Not Quite an Angel by Bobby Hutchinson

sadness in her eyes. Do you know her, or do security for her?”
    Adam had a sinking feeling in his gut. He’d actually started to think they’d get through an entire evening without her going bonkers on him again, but that was obviously too much to hope for. He sighed and did his best to retain some semblance of sanity in the conversation. “Marilyn Monroe is dead, Sameh. She’s been dead for years now. Lately she’s become a sort of cult figure and she seems to be even more popular now than when she was alive.”
    Sameh nodded, and her mass of bright curls glimmered in the rainbow of neon lights lining the Strip. “That happens with us, too, that people become more popular after they die than when they’re alive. Not for sexual reasons, though.We have total equality. Women are no longer viewed as sex objects.”
    Here it was again, this division she made between his world and this…this other place she considered hers. Damn, he’d been hoping none of this stuff would come up tonight, and it hadn’t, until now.
    They’d just finished an enjoyable dinner at Luigi’s, one of his favorite restaurants. A small, unpretentious Italian place in Westwood, it served the best linguine around. Sameh had asked questions about his work, and maybe he’d gone on a bit too long about Blue Knights, now that he thought about it. But he’d tried to be amusing and she’d laughed a lot. She’d hardly spilled a thing.
    He discovered he loved making her laugh. She had a contagious giggle that made everyone in their vicinity smile.
    He’d ordered a bottle of good wine and feasted his eyes on her as they talked and ate. She’d gotten sauce on her full bottom lip, and all he could think of was how it would feel to lick it off. Two tiny drops of wine had dripped from the edge of her glass, landing just where her breasts swelled at the neck of her dress…two tiny intriguing red dots on a sea of golden skin. He’d thought about that skin extending all the way down, over full and luscious breasts, flat stomach…
    He’d forced himself to look only at her face, her eyes. He’d forced himself to concentrate on whatever the hell they were saying. Damn but she was desirable.
    She’d seemed to bring the California sunshine with her into the dim restaurant. He’d caught the hungry stares she attracted from other men, and sent back silent, lethal warnings of his own, one murderous glare usually enough to make them flush and look away.
    He was amazed that she aroused such powerful jealousy in him. He couldn’t remember feeling so jealous over a woman in a long time—it was all too often the other wayaround. Even in a city noted for beautiful women, Sameh drew attention, especially wearing this simple blue thing she had on tonight. It bared her long, shapely legs and veed in the front to reveal that tantalizing glimpse of creamy cleavage. It drew tight around her rear when she walked. It was definitely Adam’s kind of dress, and the woman wearing it tantalized and intrigued him—when she wasn’t driving him batty, like now.
    â€œHow old were you when this Marilyn Monroe died, Adam?”
    She wasn’t going to let up on it. “Six. No, seven.” He tucked her hand in his as they strolled, watching the tourists and the regulars. Without consciously thinking about it, he kept a careful eye out for the crazies who frequented this famous boulevard, making sure his body was between them and Sameh as they ambled past, muttering to themselves.
    Sameh looked at each of them with intensity, frowning to herself, but she didn’t comment. A family went past—mother, father, two young children—and Sameh waved her hand at them. The kids grinned and waved back, and she said, “Delilah and the others were talking about their childhoods today at lunch. What was yours like, Adam?”
    â€œOh, the usual. Ordinary. Boarding