Passage of the Night

by Amanda Carpenter

  Kirstie was too tired suddenly to hide her cynicism. 'And when did you see her?'

  'I haven't.' Anger, then, from him.

  Her grey eyes flashed—with derision, disbelief? She didn't know. 'Not even now that she's free?'

  His grip on her tightened, and his gaze snapped into sharp query. 'What do you mean, now that she's free?'

  'Didn't she tell you? Oh, I am surprised,' she murmured, faltering at his evident incomprehension.

  His jaw jutted out with furious, bitten-back aggression. 'My secretary took both calls,' he enunciated, practically shaking her with every word. 'I didn't talk to Louise! What did you think of me, that I would see her behind her new husband's back?'

  'I didn't mean that!' she cried, feeling as if her collarbones were being crushed. 'I would have thought she'd have told you: she didn't marry Neil! She called the wedding off, Francis!'

  That went in past the suddenly blank face. His eyes flickered, but his hold on her never eased. She wondered if he even knew what he was doing. 'That's why she's still living with you?'

  'Yes!'

  'Well, well,' he said with sudden vivid interest. 'This is a pretty kettle of fish.'

  Kirstie couldn't look at him. She had to get away, and she twisted from underneath his hands with a force that hurt. 'I'm going to the ladies' room. Excuse me.'

  Francis let her go. He didn't try to stop her.

  Kirstie threaded her way through the crowd on the floor, her head whirling with the aftermath of shock and confusion. She stepped carefully around a couple and into someone. As she turned to apologise to the man, she caught a strong whiff of alcohol and her nostrils pinched in involuntary distaste. 'Excuse me,' she said, her voice distant.

  'Hey, honey,' said the stranger, his eyes running down her figure, 'this must be my lucky night. You're not leaving the dance-floor so soon? The evening's just started!'

  He caught hold of her wrists and leaned forward. He was thicker in build than Francis or either of her brothers, with blunt features and great ham-like hands. His suggestive touch made her skin crawl. She avoided his eyes and tried to pull away, replying lightly, 'I hope you enjoy it.'

  'I intend to,' he leered.

  'But not with me,' she said, and yanked her hands down as hard as she could.

  'Wait!' he reached for her again, but his reactions were slowed by drink. Kirstie skipped through a gap, took the stairs off the dance-floor two at a time and fled to the ladies' room.

  Surprisingly, the room was empty. Kirstie splashed cold water on her face and leaned for a long moment over the sink, her head in her hands.

  The whole thing was starting again, and it was so typical. The arguments, the misunderstandings. The carnival ride. He hadn't known Louise was still single. That was why he'd wanted to talk to her. He had seduced her into thinking they really could enjoy themselves on the most simplistic level, without undercurrents, and he had held her with such insidious sensuality when he hadn't known Louise was still single.

  She had trapped herself so easily. It was so effortless to sink into his presence, to bury herself in mindless sensation, to forget about consequences and concentrate on nothing but the moment. To pull away from it was like suffering from withdrawal symptoms. She felt cold, starving. She remembered wanting his heat. Kirstie fought herself with single-minded intensity, forcing down the ache, then turned and violently yanked a paper towel from the metal holder. She wiped her face and scrubbed her neck until the skin was dry, then reluctantly went to face whatever was waiting for her in the outside world.

  The short hall leading back to the main area of the nightclub as crowded. Kirstie negotiated it with her head down, deep in thought. A large figure moved to block her way, but she didn't notice until she bumped into the man. He grabbed her arms.

  Up snapped her head. This was like a bad recurring dream. She narrowed eyes gone suddenly hard at the drunken man from the dance-floor. 'I don't think you know what you're getting into.'

  'Hey, sugar.' The man grinned and bent over her, either not hearing or ignoring her frosty reception. 'You ran away too fast the last time. Lemme buy you a drink.'

  'No, thank you.' She tried to prise his sausage fingers off her, but they tightened.

  'Oh, baby, don't be that way. It's Friday night. Time to party! Maybe you and me can go some place quieter. Would you like that?'

  His heavy body bore her backwards, into the wall. Disgust snapped Kirstie's patience. She hissed into the man's face, Take your hands off me. While you're at it, take your offensive breath and your boorish manners some place else. For the last time, I'm not interested!'

  The man opened his bloodshot eyes wide. 'Whoa, look out, it's a haughty bitch! What's the matter, princess, a working man not good enough for you?'

  'You have no social skills whatsoever,' Kirstie informed the man. With a violent shove, she managed to break his hold. He staggered back, clipped a phone booth with one shoulder and sat down on the floor hard. Sighing with relief, she entered the main section and began the long walk back to the bar. As soon as she found Francis, she was going to tell him she wanted to go home. She'd had just about all she could take.

  But her relief was short-lived. The drunk seized her wrist and jerked her around to face him. 'Nobody does that to me, you hear that, princess? Nobody!'

  His grip was bruising. The last thing she needed tonight was a meat-tank with a tiny mind in an ugly mood. Irritably Kirstie tried to tug away. 'For God's sake, fellow! Back down, you're way out of line!'

  A nearby man who had been watching this exchange suggested, 'The lady doesn't appear to like your attentions. Why don't you take a hike?'

  Her drunk didn't take too kindly to the interruption and snarled an unprintable suggestion. The two men bristled at each other like a pair of bulldogs. The people surrounding the trio began to move away. Kirstie noticed and sighed.

  'Look, there's no need ' she began.

  'Butt out,' said the drunk. A good forty pounds lighter, her would-be rescuer flicked an uncertain glance around, obviously having second thoughts about his role in the scene.

  Furious, she jabbed a stiff finger into the drunk's chest. 'You started this. You're pushing it. You got a bee in your bonnet, so take it outside, bucko! People here are trying to have a good time. They don't need this.'

  'I said butt out.' He seemed to barely touch her shoulder, but the push knocked her flat. Kirstie bumped into a table as she went down, sending drinks flying. The surrounding crowd bubbled and hissed like a pressure cooker.

  Francis appeared out of nowhere. She didn't even see him move. One moment she was sitting on the floor, the next he stood straddling her legs in direct confrontation with the beefy agitator.

  Kirstie wanted to lean her head against the back of his knee. Francis would handle the situation. Everything would be all right. She couldn't see the glitter of his green, polished glass eyes. The drunk flexed his right hand and smiled.

  'Are you OK?' Francis asked quietly over his shoulder.

  'Yes, thanks.'

  'That's all right, then,' he said, and hit the drunk square on the jaw. The man pivoted in one complete circle and sat down hard on another table, knocking a bucket of melting ice on to the lap of a woman who jumped to her feet with a shriek. Her escort surged upright also, took hold of the drunk and pushed him on to the floor.

  Kirstie scrambled to her feet behind Francis and shouted, 'Why'd you do that? Are you crazy? You're crazy!'

  The drunk fought to his feet and said happily, 'You asked for it, you son of a bitch.'

  He swung. Francis ducked. Kirstie didn't. The punch was meant for the jaw of a taller man and would have broken hers had it connected. Instead, the great clenched fist skimmed the top of her head and knocked her off balance. Kirstie fell once more and decided that the floor was the best place for her.

  The drunk teetered from the force of his thrown punch. Francis straightened and clapped both hands on the back of his shoulders. The man immediately began to box a
t empty air. 'Kirstie?' Francis said, still sounding as calm as ever.

  'Yes?' she said from underneath the table.

  'Get out the front door and wait for me.' He swung his body around at the hips and tossed the drunk over the nearby railing, on to the dance-floor. The noisy crowd surged back and forth. Men rushed into the fray, and women ran away from it. The last glimpse Kirstie had of Francis was of him stepping neatly back from another pair of fighting men while a chair sailed through the air.

  Kirstie ducked her head and crawled. She went as quickly as she could to the nearest wall, stood up and inched towards the exit. The whole nightclub had gone mad, and fighting was breaking out in every corner. A man went down in front of her, and she jumped over him as he struggled to his knees. Another fell into her, and she was slammed into the wall so hard it knocked the breath out of her. Coughing painfully, she wriggled out from behind him and weaved her way on. Just when she thought she would never get to the front doors, she was swept up in a massive surge of people and could do nothing but fight to keep her footing.

  The crowd carried her to a side exit that opened into an alleyway, some of them still fighting. Panic welled up inside as she wondered if she would ever get out of the fray. When would the police arrive? Would Francis make it outside? What if he didn't? As a rather small female she went relatively unnoticed, but he was large, male and fair game for anyone wanting to pick a quarrel.

  He could be hurt seriously. People could die in this sort of fracas.

  There was a lot more open space in the street, and she was nearly there. The distant wail of sirens provided fresh fuel to the writhing mass. Someone crashed into her back and she tumbled out of the alley with more haste than she intended to, caught herself up and turned anxiously towards the front entrance.

  Miracle of miracles, she recognised the back of the only man fighting to get back inside the nightclub, and she stopped at the edge of the crowd and shouted over the pandemonium, 'Francis!'

  His head lifted, the black hair ruffled now and falling over the brow of a very grim expression. His eyes flashed dangerously as they skimmed over the people. She shouted again, saw him catch sight of her, and intense relief flooded his face. He abandoned the door, pushed out of the crowd and raced to her.

  The sirens were much louder and closer now. Francis took her face in both hands and urgently examined it. 'You're hurt?'

  'No?' Puzzlement made her answer sound like a question as she stared up at him.

  He closed his eyes briefly, then said, 'Come on.'

  He led her at a run down the street and around the corner. They didn't stop until they had reached the car which was parked two blocks away. Normally a dash of that distance wouldn't have winded her, but her chest was still sore from when she'd had the wind knocked out of her. Kirstie bent over and propped her hands on her knees, panting, while Francis dug out his keys and quickly unlocked the passenger door.

  'Climb in,' he said tersely, waiting until her door was locked. He raced around the other side, let himself in, and locked his as well. He swung around in his seat to look at her with a frown. 'Are you sure you're all right?'

  She gasped, 'I had the wind knocked out of me! It still hurts. I'm OK, though.'

  'Come here, let me look at your face.' He turned on the interior light and gently tilted her face up towards it. Long gentle fingers probed one cheekbone. As she winced, he asked, 'That tender?'

  'Yes. I must have hit it when I fell into the wall.' Her eyes focused on him. His black hair gleamed like jet, and harsh lines scored marks beside his mouth. His green eyes were quietly alert, and where someone had hit him by the mouth there was a shadow that was darker than the short growth of beard. 'What about you?'

  He brushed the enquiry aside impatiently, exploring the bump past the edge of her hairline. 'Don't worry about me.'

  She hadn't foreseen the end of her fuse, but Francis had just lit it. The inside of her head exploded. 'Fine, that's great to know for the next time, isn't it? I'll know better than to worry, won't I? It's rather nice to know what to expect, if you're going to throw punches like there's no tomorrow! Whatever possessed you?'

  He considered her steadily, the evidence of strain and the remnant of fear still dilating her grey eyes, the shock and the upset she was bitterly trying to control. He slid his hands to her neck and began to massage where the tendons stood against the thin delicate skin, and he said with quiet simplicity, 'The man pushed you down. It made me mad. I lost my temper, when the first sight of trouble in places like that can make them flare like tinderboxes. I didn't think fast enough to the consequences. No excuses.'

  Her eyes wavered and fell at the unexpected scope of his honesty, and with a sigh the tension flowed out of her. 'That man was hellbent on destruction. There was simply no reasoning with him, so I don't really think you could have stopped it from happening,' she muttered. 'I shouldn't have yelled at you. It's just that—you really scared me, Francis.'

  'I scared you?' With a groan he hauled her against his chest, holding her fiercely and shaking his head over her, for all the world as if she were some newfound precious chick and he the clucking hen. 'You frightened the daylights out of me! When I got outside and found you weren't there, I was frantic to get back inside! How did you get past me?'

  'I didn't,' she told him, her voice muffled against his chest. She abandoned pretence and common sense and buried her face in the vital comfort. 'I got pushed out of a side exit and came up behind you.'

  A heavy sigh shook his chest. With one hand he reached for the interior light and flicked it off. When Kirstie glanced up, Francis was studying the street for signs of disturbance, scenting the air like a hound. At her movement he brought one hand up and stroked her hair absently. 'We should go,' he said finally. 'It isn't safe here. I'll take you back to my place.'

  She stirred at that suggestion, disturbed at the thought of his elegant empty apartment. 'No,' she replied slowly, bringing her wristwatch up. 'It's late. You'd better take me home instead.'

  His green eyes came back to her speculatively. 'You need an ice-pack for your sore cheek.'

  She couldn't look at him. 'I can fix one at home.'

  'We still haven't really talked.'

  'I know.' She pushed herself upright and his arms fell away. 'But I—I'm too tired to face it tonight.'

  There was a little silence that went on too long. She turned, stared down the length of the darkened pavement.

  'I'll call you next week.'

  'Fine. That's fine.'

  He tried to see her expression, wouldn't leave it alone. 'You will come?'

  Kirstie made a gesture which felt so awkward that she tucked her arm close to her side right afterwards. 'I don't know why.'

  'Don't you?' he asked oddly, and she sent a furtive sideways glance at his impassive face. With an unsmiling shrug, he reached forward and started the engine.

  The trip back to Montclair was silent. Kirstie rode with her head back on the rest, lethargic after the unexpected stresses of the evening. Francis was preoccupied, concentrating on the road with a frown. He seemed so thoroughly self-contained as to be unapproachable, and she wondered if she should say something and, if so, what it would be.

  There were so many things she wanted to ask, but it wasn't the time or the place, and she certainly didn't have the right. When they turned on to her street and pulled up by the house, she looked at him across the widening gulf between them and knew it was insurmountable.

  'I'll call you,' he said. She gave a little nod, while wondering if he would. And at the last he reached forward and touched her sore cheek with a gentleness that brought a wet sheen to her eyes.

  She knew she couldn't reply without making an utter fool of herself, so instead she just turned and got out of the car. All her thoughts were behind her with the man in the silver BMW that purred down the street into the night. That was why she never saw the twitch of a curtain at the lit front window, or the shadow of the woman that moved away.

&
nbsp; CHAPTER EIGHT

  There was no sign of Louise when Kirstie let herself quietly into the house. She breathed a silent word of thanks, negotiated her way around the squeaky third stair from the top of the staircase and locked herself in the bathroom.

  A quick study of her reflection assured her that, though her cheek was a bit swollen and red, it wouldn't necessarily bruise. She stripped off all her clothing, turned on the shower and stepped into it with a long-drawn-out sigh.

  The hot, steamy water jetted down on her slim body, washing away all the accumulated aches and tension. After working overtime for most of the evening, her numb mind refused to work any more, and like an automaton she soaped all over, rinsed, and dried off.

  With the towel wrapped around her sarong-fashion, she slipped out of the bathroom and into her bedroom, sparing a quick glance at Louise's closed door. It looked as if at least some measure of luck was with her. She could afford to relax and not worry about what tomorrow would bring. Kirstie drew an oversized nightshirt over her damp body and, without even bothering to comb her tangled hair, she fell into bed and slept like the dead.

  The morning came far too early. Kirstie surfaced out of a murky dream to the sound of someone knocking on her bedroom door. She rolled over, stretched and groaned at the protest of stiff muscles. Her cheek where it pressed into her pillow was tender. So too was the top of her head when she ran her fingers through her hair.

  'What do you want?' she croaked.

  'Good morning!' called Louise cheerily. 'I'm cooking breakfast and wanted to know how many eggs you could eat!'

  'None!' The thought of food made her stomach distinctly unhappy, and she huddled into a ball under her blankets. 'I don't want any breakfast. Thanks anyway.'

  'Oh, come on, Kirstie! I've already got the bacon cooking, and coffee made. You'll wake up after you've had a cup. I'll go get you one.'