by Madelyn Alt
“Why didn’t you say so? I’ll go do that. Did you want some pie before I go?”
I smiled up at him. “I’ll wait until you get back.”
As I dug the prescription out of my purse and filled out the name and address info, he brought out a soft T-shirt nightgown and fuzzy robe.
I looked at him askance. “I hope those aren’t leftovers from an old girlfriend.”
He laughed at me. “Nope. Liss brought these over, too.”
“Oh. Well, okay, then.”
Marcus leaned in for a soft, lingering kiss. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
Chapter 14
I wish I could say that I sat up waiting for his return. That would have been the nice girlfriend thing to do. That’s actually what I meant to do. I waited until he was gone to struggle out of my clothes and into the nightie and robe, and then collapsed again into a heap on the bed. I didn’t want to peel back the coverlet—that would have disturbed the rose petals, and they were too pretty to do that. So instead I hopped over to snag a knit blanket from the chair in the corner, then hopped back to the bed, wrapping myself up like a cocoon against the air-conditioning, which was set altogether too low. Minnie apparently agreed with me. She wandered in at last, probably in search of her stuffed orange loverboy, but seemed excited to see me all the same. After a goodly amount of earlobe licking and hair chewing, she settled down into a furry black ball and purred herself to sleep in the crook of my arms.
I dreamed.
Or I thought I did. I roused slightly in the dark of the night with an urgent thought written on the fabric of my mind.
Jordan Everett.
And Steff.
But I couldn’t remember why, and in the end, it didn’t matter. I went back to sleep as suddenly as I’d come to.
The next thing I knew, it was morning and I had awakened to a bright light coming through the windows. The candles had been blown out at some point during the night, and the bottom half of the knit blanket had slipped upward from my feet and was now pooled around my bare knees. It had formed a perfect hammock for Minnie, who had stretched out on her back between my legs, all four feet up in the air and her white underbelly displayed shamelessly for all the world to see. The rose petal bit stuck to her nose completed the picture. She looked unbearably cute.
So did Marcus. He had draped his long body crossways on the big leather wingback chair I’d taken the blanket from, his arms crossed over his body in a way that made his biceps bulge most intriguingly and his head resting against the wing and looking none too comfortable. He still wore the jeans and T-shirt he’d been wearing at the hospital yesterday, but had removed the leather cord from his hair. It hung down across the sharper angles of his cheekbones and clung to his five o’clock shadow, just asking to be brushed aside.
No rose petals on him, though.
His eyelids fluttered, blinked open. “Hey,” he said. “You’re awake.”
I smiled. “You, too.”
“Am I?” He laughed and stretched his arms over his head.
“Erg, I’m getting too old for this. I think every muscle I own is complaining right now.”
I patted the bed beside me.
“You sure?” he asked. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I nodded, patting the bed again. Right now, just seeing him across the room was hurting me. I needed him closer. Muuuuch closer.
“Just a sec.”
He went into the bathroom for a minute—well, a few—and came back carrying a glass of water and my prescription, setting it on the table next to me. “You might need this.”
“Right now I just need you.”
The grin he flashed at me could only be described as lecherous as his gaze swept the full length of my body on the bed, sending sizzles to bits of me that most often go undescribed. He leaned a knee onto the bed and eased himself down with his hands until he lay beside me, facing me.
“Hi,” I said softly, riveted by his eyes.
“Hi back,” he returned, just as softly. He touched my cheek with his fingertips, just grazing my lips until they parted with my shallow breathing.
And then he swooped in to capture them, drawing me up close to his body. All thought left me in a rush. I could feel his heart thudding against the flat of my palm. My other hand was currently flung around his neck, holding on for dear life. His? Let’s just say they were playing Lewis and Clark, searching for hidden pathways to a known but elusive land of treasure and booty.
I mean, bounty.
All of that stopped abruptly when he yelped and sat upright.
A motion which knocked my propped leg abruptly off balance.
Fiery needles of pain shot up from my ankle as the heavy cast bounced off the mattress.
“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!”
Instantly contrite, Marcus sat back on his knees on the bed and gently lifted my casted ankle onto a pillow. “Oh jeez, I’m sorry, Maggie! I was afraid of something like that happening.”
“Ow. What was that all about?”
“It was Minnie,” he said, swearing. “She decided to use my back as a scratching post. Or maybe she was getting back at me for locking Garfield away in the closet, I don’t know. Are you okay?”
“I’ll live,” I said, gritting my teeth against the pinpricks, which were actually more like toothpicks. Or maybe ice picks.
“Here,” he said, pressing the glass of water and the bottle of pain medicine into my hands. “You’ll probably want this now.”
“Thanks.” I read the label, extricated one from beneath the wad of cotton, and popped it into my mouth, attempting out of habit to dry swallow it. It didn’t work. Instead, it got stuck on the back of my tongue, halfway down, and it tasted bad. Gagging, I took a gulp of water, and then another.
“Bleah,” I said when I could speak again. “Oh my gosh, that’s awful. Bleah. Ack.”
“Here,” Marcus said, pressing the glass up to my lips again. “Drink more.”
“What on earth do they put in these things?” I complained. The flavor was so awful that it filled my entire mouth, clinging to all moist surfaces (aka flippin’ E-V-E-R-Y W-H-E-R-E). I smacked my lips a few times, but it just wasn’t going away. “Yuck. I don’t know what’s worse: the pain or the taste.”
“Here, lie back down again. That’s right,” he said soothingly as I reclined back in his arms and he cradled me against his chest. He stroked my hair, my arms, over and over. “Just relax. Breathe. Let the pain go.”
It was better, and I knew it wasn’t because of the pill. Nowhere near enough time had passed that it could be taking effect that swiftly. It was the Marcus effect. As my muscles released the pain that had made them contract in protest, I grew brave and turned my face toward his neck and shoulder. Nuzzling. Breathing in his scent. Blowing his hair against his neck.
“Maggie?”
“Hmm?”
“You know, you’re going to have to stop that.”
I answered by pressing my lips to the spot just below his jawline where his pulse drummed visibly against his skin. But when I parted my lips and touched the tip of my tongue there, he swallowed once, hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively, then with a growl he lifted my chin and raised my mouth to his, pressing me back into the pillows in a way that said Excuse me, but I think I’ll have some of this, and yet somehow managing to keep his body angled away from my legs.
I don’t know how long we remained like that, locked together at the mouth, hands reaching, bodies humming. But pretty soon, something else was humming. And then the humming turned into buzzing. And then the buzzing into out-and-out bleeping.
Groaning, frustrated, Marcus reached behind himself and slammed his palm down on the Snooze button on the alarm clock. “Now, where were we?” He scooped me back into his arms for another deep, exploring kiss.
When his cell phone began tweedling away on the dresser top across the room, we both knew we were done for. Marcus lay back against the pillows a momen
t, scrubbed his palms up and down his cheeks a few times, all the while muttering under his breath.
I started to laugh. I couldn’t help it. “I don’t think any spells are going to bring it back at this point, you know.”
“I wasn’t spelling. I would have, if I thought it would work in this situation.”
“More cinnamon, maybe,” I teased. “Or maybe more roses. At least they smell nice. Did you put garnets under the mattress? Patchouli in the candle flames?”
Still frustrated, he brushed aside my teasing. “Didn’t Liss tell you? They’re just mood setters without the real magick.”
“Oh? And which part is the real magick?”
He wouldn’t say. He just sat on the foot of the bed, deep breathing and working hard at releasing all the pent-up energy.
Men. They really are from Mars, sometimes.
Getting to his feet, he snatched up his phone from the dresser. “Yeah. Hang on. I’ll call you right back.”
“What time is it?” I asked, shifting myself around against the pillows so that I could see the alarm clock. Oh, Holy, Jesus. “Is this thing right?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Why? “It’s eight thirty.”
“Right.”
“The store opens at nine thirty.”
“Yeah. And?”
“It’s Saturday!”
“I repeat: And?”
I scooted on my rear end over to the edge of the bed and retied the belt of the robe around my waist. The crutches were all the way over by the door. How on earth had they gotten there? Marcus must have moved them. Probably to ensure that I didn’t attempt the bathroom without his help. “Saturday’s our busiest day at the store,” I told him, fretting. “Liss needs help. My help. Can you hand me my crutches, please?”
“That depends. What do you think you’re going to do with them?”
I blinked at him. “Well, I think I’m going to go to the bathroom and wash up. You know. Get ready to go?”
“Well, hang tight. You haven’t eaten in, what, two days?”
I thought back. “Friday night, Friday morning, Thursday evening. Um, yes, that’s about right.”
“And you just broke your ankle yesterday.”
“Right again. The crutches?”
“Maggie, you’re not going to make it in by nine thirty.”
“Well, I might be a little behind, but I’ve got an hour if we hurry.”
Instead of handing me the crutches, he went back over to the dresser and picked up his phone, quickly punching in a number. Patently ignoring me, mind you. “Hi, Liss. It’s me. Sorry about that, I needed a minute. Yes, she’s up. Yes, she’s being a handful. No, that’s okay. I’ll take care of it. We’ll see you in a bit. Gotcha. Bye.”
I raised my brows. “And what was that all about?”
“That,” he said bluntly, “was all about you taking care of yourself and not hurrying into the store just to get there before the front door is unlocked. That was about you taking the time to eat some breakfast, allow your pain meds to kick in, and be sure you’re not going to topple over on those crutches out of sheer exhaustion.”
I just stared at him. “You really are cranky, aren’t you?”
Shaking his head and muttering under his breath again, Marcus stalked out of the room. I heard him clanging pots and pans together in the kitchen a moment later.
Mars. Definitely. Or maybe even a little farther out. Like Pluto.
Breakfast wasn’t such a bad idea, I decided as I finished off the last bite of a cheese and tomato omelet, cooked to perfection by my genius-in-the-kitchen boyfriend.
“Yummy,” I told him, flashing him what I hoped was my prettiest smile. “Thank you. You are good at that.”
Minor ego strokes and honest gratitude. Very important to the male of the species.
“You’re welcome.” His mood was softening. Time and a hearty breakfast can assuage all overextended libidos. At least for a time. And then: “That’s not the only thing I’m good at, you know.”
I smiled. Softening, but not completely over it. Not yet.
But over it enough to help me in the bathroom. A shower was out of the question—I didn’t have the time nor the expertise with the yellow lump encasing my ankle at present to manage it—but Marcus helped me with towels as I cleaned up as well as I could. My hair I twisted up into one of my uber-handy clips, letting the mass of waves poof out from the top in a springy high pony. The only makeup in my purse was a small tube of moisturizer, an eye pencil, and a combo lip-and-cheek pencil in a pretty poppy shade, but I made do with what I had, and actually? I didn’t think I looked half bad. Spartan, sure, but fresh and clean.
After that, it was back into my wrinkly clothes from yesterday. Or was it the day before? It couldn’t be helped. Maybe I could beg Steff to run down to my apartment to pack a bag for me and bring it to the store.
“Very pretty,” Marcus said as I swing-hopped my way out of the bathroom at last.
I preened for him and blew him a kiss as he headed for the bathroom himself.
“Oh no. None of that for you now. You missed your chance for today.”
“Darn,” I said. “Well, I guess later today is out of the question then, hm?”
“Well, let’s not be too hasty . . .”
My purse was on the bed. I made my way carefully there and sat down to grab my cell phone from the riot of stuff in its depths. As usual, the silly thing hid from me, so I ended up pulling things out until I found it. One of those things was the pale blue identification card that Frannie Watkins had dropped. “I almost forgot about this. I’ll give her a call.”
“Goo’ i’ea,” Marcus said around a mouthful of toothpaste.
I pulled my cell phone out at last . . . only to find it dead as a doornail. I had completely forgotten about charging it last night. Luckily I still had my charger in my purse with me, so I pulled it out and reached over behind the nightstand to plug it in. I powered up my phone.
1 New Voice Mail Message
The voice on the message was unmistakably my mother’s. Nothing new in that. Eight out of ten voice mail messages did stem from my mother. But what was new was the tone of her voice. For the second time in three days, she sounded . . . worried.
“Maggie, this is Mom. I don’t know how to tell you this, but we are in trouble again. Greg did not go home to the girls last night. Margo Craig called me this morning to let me know and to ask me where he might be. She was not happy to have been taken advantage of so callously, but she has agreed to keep the girls with her today while we try to locate him. I have a call into the office, but he’s not there, either. I just don’t know what to do. Call me when you get this message.”
Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa. This was big. This was weird. This was totally and completely unexpected.
What. On. Earth?
I glanced over at Marcus, who was now standing in the doorway to the bathroom with his toothbrush parked in his foamy mouth frowning at me. He’d heard every word. I bit my lip. What to do? I knew I should have talked to Mel yesterday. Something had been wrong, something she was ignoring. I just didn’t know what it was, and with Margo and Jane there, there was no way that I could have broached the subject. But I should have, somehow. I should have made her talk to me.
I couldn’t help wondering what she was going through right now, alone at the hospital with two new babies, away from her girls, and with a husband who had gone missing.
And then there was Steff and the sudden distance between her and Dr. Dan.
And Frannie Watkins and the mystery man she had been arguing with that night, and the strange haunted look in her eyes before she’d left the hospital.
And Jordan Everett. Yet another Stony Miller taken too young.
And the whole elevator intrigue . . . which still troubled me, even though it seemed unlikely that the two deaths that had actually taken place that night in the hospital were connected to what I’d overheard. But did that mean there was still danger out there
for someone? Somewhere?
Was the whole world in the process of going crazy? Was that it? Would I wake up tomorrow to find my mom and dad separating, or Grandpa G suddenly sporting hoop skirts and singing show tunes from his hoverchair?
Never mind about that last one. Grandpa G had a wacky sense of humor—I wouldn’t put it past him.
The bassinet card stared up at me from the comforter, which still had wilted and crumpled rose petals all over it. What a sad end to a beautiful thought and effort. Sigh. I picked up the card. Harrison Michael Watkins, it read. Male, Weight: Eight pounds, six ounces. Ouch. Height: Twenty inches. Head circumference: Thirteen inches. Double ouch. Blood Type: 0 Negative. And there beside it all was the most adorable baby footprint in ink, with its five pearl-perfect toes.
“Marcus?”
From the now-closed bathroom door drifted, “Hm?”
“Do you have a phone book handy?”
“Bed stand. In the drawer.”
Sliding my way up the bed, I reached into the drawer and pulled out the phone book. I flipped through it toward the end of the alphabet. “Watkins, Watkins. Here we go. Abraham Watkins. Clarence. Eleanor. Fritz and Frieda.” That one made me smile. “George and Wanda. Ah. Harold and Joyce Watkins, and Harry Jr. and Frannie Watkins. Bingo.”
Harry Jr. and Frannie Watkins, 111369 Mount Holyoke Rd, Stony Mill, 555-4242.
I dialed the number and waited while it rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.
Five.
Hm.
When it reached the tenth ring, I figured I’d better give it up and try back later. Obviously no one was home, or else they just weren’t answering.
Marcus hurried up his clean routine, rushing through a quickie shower and shaving off the dark beard that had made him look very dangerous and pirate-y. He emerged five minutes later, bare chested with a damp towel slung low on his hips, and quickly rummaged through his closet to come up with some fresh jeans, a clean shirt, and his favorite chunky boots. I had done a double-take the minute he walked out of the bathroom and now found myself watching his every move through the room, instantly distracted from the day’s early morning dramas.