met before!”

 

+++++

 

Gavin Clarke was a surgeon, which meant responsibility and a certain measure of decorum. As a fledging food critic and well known socialite, Vivian had her own appearances to uphold.  She enjoyed the lifestyle - - the glitz and upscale parties attended by the city’s elite, but she would have surrendered it all if Gavin asked.  That’s what came from falling in love with a man of character.

 

Not that he wasn’t handsome.  Dark-haired with smoldering dark eyes and a trim physique, he could turn her knees to water with a single glance.  They’d already been married eight years, but it felt like they were still celebrating their honeymoon.  Which was all the more reason she found Dr. Bentley Crest’s “September Retreat” an annoyance.

 

Gavin didn’t always attend the every-five-year-reunion of his med school buddies.  In fact, he’d missed the last one.  And he’d grown annoyed with some of his former friends, saying they’d become too materialistic and self-centered. She’d even overheard him call Nathan Dunner “a colossal ass.” 

 

He was looking forward to seeing Bentley, however, and someone named Grant Hutchinson, whom she’d never met.  As there were no true parties to attend that weekend in Bay City, she decided to go with him - - popping in only long enough to meet his friends, before pampering herself at a resort spa in Duluth for the duration.

 

It was dark by the time they arrived at Dr. Crest’s gated home.  She stayed to have a drink with Gavin and a few of his friends.  Several wives were there, and one or two of Gavin’s college buddies had even brought their children for the weekend.

 

She was just getting ready to leave when Dr. Grant Hutchinson arrived looking annoyed and dour.  An imposing man at 6’3,” he was dark like Gavin, but with pale blue eyes and a lighter complexion.  He’d brought his son with him - - a boy of no more than ten whom he didn’t bother to introduce.

 

The child appeared as miserable as his father was annoyed, and Vivian found her heart going out to him.  Obviously something had happened on the drive to Bentley’s estate to put the two at odds.  Judging by the boy’s glum expression, it wasn’t the first time he’d found himself on the outs with his father.  As fair and golden as Grant was dark, he was incredibly comely for a child, even beautiful, certain to be devastatingly handsome when he grew older.  She sensed gentleness and sensitivity in him along with an innate eagerness to please.  The combination kindled all of her protective motherly instincts, especially given Grant’s gruff demeanor.

 

The older man was abominably short, berating the boy in front of the others for making them late because of some “insipid and disrespectful argument” as the physician called it.  Simply atrocious, he forced his young son to apologize to Dr. Crest then ordered him to bed for his “insolent behavior.”

 

She’d hardly seen evidence of insolence.  In fact, all she’d seen was a polite boy who’d done as instructed by his father, his cheeks burning with shame as he withstood the impromptu dressing-down.  It was bad enough Grant berated the boy, but doing it in front of others was thoroughly unforgivable in Vivian’s eyes.

 

Short-tempered and annoyed, she told him so - - bluntly.  At which point her husband intervened, affably suggesting Grant knew best how to discipline his son. 

 

Aggravated with both of them, Vivian decided to cool off in the foyer.  The two men continued to talk, standing in the doorway of the drawing room, her husband trying to smooth the belligerent physician’s ruffled feathers.  She barely heard the boy’s soft footsteps behind her when he shuffled from the room and headed for the stairs.

 

“Just a minute.”  Something stuck in her throat at the sight of him.  He was clearly miserable, wholly embarrassed, his cheeks still tinged pink with color.  She caught him at the bottom of the staircase, surprised by the bright curiosity in his eyes when his gaze met hers.

 

“Thanks,” he said softly.  “But you shouldn’t have done that.  It was just a stupid argument we had in the car.”

 

“About what?”  She couldn’t help the automatic response . . . needed to understand why a man could get so upset with such a respectful, well-behaved child.  Certainly he didn’t seem capable of “insolent behavior,” judging by how mannerly he’d been since arriving with his father.  There’d been no defiance or outburst - - no tempter-tantrums or even protests.  Just a glum acceptance of his failure and the resulting punishment.

 

The boy gave a half-hearted shrug, sending a cascade of light rippling through his platinum hair.  “School stuff - - extracurricular,” he explained. “I wanna join band, but my dad says I’ve gotta join the debate team because that’s what Roger Dunner’s doing.”

 

She’d met Nathan Dunner and his whiney son Roger just a short while ago.  “You mean that little brat with the nasally voice and greasy hair?”

 

That earned her a smile and a flash of gratitude in the boy’s strikingly pale eyes.  “I like you,” he decided.  “You say what you think.”

 

Which had gotten her in trouble more than once and had Gavin running damage control even now.  “So why do you want to join the band?” she asked.  He didn’t seem like someone who would play trombone or clarinet.  In fact, he looked more athletic than artistic, though she sensed a love of aesthetics in him too.

 

“I like to play guitar . . . and piano,” he supplied.  Something sad touched his eyes and his gaze slid away, veiled by a web of gilded lashes.  "My dad thinks I’m wasting my time.  He wants me to be a doctor, like him, when I grow up.  He says I need to know how to debate more than I need to waste time playing guitar.”

 

“So that’s what he calls it - - wasting time?”  Vivian frowned sourly, the thought of Grant Hutchinson making her roll her eyes.  Gavin’s college friend was clearly an arrogant ass in dire need of an attitude adjustment. “What do you want to be?” she persisted.

 

“I dunno.”  Dejected, the boy shrugged.  “A doctor, I guess.  My dad’s not really bad, you know?  He just makes up his mind about things and there’s no changing them.” He wet his lips, looking like he readied to part with a secret.  “My grandfather’s a farmer.”

 

She smiled, imagining the odd combination of earthy farmer and materialistic doctor.  “Is that what you want to be - - a farmer like your grandfather?”

 

“No.”  The boy shook his head.  “I guess what I really want to be . . .” Leaning closer, he lowered his voice, shooting a nervous glance toward the drawing room.  “ . . . is a cop.”

 

The answer surprised her.  He seemed far too sensitive and melancholy for the role.

 

“Kenneth!”  A masculine voice bellowed from the drawing room.  “I thought I told you to go to bed.  Don’t make me come out there and take you up myself.”

 

The boy swallowed hard, parting with a nervous laugh.  “Don’t worry, he’d never hit me,” he told her.  “But I don’t want to make him mad either.”  Turning, he sprinted up three steps before spinning to look down on her.  He flashed a quick grin, a positively breathtaking sight that kindled radiance in the depths of his remarkable blue eyes.

 

Unconsciously, Vivian drew in a breath, amazed by the change that came over his face with that quicksilver flash of warmth.

 

“Thanks,” he said. “I liked talking to you.  Maybe I’ll see you again.”

 

+++++

 

Hutch dragged a hand over his face.  “I remember that.”  It came back in a flash - - how he and his father had argued in the car on the drive to Dr. Crest’s home, the only time Grant had ever taken him to one of Bentley’s September Retreats.  He hadn’t really wanted to go, but even then he’d wanted to please his father - - a habitual pattern he’d never outgrown.

 

Sadly, tenderness and love just didn’t play into Grant Kael Hutchinson’s personality.  Cool and reserved, rigidly proper, he was a disciplinarian first, a remotely distant father second. After years of trying to please him, Hutch had simply decided to live his own life regardless of the consequences. That included dropping out of medical school and becoming a cop.  As a result, his already strained relationship with his father grew more forced.  Both men felt betrayed by the other, turning each belligerently hostile within a matter of minutes whenever they spoke.  Hutch couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a civil discussion with Grant. Somewhere deep inside he knew his own antagonism was a defense mechanism to cover years of hurt, but he refused to acknowledge the seriousness of the scar.

 

Shoving the thoughts aside, he looked at Vivian, seeing her in a new light.  Bentley’s September Retreat had been a good twenty years ago.  He remembered the woman who’d spoken up for him differently - - her hair turned up in a perky flip, much lighter in hue, almost blonde.  But her eyes were the same, now that he thought about it - - smoky gray-green like low-lying mist in a tropical rainforest.

 

“You were blonde then,” he observed.

 

She smiled.  “You never heard of hair color?”  A short toss of her head sent her chestnut tresses bouncing against her shoulders.  “This is the real deal, with a little help to hide the gray.  Repeat that Ken Hutchinson, and I’ll make sure you never eat in a fine dining establishment again."

 

He gave a soft snort.  “With Starsky it’s burgers and tacos.”

 

Her eyes fell to the man cradled in his arms.  “He’s rough around the edges, isn’t he?”

 

“Yes.”  Hutch’s eyes dipped to his friend, the ghost of a fond smile on his lips.  “But he can be awfully suave when he wants to be. It’s just he prefers the simpler things in life - - says they’re ‘real’ and no one has to put on a show.  I guess you could say he likes everything at face value, people included.”  He shot her steady glance.  “You saw how my father was with me.  That’s how I grew up.  I met Starsky at the Police Academy and it was like oil and water - - icy doctor’s son and New York street tough.”  Gently, he dragged a hand through his friend’s hair.  He could feel the warmth of Starsky’s body pressed against him, the weight of his partner’s arm draped over his legs.  Starsky’s skin felt hot and clammy, and he thought again about waking him and forcing him to swallow a few Tylenol.

 

“I’ve pretty much destroyed any shot I ever had of reconciling with my father,” he explained.  “He basically wrote me off when I dropped out of medical school. But I’ve found a once-in-a-lifetime friend so the trade-off is worth the price, however much it hurts.”  He frowned openly.  “I wonder if you can understand that, Vivian.  You go through men like - -”

 

“Don’t.”  She held up her hand.  “I loved my first husband.”

 

“Then honor his memory.”  He knew he was pushing it, knew he was crossing the line.  In reality he had no right to judge, yet he’d come to care for her.  There was a part of him that still wanted to explore their underlying sexual attraction, but a greater part that thought of her with protective affection only.  “You deserve better than the shallow lifestyle you’re leading.  Find someone to care about . . . someone who cares about you, instead of jerks who just want to use you.”

 

“Oh, like you?” she snapped acidly.  “Where do you get off, judging my life?  A few hours ago you were one of those self-centered ‘jerks,’ putting your hands on me, pawing me for your own pleasure - -”

 

He flushed, more than a little ashamed by his behavior.  “Vivian, don’t.”

 

“Why?” she challenged, shoving to her feet.  “It’s all right for you to tell me how improperly I behave, but God forbid I do the same to you?  Who’s the police officer here, Ken?  Who’s required to act professionally in the capacity of his job?  I wonder what Commissioner Westlake would think about your conduct.  At least I’m up front about my behavior.  I don’t pretend one thing and do another.”

 

He groaned. “God, Viv - -”  He reached to touch her, but she flung his hand away, turning curtly on her heel and storming for the bathroom. 

 

Roused by the friction, Starsky moaned, shifting lethargically.  Already hurt by Vivian’s outburst, Hutch felt a deeper stab of guilt for awakening his injured partner.  “Starsk, I’m sorry.”  Bending over the other man, he cupped his friend’s cheek, speaking softly.  “I didn’t mean to wake you, babe.”

 

“Hutch?”  Starsky blinked up at him.  “What time is it?”

 

“I don’t know.”  It seemed a silly question.  “It’s still dark out.”

 

Starsky swallowed audibly, his eyes electric blue beneath the jet-black line of his lashes.  “When . . . when’s the charter comin’?”     

 

Shit.  Now he understood.

 

“Soon,” he lied.  “I want you to rest. Go to sleep and when you wake up, it’ll be here.”

 

But Starsky was shivering.  Hutch realized the pillow was damp, saturated with sweat.  His fingers tracked over Starsky’s cheek into his hair where they encountered cold beads of perspiration.  There was no longer any question about the Tylenol or cleaning and bandaging the wound. He hated to think of the discomfort it would cause Starsky, but saw no way around the grim reality.  Fever and infection were potentially too fatal to ignore.

 

It made Hutch wish he’d spent more time in medical school - - or that his father was there.  He and Grant rarely saw eye-to-eye, but Hutch had complete faith in his healing abilities and extensive medical knowledge.   

 

“How about some water?”  he asked his friend.  Locating the bottle of pain relievers on the nightstand, he tumbled four into his palm.  “Think you can sit up for me just a little?”  He got his arm behind Starsky’s back, gingerly leveraging the dark-haired man’s shoulders upright against his chest.  As careful as he was, the movement ripped a pain-filled groan from Starsky.

 

Hutch blanched, his mouth abysmally dry.  “I’m sorry, babe. Swallow these . . . they’ll help you feel better.”  He held the pills up to Starsky’s lips, but the other man twisted his head away.

 

“  . . . can’t . . . feel sick . . .” he muttered.

 

“Starsk, come on . . . you can keep them down.”  He didn’t know what was worse - - the very real probability of high fever or the chance Starsky would heave the pills back up.  The hazard of Starsky vomiting and placing further strain on the ugly wound turned his stomach cold. 

 

He scraped a finger over the bruise he’d left on his friend’s cheek.  “You’re gonna be okay, buddy, but you gotta swallow these pills.  You’re starting on a fever.”

 

Parting with an inarticulate mumble, Starsky squirmed.  “ . . . lemme go,” he complained.  His teeth were beginning to chatter, a rapid-fire series of tremors making him shiver uncontrollably. Groaning, he buried his face in the curve of Hutch’s neck, the touch of his skin unnaturally chill and damp.  “God, Hutch, it hurts,” he panted pitifully.   

 

“I know.”  Helpless to alleviate his friend’s pain, there was little Hutch could do except offer the assurance of his unwavering support and devotion.  “Starsky, please . . .”  He dipped his head lower, whispering directly into his friend’s ear.  A springy fringe of curls brushed his cheek, tipped with beads of cold sweat. “You’ve gotta trust me, babe.  I need you to swallow these pills.  I didn’t let you down at Giovanni’s, did I?”

 

Curling his fingers into Hutch’s shirt, Starsky groaned and shook his head.

 

Hutch hated resurrecting the memory of the Italian restaurant, effectively reminding Starsky of how shamelessly dependent he’d been, but saw no other way to cut through his friend’s pain-induced stupor.  Starsky was no longer thinking, he was simply reacting, and that was a state of mind Hutch couldn’t allow to take center stage. If nothing else, he needed Starsky to listen . . . to respond to him as he had at Giovanni’s, trusting Hutch to make critical decisions for both of them. 

 

Drawing a hopeful breath, he offered the pills again.  “Come on, Starsk.  Two swallows, and they’ll be down.”

 

“Yeah . . . okay . . .”  Starsky gave a barely perceptible nod of his head. 

 

Hutch helped him sit up a little higher, then tilted the glass to his lips so he could swallow the pills with a few mouthfuls of water.  Done, he set the glass on the nightstand, ducking his head against Starsky, wrapping both arms around his partner and holding fast.  For a minute he said nothing . . . merely clung to his friend in a fervent attempt to ease Starsky’s shivering.  Every once in a while he caught a whiff of something sour and knew the wound was turning sickly.  He wasn’t a doctor, but he was fairly certain Harker’s arrow hadn’t perforated the bowel, despite that distasteful odor.  Which meant Starsky would likely suffer a severe amount of pain along with violent bouts of nausea and fever, but could be relatively certain of a full recovery as long as he received treatment and antibiotics  - - in a reasonable amount of time.

 

Hutch bit his bottom lip, trying to gauge whether or not tomorrow afternoon constituted “a reasonable amount of time.”  If only the damn phones would come up!  “Hey, buddy?”  He kept his head bowed, speaking against Starsky’s hair, his breath lightly stirring ringlets of lush black curls. “Maybe it’s time to get you undressed . . . clean up that wound and get you comfortable.  I bet it’d make you feel better.”

 

For answer Starsky only burrowed closer, offering up a muddled negative.  Moaning, he hitched in a shallow breath, sliding one knee onto Hutch’s legs even as his fingers dug deeper, popping two of the buttons on Hutch’s shirt.  “ . . . sick . . .” he said petulantly, the thought of being disturbed clearly vile and sadistic punishment, unworthy of a friend who was supposed to be taking care of him.

 

“I know you don’t feel good,” Hutch tried again, keeping his voice gentle.  “And I know you’re hurting.  That’s why I want to get you cleaned up and out of your clothes.” As he spoke, he craned his neck to see past Starsky’s bowed head.  The wound had crusted over, dried and clotted with blood.  Hutch knew it had to be uncomfortable, pulling every time Starsky so much as flinched, likely sending splinters of pain into his abdomen.  “Come on, babe - - you gotta trust me to take care of you.  When have I ever let you down?”

 

It was a cheap shot, but it broke through Starsky’s stubbornness.  He parted with a mournful sound, folding back against the bed, releasing his possessive grip on Hutch.  The moment his back touched the mattress, he swallowed convulsively and twisted his face away.

 

Hutch watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down, knowing each tormented gulp was a desperate attempt to silence his stomach.  The last thing either of them needed was for Starsky to puke up the pills he’d swallowed just moments before.  The double dose Hutch had given him probably wasn’t helping with the nausea, but the low milligrams of the over-the-counter pain reliever dictated he do something to increase its potency. 

 

Sliding from the bed he bent over the mattress, gingerly touching his friend’s face.  “I’m only gonna be gone a minute, Starsk.  I’ve got to get some water from the bathroom.”  Inwardly, he cringed, frightened by the feel of his friend’s flesh beneath his fingertips.  Chilled and oddly elastic like dough, Starsky’s cheeks carried the murky gray taint of polluted dishwater.  Cold sweat gathered in the hollow of his throat, dribbling beneath the open-necked collar of his shirt to trickle slowly over his chest.  Hutch could see the silvery gleam of perspiration where beads of moisture clung trapped by curls of dark hair.  Stroking his fingers down Starsky’s cheek, he murmured a soothing reassurance before heading for the bathroom.

 

The door was shut, clearly a “keep out” warning from Vivian.  Frowning, Hutch knocked sharply, pitching his voice to be heard through the barrier.  “Vivian, open up.  I need some things for Starsky.”

 

The mention of his friend brought an immediate response.  She opened the door, regarding him levelly.  “What can I help you with?”  She seemed sincere, her voice free of frost even if it lingered in her eyes. 

 

“Look around for some kind of basin,” Hutch instructed.  “Fill it with water and round up a few towels.  I’ve got to try to clean Starsky’s wound before it gets infected.”

 

She gave a brief nod, stepping aside to let him enter.  “Did he take the Tylenol?”  she asked.

 

“Four of them, but I don’t know if he’s gonna keep them down.  Look around and see if Alex has anything for nausea.”  As he spoke, Hutch headed for the medicine cabinet.  A few minutes later, he was back at Starsky’s bedside, a basin of lukewarm water on the nightstand along with Vivian’s previous supply of gauze packing and surgical tape. He’d also rounded up a few washcloths and hand towels, but hadn’t been able to locate anything of true medicinal value.  The medicine cabinet had contained Vick’s, a blister remedy, rubbing alcohol, Vaseline, a few toothbrushes still in plastic wrappers, cotton swabs, assorted cough drops and even an ointment for warts  - - but nothing for nausea and nothing other than the Tylenol he already had for pain relief.  At least the alcohol would come in handy for cleansing.

 

Setting aside her hostility for the time being, Vivian hovered at his side.  “What can I do?” she asked.

 

Hutch spared a glance, sitting carefully on the mattress so as not to jostle his friend.  Starsky’s eyes were closed, his breathing low and shallow. Resting just above the wound, his fingers twitched every few seconds with involuntary tremors.  His brow was drawn in a concentrated crimp of pain, distress evident in every tightly carved line of his face. 

 

“Just stay close in case I need you,” Hutch told Vivian. 

 

His voice kindled a sliver of blue beneath the curling line of Starsky’s lashes.  Ridiculous eyelashes for a man, Hutch thought fondly, pausing to brush a stray ringlet from his friend’s brow.  There weren’t many men who could pull off preposterously long eyelashes - - even fewer rough-and-tumble street cops.  Starsky’s ethnicity and darkly handsome features saved him from being pretty, but those absurdly lush lashes added to his vulnerability when he was hurt.    

 

The sight sent a pang of affection catapulting through Hutch.  “Hey - - you awake?”  He worked carefully, opening the remaining buttons on Starsky’s shirt.  The white linen was heavily soiled, stiff with dried blood.

 

Starsky sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyes at half-mast.  He watched Hutch from beneath the lids.  “If I gotta have someone . . . undress me . . . rather have Vivian.”

 

Hutch chuckled softly, relieved at the spark of humor, however minor.  “Better stick with me, pal.  Mrs. Clarke’s too hot for you.”  He winked at Vivian, uncertain if she’d understand or appreciate their banter, thankful when she cast him an indulgent glance and sank into the bedside chair. 

 

Worried, Hutch paused, his hands on Starsky’s belt buckle.  He couldn’t pull the shirt free without opening his friend’s pants, but the belt and navy trousers were a bloody mess.  He caught that whiff of sourness again . . . knew it was the smell of old blood mingling with the reek of an open wound. Gently he tugged on the belt, freeing the blood-stiffened leather from the silver prong that held it entrapped. 

 

Starsky grunted and stirred listlessly, his face creasing in pain.  His hands fisted in the sheets bunched beneath him him.  “Hope you’re better with the ladies,” he groaned.

 

Too unnerved to continue the banter, Hutch slipped his fingers beneath Starsky’s waistband, easing open the button on his trousers.  Most of the blood had dried but the underside of the band was moist and tacky. 

 

On the bed Starsky twitched restlessly, doing his best to lie still despite the constant agony needling his gut.  “Hey, Hutch,” he said breathlessly.  He knew his friend was anxious, doing his best not to show it as he gingerly pried at the blood-stiffened fabric.  Starsky didn’t want to think about what lay underneath . . . how badly his skin was ruptured and damaged.  He knew there was a hole somewhere below his belt, that even now it oozed fluid and a sickly thick secretion.  “If I keep movin’ around . . .you gonna hit me again?”

 

He’d meant the remark to be light, hoping to ease the severity of the moment for both of them, but Hutch was clearly too worked up to take it at anything other than face value.  Stricken, he ducked his head, a flicker of hurt passing through his eyes.

 

Starsky tensed.  Ass.

 

“Hutch . . .”  It was too complicated to explain what he really meant, how badly he wanted to ease his friend’s concern. It would take too many words when he barely had breath for a few.  “Kiddin’. . .” he managed, though he knew it wouldn’t do any good. Hutch had already latched onto the guilt, funneling it away into his heart for examination at a later time. 

 

Starsky felt his friend’s fingers on his zipper.  He knew the metal was coated and stiff with congealed blood.  Hutch held his waistband with one hand, tugging the stubborn metal tongue with the other.  The incessant pull strained the material over the wound, painfully jerking skin already mutilated and gouged.  Unable to stop himself, Starsky yelped.

 

Hutch stilled as if struck motionless.  “Starsk, I’m sorry.  The blood . . .”  He seemed at a loss to explain the congealed mess soiling the front of Starsky’s pants.  “Your zipper’s stuck.”

 

“Lemme . . .”  Grimacing against the pain, Starsky raised his head to peer down at his pants.  The sight of so much blood . . . Hutch’s fingers tipped red with bits of flaking crust, made him swallow back bile.  He tugged clumsily at the gore-fouled zipper but it wouldn’t budge.  Drained by the simple act, he folded into the pillows with a groan. The hole in his side flared ruthlessly, throbbing in time to the frantic pulse of his heart.  Frustrated, he ground his teeth together.  “Can’t . . .”

 

“Wait a minute.”  Vivian disappeared from his field of vision.  Starsky heard her rummaging around in the background but was too dazed, sick with pain, to really care what she was doing.  “Here,” she said to Hutch, seconds later when she returned.  She passed him something long and silver.  “Use these.”

 

It took Starsky a moment to realize what she handed his friend, a second longer for his befuddled mind to really focus on the lethally long scissors.  He gave a choked pant.  “Buddy,” he said, strained laughter tangling with a hint of gruff fear.  “You go pokin’ ‘round down there with those things . . . you’d better be damned careful.  Don’t snip off anything I need by mistake.”

 

This time the humor got through to Hutch.  He gave a soft snort, his gaze ripe with affectionate warmth.  “Don’t worry, Starsk.  I promise - - no unexpected sex changes.”  Carefully, he eased his fingers beneath Starsky’s waistband, raising the sticky material so he could slide the scissors beneath the edge. 

 

Starsky felt the resultant pull against the wound but clamped his teeth to keep from crying out.  He heard a tear, the expensive fabric of his navy trousers slicing the length of his zipper beneath the needle-pointed shears.  Hutch cut deeper, giving himself leeway to work around the wound.  Cool metal pressed intimately against Starsky, making him gulp in reaction.  “Hutch,” he warned, worried even as fresh pain streaked through him.

 

But Hutch knew when to withdraw.  “You’re fine, Starsk.  Everything’s still there.”  Not bothering to raise his head, he passed the shears to Vivian. 

 

Starsky found if he concentrated on the crown of blond hair bent over him, he didn’t have to think about the pain.  Someone had lit several candles, most placed on the nightstand and dressers, adding to the dim glow of emergency lighting. It left the room drenched in amber, the effect almost comforting if not for the razor-toothed banshee devouring his gut.  Hutch’s pale hair looked tawny in the false light, streaked with topaz and gold. Every time his friend moved, the flickering candles kindled new highlights, turning dark gold to deeper brass, topaz to gilded ocher.

 

Starsky tried to concentrate, but felt himself breathing faster, each rapid inhalation a way of combating his friend’s touch.  He knew Hutch was being as gentle as possible, but the probe of his long fingers left Starsky alternately sweating and fighting nausea.  Hutch peeled back his pants, then asked Vivian for the scissors again.  It was almost funny in a way, Hutch playing doctor with his surgical nurse glued to his side. 

 

Grant Hutchinson would be proud, Starsky thought with a mental snicker, but the shallow amusement quickly vanished.  He sucked down another rapid breath, feeling the touch of metal against his skin as Hutch sliced open the top of his briefs, folding the material away from his wound.  He tried to lift his head to see but failed, slumping back against the pillows with a soft moan.  He wondered if he should be embarrassed, lying half-exposed with Vivian so near, then decided there was nothing to see.  The wound was too high, to the left of his most intimate areas.  Still it felt uncomfortable to have another man peel back his briefs - - even if it was Hutch - - likely exposing a mat of dark hair, with a woman he didn’t know that well hovering at his shoulder.

 

Her husband was a doctor . . . a surgeon . . . he reminded himself.  It helped him disassociate, if only temporarily, from the pain.  He knew Hutch had exposed the wound.  The sting of air against his mutilated flesh made him shiver, his thoughts turning sluggish, chased helter-skelter across his mind with snail-like lethargy.  He felt hot and cold at the same time, sweaty and nauseous with pain.

 

“Starsk . . .”  Hutch leaned over him, speaking softly, one hand cupped to his cheek.  Only then did he realize he’d been moaning aloud, the sound knifing into his ears even as new pain exploded in his gut.  He wanted to shrivel into the bed, sink into the mattress . . . didn’t know how much longer he could hold back the repulsive surge of bile building in his throat.

 

“It’s gonna be okay, buddy.”  Hutch’s words pierced his bleak haze of confusion. 

 

Starsky blinked, gazing up at his friend’s face, assured by the familiar warmth in Hutch’s eyes, the fond gentleness of his smile.  Hutch had looked at him like that when he’d been injured at Giovanni’s restaurant - - all attentive concern and blind devotion, the sheer force of his love lying bare in his gaze.  Just a few hours before on the veranda, his blond friend had been short-tempered and snippy, but those emotions had been effectively buried beneath their deeper connection. 

 

Starsky tried to swallow his pain.  “What’d ya do to me?” he griped, hoping his grouchiness would offset Hutch’s worry.

 

His friend wasn’t buying it.  “Nothing yet,” he responded, touching Starsky’s cheek.

 

The contact made him shiver but it wasn’t from cold.  Hutch’s touch always had a way of reaching into his soul, stripping aside false pretenses and makeshift barriers until he was wholly exposed beneath his friend’s scrutiny.  Oddly, though that startling intimacy often left him defenseless and vulnerable, he trusted Hutch to see that side of him . . . to guard it and shield its existence from others.  Unconsciously, he turned his face into Hutch’s palm, seeking the inherent warmth he cherished so deeply.  “What’re ya gonna do?” he mumbled.

 

“Just help you feel better,” Hutch assured. 

 

He drew away, making Starsky frown as the comforting warmth left his face.  Fatigued and weakened by pain, he watched as Hutch sat down on the mattress again, once more folding back the butchered folds of his trousers and underwear to expose the oozing hole in his gut.  He grimaced, catching the smell of something sour.  “Infected?” he blurted, fearing the worse.

 

“No, babe.”  Hutch patted his hand. “It just needs cleaned.”

 

Starsky heard a faint tinkle of water, the molasses-slow train of his thoughts trying to absorb the sound.  Belatedly he realized Vivian sat at Hutch’s side, a basin of water in her lap.  As Starsky watched, Hutch dipped a washcloth into the bowl, soaking it thoroughly before wringing it out.  Tensing, Starsky waited to feel the intrusive touch against his rabidly hot skin.  Grappling for the sheets, he bunched them in his hands, holding fast as Hutch cleaned the torn flesh at the edges of the gory wound. 

 

“Where’s Alex?” he panted, needing something to occupy his mind.  He knew Hutch was being as gentle as he could, but blood had clotted and gummed together over the gash.  Knowing the wound had to be cleaned of the fetid mass to prevent infection didn’t make the grim task any easier to endure.

 

“He’s sleeping,” Vivian said.  She patted a washcloth against his face, this one blissfully cool.  For a second his eyes found hers and she smiled softly, tracing the cloth down his cheek to slide over his throat.  “As soon as Ken’s done, you need to sleep too. In a few hours it will be dawn.  It even sounds like the storm’s letting up.”

 

Starsky hadn’t thought about the storm in awhile, but now that she mentioned it he realized the drum of wind-driven rain was not as violent as it had been before.  He could still hear it pelting the windows, but the gusts had died to sporadic bursts of lesser degree.  He had hoped, however, that dawn lingered right around the corner rather than remaining a few hours distant on the horizon.  Apparently he hadn’t slept as long as he’d thought. 

 

And Hutch, of course, would never volunteer that information.  Starsky watched as his blond friend dipped the now bloody washcloth into the basin, carefully wringing it clean before returning his attention to the wound.  He had fixated on working as gingerly as possible, the ever noticeable crease on his brow standing out prominently in studious concentration.  Starsky felt a ridiculous surge of affection for the man even as Hutch’s careful ministrations sent a new bullet of pain shooting through his abdomen.

 

“Take deep breaths,” Vivian coaxed, seeing the sudden distress on his face.  “It’ll pass.”  She smoothed the washcloth onto his chest, pushing aside the clinging folds of his shirt to cool his heated skin. 

 

He sighed in appreciation, feeling the glide of chilly fabric over chest hair that had grown matted and sticky with perspiration.  The sensation drew goosebumps from his skin.  “Doctor’s wife,” he said appreciatively.  “If I were thirty and blond, I’d snatch you up.”

 

That earned a sideways glance from Hutch.  “You are thirty.”

 

“Only for two more months,” Starsky countered.  He drew in a shivery breath, uncertain how much more prodding he could withstand.  He knew he was white-faced, a series of fatigued-induced tremors racing through his body. When it came right down to it, he would rather have had Hutch slicing open his pants and underwear with a pair of pointed scissors, than washing blood from the gore-saturated wound.    

 

Vivian smiled softly at him.  “I think you’ve charmed me into loving brunets again, David.  My first husband was dark, like you.”  Wistfully, she touched his hair with her free hand.  “I swore I’d never love another man like him, so I’ve only chased blonds since - - all young and unattainable.”  Her eyes slid to the side.  “ - - like Ken.”

 

Starsky sensed discomfort from his friend.  His own was through the roof.  Shifting marginally, he allowed his left leg to fall away from his body, spreading his thighs like a man vainly displaying what he had to offer.  He’d been told by quite a few women, he more than met their wildest expectations - - Kay Whitley included - - but in this case he only wanted relief from the pain.  “Alex  . . . is fond of you,” he said to Vivian.

 

The thought made him abruptly uncomfortable.  What had the older man said about Hutch?  “He’s using her to get whatever he can.  And if he’s got to hop into bed with her - - so what?  He’s young and pretty and knows it. He makes me sick.  They all make me sick.”

 

Vivian continued to stroke his chest, her touch not quite as calming as Hutch’s but a close second.  “Alex is in love with me,” she admitted remorsefully.  “He has been for a long time.  It’s one of the reasons I always make certain I’m involved with someone else.  Someone the complete opposite of everything he is - - young and blond.”  She paused.  “Like Ken.”

 

Starsky frowned. Why did she keep saying that?  He knew her attraction to Hutch was really just part of a giddy fun-filled fantasy - - at least that was the impression he’d gotten when they’d had lunch together. There was no question she was smitten with his partner, but Starsky was fairly certain all she really wanted from the relationship was Hutch’s attention and a continuation to their sly, sexual banter.  Vivian liked that she could play and that Hutch, unlike many men, played back with stiff refusal and an undercurrent of subtle interest.  In Vivian’s glossy, live-for-the-moment world, men simply didn’t say no to her advances.  Hutch had - - more than once - - and that strained refusal from a man who was clearly dangerously sexual had become a challenge.

 

“I hate to break up this riveting discussion,” Hutch announced, choosing to ignore Vivian’s continued references to him. His eyes flashed to Starsky’s face, plainly the only thing on his mind his partner’s welfare.  The guilt was back in his gaze, heightened by something punishing and raw.  “I’ve gotta disinfect the wound, Starsk.”  He swallowed hard, his hand closing over Starsky’s where it bunched convulsively on the sheets.

 

Starsky blinked.  He had to swallow back bile, the acid burning his esophagus, backwashing into his gut.  “Disinfect?” he echoed weakly.  He followed Hutch’s movement as his friend retrieved a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the nightstand.  Brown, totally innocuous in appearance, Starsky knew it was what Kay had used countless times to swab down his arm before drawing blood.  But the thought of that caustic liquid on the open, oozing wound left him visibly shaking.

 

“Aw, buddy, I’m sorry.”  Hutch’s voice came out a tortured groan. “I don’t want to hurt you, Starsky, you know that.”  For a moment, he seemed to forget Vivian was there, leaning forward over the mattress to drag his hand through his friend’s hair.  He shut the world out, drawing the moment down to just the two of them - - the only world that had ever mattered, that ever would. 

 

Starsky looked up into his friend’s eyes, riveted by the emotion he saw there.  Hutch was rigid and proper with most people, only showing a softer side of himself when he was trying to help someone.  Most people didn’t understand him, failing to perceive how the icy blond could also be flagrantly attentive, wearing his heart on his sleeve.

 

Leaning close, Hutch dipped his lips close to Starsky’s ear, speaking so only he could hear.  “Trust me, babe.  I’ll do everything I can not to hurt you.”

 

Starsky didn’t need to hear the words . . . had never needed to hear the words.  He’d already known that truth in his heart long before the passionate vow ever left Hutch’s mouth.  He also knew the fiery promise would be near impossible to fulfill - - that the failure would cost Hutch dearly in guilt and self-loathing. 

 

It’s okay, he tried to convey with his eyes.  I know you gotta hurt me.  Aloud he said, “I ain’t goin’ anywhere, dummy,” his voice thick with emotion.

 

Hutch smiled, the action entirely too fleeting and sad. Drawing back, he exchanged a few mumbled words with Vivian.  From the corner of his eye, Starsky saw his friend pour a generous amount of alcohol on the washcloth.  Hutch wouldn’t saturate the wound with it, worried there might be a chance the arrowhead had perforated his intestine.  Even Starsky didn’t think that had happened, but neither of them were doctors, despite Hutch’s spotty medical background.  It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out the obvious - - the touch of alcohol on Starsky’s grossly enflamed skin was going to hurt like hell.

 

He tried to steel himself, digging his fingers deeper into the sheets.  The material was damp with sweat beneath his convulsing hands. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself - - didn’t want to scream in front of Vivian, but when Hutch laid the cloth over the wound, all thought of restraint plummeted from his mind. 

 

White fire slammed into his head, ripped through his gut and shot lightning into his chest.  He cried aloud but didn’t scream, his teeth clamping down on an excruciating cyclone of agony.  Panting, he twisted his face away, too tormented to let his friend see, ashamed to be so weak in front of Vivian.

 

“Starsk - -”  He heard the thick catch of Hutch’s voice somewhere in the background, felt the sear of smoldering alcohol as it engulfed the wound in flame.  His gut felt like a witch’s cauldron, consumed from the inside out, rampant sickness bubbling pell-mell into his throat. 

 

Please don’t let me be sick.  Oh God, please not that.  Not now.

 

He wanted to crawl, to beg, to spew the suffocating nausea from his gullet, but couldn’t quiet the sticky queasiness . . . felt himself grow cadaver-cold as renewed trauma sank into his bones. He’d foolishly thought the arrow was the worse of his punishment but this heinous sentence, inflicted by his partner, was entirely too much to bear.  Groaning, he twisted away, brutally wrenching from his friend’s touch.  When had he ever done that?  When had he purposefully shied from Hutch? 

 

It hurts!  Ohgod, Hutch, you’re hurtin’ me!

 

“Ssh . . . ssh, it’s okay.” 

 

But it wasn’t okay.  It wasn’t anywhere near fucking okay.  Hutch’s hands were all over him, stroking his hair, touching his face, cupping his cheek.  He heard horror and regret in his friend’s voice but couldn’t stop the sour acid bubbling up from his throat. Ohgod, buddy, I don’t wanna hurt you, but you’re killin’ me!  The alcohol was fire and lava, sulfur and brimstone rolled into one.  It clogged his throat, made his stomach heave.

 

He thought about the bathroom somewhere in the distance and knew he’d never make it.  Sweaty, trembling so badly he thought he’d pass out, Starsky heaved over the opposite side of the bed, away from Vivian and Hutch.   

 

He heard a tortured groan, didn’t know if it was himself or his friend.  In the next second Hutch was there, scooping him into his arms, holding him close and crooning into his ear.  “I’m so sorry.  Just ride it out.  It’ll pass, buddy, I promise.  Please, Starsky . . . ”

 

There was a hand in his hair, threading through the sweaty tangles of his curls.  He felt the soft lick of his friend’s breath against his cheek, tried to take comfort in it but couldn’t escape the horrific pounding in his gut.  Leaning into Hutch he heaved again, no longer caring who witnessed his shame.  Vivian was there, a fact he could do nothing about - - but Hutch . . . Hutch he needed, wanted desperately, his body collapsing limply into his friend’s arms.  “ . . . not your fault,” he mumbled, instinctively knowing Hutch would blame himself for the violent bout of nausea. 

 

Starsky’s throat burned, singed by stomach acid.  Unable to stand the punishment any longer, he curled against Hutch.  “. . . not your fault,” he croaked again.  It was Harker’s fault.  And the damn storm’s fault for stranding them on a remote island with no phone, no power and a psychotic killer.

 

Hutch wiped his mouth with a cool washcloth, gently blotting away the taint of sickness.  A second later the cloth was removed, and Hutch pressed long fingers to his cheek and forehead as if testing for fever.  Starsky heard him murmur something to Vivian but the words got lost in a haze of sweat and fatigue. For a moment time simply seemed to float, caught up in a phantom pendulum before reality came crashing down, and his stomach made its unhappiness known all over again.  He barely had time to catch his breath before being seized by convulsions. 

 

Hutch was ready this time, supporting him with one arm, holding a small wastebasket under his chin with the other.  Starsky wretched helplessly, the brutal stomach spasms almost making him black out with pain.

 

“It’s okay,” Hutch said reassuringly.  “I’ve got you, Partner.  It’ll pass soon, I promise.  I’m right here with you . . .” 

 

The string of softly spoken words went on and on until Starsky no longer heard them but merely concentrated on the tone of his friend’s voice.  Like a soothing balm, it eased the churning in his gut and helped tamp down the horrific agony erupting outward from the wound.  Completely spent by the brutal ordeal, he sagged against his partner.

 

He was vaguely aware of the wastebasket being withdrawn, the sour stench of vomit passing beneath his nose. The washcloth was back on his face again, once more wiping his mouth and chin clean.  He was too tired to care, his muscles turning to liquid.  Hutch eased him back on the bed, hovering over him, but his eyelashes were too heavy to hold open.

 

“I’m gonna get you cleaned up now, Starsk . . . out of those clothes and comfortable.”

 

He felt a hand touch his face but floated in near limbo, snagged between blissful oblivion and the lingering reality of pain. The mattress gave and he cracked an eye wide enough to see Hutch bending over him.  He felt his shoulders lifted and jostled lightly as Hutch maneuvered him from his shirt.  Tired, wanting only to rest, he gave a petulant moan.  The sound earned him a reassuring pat on the cheek before he was eased back among the pillows.  He shivered slightly, feeling the touch of air on his bare chest and shoulders.

 

Next came the pull of Hutch’s hands on his waistband.  As gentle as he was, the tug went through Starsky like a streak of electricity.  He gasped aloud, clawing his friend’s hand in an effort to make him stop what he was doing.  In the process he lifted his hips, instinctively bucking upward against the pain.  Hutch immediately yanked his trousers down, leaving him naked but for a pair of bloodstained, butchered black briefs and dark socks.

 

“Easy, buddy,” Hutch coaxed.  “It’s all over now.” 

 

Starsky felt the trousers pulled from his legs, followed by his socks.  A plump square of gauze padding was taped in place over his wound, the edges reaching well past the enflamed area.  Hutch settled the blankets higher on his chest, sending a soft whisk of air fanning over him.  Shivering, he clutched the downy throw, pulling it nearer for warmth.  The room danced around him, a strange prism of refracted light and distorted shadow.  His stomach burbled and he swallowed convulsively.  “Hutch?”

 

“Right here, babe.” 

 

A cool hand curled around his wrist.  He felt the mattress bow as Hutch inched nearer, sitting on the edge.  Even without opening his eyes, Starsky sensed the engulfing warmth of his partner’s presence.  The familiar sensation washed over him, easing the lightning pulse of pain in his gut, the sticky-cold lump of nausea squatting dead center in his stomach. 

 

“Somethin’ . . . to drink?” he asked thickly.

 

“Sure . . . okay.” 

 

Hutch reached for the glass on the nightstand, tipping it to his lips so he could manage a swallow.  The water had grown lukewarm, not the best balm for nausea, but it helped ease the blistered lining of his throat.  He gulped greedily, thirstier than he thought, until Hutch pulled the glass away.

 

“Not so much,” his friend warned.  “You don’t want to get sick again.”  Returning the glass to the nightstand, he brushed a coil of sweat-dampened bangs from Starsky’s forehead.  “Better?”

 

Starsky shivered.  Drawing the blankets closer to his chin, he gave a slight nod.  His eyes grew heavy, drifting lower.  He sensed rather than saw his friend’s marginal smile.  Hutch had acted similarly at Giovanni’s restaurant - - his benevolent attentiveness underscored by a fanatical need to protect.  For a man who routinely squabbled and complained, having little patience for any number of mundane items, Hutch was endlessly vigilant when it came to his partner.  Starsky still wasn’t sure how they’d ended up that way.  Of all the people he might have imagined himself becoming friends with, a perfectionist-driven, uptight doctor’s son was definitely at the bottom of the list. There was a day he would have easily written Hutch off as a pampered pretty boy, born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

 

Like Alex did.

 

He groaned, unable to hang onto his flighty thoughts.  Past and present tangled in his head.  Alex had made derogatory comments about Hutch before he knew the other man was a cop, posing as Vivian’s date to protect her.  With the truth out in the open, there was no longer any reason for animosity.  And yet Starsky sensed it hadn’t been completely buried . . . that somewhere underneath all the helpfulness, Alex still resented Hutch.

 

Maybe because Hutch kept sending up conflicting signals around Vivian - - one minute rigidly professional cop, the next secretly intrigued, potential lover.  Even Starsky could sense that.  His friend was more than a little infatuated with the socialite, a recipe certain to end in disaster unless Hutch got his head on straight. 

 

He’s such a brainless sap when it comes to women . . . always thinkin’ he’s in love or just needs to get laid.

 

Starsky frowned, wishing he could sort through the unhealthy triangle of Hutch, Vivian and Alex, but couldn’t stop shivering, the sudden cold more than mildly demanding.  Hunching deeper beneath the blankets, he parted with an involuntary whimper.  Almost immediately Hutch’s hand stroked over his face.

 

“Try to sleep, buddy,” Hutch whispered. 

 

Starsky felt him tuck the blankets closer to his body.  He heard an indistinct murmur as Hutch said something to Vivian.  Within seconds, he detected a ‘click-clack’ in the background, repeated two or three times.

 

“Still dead,” Vivian said quietly.

 

Phone, Starsky thought morosely.  The storm was bad enough, but with Harker on the loose, violently churning seas between them and the mainland, and no phone to call for help, he felt unusually exposed and defenseless.  With a hole in his gut, he was basically useless to Hutch, once again putting the burden of survival on his friend, just as he’d done at Giovanni’s. 

 

His teeth chattered, and he burrowed nearer to the other man, seeking the familiar warmth of Hutch’s body.  How many times had he curled up against his flaxen-haired partner, unashamed of his vulnerability, secure in the knowledge Hutch never thought less of him?  On the contrary, Starsky knew his open dependency only brought them closer together.  Thus, he couldn’t stop a pitiful moan, prompted by the cruel tremors racing through his body.  He was suddenly freezing, the hole in his gut pulsing like a blazing spot of lava against his chilled and frigid skin.

 

Hutch gathered him closer, holding him against his chest, wrapping the blankets tight over both of them to trap warmth.  He pressed a hand to Starsky’s forehead.  “The Tylenol’s not working,” he said, his voice sounding distant. “He’s starting on a fever.”

 

Starsky guessed he was speaking to Vivian. 

 

Hey, talk to me.  I can handle it.

 

“I’ll get some cool compresses,” she answered.

 

He wanted to tell her not to - - the thought of anything chill against his overly sensitized skin was almost too heinous to contemplate - - but his tongue was dry, sticking to the roof of his mouth like putty.  He twisted sluggishly, a fitful moan breaking through his lips.

 

“Ssh, babe.”  Hutch bent close, palming his shoulder and rubbing gently.  “I know you’re uncomfortable, buddy - -”

 

“Cold . . .”  Starsky complained.  There was a mish-mash of words in his head, but it was the only one to make it past his lips. At least it was the most important - - for the moment.

 

Hutch wrapped both arms around him.  “Want me to see if I can dig up some clothes . . . maybe a sweater for you?”

 

Starsky shook his head.  The thought of a heavy wool sweater was enticing but shrugging into it would involve moving and that would involve pain.  Besides - - Hutch was just as warm as a sweater, even better with his arms wrapped close the way they were.  Sighing, he rested his cheek against his friend’s chest, thankful when his shivering eased slightly. 

 

Vivian was back moments later, passing something cool and moist to Hutch.  Starsky felt it dragged over his face and flinched backward with an irritable groan.  “Cold,” he complained again.

 

“I know.”  Hutch’s voice was soft.  “But your skin’s on fire, Starsk, even if you feel cold.  I’ve gotta pull the blankets back a bit, okay?”

 

It wasn’t okay, not even damn close to being okay.  Chilled to the bone, he tried to hold the covers trapped, his mind as sluggish as his movements.  Hutch easily lifted them away, slipping the damp cloth over his chest, drawing another moan to the surface.  Starsky twisted feebly, frustrated when Hutch continued with the ministrations despite his pathetic grunts.  The blond man’s touch was painstakingly gentle, but it didn’t stop a resurgence of shivering.  Starsky’s whole body trembled, afflicted with cold. Realizing he wasn’t going to get anywhere with his protests, he melted against Hutch, soaking up what warmth he could.

 

“I know this doesn’t feel too good right now, but it’ll help later,” Hutch promised.  He hesitated, drawing the chilled cloth away. “Think you could sleep for me now, babe?”

 

Starsky snorted tiredly.  “Maybe . . . if you quit pawin’ me.”

 

He heard Hutch chuckle.  His friend leaned slightly to the side, discarding the cloth before wrapping him tightly in the blankets again.  Outside, the storm pelted the windows with the steady beat of rain.  Coupled with the flickering glow of candlelight and the drowsy warmth he felt held securely in Hutch’s arms, Starsky began to drift.  He had no true sense of time but floated in a disembodied state for what may have been ten minutes or ten hours.  He was almost asleep when Hutch eased out from under him, settling him back on the pillows. 

 

Disturbed by a flicker of pain, he grunted. 

 

“Ssh,” Hutch stroked his cheek, chasing the edge away.  In no time he was drifting again, buoyed in a hazy limbo of spiking discomfort and seductive sleep.  Eventually exhaustion won out and he curled in on himself, surrendering to persistent fatigue.

 

+++++

 

Hutch paced.

 

He didn’t know what to do with himself.  Dawn was still an hour away, and although Starsky had finally fallen asleep, his rest was disturbed with grunts and groans.  His fever seemed to be holding steady, but it wasn’t without risk as minute slipped into minute, and his temperature remained stubbornly resistant to the Tylenol Hutch had given him.  Even worse, the ratcheting pain of the abdominal wound made him twitch every few seconds with repeated shallow spasms. 

 

Unnerved, Hutch paced to the window and dragged a hand through his hair.  He’d been reluctant about the case from the very beginning, worried over Starsky undertaking a potential risk so soon after suffering a bullet wound.  True, he’d been worried about Vivian and had wanted to protect her, but he’d been more inclined to assume the hazardous duty himself.  His bullheaded partner had wanted none of that, bound and determined to be in the thick of danger.   

 

Even temporary restrictions had irritated Starsky, making him chafe to be back on active duty as soon as possible.  If it hadn’t been this case, it would have been something else, no scenario too dangerous after being laid up for weeks and tethered to a desk. That kind of confinement made a man reckless, and Starsky was no exception.   

 

It wasn’t Vivian’s fault they were in this mess - - that blame lay solely with Harker - - but it didn’t make Hutch’s stomach rest any easier.  If the phones didn’t come back up, they’d be stuck waiting another twelve hours on the charter.  Another twelve hours of fever, nausea and pain, even possible infection.  How much could Starsky endure with a two-inch hole ripped in his gut?

 

Bowing his head, Hutch squeezed the bridge of his nose.  A steadily creeping headache shot dull splinters of pain into his neck and shoulders.  He was exhausted, spent emotionally, his anxiety on overdrive.  If they could just survive another hour until light, he’d stand a better chance of safeguarding them against Harker.  With any luck, the jealous killer had given up his vendetta and was looking for a way off the island even now. 

 

“Ken?”

 

Vivian appeared at his shoulder making him turn slightly to gaze down on her.  She didn’t look angry so much as concerned, their up-and-down relationship currently stuck somewhere mid tier.  He was thankful for her help in tending to Starsky, equally appreciative she’d been mature enough to shelve her irritation with him at least temporarily and focus on his partner’s care.

 

“You look tired,” she observed quietly. 

 

He smiled wanly, grateful for the truce.  “I’ve just got a headache.”  It was growing, pounding behind his eyes, making him think longingly of a soft pillow and a dark room.  She seemed to read the thought in his expression.

 

“You should lie down - - try to get some sleep.  I’ll stay with David.”

 

He shook his head and started to turn away.  Starsky was his responsibility.  Besides, his partner would never respond as favorably to someone else as to him.  Hutch had earned that responsibility and guardianship through years of devoted friendship.  Having secured it, he had no intention of shirking it.  “I’ll be all right.”

 

At least he was until she touched him. 

 

Vivian slid her hand over his wrist and the contact went through him like a streak of summer lightning - - abrupt, wholly startling, leaving him dazed and confused by the unexpected jolt. 

She sensed it too, her eyes widening as she took in his gaze.  He tried to shake off the obvious and pretend nothing had happened, but his attraction to her lay dangerously near the surface.  He knew it was wrong . . . wasn’t quite convinced it wasn’t something else entirely that drew him to her.  He cared about her but was torn between platonic affection and sexual temptation.

 

For a second neither of them spoke.  Then he stepped closer, cupping her chin and tipping her face up to his.  “You’re so damn beautiful,” he whispered.

 

They stood frozen, eyes locked on each other, so close Hutch could feel the soft whisper of her breath against his throat.  He thought about kissing her - - how exquisitely sweet and sinfully wrong it would be.  Using his thumb, he stroked her cheek in a seductively slow caress . . . the same way he wanted to capture her mouth, taste honey and moist heat beneath his lips.  He’d kissed her before and enjoyed it.  Too much.

 

But he was tired now, emotionally vulnerable, his reasoning ability at rock bottom. He was worried about Starsky, and the thought of surrendering that punishing anxiety  . . . of forgetting the trauma for a few blissful seconds was bewitchment in itself. 

 

Closing his eyes, he leaned closer, tasting her lips in a fleetingly phantom kiss - - once, then again.

 

“Ahem!”   

 

Hutch jerked, startled when Alex loudly cleared his throat for attention.  Chagrined to be caught in a compromising position, he quickly distanced himself from Vivian, turning to face the man framed in the doorway of the adjoining bedroom.  

 

Having just awakened from sleep, Alex looked unkempt and bleary-eyed, his clothing rumpled, gray hair sticking up at the back of his head.  Frowning, he smoothed it in place. “Did anyone bother to check the phones lately?” he asked a little tersely.

 

On the bed, Starsky moaned.  Ignoring Alex, Hutch immediately moved to his friend’s side, readjusting the blankets, pressing the back of his hand to Starsky’s cheek, checking for fever.  Behind him he heard Vivian saying something about the phones still being down.  With a clipped nod, Alex moved toward the windows but Hutch ignored him, concentrating on Starsky.  His friend’s fever did not seem to be as high, but it was far from moving past the danger zone.

 

“Easy,” he said.  Encouragingly, he rubbed his partner’s shoulder.  The headache throbbed behind his eyes, making him thankful for the dim lighting.  Anything brighter and he’d be in misery, wincing at the sting of artificial brilliance.  “Starsk?” he asked softly, but got no answer. Having wakened briefly, his friend was once again trapped by the weight of unconsciousness.

 

Hutch straightened with a relieved sigh. Twisting his head to the side, he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to dislodge the knot of pain embedded at the base of his skull.  It had been a long night and looked like it was going to be a longer dawn.  Even his joints ached.  Maybe, if he was lucky, he could get Starsky to sleep through the morning undisturbed.

 

“You look like you could use some sleep,” Alex said grudgingly from his spot by the window.  “I’ve had plenty.  Take five and I’ll sit with him.”

 

“Thanks . . .” Hutch offered a vague smile.  “But no thanks.”  He knew Alex wasn’t overly fond of him, even after learning he was a cop.  The barely there kiss he’d just given Vivian surely hadn’t bumped him any higher in the older man’s esteem.  According to Vivian, Alex had been in love with her for years - - one of the reasons she always made certain she had a young, available date on her arm.  Hutch knew it had to gall the older man to have an endless parade of shallow hustlers trotted before his eyes. 

 

And I’m one of them.

 

Cop or no cop, he’d crossed the line of emotional involvement.  Alex had to be blind not to see the underlying sexual attraction between him and Vivian.  To make it even worse, Hutch was supposed to be protecting her, not playing The Graduate with a woman twenty years his senior.

 

Exhausted, he dragged a hand over his face.

 

“You really should try to get some rest,” Vivian suggested softly, appearing at his side.  She seemed composed, no hint of anger or resentment in her eyes over what he’d done just seconds before.  It was as if the brief kiss had never taken place.

 

 Hutch shook his head.  “I’m not leaving Starsky.”

 

“I told you, I’ll stay with him,” Alex countered, moving to the bedside chair and sitting down.  “When it’s dawn, I’ll wake you up and you can figure out how you’re going to get us out of this mess.”  Tilting his head, he sent Hutch an arch glance.  “You do remember why you’re here, don’t you, Detective Hutchinson?” 

 

Translation:  Keep your hands off Vivian.

 

Hutch frowned.  “Perfectly.” He was about to protest none of it mattered, that he wasn’t leaving Starsky, when Vivian gently pointed out he’d fare a whole lot better and think more clearly after an hour of uninterrupted sleep.

 

He knew she was right, could feel the craving for rest thrum through his body.  The door to the room was locked and Starsky was sleeping.  With Alex sitting vigil, what could possibly go wrong in the next hour or even two?  Worried, he cast a doubtful glance at the older man.  “You’ll wake me if he needs me . . . if he has any pain or can’t sleep?”

 

“My guess would be he’s in constant pain,” Alex said matter-of-factly, “But yeah - -” He nodded contritely as though moved by Hutch’s request.  “I’ll wake you.  Maybe you could leave the gun though . . . just in case.”  Offhandedly, he waved at the Magnum in Hutch’s shoulder holster.

 

“Starsky’s Beretta is in the drawer of the nightstand, if you need it,” Hutch countered.  “But I’d rather you didn’t touch it.”  He hooked a thumb over his shoulder.  “I’ll just be in the other room. All you have to do is yell.”

 

“Sure.”  As if the matter had been settled, Alex scrunched lower in his chair, stretching his legs and yawning widely.  He laced his hands over his stomach, seemingly content to play guard dog.

 

Still hesitant, Hutch glanced at the bed.  His friend was resting as peacefully as could be expected, his face turned in profile against the pillow. Starsky’s skin had taken on the sunken grayish cast of someone who had suffered a long illness.  By contrast, his hair looked darker still, layered with sable, jet and onyx. 

 

Reluctant to leave, Hutch fingered a curl.  Starsky’s breathing was shallow, a little too raspy.  He’d stopped shivering but Hutch could still feel heat radiating through the blankets.  Hopefully, the continuing fever wasn’t a sign of infection.  He considered drawing the sheets back and peeling away the gauze packing over Starsky’s wound to check its progress.  But that would involve waking his friend, dragging him back to a world of pain and sickness, and that just wasn’t an option.

 

Earlier, Hutch had cleaned up the sour vomit from the floor and rinsed out the wastepaper basket.  He’d made sure it was handy to the bed again, just in case it was needed. “Okay . . .” he said, more to himself than anyone else.  His fingers released the curl.  “Remember - -” he instructed Alex.  “Call me if he needs anything.  Anything, you understand?”

 

Alex shot him a patronizing glance.  “Really, Sergeant - - I’ve been told I’m a fairly bright boy at times.  I think I can follow simple instructions.”

 

Hutch frowned, annoyed at having to rely on someone else.  At Giovanni’s, Theresa Difusto had proved an ally. There was no reason Alex couldn’t too, despite some underlying friction between them.  The end result was they both cared about Vivian and neither man wanted to see her get hurt.  Alex would do everything he could to protect her, including watching over the man who’d been sent to guard her.

 

With a brisk nod and a final lingering glance for Starsky, Hutch headed for the bedroom.

 

+++++

 

Vivian dumped two Tylenol into her palm and filled a glass with water at the bathroom sink.  Alex was still slumped in the bedside chair, the door to the adjacent bedroom closed when she returned to the room where David slept.

 

“Where do you think you’re going?” her brother-in-law asked without moving.

 

He wasn’t exactly terse, but she heard annoyance in his voice and could easily guess why.  He saw Ken kiss me.  She still wasn’t certain how she felt about that inquisitively light kiss.  Earlier she’d made up her mind to stay angry at Ken, but it was almost impossible.  He was too conflicted, concerned for his friend, worried for her safety and anxious over a potential killer on the loose.  The last thing he needed was to be distracted by his feelings for her.

 

Whatever they are.

 

She frowned at Alex.  “I’m taking Ken some Tylenol to help him sleep.  He has a horrible headache.”  She wasn’t sure why she even bothered to explain, except that she’d always been fond of her brother-in-law and felt she owed him the courtesy of an explanation.  He was a dear man, a dear friend, but she didn’t love him and never would. Unfortunately, he hadn’t quite come to terms with that.

 

“Vivian - -”  Shoving from the chair, Alex crossed the room, blocking her path.  “Hutchinson isn’t one of your blond playthings.  He’s a cop.  He’s here to do a job.  Whatever’s going on between you two is going to end in a mess unless you stop it now.”

 

Her mouth thinned in an irritated white line.  “There is nothing going on, Alex,” she snapped, then immediately cringed.  Worried she might have disturbed David, she shot a hasty glance at the bed.  Seeing he still rested soundly, she lowered her voice.  “Ken is a professional.”

 

Alex snorted his contempt of the idea.  “He didn’t look very professional when I walked in on the two of you a little while ago.  Since when does kissing the woman he’s supposed to be protecting fit into his job description?”

 

“Alex, don’t be an idiot!”  Perturbed he was making such an issue of the kiss, she tried to step around him. 

 

He caught her arm and held fast. “You’re going to get hurt, Vivian.  Hutchinson isn’t one of your eager-to-please trophy dates who’ll do anything you ask for a buck or two. I know you like to play, but this time it isn’t a game.”

 

“Alex, let go of me,” she said quietly, deadly serious.  He’d crossed the line and they both knew it. “You might be Gavin’s brother but that doesn’t give you the right to police my life.  I love you dearly, but only as I would a friend or brother.  That isn’t going to change, however much you wish it were different.  And I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my business with Detective Hutchinson  - - and my love life in general.  I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

 

Irked, she brushed past him.  Men!  First Ken attempted to tell her how to behave and now Alex was lecturing her - - about Ken of all people!  She felt a small quiver in her stomach and stubbornly ignored it.  Okay, so maybe she was a little confused over her feelings for one Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson, but she still had time to sort them out.  Robbie Harker and his subsequent jealous rampage had made her realize that perhaps it was time for a change in her revolving-door love life. 

 

Losing Gavin had made her afraid of loving anyone like that again.  She was terrified of surrendering her heart so completely, only to have the man she loved taken away from her.  As a result, she jumped from one frivolous affair to the next, enjoying companionship, sex and fun, without the possibility of being hurt.  But where did it really leave her - - stranded on a storm-battered island with a brother-in-law who wanted to control her, an injured police officer, a jealously psychotic killer, and a man twenty years younger, who represented more than just a night between the sheets.   

 

Sighing, she knocked softly on the door.  “Ken?”

 

“Come in, Viv,” she heard him say. 

 

Pushing the door open, she slipped into the room, closing it gently behind her.  He’d stretched out on the bed, one leg hanging off the edge of the mattress onto the floor, his right hand cupped over his forehead as if to contain an ache.  He’d removed his gun and shoulder holster, bundling the straps around the weapon, then shoving it onto the nightstand. The only light in the room came from a single emergency lamp tucked in the far corner at ceiling height. Even in that limited glow, Ken’s hair gleamed medallion-bright, gold and ash, shot through with ivory.

 

He cleared his throat, swinging both legs off the side of the bed and sitting up.  “What’s wrong?  Is it Starsky?”

 

“No.”  Of course his first thought would be for his friend.  She shook her head to put him at ease.  “He’s still sleeping.  I just thought you could use something for your headache.”  She held the glass out to him then dumped two pills into his palm.

 

He hesitated a moment before popping them in his mouth and downing a gulp a water.  Thanks.” He shoved the glass onto the nightstand, grimacing as if the movement ignited rockets in his head.  Closing his eyes, he pressed a hand to his temple. 

 

Vivian sat beside him.  “Sometimes a cool, moist cloth helps.  Do you want me to get one from the bathroom?”

 

“No.”  Without raising his head, he reached for her hand, twining his fingers over hers.  “Stay here and talk awhile.”  He shot her a glance from the corner of his eye. “We have to get something straight, Vivian - - I have to stop kissing you.”

 

“What?”  She choked back a fluttery laugh, shocked by the absurdity of the pronouncement. She’d thought Alex was an idiot, but he was beginning to look almost sage-like compared to Ken and his ridiculous observation.  Briefly, she considered getting up and simply leaving the room but the man beside her looked miserable - - exhausted, conflicted, worried for his friend and in no small amount of pain. 

 

That headache’s got to be a monster, she thought distractedly.  He was still watching her, his eyes narrowed against the discomfort.  He’d shifted to face her, fully attentive, his hand entwined with hers. Her initial reaction was to bluntly point out that she wasn’t the problem - - he could stop kissing her any time he chose, and she’d be more than happy to put an end to his sporadic romantic overtures.  Then she felt the pressure of his hand on hers and realized his thumb grazed across her knuckles in a shockingly intimate way.

 

Her mouth went dry.  “Do you want to kiss me?” she asked.  What had he said in the other room - - You’re so damn beautiful.  Her heart fluttered in her chest, shattering her normal poise. When it came to men - - especially younger men - - and flirting, she was accustomed to holding the upper hand.  To find herself suddenly unsure which of them was in control was terrifying and more than a little exhilarating.

 

She started to pull away, fully expecting he would release her.  Instead he gave a sharp tug, dragging her against him, his free hand rising to cup her cheek, forcibly guiding her lips to his.   She barely had time to catch her breath before his mouth slanted over hers and his hand fisted in her hair, locking her in place.  Exquisite heat engulfed her, driven by the raw hunger of his kiss, so shockingly male, she moaned into his mouth.  Her skin felt on fire, carnally electric beneath the teasing stroke of his fingertips.  He skimmed her arm, let his hand dance over the curve of her hip, then scoop behind her to gently knead her bottom.

 

Shocked by his aggression, she parted with an earthy whimper.

 

“Do you think I want to kiss you?” he asked against her lips.  Effortlessly, he eased her backward onto the bed.  She felt him move against her and realized with a start he was flagrantly aroused.  In some distracted corner of her mind she knew he wasn’t thinking clearly . . . that sex was just a convenient crutch to help him forget how worried he was over his friend, how horribly David’s injury had torn him up inside.  He’d ceased being himself, surrendering to a needy kind of desperation that made him act grievously out of character. But his lips were on hers, his hands on her body and that made any thought difficult to hold.  His shirt already gaped open to mid chest so she simply popped the next two buttons, sliding her palm over the flat plane of his stomach. 

 

He groaned and nuzzled her ear . . . trailed scalding open-mouthed kisses down her neck.  She felt him suck the hot, frantic pulse in her throat, his tongue teasing it to wild acceleration before his attention wandered back to her lips. The seductive play of his hands sent heat and fire cascading over her, kindling a deliciously slow ache deep in her belly.  She quivered, delighted when he impatiently jerked the bottom of her blouse from her pants.  His large hand splayed over her bare stomach and she arched her back, urging him higher.

 

“You’re not wearing a bra,” he murmured, still kissing her, his hand taking full advantage of its absence.                                                                      

 

She shuddered, nearly undone by his touch.  “You didn’t bring one with my clothes,” she reminded him breathlessly.

 

“Mmm.”  He sucked on her bottom lip, teased the inside of her mouth with his tongue.  “I wasn’t going to go through your lingerie.”

 

Delighted, she laughed.  “I wish you had.  You would have found more pink and black.”  Her hands found their way into his hair, digging deep as he stroked and kneaded her breast.  After months of being infatuated with him, he was really going to make love to her.  Slow, passionate love . . .wantonly sensual and lasciviously erotic. Impatient, she tugged his belt open, slipping her fingers beneath his waistband.  A thrill raced through her when she realized his jeans were impossibly tight, the zipper straining taut against his arousal.  She had done that to him, finally managing to shatter his precise and rigidly correct exterior.  Enthralled, she molded her hand between his thighs, feeling the scalding heat of desire burn through both denim and zipper.

 

He groaned low in his throat. “Viv - -”

 

From nowhere it suddenly struck her what they where doing, what he was doing.  He’s out of his mind!

 

The realization of what they were allowing to happen - - when and where they were doing it - - made her sit bolt upright.  Reality crashed over her.  “Ken - -”  Breathless and dazed, she looked into his eyes.  “This is crazy!”

 

He seemed confused by her abrupt turnaround, bewilderment, vulnerability and unmistakable male arousal tangled in his gaze.  “I thought you wanted this?”

 

“You thought I - -”  She didn’t know if she should be outraged or amused.  Well, of course she’d wanted it, but that was before - - before she realized he was acting purely on emotion, so torn up over what had happened to his partner, he didn’t know where to reach.  In his confusion and raw concern, she’d become his drug of choice.  His way of coping for a few blissful minutes . . . a fragile link to sanity when fear and the crushing weight of worry threatened to crack his strained control.  She shook her head.  “This is wrong.  You don’t really want this - - you never have.”

 

“Vivian, don’t - -”

 

He reached for her hand, but she pulled away.  She had to admit he looked wonderfully disheveled - - shirt gaping open to his waist, fair hair mussed and rumpled, that beautifully sexy mouth moist from kissing, his belt hanging loose and unbuckled.  And his jeans - -

 

He was still fully aroused, a sight that made her yearn to slip her hand between his legs and explore all that swollen masculinity a second time.  Reluctantly, she looked away.  “I know you’d make love to me, Ken, but you’d regret it later.  And the truth is . . .”  Her eyes found his, saddened by the confusion she saw there.  “I would too.” 

 

Even if he’d been ready to go through with it, she suddenly realized she couldn’t.  She’d come to care for him . . . not in a superficial, sexual way, but truly care about him.  She thought of the child she’d met so long ago and had wanted to protect.  Maybe that was the difference now. Leaning forward, she laid her hand on the side of his face.  “You’re tired, you’re hurting and you’re vulnerable. You can play macho cop all you want, but the truth is you’re just not thinking straight.  Were you really going to make love to me with Alex next door?  With your partner lying in the other room, a hole in his gut?”

 

Ken blanched.   

 

That one got through to him if nothing else did.

 

“Starsky - -”  Mortified, he looked away.  “God, what am I doing?”  Shoving to his feet, he hastily struggled to buckle his belt.  “You must think I’m scum, trying to seduce you when Starsky’s - -”  He choked, unable to finish the thought. 

 

She saw his face crumple and knew he had taken the blow to heart. What had David told her - -  “He does guilt better than anyone I know.”

 

Straightening her blouse, Vivian stood beside him.  “I think you’re human, Ken.  And I’m to blame for what happened here, just as much as you.”  Smoothing her fingers through his unkempt hair, she laughed lightly.  “Have you forgotten I’ve been trying to get you in my bed from the moment I saw you?”  She smiled at his bewilderment.  “Don’t worry - - I think I’m going to stop now and just appreciate the relationship we have.  Having sex would destroy our friendship, and unlike most of the shallow simpletons I’ve lusted after, I actually want you to hang around.”

 

Intrigued despite his misery, he raised an eyebrow.  Before he could comment, the emergency lighting flickered, growing momentarily brighter than dim.  A second later it died completely.  The room plunged into a wash of gray and shadows, the pale milk of pre-dawn seeping through the windows, creating a ghostly veil of illumination.

 

Vivian tensed.  “What happened?”

 

“Maybe nothing.”  Ken bent to test the bedside lamp.  Light flooded the room and he grinned.  “The power came back up.  Maybe the phones have too.  Come on - -” Catching her beneath the arm, he tugged her toward the door.

 

The other bedroom was bathed in lamplight, several candles adding a jeweled glow to the mustard-yellow brilliance.   Alex was nowhere to be seen, the chair he’d occupied earlier now empty. Worried by his absence and suddenly fearful he might have overheard their love-play, Vivian exchanged an uneasy glance with Ken.  It wouldn’t be above her smitten, over-protective brother-in-law to crack the door and spy on her.  “Do you think he heard us?”

 

“Maybe he’s just in the bathroom,” Ken suggested, but he didn’t seem convinced.  Worriedly, his eyes tracked to the bed.

 

Vivian followed his gaze, noticing David was awake, moving restlessly.  With a start, she realized the nightstand had been rummaged through, the drawer left hanging open and empty.  The Beretta pistol Ken had carefully tucked inside hours before was missing.  

 

“Starsky - -”  Seeing his friend was awake, Ken moved quickly to his side.

 

“ . . . tried to stop him,” the dark-haired man said weakly.  Only half coherent, he swallowed audibly and gazed up at his partner.  “Alex took the gun . . . said he was gonna take care of things . . . wouldn’t listen to me . . .”

 

“That’s just great!” Ken cursed.  “Of all the stupid, asinine stunts - -”  He stopped suddenly as if realizing his friend took the cutting remarks to heart.  “Buddy, it’s not your fault.”  Instantly contrite, he rubbed David’s shoulder.  “I was talking about Alex.  You just rest . . . try to take it easy.  I’m going to find him before he gets hurt.”

 

Vivian watched him bolt for the other room.  He was back within minutes, his shoulder holster in place. Grimly, he snapped the straps around his belt, his expression focused and grave. Just a short while ago he’d been more than accommodating, allowing her to pry that same belt open, but all trace of that arousal was gone now as he concentrated on the matter at hand. 

 

“Vivian, keep checking the phone.  Call for help as soon as you get a line.  Have them send police and emergency aid.  And - -”  He hesitated, pausing in his hasty rush for the door.  His eyes drifted to the bed.  “ - - make sure you take care of Starsky.”

 

He didn’t wait to see her nod.  “Lock the door behind me,” he ordered.  A second later, he was gone, disappearing into the hallway and the steadily creeping light of encroaching dawn.

 

+++++ 

 

Hutch moved through the silent house, unsure what had prompted Alex to vanish with Starsky’s gun.  Had he heard something or was it possible, as Vivian suggested, that he’d known what they’d been doing in the other bedroom and had simply taken off in a huff?  From the very start Alex had been cool toward him, a situation that should have gotten better once the older man realized Hutch was a cop.  Instead his reserve stagnated then grew even chillier once it became apparent Hutch’s interplay with Vivian wasn’t entirely a game.

 

If Hutch had ever doubted his confusing attraction for the elegant socialite, he’d more than proved it now.  Acting like an idiot, he’d let worry and fear get the better of him until he’d bundled the conflicting emotions aside, using lust as a crutch to temporarily forget the danger Starsky was in. He felt reprehensible about his conduct now but for a brief time all he’d wanted to do was sink into oblivion.  He’d held it together at Giovanni’s, but wasn’t sure he could do the same thing a scant five weeks later.  The mere thought of Starsky hurt again - - and hurt so grievously - - was entirely too painful to contemplate.  For a fleeting moment before sanity returned, he’d taken the easy way out and chosen to forget by drowning himself in sexual gratification and lust.  But as in all things where Starsky was concerned, the diversion didn’t last long.  His friend came first.

 

You mean too much to me, buddy.

 

Sobered by the thought, Hutch moved from the hallway into the main living area.  Party trappings remained like stray phantoms - - limp streamers, discarded plates and cups, spilled confetti and glitter, all looking sadly desolate in the gray predawn glow.  A few lighted planetary centerpieces still shimmered on buffet tables and scattered drink stations, pastel luminescence splashed across platters of cocktail shrimp, gourmet cheeses and lead-crystal bowls of champagne punch.  Outside the storm had stopped, wind and rain vanishing with the night.  Through the veranda doors Hutch could see the sky had lightened, layered with pearl, smoke and pewter as it awaited the birth of a new sun.  Some of the self-illuminated spheres in the pool had winked out, battered by the storm, but many remained lit, floating on the water in a cavalcade of bright gem colors.  

 

As he drew nearer the French doors, Hutch noticed they were ajar.  Thinking Alex had stepped outside, he pushed through and eased around the exterior bar where he and Starsky had conversed over Heinekens. The broken shards of Saturn still littered the ground, Mercury, Jupiter and Neptune in a similar state, casualties of the storm.  Venus alone remained intact, dangling above the bar with a handful of stars, brilliant blue and glistening with drops of rainwater.

 

“Alex?”  Pitching his voice to carry, Hutch stepped from the veranda.  He walked closer to the pool, skirting the edge on its decorative Bomanite apron. Around him the ground was soaked, a few stray puddles spilling from the wet grass onto the stamped concrete.  The air blew from the west, frigid and damp, tainted with mist. “Alex, if you’re out here, quit fooling around.  Taking Starsky’s gun was stupid.”

 

He half-turned, spying something dark on the surface of the water.  Partially hidden by a cluster of planetary spheres, the black shape floated, eerily disembodied.  At first he thought it was some kind of animal or bird downed by the storm, but as he drew nearer, he deciphered arms splayed to either side and realized it was a man’s jacket, buoyed aloft.

 

Frowning, Hutch knelt by the water, extending a hand to snag the inky fabric.  Off balance, he couldn’t turn quickly enough when he heard a sudden rush of noise behind him.  He whirled clumsily, hastily trying to get his feet under him, but his stance was off kilter.  He caught a blur of motion from the corner of his eye and attempted to pitch to the side at the last moment.  Something smashed against the back of his head, upending the world in a blinding explosion of pain and white-tipped stars.  He fumbled for balance, unable to stop the forward momentum that sent him careening face-first into the pool.

 

A staggering shock of cold shot through him, followed immediately by the hot lance of a knife piercing his skull.  He gulped once for air, struggling to break the surface as water rushed over his head, sucking him toward the bottom.  Pain ripped to the base of his neck, vicious and unforgivable. 

 

Trapped, Hutch blacked out.

 

+++++

 

“ . . . yes.  Please hurry.”

 

Starsky blinked, catching the tail end of Vivian’s words as she hung up the phone.  He didn’t remember dozing but had apparently fallen into a half-sleep shortly after Hutch left the room.  Time kept slipping away from him - - disappearing in chunks or stretching endlessly.  He wasn’t sure which was worse, just wished he could slow it all down to something approaching reality. 

 

Licking his lips, he forced his muddy mind around the fact the phone was working.  “Vivian - -”  Raising his arm, he flailed weakly at the air. “Bring me the phone.”

 

“I already called for help,” she assured gently.  “Police and a medical team are on the way, David.”

 

All positives to be certain, but it wasn’t what concerned him.  Medical aid aside, he needed to talk to Dobey.  It was imperative their captain knew what had transpired on the island with Harker still on the loose.  It took him a moment to convey that need to Vivian, a moment longer to get Dobey on the phone. 

 

The captain was gruff, but his agitation quickly turned to alarm when he learned what had happened.  Despite the oppressive pain he was in, Starsky somehow managed to convince the older man he wasn’t in any immediate danger.  “Just careless,” he said tiredly.  “I screwed up, Cap, lettin’ Harker take me down like that.”

 

“It wasn’t Harker.”  Dobey’s voice was flat and to the point.  “Starsky, I’ve been trying to get you or Hutchinson for the last five hours.  Patrol turned up Harker’s body in a construction dumpster off Parkside.  He’s been dead for four days . . . shot at close range with a .38.”

 

“Huh?”  It took Starsky awhile to assimilate the information, his thoughts slowed by pain and fatigue.  Grimacing, he shifted against the pillows Vivian had propped at his back.  Sitting up put an uncomfortable strain on his side, sending sharp needle-tipped pulses rocketing outward from his wound.  “But that’s impossible.  Fackler . . .Vivian’s dog . . .”

 

“Harker probably jumped Fackler outside of the club where he worked,” Dobey conceded.  “But someone else was responsible for killing Vivian’s dog.  They probably planted the print on the arrow, hoping to throw suspicion on Harker since he’d already made the phone calls to Vivian and followed through with attacking Fackler.  Listen, Starsky - -”  Dobey cleared his throat, clearly uneasy.  “Whoever wanted to kill Hutch . . . whoever shot you with that arrow and is running around on the island - - it isn’t Harker.”

 

“Damn it all to hell.”  Starsky rubbed his temple.  He couldn’t think.  His mind felt like mud, weighted in a quagmire of impossibly slow thoughts.  Someone had tried to kill Hutch because of his relationship with Vivian, perceived or otherwise.  Someone who was still on the island, possibly hunting Hutch even now. 

 

Once again Alex’s words came back to haunt him: “He’s young and pretty, and knows it.  He makes me sick.  They all make me sick.”

 

Starsky swallowed hard.  “Cap, I think I know who our stalker is.  Just get backup here as soon as you can.”  He hung up before Dobey could splutter a single word in reply, his mind already funneling ahead to his partner.  Hutch thought he was hunting Harker, totally unaware it was really Alex who had strong reason to hate him.  “Vivian . . .”  Thrusting the phone onto the nightstand, Starsky knuckled his fists into the mattress and pushed up straighter.  Sweat broke out on his forehead, pain crackling across his abdomen in a burst of stinging shockwaves. Paling, he bit his lip.  “Have you . . . have you ever seen Alex handle a bow?”

 

At a loss, Vivian shook her head.  “No . . . not personally.  But he used to shoot in competitive tournaments years ago.  David, surely you don’t mean - -”  She stopped abruptly, unable to finish the thought. 

 

Starsky did it for her.  “Harker’s dead, Vivian.  They found his body days ago.”

 

“Oh, dear God.”  Stunned, she wilted into the nearest chair.  “Alex, would never . . . “  Adamant, she shook her head.  “David, he’s infatuated with me but he’s not a killer.  I know he doesn’t approve of the way I live and resents the men I date, but I simply can’t imagine him doing anything so extreme.  We’re talking about Gavin’s brother!”

 

“You didn’t see him when you went into the bedroom with Hutch.  When you stayed in there.  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what went on behind that door.”  Winded, Starsky wiped sweat from his cheek.  His fingers trembled, but he ignored the tell-tale weakness.  Fatigue was a luxury he couldn’t afford with his partner in danger.  “You and Hutch can’t keep dancin’ around your feelings.  He ain’t like your cheap party boys, Vivian.  You got him all screwed up inside.  He deserves better than that.”

 

“I know that.”  She flushed.  “We’ve settled things.  He and I are friends, and that’s the way we want it to stay.  Both of us,” she added firmly.

 

Starsky wasn’t entirely convinced, but he gave her the benefit of the doubt.  “Okay, so you didn’t sleep together, but I’m guessin’ you came awful close.  I know my partner.  And I know what went through Alex’s head.  He had you in bed with Hutch the moment you closed that door.”

 

Her back stiffened.  “That’s ridiculous.”

 

“Is it?”  Grimacing, Starsky flung the blankets aside.  “Tell me it didn’t almost happen and I’ll tell you Alex had no reason for suspicion.”

 

Annoyed, she pressed her lips together, unable to come up with a credible defense. Instead she focused on his struggles as he swung his bare legs over the side of the bed.  “David, what are you doing?”

 

“Goin’ after my friend.  Grab my clothes, will ya?”  Starsky kept his head bowed, fearful she would see the pain he was in if he lifted his eyes.  He felt weak and light-headed, his muscles limp and unresponsive.  There was simply no room for modesty as he scrunched to the edge of the mattress, naked except for his ripped and bloodstained black briefs.  He kept his arms locked despite the tremors that raced from his shoulders to his wrists, punishing him with bone-jarring strain and exhaustion.  He blinked sweat from his eyes and shuddered.

 

“You can’t go anywhere!” Vivian cried, aghast.

 

“You don’t get it.”  Determined, Starsky glanced at her from under his brows.  “My friend’s out there, unaware the guy who’s posin’ as our host wants to kill him.  Now you either help me get dressed or I’ll go like this.”

 

“But you don’t even have a gun,” Vivian protested.  “And you could start bleeding - - rip open your wound . . .”

 

Starsky ground his teeth together.  “Vivian.”  He wasn’t sure if it was the way he snapped her name, but suddenly she gave an exasperated exhale and went in search of his clothes. 

 

Hutch had butchered the pants to his suit, cutting them open with shears, ruining them for good.  That meant Starsky was left with whatever clothing his friend had managed to rummage from his room earlier.  A few minutes later Vivian returned with a pair of faded jeans and a button-front light green shirt. Starsky eyed the jeans warily, hating the thought of trying to get them up over his thighs and the enflamed wound. 

 

“Okay,” he said slowly, a hint of dry humor in his voice.  “I know you’re used to peelin’ the clothes offa your guys, but how ‘bout helpin’ me get into mine?”

 

Another woman might have been insulted.  If he’d pulled that line on Kay Whitley she would have whacked him for it, or at the very least unloaded on him verbally.  By contrast, Vivian smiled in appreciation, correctly judging he used sarcasm to combat his pain. 

 

“Well, you aren’t Ken and you aren’t even blond,” she parried slyly.  “But if you weren’t hurt, I’d be seriously tempted to lose your clothing altogether.”  Not to be outdone by his boldness, she looked him over, openly appreciative of what she saw.  “You have an exquisite body, David.  I can think of worse ways to pass my time than tugging jeans up your legs.”

 

He flushed.  He’d seen her bait Hutch like this and suddenly understood why his normally self-assured friend grew so easily flustered when she turned seductive.  In the role of worldly socialite, Vivian Clarke was confident and skilled, rarely upstaged.  He knew she was merely teasing parry for parry, but felt embarrassed by the explicit attention.

 

Vivian giggled. “You don’t handle flirting nearly as well as your partner, David.  Here - -”  Stooping, she held the jeans open for him.  “Try sliding your legs in, then brace yourself on my shoulder to stand.”  She flashed a sultry smile.  “I’m used to men touching me.”

 

Starsky knew when he was out of his league.  Had she been twenty years younger, he could have easily turned the tables, but there was something oddly unsetting about an older woman being so brazenly sexual.  He knew her flirting was all for show - - at least where he was concerned - - but she did it so damn well, it made him momentarily forget the cauldron of fire rooted in his side.  Which was, no doubt, exactly what she hoped to achieve. 

 

“You’re shameless,” he said, feeling the need to say something.  He stepped into the jeans, swaying drunkenly when he stood.  Bracing himself, he gripped her shoulder.

 

“Mmm,” she agreed, careful as she tugged the faded denim up his thighs and over the wound. 

 

Pain splintered into his gut, erasing any lingering residue of sensuality.  He sucked down a shocky breath, the blood draining rapidly from his face. “I got it,” he panted, clumsily reaching for the zipper.  He tugged it halfway, unwilling to put undue pressure on the wound, leaving the snap on his waistband hanging open.  Spent, he sank onto the bed, shaken and nauseous from the brief exertion.   

 

Vivian frowned openly.  “David, this is never going to work.”

 

The protest rekindled his determination.  “I’m not leavin’ Hutch out there with Alex.”  He reached for his shirt but Vivian got to it first.  With her assistance, he eased into it, biting his lip to muffle a groan when the wound pulled stiffly.  He could feel dried blood clotted against the bandage, and guessed it had congealed with a sickly discharge of fluid and a smattering of pus.  He was still running a low-grade fever but told himself it didn’t matter.  No affliction was too great to endure when it came to Hutch and his safety.

 

 Alex had been miffed when he’d left, taking the gun and saying it was time to bring the “nonsense” to an end.  He might have easily barged into the adjoining bedroom with the loaded pistol, interrupting Hutch and Vivian in the middle of their love-play, but that would have been too crass for the jealous avenger. Starsky had the feeling the older man preferred lying in wait, catching his quarry to suit his own timetable . . . trying to shift the blame to Harker so he could walk away scot-free. 

 

With trembling fingers, Starsky fumbled the lower few buttons of the shirt closed, leaving the tails hanging loose over his open waistband. “I want you to stay here.  Lock the door behind me,” he instructed Vivian.

 

“You sound like Ken.”  She helped him into his socks and shoes, the expensive Italian loafers he’d worn with his suit the only footwear handy.  They looked glaringly out of place against his frayed and ragged jeans, but at least he slid into them easily. 

 

Starsky stood and limped to the foot of the bed.  Walking bucked his surroundings into a turbulent seesaw of corkscrewed motion.  The room waffled, his knees weakening into a puddle of loose quivering jelly.  Groaning aloud, he sagged against the bedpost, one sweaty hand clutching the intricately carved wood for support.

 

“David?”  Worried, Vivian appeared at his shoulder, gripping his arm to keep him upright.

 

“I’m okay.”  Gradually the room stabilized, a sheen of sticky perspiration drying on his forehead. He swallowed back nausea, forcing himself to stand upright.  Beneath his bandage, a tiny trickle of blood broke free, seeping across his groin, collecting in a dark mat of hair.  The irritation itched, made his sore skin prickle and chafe.  Starsky tugged at his crotch, trying to reposition the too-snug fit of his jeans against his abdomen.  

 

“Not like that.”  Still holding onto him, Vivian slipped her free hand beneath his half-open zipper, easily adjusting the fit of his pants. 

 

Starsky flinched at the intimate contact, but realized that for once she was all business and efficiency, wanting only to help.  Her husband was a surgeon, he reminded himself.  A doctor.  Still he found himself needing to say something.  “Hutch ain’t gonna like you doin’ that.”

 

“Then we won’t tell him.”  She pulled her hand free.  “Better?”

 

“Better,” he admitted, a chagrined flush rising to his cheeks despite his best efforts to stop it.  “Just don’t do that again, okay?  I don’t think I’m worldly enough to have you gropin’ me.”

 

She kissed his cheek.  “And I’m not dispassionate enough to let you walk out of here without worrying.”  She watched him steadily.  “You and Ken have become very dear to me.  Please be careful, David.”

 

Her fear put him back on firm ground and he smiled crookedly. “Promise, schweetheart,” he said, pulling off his best Bogey.  “I owe you one blond cop and a boat ride back to the mainland.  But just for the record - - next birthday we celebrate at my place, minus the celestial bullshit and jealous boyfriends.”

 

Vivian smiled weakly, her anxiety for his safety obvious.  “It’s a date.”

 

“Don’t forget to lock the door.”  With a final parting glance, Starsky turned and hobbled unsteadily from the room.

 

+++++

 

The bone-jarring shock of hitting icy water immediately jolted Hutch back to consciousness.  Cold sliced through him with the razor-honed edge of a sword, stunning him to brutal awareness.  Pain exploded outward from the base of his skull, encasing his neck and head in a punishing torrent of agony.  He sputtered, choking for air as he struggled to the surface.  Around him the pool water had turned murky and dark, laced with filmy strings of blood.  Mentally, he tried to assure himself it looked worse than it really was, blood commonly amplified by water.  His heart pounded fiercely, triple-hammering with fear as he fought to silence the pain. 

 

Grappling for the edge of the pool, he pulled himself upright, sprawling face down over the lip.  Dazed, he lay panting on the concrete apron, his legs dangling in the water, wet cheek pressed to the coarse Bomanite.  Cold knifed through him and he shuddered.  With a groan, he pushed himself forward, dragging his legs from the water.  His head throbbed mercilessly, banded with barbed steel.  Something cold and wet trickled over his cheek but in his confusion he wasn’t sure if it was blood, water, or a ghastly combination of both. 

 

Shivering, he managed to pull himself to his hands and knees then lurch unsteadily to his feet. He stood for a moment, swaying uncertainly before forcing himself around to face the pool again. The jacket that had originally drawn him was still floating on the water, but it had bobbled further away, butted up against a trio of weakly glowing spheres.  He thought he recognized it as belonging to Alex, but couldn’t be certain.

 

Functioning in low gear, it took Hutch a moment to register the person standing on the opposite side of the rectangular pool.  Armed with Starsky’s Beretta and dressed entirely in black, the stranger’s face was obscured by a hooded sweatshirt.  Too tiny to be Robbie Harker, Hutch found himself struggling to make sense of the situation.

 

“Who - -?”  He blinked, the ache in his head reducing his eyes to pained slits.  The wind kicked up, biting and cold and he shivered uncontrollably, hating himself for showing weakness.

 

“You first,” his captor responded in a vaguely familiar voice.  “You’re not one of Vivian’s plastic boy models.  Who are you?”

 

Dripping wet, soaked through, Hutch fought to keep his teeth from chattering.  He thought about the Magnum holstered under his arm but doubted his cold-numbed fingers would close over the grip even if he miraculously managed to unseat it before his captor got off a shot.

 

As if sensing his thought, the stranger motioned toward the gun.  “Get rid of that.  Toss it in the water - - now!”

 

Hutch moved slowly, debilitated by pain and cold. He could almost place the voice, realized it was husky and feminine.  He forced stiff fingers around the Magnum, but with the barrel of the semi-automatic trained on him there was little he could do except toss the gun in the pool as ordered.  It landed with a plop, sinking like a rock to the bottom.

 

Across from him, his captor pulled back the hood of her sweatshirt, releasing a tumble of dark brown hair. He blinked stupidly, trying to place her face like the image from a long-forgotten dream.  The wind ripped through him with a cold knife of pain and he bit his lip to stifle a moan. “Trudy?” He groped for her name, dredging it up from the shadowy murk of his subconscious, unsure of anything with his head hurting the way it was.   Water dripped from his hair, chilling the skin on the back of his neck, seeping under his collar, tracking icy fingers over his shoulders.

 

She smiled.  “You remember, Ken.”

 

The girl from the bathroom.  The one he’d inadvertently bumped into when searching for Vivian after their tiff on the veranda.  He frowned, confusion igniting coldfire at the base of his skull. She had Starsky’s Beretta, which meant she’d taken it from Alex.  The fact the older man’s jacket floated in the pool didn’t bode well for his safety.

 

“What have you done with Alex?” he asked.

 

Unconcerned, she shrugged.  “Nothing much.  He heard me nosing around outside and decided to play hero, coming after me with this gun.”  She nodded toward the pistol.  “I didn’t have any choice but to take it from him.  Oh, don’t worry - -” She added with a smooth smile.  “I happen to think he’s as misunderstood as I am, so all I did was knock him out and steal his jacket to use as bait.  Effective too, wasn’t it?”  Her smile thinned, abruptly consumed by frost.  “Now tell me who you are.  What are you doing with Vivian and why are you wearing a gun?”  She frowned openly.  “You’re a cop, aren’t you?”

 

He saw no use in denying the obvious.  “Detective Ken Hutchinson.  I’m here to protect Vivian from Robbie Harker.”

 <