Night Vision by Ellen Hart

door. “Need some help, ladies?”
    Under her breath, Cordelia muttered, “Drat. He must have been watching for us from one of his back windows.”
    â€œWho is he?” asked Joanna, her face turned away.
    â€œA pest,” said Cordelia. Turning to Milan with a bright, cheery smile, she said, “We can handle it, thanks.”
    â€œNo, no, I wouldn’t hear of it,” he said, rushing down the back steps. He wove his way through the parked cars and made straight for Joanna with his hand outstretched. “I’m glad your flight made it here safely. Milan Mestrovik. I live across the hall from Cordelia.”

    â€œNice to meet you,” said Joanna, allowing her hand to be pumped aggressively.
    â€œI’m your biggest fan,” said Milan, shading his eyes from the afternoon sun with his free hand.
    â€œThat’s … nice to hear,” said Joanna.
    â€œYou probably get that all the time, but in my case, it’s true.”
    Everyone smiled awkwardly.
    â€œWe met once before,” continued Milan, apparently oblivious to everything but his single-minded desire to talk to Joanna.
    â€œWe did? I’m sorry, I meet so many people—”
    â€œThat’s okay. It was in L.A. At a political benefit.”
    â€œRight,” said Joanna. “Right.”
    Still holding on to her hand, Milan said, “I first saw you in Cry of the Nightingale. You were stunning. But my favorite movie of yours is All the Kings of the Earth. You were beyond breathtaking in that one. You should have won the Academy Award.”
    â€œThanks. I thought so, too.”
    Jane had the distinct impression that the man was pulsating—vibrating like a tuning fork. In his double-breasted business suit, he looked like an Eastern European opera impresario. Barrel-chested. Dark bushy eyebrows. Heavy Slavic features. Dark goatee. Flamboyantly styled longish black hair that puffed over his ears like wings.
    â€œYou’re very kind to offer to help us with the luggage,” said Joanna.
    â€œI’ll take care of it all,” said Milan, finally releasing her hand. “Just head on upstairs. Don’t give it another thought.”
    Fifteen minutes later, true to his word—and thanks to the dolly he’d borrowed from Athena’s Garden—Joanna was all moved in.
    â€œI’d offer you something to drink but—” She smiled wistfully. She spread her arms to what she assumed was an empty kitchen. “Some water?”
    â€œAnother time,” said Milan, staring hard at her. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. “I’m single,” he blurted out, “not that that means anything, I suppose. I’m sure you have someone special waiting for you back in Idaho—or Hollywood. But if you’d allow me—”
He took one of her small hands in his big, meaty ones. “You are … so lovely.”
    Joanna blushed. Laughing, she said, “I’ll call you when I’m having a bad day.”
    â€œYou do that. Promise?”
    â€œYes,” she said. “I promise.”
    â€œI know you like wine. I read that in an interview you did with Redbook. Music to my ears.” He kissed his fingers. “Actually, I’m a wine wholesaler. I don’t mean to blow my own horn, but I’m an expert of some renown. If you’ll allow me, I’d like to send up a case of my finest, including some rare cognacs.”
    â€œI don’t know what to say,” said Joanna.
    â€œJust say yes,” said Milan, beaming at her.
    â€œWell, sure. I’d love it.”
    â€œDone. Expect the delivery this evening. Now, I know flying is tiring. I’ll leave you to rest. But I expect a full report on the wines—what you like, what you don’t like.”
    â€œOf course.”
    He kissed her hand. “And please,” he said, looking up at her with his puppy-dog eyes. “You’re always welcome