by Curry, Edna
“You look fine.” The amused voice of the professor she’d met earlier drawled. He had evidently regained his good humor.
“Thank you,” she returned primly, putting the brush and mirror back into her purse and closing it with a snap. “All finished with your research already?”
“I changed my mind about doing it. I’m sure you did enough for both of us.”
“Oh, Professor,” Carol called, riding down the escalator and waving a notebook at them. “You forgot this.”
“Thanks, Carol.” He stepped over to take the notebook.
“You’re welcome. ‘Bye again, Lacey,” and Carol rode back up.
So, he really was a professor, and Carol knew him. He had a cultured, civilized air about him that seemed to preclude violence. She couldn’t imagine him as a criminal, and was surprised to realize that she no longer distrusted him.
“Waiting for a ride?”
“Cab.”
“Come on. I’ll drop you off.”
The nerve of the man. She stepped back as he reached out to take her arm. “Certainly not,” she said. “I don’t know you.”
He sighed. “Of course not, Miss Summers,” he said, his sensuous lips curling at her derisively. “We both just happened to look up the same two obscure artists for the same crotchety old man on the same night at the same library. How dumb do you think I am? Matchmaking is a favorite game of most of my colleagues. I’ve learned to spot it a mile away. Now, come on. Henry would never forgive me if I let you wander around alone in the dark in this neighborhood.”
He took her arm firmly and propelled her out the door toward the parking lot. She gasped and opened her mouth to scream, and then closed it again without making a sound.
He must know Uncle Henry, or he wouldn’t know his name, or mine, she told herself as she tried to match his speed by taking two quick short steps to one of his long strides. She hadn’t told him her name. She had used Henry’s name, but how did he know hers?
Had Carol told him? Or had it been on her notebook? she wondered frantically. It was too dark now to look at her notebook, and she couldn’t remember whether her name was on it. She eyed his grim, yet ruggedly attractive profile surreptitiously, beginning to get nervous again.
He stopped beside a small maroon Oldsmobile and unlocked the door on the passenger side, still gripping her arm with his left hand. As the interior light came on, she noted it looked new, and had spotless white upholstery. She glanced at him curiously, impressed, yet still cautious.
He seated her, slammed the door, and walked around to get behind the wheel. The motor purred at the first turn of his key, and the car moved off with a smooth gliding effort.
“Where to?”
She jumped at his question as he paused at the street, looking to her for direction. Somehow she’d expected him to know that too. She swallowed a laugh at herself, gave him the address, and said nothing as he drove through the now light traffic, still wondering just who he was.
She eyed him dubiously, her stomach still in a knot, yet now with a different note to its quivering. With a shock of dismay, she realized it was definitely a note of attraction for this man.
He obviously knew Uncle Henry and seemed to think either she or Uncle Henry had planned for them to meet at the library tonight. What an idea. As if she needed a matchmaker to set up dates for her. Or could she have met him at some time? He must think she had if he thought she had engineered their meeting tonight. Had she been in one of his classes or a seminar, perhaps? No, she was sure she would have remembered him if she had. A tremor of awareness slid through her.
“Look, whatever you think, I don’t know you,” she tried again. “Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m a good friend of Henry Schmidt. Card playing buddy, you might say.”
Was that only a good guess? Most older single men played cards, didn’t they? “Really? What game do you usually play?” she asked. That would trap him, if he really didn’t know Henry. Uncle Henry and a small group of his buddies were the only people she knew who played an obscure German card game called Schoptscopht, or Sheephead. He’d never guess it.
He tossed her an odd questioning glance, then his mouth twisted in a wry smile. “He plays a mean game of Schoptscopht. Talks about you a lot, too, though I didn’t really expect him to pull anything like this. Or was it just your idea?”
She swallowed the lump in her throat, relaxing now. He knew Uncle Henry all right. He’d even used the correct German pronunciation. Her fear was dissolving but her anger at his attitude was rising. She glanced at his rugged profile sharply.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t do anything except look for the information he wanted, whatever you choose to believe. I don’t need to set up blind dates to meet men.”
“No, I wouldn’t think so. That’s what doesn’t make sense.” He took his eyes off the traffic and let his gaze slide over her. There was a gleam of speculation in them, making her glad she worked out regularly to stay trim.
He turned back to watch the traffic, and she could think of no suitable reply. Apparently he was convinced she already knew who he was and was lying to him, though for what reason, she couldn’t possibly imagine.
She was surprised to find that for the first time in years, what a man thought of her mattered.
They passed a drive-in and the smell of hamburgers and French fries reminded her how long it had been since lunch. Her stomach growled audibly.
He glanced at her and grinned. “How about a late night snack? There’s a coffee shop up ahead.”
She nodded, then shook her head, remembering she had no money with her. Would he expect to go Dutch?
“Still don’t trust me?”
“It’s not that,” she protested, feeling her cheeks grow hot. “I don’t have any money with me. I’ll have to stop at an ATM machine first.”
“When I ask a girl out to eat, I don’t expect her to pay the bill,” he said, looking offended.
“Sorry.” But I’d rather be embarrassed now than later.
A few minutes later he pulled up near a large hotel. She glanced at him questioningly and he said, “They have the best food in this neighborhood.”
She nodded, feeling foolish again.
As he took her arm, the warmth of his hand sent a tingle of awareness through her. They walked together across the thick red carpet of the ornate hotel lobby. It was quiet this late at night, and the desk clerk barely glanced at them as they went on into the hotel cafe.
The restaurant was clean and bright, done in a friendly, casual decor, with white tablecloths and red cut-glass candle holders, the flames sending off a warm glow. The hostess showed them to a small table along the wall and, at Lacey’s request, pointed out the ladies room to her.
She stared at her image in the mirror, wondering if he really thought she was attractive, then shook herself and quickly finished drying her hands. By the time she returned, the waitress had already brought them menus and water.
He looked up, a black curl down over his right eye. He smiled at her, sending that same warm glow shimmering through her, and making her feel special. She picked up her menu quickly. She must get control of herself. What was the matter with her, to feel this way about a perfect stranger, even if he did claim to know her uncle? Hadn’t her divorce taught her anything? Cool it, woman, she scolded herself.
“What’ll you have, Miss Summers?”
“The club sandwich, I think, Mister... Oh, please, I can’t just keep calling you Mister Blank.”
“You really don’t know who I am, do you?” he conceded, slowly. “I owe you an apology for jumping to an unwarranted conclusion. Habit of mine.” He shook his head and smiled, then continued. “My name’s Mark Lantro. Doesn’t that ring a bell?”
She shook her head.
“I’m crushed. I thought I’d made a big impression on those guys.”
She smiled, then frowned thoughtfully. Lantro. He played cards with Uncle Henry and was a
teacher. But he couldn’t be, could he?
“Wait a minute,” she said slowly. “You’re not the Professor Lantro Henry’s been talking about lately, are you?”
“Ahh, then he did mention me.” A pleased grin spread over his face, lighting it up like a boy’s. When she gaped at him, astonished, he asked, “Was whatever he said that bad?”
“Oh, no,” she said quickly closing her open mouth. “It...it’s just that I thought the professor was an older man, I mean...” She stopped, for fear of making matters worse.
“But, why? Whatever did he say to make you think that?”
“I don’t know. Something about the professor being a history expert, I guess, hanging out with my uncle and writing a book, and I, well, I assumed he was an older man.” Her face felt very warm again.
“Writing about history doesn’t mean you have to have lived it.”
“I guess not.”
“So I’m not the only one who sometimes jumps to erroneous conclusions on flimsy evidence?” He was trying hard not to grin; she had to give him credit for that.
“Yes.” They both laughed until the other diners stared at them curiously.
“May I take your order?” the waitress was back beside them.
“We’ll have the club sandwiches and coffee,” Mark directed smoothly, “and that salad bar looks good, too.” He looked at her for confirmation, then pushed back his chair to lead the way to the heavily laden bar along the wall as the waitress smiled and left.
He loaded his plate with lettuce, and then added bits of vegetables, ham, cheese, and egg until it looked like a meal in itself. He caught her amazed look and said with a grin, “I’m starved. I missed dinner.”
“So did I.”
The food was delicious. He talked on and on about his math and history students, who were obviously endlessly interesting to him. She described her job at Armstrong Investigations, and he encouraged her to tell him about her co-workers. Before they knew it an hour had gone by.
By the time they returned to his car, she was feeling relaxed. And safe with him.
Chapter 2
When they reached the tall modern apartment building where she lived, Mark parked in front of it. As he tossed her a smile, she saw that one stray curl had fallen down on his forehead again, and she felt a strong urge to reach out and brush it back.
“Here we are.” His black hair shimmered under the interior light as he opened his door.
He came around and opened the car door for her, putting his hand casually on the small of her back as they walked up to the main door.
The night air had grown chilly, and the wind moving the bare tree branches overhead made circles of shadows under the street lights.
She turned to thank him for bringing her home. Her breath caught sharply as she met his warm gaze, and saw desire written there. Her lips parting in response, she looked up at him.
He bent and his lips met hers, sending electric sensations sailing down to her middle. Her hands reached up and she buried her fingers in his hair, as she’d wanted to all evening. It felt silky, yet springy and alive. She stroked those curls even as his lips stroked her lips. When he lifted his head to gaze in wonder into her eyes, she caught her breath, and pulled her hands down in embarrassment.
She murmured goodnight in as normal a voice as she could manage. She stepped inside, closed the door, and leaning back against it, listened for the sound of his motor as he left.
She pulled her red wool coat closer to her throat, as though its warmth could slow her rapidly beating heart.
He had not asked to see her again, but he knew where she lived, and she was certain he would call.
“Lacey?” The pudgy, round face of her landlord peered at her from his office door down the hall. His black hair was more disheveled than usual, and he appeared distraught.
“Ah, home at last. You’re late tonight. It’s after midnight.”
She straightened and stepped toward him, his voice bringing her back to earth. What did he want now? And since when did he keep track of what time she got home? It was none of his business.
“You’re up late yourself, Mr. Evers. Is something wrong?”
“You guessed it. Had a break-in tonight. First time for this brand new building. Thought I got away from that stuff when I left that run-down neighborhood and landed this job. Just goes to show you.”
“My apartment?” she interrupted, knowing the answer before he gave it. Why else was he waiting up for her to get home?
“Yes, only yours.” The usual unlit stub of a cigar hung from his lips, wriggling as he spoke. “The police just left.”
“Only my apartment? How did a burglar get into our secured building? Did you catch him?” Lacey nearly ran to the elevator and punched the up button.
Evers was right behind her. The doors opened immediately and they got on, Evers still talking. “I don’t know how he got in. Nobody saw anybody. But Mrs. Johnson, next door to you, called me. She noticed the lock on your door was broken when she came home just after ten. As soon as I looked in, I called the police.”
They glided smoothly to the sixth floor. “Why go clear up to sixth floor and not break into the lower apartments?”
“Beats me. Looks like it was someone who knew you and was ’specially looking for something. Keep anything valuable there? Most people use safety deposit boxes at a bank.” He frowned disapprovingly at her, his black bushy eyebrows almost hiding his dark brown eyes.
“I don’t own anything valuable,” she denied. “And no one I know would steal from me,” she added as the elevator stopped.
Evers shrugged. “The detective said you was to call him as soon as you looked around and let him know what is missing for his report. I couldn’t tell him what was missing. Don’t know what you had or didn’t have.”
“Of course.”
“Made kind of a mess, though, dumped out drawers and stuff like that,” he added, puffing as he tried to keep up with her as she hurried down the hall to her apartment. The door was closed, but the lock was broken so it opened freely under her hand.
She stopped inside the door, groaning as she surveyed the mess. Lamps were overturned and broken, sofa cushions were slashed and strewn on the floor and all her books were pulled out of her bookcase, lying in a haphazard pile on the beige carpet.
“Oh, no.” She rubbed her suddenly cold cheek, feeling sick to her stomach as she looked around her usually neat apartment. It would take days to straighten out this disaster.
She stepped carefully through the mess to check her desk, but could see nothing missing. Odd. Her bank savings book and the box of blank checks for her checking account were still in the drawer where she’d left them, even though it had been messed up as though someone had looked through it.
Why hadn’t the burglar taken them? Just overlooked? Or had he considered them too easy to trace?
She ignored Evers dark eyes watching her and walked through to her bedroom. Here, too, drawers were open, with clothes hanging out. The mattress was pushed off as though someone had searched under it, and bedding strewn on the floor. She walked over to her bureau.
Everything in her jewelry box was there, just as she’d left it. Not valuable enough to steal? Then why break in at all? Not that she had much jewelry. Just a few things were real: her grandmother’s antique gold chain, the wedding ring set that she hadn’t worn since her divorce, and the set of emerald earrings which Uncle Henry had given her for Christmas last year. She checked for each of those, sighing in relief when she saw them.
She turned to find Evers in the doorway, still chewing on his dead cigar stub. “Everything seems to be still here,” she said in a puzzled voice.
“That’s what the detective said. Said he thought it was funny he left the bank stuff and jewelry. ’Course we didn’t know what else you might have had.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, swallowing her anger at the idea of the two of them going through her apartment. She felt violated, used. First
the burglar, snooping through her things, looking for who knows what, and then Evers and the policeman. She blushed as she realized a lacy pair of panties was hanging out of the bureau drawer next to her. She pushed them out of sight and closed the drawer.
Evers backed his bulky body out of her bedroom as she lifted her chin and stepped past him to return to the less personal atmosphere of the living room.
“Here’s the number of that detective. He said to call him right away, no matter how late. He’s on the night shift,” Evers insisted.
“Thank you, I’ll do that in a few minutes. I think I’ll make myself some tea first,” she said, glad to see he looked ready to leave.
“He broke the phone. I’ll get you another one first thing in the morning. Meantime, you can use the pay phone in the entrance hall downstairs. I’ll have a new lock put on your door tomorrow. Until then, that chain I put on should do okay.”
“Thank you, Mr. Evers. Goodnight.” Lacey closed and chained the door after him with a shudder of relief. Her building manager gave her the creeps, and she avoided him whenever possible.
Going to the kitchen, she made herself a cup of tea, her favorite cure-all for soothing upset feelings. She carried it back to her favorite easy chair and sank down into it and gratefully sipped the hot tea.
It could have been worse. You could have been here when he broke in and you might have been hurt. She looked around, fighting tears of anger and frustration. She had planned to go directly from work to Uncle Henry’s cabin tomorrow afternoon, but now she had to deal with all this. Thinking of Uncle Henry made her glance at the wall above her desk, where she’d hung The Lone Wolf print which he’d given her mother.
The wall was bare. Catching her breath, she put down her cup and saucer, got up and looked carefully through the messy room, picking up sofa cushions and newspapers, anything large enough to cover the picture. It wasn’t there.
She went downstairs to the pay phone and dialed the detective, explaining to him as well as she could. He sounded efficient and sympathetic, yet not hopeful that the burglar would be caught.