My Only Vice

“I had it on my Christmas list last year,” Alice continued as she watched the vibrator do its thing. “But the demand has been so high since it hit the market that it’s been impossible to find. Especially in this color.” Her voice softening, she looked at her husband and added, “Oh, Donnie. You do still love me. Wherever did you find it?”

And with that, she tucked herself under Don’s now-freed arm and snuggled against him with such obvious, unmitigated love that Rosie couldn’t help but smile. Wow. Someday, she hoped she’d find a guy like Don. Only without the comb-over and the green Clover Mart jacket. One who would understand her needs and desires and do his best to fulfill them while loving her to distraction.

Inevitably, her gaze wandered to Sam, and she saw that he was watching the Xtacy 3000 intently. But he didn’t look in any way turned-on, the way the women in the group did, Rosie couldn’t help thinking. Instead, he was looking at it as if he were wondering what kind of addition it would be to his Craftsman tool collection.

Men. They just couldn’t see the erotic side of machinery. She wondered what he’d say if she told him how many women had discovered dual uses for everything from hand mixers to washing machines. Or was it just Rosie who had discovered dual uses for stuff like that…?

Sam watched warily for a moment as Alice and Don continued to snuggle, then his expression softened. Well, okay, maybe softened was a little too extreme a word to use, since what his expression actually did was…um…become less hard. Then he lifted a hand to the back of his neck and rubbed it in that way men did when they were a little uncomfortable about something.

He asked, “So, Alice, does this mean you won’t need me to include your house and studio on my daily rounds anymore?”

For a minute, Rosie didn’t think Alice had heard the question, but then she turned a distracted gaze to Sam, as if she only now remembered where she was and what was going on. She seemed to remember then, too, how she’d been mad at Don for weeks, because she pushed herself away from him and fisted her hands on her hips again, making a halfhearted attempt to look angry.

But the resentment in her voice was clearly forced when she said, “Well, Don and I have a lot to talk about. Just because he brought me a gift doesn’t mean all is forgiven.”

Hah, Rosie thought with a smile. That wasn’t just any gift.

“But no, Chief,” Alice told him, “you don’t have to stop by anymore. For now,” she added with a chilly look at Don…which inevitably turned into a warm smile.

Sam dropped his hand back to his side and nodded, then turned to go. He first strode past the line of women, including Rosie, without looking at any of them. But as he gripped the handle of the studio door, he pivoted back around and met her gaze levelly with his own. “I’m sorry about sacking you the way I did,” he told her.

Well, that made one of them, Rosie thought.

“I was aiming for Don,” he added. “Then you stepped in front of him, and…” His voice trailed off, since it really wasn’t necessary to say anything more.

She started to tell him it was okay, that his sacking her had in fact been the closest thing she’d had to a sexual encounter with a living, breathing man in a long time, and could they possibly get together for another sacking sometime soon? But she checked herself after a simple, “That’s okay.”

He started to turn around again, but halted, clearly wanting to say something he wasn’t sure how to say. Finally, though, his gaze ricocheting now from Rosie’s face to the wall behind her, he asked, “How do you know it can be a stick of dynamite in the right hands?”

In lieu of a response, Rosie waited until he was looking at her again, then she lifted both hands and wiggled her fingers at him.

He arched his brows again, and she watched to see if he would blush as he had before. He didn’t. But his dark eyes grew darker, and his lips parted fractionally, as if he suddenly needed more air. He didn’t say anything else after that, only spun around again and made his way out of the studio. Rosie’s gaze fell to his rump as he went, then climbed to those broad shoulders straining at the seams of his white cop shirt. She remembered how happy he’d been to see her when he was lying on top of her.

And, just like that, all thoughts of the Xtacy 3000 were gone.

2

ONE THING ABOUT small-town Northaven that hadn’t surprised Sam was its police station. Nestled at the center of Main Street in what was called the town’s historic quarter, it was housed in a restored brick-front building that hosted several small businesses—one of which just happened to be Rosie Bliss’s flower shop, Kabloom, three doors down. The walkway outside was cobbled, of course; the windows were paned, naturally; and the interior could only be described as quaint, a word Sam normally, manfully, avoided.

But there was no other term to capture the mood of the hardwood floors and plaster walls painted what Vicky, their dispatcher, called Wedgwood blue. Whatever the hell that was. The desks—all three of them—were antique monstrosities that could comfortably serve dinner for twelve, and the chairs were spindled wooden numbers that creaked comfortably whenever anyone sat down. In fact, the creaking of chairs and floors made up the bulk of the sounds in the place, interrupted only by the soft strains of music from the radio, which Vicky kept tuned to a light jazz station.

It was nothing like the soulless cinder block and dented metal and cracked plastic of Sam’s Boston precinct. And the stench of too many unwashed perps and overworked cops had been replaced by freshly baked bread from Barb’s Bohemian Bakery next door. Also absent was the constant ringing of phones, the whining and jeering of the hookers and pushers in the cages, and the free-flowing profanity of his colleagues. Sam, like his two full-time deputies and the half-dozen volunteer deputies who visited the precinct from time to time, had learned to watch his language, because Vicky fined anyone who swore within her hearing a dollar for every inappropriate word used. Then she donated the money to the Northaven Free Public Library.

The new Maguire Browsing Collection was named after Sam, since the bulk of his first year’s paychecks had gone to Vicky.

As different as his life in Northaven was, however, he wouldn’t go back to Boston for a million bucks. He might never quite get used to living here, but he liked it. A lot. It appealed to that thing inside him that had made him become a cop to begin with—a belief that decency and goodness did exist in the world. In Boston, he’d begun to think that was only a fantasy. But it was true in places like Northaven, places that needed to be protected at all costs. So Sam would do his best to keep the small town and all its residents safe from outside corruption. Of course, now that he knew women like Alice Stuckey and Rosie Bliss—and the handful of other women in the morning aerobics class—were all vibrator enthusiasts….

He gave his head a hard shake as he pushed open the door to the precinct, in the hopes that doing so would chase away the image of Rosie, buck naked and flat on her back, legs spread wide and hips thrusting upward as she did things to herself with that vibrator he’d much rather be doing to her himself.

He bit back a groan as he strode into the precinct, hoping Vicky didn’t notice he had a woody at half-mast. But she had her dark blond head bent over a book, as she usually did during non-crime-spree times—which was pretty much always. To add a bit of color to her dispatcher’s uniform of white shirt and brown pants, she regularly added a sweater in a different color. Today’s was red. It matched the scrap of fabric she’d used to pull her curly hair back into a stubby ponytail.

“Any calls?” Sam asked as he hurried past her desk, trying to keep his back to her and his woody to himself.

“Only one for you specifically,” she told him. She turned in her chair to look at him as he seated himself at his desk. “From Ed Dinwiddie at campus security. Again.”

“The usual?” Sam asked.

“The usual,” Vicky confirmed. “He’s still sure there’s someone selling drugs at Northaven College, and he wants to coordinate with you on an investigation and possible stakeout.”

Sam didn’t bother to hide his groan this time, since it was one of regular frustration, and not the sexual kind. Ed Dinwiddie, the chief of security at Northaven College, had been sure someone was peddling drugs on campus since before Sam’s arrival in town. At first, Sam had taken the other man’s suspicions seriously, because he hadn’t had any reason not to. But a brief investigation had produced nothing but Ed’s overactive imagination to support the existence of anything narcotic going on at Northaven—save a lot of caffeine abuse and OD’ing on Green Day around midterm and finals time. Then, when Bruno and Dalton, Sam’s two full-time deputies, had assured Sam there was nothing out of the ordinary going on because they’d investigated it themselves a time or two, Sam had let the matter drop.

Ed, however, hadn’t.

He sent monthly reports to Sam describing in detail his suspicions and everything that made him suspicious. The problem was that Ed Dinwiddie found suspicious anything from what he considered incriminating dialogue between students—which consisted largely of slang words for coffee and oral sex—to what he was sure was drug paraphernalia—even though the last bit of “paraphernalia” Ed had found turned out to be a popcorn popper. He also made regular monthly calls to Sam to “coordinate” an investigation. Sam had tried to be polite, but he’d never been known for his patience, and what little he had was beginning to wear thin.

“Does Ed have any additional evidence this time to support his suspicions?” Sam asked Vicky wearily, already sure of the answer.

“It’s more paraphernalia this month,” she said.

“Though what he described to me sounds a lot like the rhinestone- and stud-setter I got for my twelfth birthday thirty years ago.”

Sam grunted in resignation. “Yeah, I hear those things are making a comeback.”

“There was one thing Ed had this time, though, that was a little out of the ordinary,” Vicky added, voicing the revelation with clear glee. Her green eyes fairly sparkled with mischief. “Something he’s for sure never mentioned having before.”

“What’s that?” Sam asked with much disinterest, reaching for the small stack of mail perched near the edge of his desk.

“Well, I don’t know where or how he came by the information,” Vicky said, “but this time, Ed told me he’s got himself a bona fide suspect who he’s absolutely positive is selling drugs to the Northaven students.” When Sam glanced up, she smiled and wiggled her eyebrows in way that was far more playful than it was concerned. “And, Sam, this time, Ed even gave me a name.”

“ROSIE, YOU HAVE TO help me. You have what he needs. And if he doesn’t get it soon, he’s going to die. And if he dies, I’ll die. I need for him to be at his best. And he can’t be at his best without it.”

Behind the counter of her flower shop, Rosie rolled her eyes at the young woman and sighed. College girls. Such drama. Such pathos. Everybody was always going to die over something. Shannon Eckert was no different. The dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty on the other side of the counter was relentlessly thin, her cropped purple sweater riding high above her low-slung blue jeans to reveal a dangling rhinestone palm tree that winked from her navel. Her hair was tucked behind ears that boasted another half-dozen piercings, and a wreath of roses was tattooed around one wrist.

Rosie’s own appearance paled by comparison—and not just because of her fairer features, either. The only body parts that were pierced on her own person these days were her eardrums—thanks in large part to Shannon’s shrieking just now—and she’d had the circled A tattoo above her ankle—the symbol for anarchy—surgically buffed away years ago. Her attire consisted of a crinkly emerald skirt shot through with threads of silver, and a loose-fitting white tunic she’d cinched with a macramé belt.

Had someone told her fifteen years ago that she would be dressing like a gypsy and selling flowers for a living, Rosie would have laughed in that person’s face. Back then, she’d worn all black, all the time, right down to the heavy kohl around her eyes and the polish on her fingernails. She’d even dyed her hair black. In fact, it wasn’t until she’d gone back to her natural color a few years ago that she’d realized she’d gone from the carrot orange of her childhood to a more sophisticated dark auburn.

She’d been one crazy, mixed-up kid when she was a teenager, no two ways about it. Mixed-up to a point that had earned her more trouble than any teenager deserved—or could handle. She’d come a long way since South Beach. And she never, ever, wanted to go back. Not even if it wouldn’t put her life in danger to do so.

“I’m serious,” Shannon continued, tugging Rosie back to the present, where she would much rather be. “He’s getting shaky, he’s gone so long without it.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Rosie said without concern. Somehow, she suspected Shannon was actually the shaky one. “And just how long has it been, Shannon? A day? Two?”

“Three!” the girl fairly screamed. “It’s been three days! You’ve got to help! You’ve got to give me more of that stuff!”

Rosie shook her head. “Three days, huh? Wow. Must be hell.”

“It is!” Shannon cried.

“Fine,” Rosie said, finally capitulating.

She went to the back of her shop and opened the cabinet where she kept her special orders. From the middle shelf, she withdrew an oversize basket that held an assortment of small fabric pouches. Each was filled with a substance that had become extremely popular among the upper classmen at little Northaven College, to the point where they had even developed a slang name for it—Rapture. Many even swore they were hooked on it for life. To Rosie, such monikers and claims were a little over-the-top. What the pouches held was simply a sideline to her business, one she was keeping under wraps for two reasons.

Number one, she honestly wasn’t sure what the reaction and reception to her products would be outside her clientele list. Aphrodisiacs weren’t exactly a commonplace commercial product, and anything that was even remotely sexual in nature was often viewed in a less than positive light. At best, her products might be snickered at if Rosie advertised them, and at worst, they might fall under suspicion. The citizens of Northaven—at least the ones who purchased her special orders—were surprisingly open-minded about the herbal aphrodisiac teas she blended for them. But it was still a small town in New England, with its Puritan sensibilities, and Rosie preferred to err on the side of caution.

Her second reason for not advertising her aphrodisiac teas was the same reason she didn’t much advertise the floral side of her business. Maintaining a low profile was essential to Rosie’s well-being. Hell, it was essential to her very life. Her aphrodisiacs were very effective, and they were the sort of thing that might even potentially achieve cult status popularity among the university or online crowd. Worst-case scenario, it was possible she could see some press for them. Even locally, that could be disastrous. The last thing she needed or wanted was to draw attention to herself. When she’d been in the spotlight before, she’d nearly ended up dead. So, like everything else in her world, Rosie kept the aphrodisiacs under wraps and relied on referrals and word of mouth to promote them.

So far, so good.

Now she fished a pouch bearing Shannon’s name out of the basket before replacing the rest of the assortment in the cabinet. Then she returned to the front of the store where her client stood fairly humming with anticipation. Rosie extended the fabric bag toward the young woman, who immediately made a grab for it. But she snatched it back before Shannon could claim it.

“Go easy on this stuff,” she cautioned the girl. “There’s more to college than partying, you know. You need to get an education in there somewhere.”

Shannon nodded impatiently. “It’s not for me,” she told Rosie. “It’s for Devin.”

“Sure it is,” Rosie said. She’d heard that one before. All the girls said they were buying it for their boyfriends, that the guys were the ones who really needed it. But Rosie knew the women enjoyed the results just as much as their menfolk—probably more.

Shannon dug into her pocket for a rumpled bill and handed it to Rosie, who then reluctantly handed over the pouch. “I mean it, Shannon,” she said as she released it. “I know classes just started up again a month ago, but you need to focus on your studies, not Devin.”

Shannon nodded again, more slowly this time, seeming to feel a little calmer now that she had what she’d come for. “I know,” she said. “I’m totally focused on my studies, honest. But Devin is so fine, and I want to be with him. I want him to be happy. And I want to be happy, too.” She smiled and leaned in a little, lowering her voice some as she added, “We’re getting married next summer after graduation, did I tell you?”

Rosie smiled back. “No, you didn’t,” she said, genuinely delighted to hear the news. “Congratulations. That’s great. How long have you two been together?”

“Since high school,” Shannon told her, sounding almost bashful now. She held up the fabric pouch Rosie had just handed her. “Maybe you can give me a lifetime supply of this for my wedding present, huh?”

Rosie shook her head. “Not a chance. You won’t need that once you’re married.”

Shannon expelled a dubious sound. “Are you kidding? That’s when I’ll need it the most.”

Rosie shook her head again. “I’m sure it’s just the pressures of college that are making Devin…you know.”

Shannon made a wistful sound now. “I hope you’re right,” she said. She fiddled with the pouch again. “I guess it would be pretty bad to have to rely on this stuff for the rest of our lives, wouldn’t it?”

“You won’t need it,” Rosie assured her. “You guys will be fine.”

Shannon eyed her thoughtfully for a moment. “As long as you’re here for now,” she said, “supplying us with what we need. Thanks, Rosie.” And with that, she spun on her heel and left the store.

Kids, Rosie thought, ignoring the fact that there was barely a decade between her and Shannon’s age. Some people grew up a lot faster than others. And Rosie should know. She hadn’t been a kid since… Well. She hadn’t even been a kid when she was a kid.

Before more thoughts of the past could put her into a less-than-cheerful mood, she pushed them to the very back of her brain, where she relegated all the things that threatened to stain the picture-perfect life she was trying to paint for herself in Northaven. She’d struggled through a lot to get where she was, dammit. She was a survivor in the strictest sense of the word. She’d worked hard to achieve a fragile kind of satisfaction—with her life and herself—that she wouldn’t mess with for anything. And she was still working hard, still trying to move forward. Even if Kabloom wasn’t a booming success, she was still turning a profit at the end of every month.

Okay, so maybe she hadn’t shown the best judgment, opening a florist and organic gardening shop in a town that catered to young, carefree students who didn’t give a second—or even first—thought to such things. But there were only a handful of florists in the entire county—and none in Northaven proper—so when someone did need flowers, they called Kabloom to order them.

Besides, her aphrodisiac business had begun to flourish over the past six months, even though she hadn’t gone out of her way to advertise it. And that was a direct result of living in a college town. Rosie hadn’t consciously considered the benefits of that, but the college atmosphere here did foster a culture of more tolerance—and even enthusiasm—about her products. She was grateful to the campus crowd for taking such an interest. Word of mouth alone had been phenomenal.

It had even traveled beyond campus. She had clients now who were scions of the community. You really couldn’t judge a book by its cover. Or even the mayor of Northaven, since she was one of Rosie’s biggest customers.

Rosie sighed as she looked around her shop. Her empty shop. Her empty shop that was empty most of the time—save those busy lunchtimes when so many Northaven students came in to pick up their special orders. Rosie hadn’t even had to hire another employee, since she kept only daytime hours. Save a handful of feminine holidays like Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day, any traffic she saw in the shop was sporadic. When she’d come to Northaven two years ago after everything went to hell in Boulder, she’d had hopes for building her business a little faster, but at this rate… Well, thank goodness people here died on a regular basis, so at least she had the funeral orders.

And that, more than anything, told Rosie she couldn’t afford to skimp on the aphrodisiac side of the business. Because, call her crazy, being grateful for the death of one’s neighbors did not seem like a sound business plan. In fact, it seemed kinda ooky.

Her gaze strayed to the back of the shop and fell on the cabinet from which she had just pulled Shannon’s special order. Maybe, if she was very, very careful, she could expand a little bit on her aphrodisiacs. Start looking into other preparations that might have the same effect as the teas she blended for her customers. Incense, maybe. Massage oils. Candies. As long as Rosie stayed behind the scenes herself and never became a public persona, she shouldn’t have any problems. That had been what caused the trouble in Boulder. Putting a public face onto her work.

Yeah, maybe she should start focusing a little more of her professional efforts where they would turn the greatest profit, even if that profitable area wasn’t exactly—to some people’s way of thinking anyway—conventional. There had been a time in the nation’s history, after all, when a respectable woman couldn’t even buy a cocktail legally. These days, you’d be hard pressed to find a social gathering where someone wasn’t drinking. A few years from now, what Rosie was selling from that cabinet might very well be the centerpiece at every party. Why shouldn’t she be the front-runner as a supplier?

Hey, who was there in Northaven to say she couldn’t?

SAM CURBED HIS IMPULSE to flee as he folded himself into the chair before Ed Dinwiddie’s desk at the Northaven College Campus Security Office. Although the college could have been the poster child for New England Liberal Arts schools right down to its pillared entrances and ivy-encrusted brick walls, the decor of campus security was nowhere close to the quaintness of the Northaven police station. In fact, Ed’s office had a lot in common with Sam’s Boston precinct, and somehow Sam got the feeling it was because Ed wanted it that way to make himself feel more like a real, live cop.

His desk was a scarred, ugly gray metal thing, his chair a beat-up number upholstered with cheap soiled fabric and wheels that cried out in pain when Ed settled his ample frame into it. The only decorations on the grayish-white walls were framed awards of dubious origin with Ed’s name emblazoned on them, and a handful of eight-by-tens of Ed shaking hands with people, most of whom Sam recognized as members of the Northaven Chamber of Commerce. It was all Ed, all the time, and it was more than a little creepy.

“Vicky tells me you have a suspect in the campus narcotics traffic,” Sam said to open the conversation, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible. He didn’t bother to point out that there was no actual proof of any campus narcotics traffic. Ed would have just taken ten minutes to insist otherwise.

“I do,” Ed told him. “Rosie Bliss.”

Wow. Sam hadn’t thought it could sound any more ridiculous a second time, but coming from Ed’s mouth, the suggestion that Rosie was peddling dope sounded even sillier than when Vicky had said it. And Vicky had been laughing hysterically at the time.

“Rosie Bliss,” Sam echoed, swallowing the hysterical laughter he felt threatening himself.