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.