CHAPTER SEVEN

     Gabriel Scott rapped his knuckles sharply against the door to Room #921 of the Fairmont Hotel. When his first knock received no reply, he tried again, continuing to pound his fist in steady yet annoying rhythm, until he heard shuffling, the swish of a blanket hitting the floor, followed by a lock clicking open.
     Robin Cooper stood before him, dressed in black satin pajamas, hair matted from sleep, eyes at half-mast. Robin blearily looked Gabriel up and down, covered his mouth, and yawned, "I don't recall requesting a sanctimonious wake-up call."
     "Consider it a complimentary service." Gabriel brushed past him, entering Robin's hotel-room as if he'd been invited.
     Robin shrugged. He closed the door, then padded back over to the bed, flopping on his back, and cranking his head slightly to sneak a peek at the clock. "Good God, it's seven a.m. Shouldn't you be out chasing ambulances or something?"
     Robin's clothes lay scattered about the room, smelling vaguely of expensive cigar smoke and a high-priced assortment of liqueurs. Gabriel asked, "Late night?"
     Robin propped a pillow under his head, closing his eyes and resting his hands across his chest, fingers linked.     "Hm," was his non-committal reply.
     "Was Victoria with you?"
     "Victoria, despite my best efforts, remains obsessed with the rather outmoded concept of early to bed, early to rise, something, something, something...." He peeled open one eye. "With you for a role model, I can see where she picked up her bad habits."
     "That's very insightful." Gabriel leaned against the dresser, elbows bent to prop him up. "Tell me this, in all these weeks that you've been harassing my sister, have you even bothered to find out a single thing about her, outside of her measurements?"
     Robin murmured, "Do erogenous zones count?"
     Gabriel shook his head in disgust, kicking the dresser with the back of his heel. He said, "I know all about you, Mr. Cooper. I know who you really are behind that damn, devil-may-care facade. I know what you're trying to hide."
     His last charge, at least, seemed to arrest Robin's attention. He opened both eyes, rolling over on his side, propping his head up with one hand and, voice ferocious, demanded, "What precisely is it that you think you know about me, Dr. Scott?"
     "That you're a first class bastard."
     "Oh, please, you could have read that in Who's Who."
     "That you've got serious psychological problems bordering on psychosis. You do everything you can to draw people close to you, then, without warning, you turn and drive them out of your life."
     "You sound like you've been talking to my wife," Robin joked. "Or my father."
     "I won't let you abuse Victoria that way. She's not something for you to toy with then toss aside. She's too special." Gabriel asked, "Has Victoria told you anything about her background?"
     "You mean amongst the Salty Dogs and Moscow Mules?"
     Gabriel sighed, understanding that this was his last chance to terminate the conversation before things started getting ugly, but resolved that he was doing it for Victoria's own good. Even if he did doubt she'd ever thank him for it. Gabriel said, "Vicky's birth parents were second-rate singers. They drove a trailer from small town to small town, appearing in rundown bars, seedy saloons, dreadful places. But, Vicky, being Vicky, never complained. One day, when she was five and they were driving to Phoenix, Vicky got a sore throat. It hurt, but she knew how angry her mom would be if they had to stop to see a doctor and miss their gig. So Vicky said nothing. Her throat got worse. She said nothing. Finally, as they passed through Texas, the pain got so bad, Vicky passed out. Turns out, that sore throat of hers was rheumatic fever. By the time they got her to a hospital, her heart had been so damaged, doctors didn't think she was going to make it. Which was darn unfair, because, as Mrs. Morgan saw it, not only was the hospital charging them an obscene amount for doing nothing -- after all, everybody agreed Vicky was going to die -- but, adding insult to injury, them staying to settle the bill with their last few dollars also meant skipping a perfectly good paying job."
     No longer faking nonchalance, Robin couldn't keep the horror from his voice. "So they, what? left her there to die?"
     "Worse. They asked Victoria what they should do." Gabriel's hands clenched into fists. "A five year old kid, in horrible pain, and her parents ask her, "What do you think we should do? Waste our time and money here, or go on to Phoenix?"
     Robin covered his mouth with one hand. "She told them to go?"
     "Of course, she told them to go. That's who she is. She is always taking responsibility for everyone else's happiness. She always thinks everything is her fault. Our first foster parents, Terrence and Maggie, they were decent enough people. Except that Terrence drank. And he was a mean drunk. Never to Vicky, though. Vicky, he liked. She was a good little girl, she tip-toed around him, she never did anything to set him off. Me, on the other hand, he liked to bounce off the walls. Not that I didn't deserve a swat now and again. I did have quite a mouth on me, can you imagine?" Gabriel didn't let Robin answer the rhetorical. "The irony is, no matter what I did to make Terrence blow a gasket, Victoria always thought it was her fault. She thought, if she had been better, if she had thought of some way to placate him, Terrence wouldn't have gotten drunk, and I wouldn't have gotten my shoulder fractured. No matter how I tried to convince her that it wasn't her fault, that she was not accountable for keeping peace in the world, she never believed me. You saw how nervous she got trying to prevent us from coming to blows at the clinic, or how she plays go-between for you and Douglas. It's her nature. Victoria takes everything way, way too close to heart. That's why, Mr. Cooper -- Robin -- if you care about her in the slightest, please, please, stay away from her."
     Their conversation had actually been going rather well up to that point. While Gabriel talked, Robin went as far as to sit up in bed, listening intently. However, as soon as Gabriel got to the final, most important part of his presentation, Robin's expression changed. He rolled his eyes, favoring Gabriel with a look otherwise reserved for vermin, and stood up, dismissing the request with a wave of one hand. "That was a lovely story, Dr. Scott, you really have a knack for this sort of thing, perhaps you should look into some sort of employment on the radio. Only, here's a tip: let someone else do the writing for you, your gift is not in tying everything together at the end." Robin moved over to the mini-bar, rifling around for a bottle of spring-water and gulping it down. Finished, he asked, "What the hell does telling me about little orphan Vicky have to do with asking me to stay away from the woman called Victoria Morgan?"              "Don't you understand, as soon as you revert to form and start acting like the son-of-a-bitch we both know you are, she's going to assume it's her fault. She's going to think she's responsible for your unhappiness -- not knowing, of course, that men like you can never be happy, that you thrive on your unhappiness, you wallow in it and use it to punish anyone foolish enough to care about you."
     Robin's neck flushed crimson, the color deepening until, like an ocean wave, it swept over his face, sucking up his features and drowning them in a scarlet rage.
     "You," his voice hissed from the depths of the Earth. "Are a pharisaical, sanctimonious, supercilious bastard."
     "Yes, yes, we all know you went to college."
     "Where do you get off talking to me like that? Who the hell do you think you are? You're nothing. Nothing!" Robin aimed his final arrow to where he hoped it would wreak the most damage. "No wonder your parents left you in a trash-dump to die."
     It wasn't till later that Gabriel stopped to wonder how in the world Robin Cooper had gotten access to that information. All he knew the moment Robin whipped his crowning insult though, was that Mr. Cooper was obviously more threatened by Gabriel than he let on. And so, rather than smashing his teeth in like he might have years earlier, when Gabriel's temper and gift for throwing a punch earned the sixteen year old four months in Juvenile Hall, Gabriel only smirked, and headed for the door, shaking his head, chuckling.

     Victoria's doorbell rang at two forty-one in the morning. She had to balance on her tip-toes to peer cautiously through the peep- hole. Robin stood on the other side, dressed in a tux similar to one he'd worn at the Elizabeth Fund Gala. The sight of him looking so formal pinched Victoria with a twinge she knew was jealousy. In spite of his coming to see her nearly every evening, when Victoria refused to go out with him past a decent hour, he went alone. She didn't ask where, and he didn't tell her, but she suspected a man with Robin's looks, and, as he himself pointed out, trust-fund, was never at a loss for companionship -- male or female. Victoria knew she had no right to be jealous. After all, she was the one who had insisted they play at just being friends. She didn't own him. And yet, fear of Robin meeting some other woman, someone who intrigued him more than she did, was never far from her mind. Over the past few weeks, Victoria had been unable to climb into bed and stare at the clock without wondering where Robin was. And who he was with. Of course, at two forty-one this morning, she didn't have to wonder. Robin was on her door-step. And he appeared to be alone.
     Victoria opened the door, curious. He'd never come to see her so late before. "Robin? Is something wrong? Are you alright?"
     He sauntered inside, pausing along the sole step that led down to her sunken living room, and contemplating the place from above.
     "I'm just dandy, thank-you."
     The glaze of his eyes, and the way he enunciated each word so perfectly he might have been giving a diction lesson, led Victoria to guess, "You're drunk, Robin."
     He raised an eyebrow. "Do you really think so, Miss Morgan?"
     "Yes." She swallowed hard, fighting to keep the demons of her childhood from rising up to direct this situation. She had to stay calm. She had to remember that the man in front of her was Robin, not Terrence. And that Robin -- somehow she knew this deep in her heart -- would not, could not, ever hurt her.
     "Well, in that case." Robin turned to face her, his movements deliberately graceful. "I suppose you're right."
     She believed he would never hurt her, yet Robin's performance frightened Victoria all the same. Since she also suspected he felt no qualms about sadistically hurting himself. "What's wrong, Robin?" Victoria cupped his hand between both of hers, massaging it gently, hoping to somehow soothe the turmoil she saw raging in his eyes. His every muscle was so taut, she felt it quiver beneath his flesh. Robin reminded Victoria of a rubber- band stretched so tightly, any wrong move would snap it for good. "Was it something I did?"
     "Damn you!" He yanked his palm from her grip as if Victoria's massage had pierced an exposed nerve. "Can't a man get drunk if he wants to, without it having to be all about you?"
     If Robin hoped his outburst would provoke Victoria into a fury equal to his own, he was destined for disappointment. Rather than angering her, his eruption actually calmed Victoria down. This was a world she knew, and, while dealing with a cryptic drunk left her perplexed, dealing with an angry one made her feel right at home.
Instead of rewarding Robin's acrimonious query with an answer, she simply approached him again, more ginger this time, and rested her hand on his back. She wasn't surprised to find him trembling.
     "What's wrong, Robin?" Victoria repeated, her voice soft, not censorious. "Why did you come here?"
     "Why do you think?" He spun around, managing to grab both of her wrists and pull Victoria towards him until they were chest to chest, his face looming over hers, the Scotch on his breath filling her nostrils. "I got bored. I wanted to have a little fun."
     His grip proved much firmer than Victoria ever imagined. When they'd danced together, Robin had held her gently, reverently, and he'd treated her the same way every day since. So the power of his hold around her wrists took her by surprise. He was much stronger than she would have guessed, easily capable of cracking both her arms in a single motion. The realization didn't frighten Victoria in the slightest. If anything, she felt touched by the knowledge of how much self-control he was exercising not to hurt her.
     "Robin," she said calmly, refusing to defy his grasp. "If you had merely gotten bored, I'm sure that wherever you just came from was packed with young ladies happily willing and able to supply all the... fun... you could ever crave. So, why did you come here?"
     "Maybe I wanted you."
     "Well, if you did, here's a hint." Victoria turned her head and pushed herself away from his chest. "Second-hand Scotch is not the way to do it."
     He allowed her to wriggle from his grip, watching Victoria go regretfully, the way one might watch an armada leave shore.
     "You and your brother," he said. "You've always got an answer for everything."
     Gabriel's was the last name Victoria expected Robin to invoke, and so she asked, "What does Gabriel have to do with this?"
     Robin lifted a photograph of the siblings that stood next to Victoria's couch. He said, "Your brother visited me this morning."
     "What for?"
     "He came to remind me." Robin's fingers tightened around the frame. "Of what a bastard I was."
     His thumb splintered the glass, ripping the photo and slicing his flesh in the process.
     Victoria jumped at the crack. She saw the blood dripping from Robin's finger, and hurried to the kitchen, coming back with paper towels and a bottle of rubbing alcohol, asking, "Are you okay? Let me look at that, it might need stitches."
     Robin stretched his hand silently for Victoria's examination, apparently as stunned by what he'd inadvertently done, as she was. He didn't so much as wince when she dabbed at the cut with alcohol, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere.    
     Then, as Victoria picked at the tiny, crushed shards embedded in his skin, Robin continued on as if nothing had happened to interrupt him. He explained, "Gabriel came to remind me of what a bastard I was, because I'd forgotten." With his left arm, he raised Victoria's chin, so she would look at him. "Because you made me forget."
     The bottle of alcohol slipped through her fingers, and she had to duck her head to retrieve it. Her hands shook, breath catching in her throat. How did he do it? How did Robin, with just a look and a few words, manage to so thoroughly discombobulate her?
     She took her time mopping up the mess on her floor, using the break to pull herself together, so that, when she finally looked up again, her voice managed to appear entirely steady as she inquired politely, "What makes you think you're a bastard, Robin?"
     "Because I am." He brought his thumb to his lips, sucking the slash to stop its bleeding. "I treat people atrociously, I always have. It's like a compulsion. It's who I am."
     "Oh, right. I forgot. Hades, God of the Underworld."
     His lips stretched into a bitter smile. "Exactly."
     "You've never treated me atrociously."
     "Wait."
     "Is that why you're so upset?" Victoria gathered her first-aid supplies, heading back to the kitchen and asking over one shoulder. "Because of what Gabriel said to you?"
     "Hell, no." He sprang to his feet, shouting so she could hear him even with the kitchen door closed. "The day that jerk affects my mood -- no. This has nothing to do with Gabriel. I'm telling you, Victoria, this is who I really am. Take it or leave it."
     Victoria came back with a cup of coffee which she thrust into Robin's hands. As he brought the lukewarm brew to his mouth, she said, "Well, I certainly don't intend to take it."
     He shrugged, pantomiming that he'd expected as much, and that, really, it didn't matter to him one way or the other.
     "You are not a bastard, Robin Cooper," she said. "And I won't let you persuade me -- or yourself -- otherwise."
     He rolled his eyes, slamming his newly empty cup down onto the end-table next to Victoria and Gabriel's cracked picture-frame, and demanding. "Jesus, love, what do I have to do to convince you?"
     "Steal my television set."
     Robin blinked, her startling comeback instantly knocking the wind from his sails, and deflating his hard-fought thunder. "What did you say?"
     Victoria crossed her arms, chin jutting in the air, the hint of a smile tugging the corners of her mouth. "I said, the only way I'll believe you're as much of a bastard as you say, is if the next time I turn my back, you stealthily make off with my TV set. That, in my definition, is a true bastard."
     For almost a full minute, Robin continued staring at Victoria, convinced that one of them had just lost their mind, and trying to decide which one it was. And then, Robin laughed. His hands fell to his sides, his shoulders shook, his chin hit his chest, and he laughed. He laughed until he doubled over and needed to fumble for a seat on the couch, dropping his head in his hands and wiping his eyes with his palms. Whenever Robin tried to stop, all he had to do was look up, catch Victoria's eye, and the jag would commence all over again. Frankly, she hadn't thought her conditions were all that funny, and suspected that Robin's laughter had long ago bypassed stealing TV sets, and was now being triggered by stimulus she could only guess at. Nevertheless, Robin laughing was a lot better than Robin smashing glass.
     He tapped his chest with his fist, trying to regain control of himself, and, in between gasps for air, managed to sputter, "You're really something else, you know that, love?" Victoria perched on the edge of the coffee-table across from her couch, so that she and Robin sat face to face, knees touching. She brushed loose strands of hair from his forehead, then let her palm trail along his cheek, until she'd cupped his chin. Her thumb playfully outlined the contours of his cleft. He smiled and ducked his head, kissing her thumb, then, catching her wrist again between his hands, her palm and each of her fingers. His lips nibbled her pulse, where the skin was most sensitive.
     Victoria withdrew her arm. She said, "Robin, I don't want you driving home tonight. Not in your state. I think you should stay here." She clarified, "On the couch."
     He nodded. "I think you're right. Thank-you for the offer."
     "You're welcome." She sprung up, heading for her bedroom and returning moments later with bedding which she managed to hand him without so much as brushing a fingertip against Robin. He took it without a word.
     "Well, then." Victoria said, "Good-night."
     He allowed himself a tiny smile. "What? No good-night kiss?"
     She opened her mouth to tell him it wasn't a good idea, but it was too late. Robin's lips were soft, and his tongue respectfully behind his teeth as he dipped his head, and ever so gently, kissed her. Strangely, the practically chaste contact affected them more than any of their previous, deeper, more intimate kisses. Because this kiss wasn't about what couldn't be. It was about what might.
     Voice hoarse, Robin pulled away, asking, "Your bedroom door, does it have a lock?"
     Victoria nodded.
     "Then I suggest you use it."
     She nodded again. "Good-night, Robin."
     "Pleasant dreams, love."
     Inside her bedroom, Victoria paused by the door, her fingers twisting the knob as she contemplated what to do. From the other side, Robin commanded, "I said, lock it, Victoria. I may not be a complete bastard. But, I'm no saint, either."
     She did as he ordered. Then, for over an hour, Victoria lay awake, tossing, turning, monitoring the clock and willing morning to hurry up and arrive already. At dawn, she finally got up, crept to the door, and, with one decisive snap, unlocked it. Only then, could she return to bed and fall asleep.

     Dressed for the day, Victoria, for the third time in less than four hours, stood by her door. She pressed her ear against it and listened for any signs of Robin being awake. She heard nothing.
     She wondered if she should just go out there, drink her coffee and leave the house as if Robin wasn't even there. She wondered if she should wake him up to say good-bye. She wondered if she should leave a note. She wondered what such a note should say. She wondered if she was making way too big of a production out of the whole thing. After all, it wasn't like anything had even happened between them the other night. Certainly not compared to some of the other things that had happened before. And yet, Victoria couldn't shake the feeling that something had happened. Only neither of them was ready to admit it yet.
     She opened the door a crack, and peered outside. Robin lay on his back on the couch, blanket tangled around his legs, naked from the waist up, one arm tucked under his head, the other dangling off the side. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady and even. Victoria approached tentatively, loathe to wake him, and yet unable to keep away. She bent her knees, kneeling beside him and just watching Robin sleep. A day's growth of beard stubbled his cheeks. Victoria had to squeeze her hands into fists to keep from reaching out and rubbing her fingers against the fine hairs. She watched the way his eye-lashes fluttered, the way his bangs fell across his forehead, the way the slight concave at the center of his chest rose and fell with each breath.
     Victoria wasn't certain how long she ended up crouching there, except that she supposed, eventually, her peering at him woke Robin up. He blinked his eyes several times to clear his vision, yawned, and groggily smiled up at Victoria. "Good-morning."
     "Morning." She stood up awkwardly, but Robin's free arm shot out to grab her and keep her where she was.
     He said, "You know, I've been fantasizing about waking up next to you for weeks, now. I must confess, though, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind."
     "Soon," Victoria promised, relieved to, at long last, bury the just-friends pretense she'd clung to for weeks.
     He sat up, surprised. "How soon?"
     "That's up to you."
     "You mean it's up to Nicole." Robin tossed off the blankets, pulling on his pants, and grumbling, "It's not like I haven't been trying. I've got detectives searching every salon and boutique in Europe. She's got to show up eventually, she's got no money."
     "Maybe you," Victoria suggested gingerly, "Are more important to her than your money."
     Robin snorted. "If you asked my dear wife to describe me, she would start by listing my financial holdings."
     Victoria was about to reply, when a knock on the door diverted her attention. She peered through the peep-hole.
     "Who is it?" Robin asked.
     She moved to unlock the bolt. "It's a little girl." Victoria opened the door. The child couldn't have been more than five years old, dressed in a periwinkle dress and black, patent-leather shoes.
     "Well, hello, sweetheart." Victoria perched to her eye-level. "Are you alright? Are you lost?"
     "Actually, Miss Morgan, she's right where she should be." A black, suede skirt stepped into Victoria's line of vision. "Eve's come to visit her father."
     Nicole tugged off her gloves one finger at a time, and looking straight through Victoria, addressed herself exclusively to Robin.
     "Surprise, darling."