An hour later, Taylor finished off her third and last brandy of the night as Michael stood up and held her coat open for her.
They had stopped off at N’s, a warm, cozy bar that was hip and trendy and yet had somehow managed to remain reasonably civilized, which was no small feat in the never-ending struggle for domination in the Manhattan bar scene. It was narrow and dark, with rich leather couches and candles and soft music playing from speakers discreetly hidden in the corners. They sat and talked and held hands and sipped brandy until they relaxed and fatigue caught up with them.
As Taylor stood up, holding her arm out for her coat, she swayed a bit.
“You okay?” Michael asked, smiling.
“Just tired,” she answered. Then, as her arm went through the sleeve and she spun to put the other in: “Okay, so I’m a little tipsy.”
“Good thing we don’t have too far to go,” Michael said.
He took three twenty-dollar bills out of his pocket and laid them on the table, then picked up Taylor’s briefcase.
“I can take that,” she said.
“Let me. I’m glad to.” He took her arm and led her toward the door. Taylor looked back over her shoulder at the table they’d just left.
“Kind of a big tip, isn’t it?”
Michael smiled. “I’m feeling generous tonight. Besides, we can afford it.”
He pushed the door open and they walked out onto the sidewalk. The sleet had stopped and the cloud cover had passed on, leaving a clear, dark sky above them. The streets were as deserted as Manhattan streets ever get as they turned north toward Grande Street, then walked the two blocks past Broadway to Taylor’s loft. She fumbled for the keys, then got the front door open. She and Michael took the stairs up to her front door. Taylor yawned as she unlocked the three locks and let them in.
Michael went in behind her, crossed the large main room, and set her briefcase down on a glass table in front of the sofa.
“Can I get you anything?” Taylor asked, relocking the front door.
“I’m fine,” he answered, turning to face her in the middle of the room. Taylor tossed her hat and coat on the sofa.
“It’s late,” she said, suppressing another yawn. “Aren’t you sleepy?”
“I guess I’m too …” Michael hesitated. “Too excited, I guess. Maybe too happy, for once.”
Taylor walked over to him. “That’s sweet, Michael.”
“I owe it all to you.”
“I’m just-” Taylor stopped for a moment, looking into his face. Something she saw there made her abdomen tense up, as if in anticipation of something, but she didn’t know what.
Michael brought his arms up and took hold of her arms through her tan silk blouse just below her shoulders. Then he pulled her toward him and kissed her, softly at first, their lips barely brushing, then harder. And he let go of her and wrapped his arms around her whole body, pulling her tightly into him.
Taylor stiffened at first, but as her lips met his and the two began to melt together, she pulled him to her as well, bringing her arms up around him, holding him tightly. Perhaps it was a strange and unpredictable mixture of fatigue, brandy, closeness, and her own loneliness that had caught up with her. Despite herself, her own misgivings and fears, she gave in to an impulse that was sweeter and more powerful than she ever expected it would be.
And when Michael Schiftmann turned, took her hand in his, and began walking toward the black metal spiral staircase leading to the upstairs bedrooms, she followed him.
Taylor Robinson’s head pounded and her ears hurt as she spiraled up out of some dream she was even then losing.
There was a blaring in her head as well; she couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. Her neck hurt and her mouth felt like it was full of dried grass. She moaned and rolled over in the darkness just as the thin line of light under her bathroom door exploded.
“Damn it!” a voice said, as she struggled to remember where she was. “I thought I turned that off!”
Taylor moaned again and started to sit up, but felt the bunched, tangled sheets dragging across her bare skin and stopped. She felt her torso, pulled the sheets tight, and realized she was nude.
A dark form enshrouded in yellow light from the bathroom behind it leaned down next to her and switched the alarm clock off.
“I am so sorry,” the voice said. Taylor squinted and realized it was Michael.
“Wha-” she croaked, startled to find him in her bedroom. What’s he doing here?
“I thought I turned it off,” he said. He leaned down, smoothed her tangled hair back across her head, then softly kissed her on the cheek.
“Didn’t mean to wake you up,” he said softly. “Go back to sleep.”
“What time is it?”
“Five-fifteen.”
“In the morning? ” she squeaked. “That’s the crack of dawn.”
Michael laughed. “No, my dear, to be more accurate, it’s actually the butt crack of dawn. And the limo’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Remember, that little Today show gig?”
Taylor groaned again and tried to roll over. “I better get dressed,” she said, still not quite sure where she was.
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Go back to sleep. Besides, the limo’s taking me directly to Newark after the taping. I’ve got a flight out to Boston, then Minneapolis, remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” she murmured. “Boston, Minneapolis. You sure it’s okay if I don’t go?”
“Of course,” Michael whispered. He rubbed her back, running his hands lightly down the sheet, to her hips, and then squeezing her beneath the sheets.
Taylor began to wake up, and with wakefulness came the memory of the previous evening, which had ended only about three hours earlier. She felt herself reddening again.
Damn, she thought, this man can make you blush.
“I’ve got to go,” he said. “But I’ll call you tonight.”
She smiled. “I’ll be here. Trying to recover …”
“It’ll be an early evening for me, too.” With his index finger under her chin, he pulled her face toward him and then kissed her, full and long. His mouth tasted fresh, clean, and she was briefly embarrassed that she hadn’t had the chance to brush her teeth.
He stood up. “Bye, you.”
“Bye, Michael. Be careful.”
She drifted there a few moments as he turned off the bathroom light, plunging the room into darkness. Then she heard footsteps on the metal staircase and the front door opening, then closing again as he left.
Taylor fought off sleep long enough to get up, put on her robe, and walk downstairs to the front door to lock the dead-bolts. Then she walked into her kitchen and thirstily drank half a small carton of orange juice. When she got back upstairs to bed, she flicked on the table lamp next to her bed.
The sheets were tangled, bunched, the bottom sheet pulled completely off the mattress.
“It was a good fight, Ma,” she whispered. “But I think I won.”
And as she crawled back into bed, reset the alarm clock, and turned off the lamp, she lay there in the dark a few moments staring at the ceiling.
“Good heavens,” she muttered. “What have I gotten myself into?”
CHAPTER 8
Friday evening, Las Vegas
His head still buzzed as Michael Schiftmann snapped the plastic cable tie that had been looped through the latch on his hotel minibar and pulled out a tiny, airline-size bottle of Dewar’s. He unscrewed the cap, poured the contents over a tumbler filled with ice, and took the first sip.
That first sip always burned, but it was a good burn to Michael, for it signified the end of another long day. Five days into the second phase of his book tour and he was already starting to have trouble remembering where he was.
Let’s see, he thought. Monday, Manhattan; Tuesday, Boston and Minneapolis; Wednesday, Detroit; Thursday, Denver; Friday, Las Vegas.
And tomorrow, he left for two days in San Francisco, then on to what felt more l
ike a whistle-stop tour down the coast to L.A. and San Diego. He raised the glass to his lips, downed the rest in one gulp, then grabbed a second bottle from the bar. He crossed the room, sat down on the bed, and picked up the hotel phone. He dialed 9, waited for a second dial tone, then punched in ten numbers from memory.
The phone rang four times-Michael knew the machine would pick up on the next ring-when a rushed feminine voice answered. “Hello.”
“Hey you,” Michael said, raising the glass to his lips and taking a small sip.
“Hey you right back,” Taylor said. “I was hoping you’d call. How are you?”
“Tired. I just finished the signing at Gambling on Murder,” he said.
“Great. How’d it go?”
Michael pressed his head deeper into the pillow and sipped again from the drink. “Fine, just fine. About seventy-five, I’d say.”
“Michael,” Taylor said, her voice rising. “That’s wonderful! Do you have any idea how big a crowd that is in Las Vegas?”
“I would’ve thought with this being one of the most famous mystery bookstores in the world, I’d have had bigger.”
“Stop it,” she scolded. “I’ve been in Gambling on Murder.
You can’t fit any more people than that in the whole store. In fact, my guess is you’re lucky the fire marshal didn’t show up.”
Michael smiled. “You always make me feel better.”
“I’m your agent; it’s part of my job. How’d the interviews go?”
“That lady on the public radio station did an okay job. She at least had read one of the books. But I did that noontime talk show, with that-oh hell, what’s his name? God, I met him seven hours ago and can’t remember his name.”
“That’s life on the road for you,” Taylor interjected.
“No kidding,” Michael said. “Stress-induced memory loss.
Anyway, he was an idiot. Typical daytime talk show blow-dried anchorperson. Hadn’t read the book, didn’t know who I was. At least he sort of stuck to the prepared questions.”
“That means he can read,” Taylor said. “In the TV business, he’s an overachiever.”
“So what’s new on your end?” he asked.
“I had dinner tonight with Brett,” Taylor answered.
“Oh, so no hot date?” Michael offered.
Taylor hesitated. “No, no hot date. But she did tell me you’re climbing to number three on the list Sunday.”
“Great!” Michael said.
“And on top of that, The Fourth Letter made it onto the paperback list. You’ll debut at eleven.”
“Oh man, I love it!”
“And the contracts have been processed and I expect a check within the next couple of weeks.”
Michael stretched on the bed and finished off the Scotch.
“If your job is to make me feel better, you’re sure doing it well.”
“All part of the package,” she teased.
“I wish you were here,” he said. “I’m stretched out all alone on this king-size bed with no one to massage the tension out of my tired muscles.”
“So get a rubdown,” Taylor said.
“That’s not the muscle I meant,” he teased, then lowered his voice. “I miss you.”
Her voice lowered as well. “Well, hmm.”
There was a long silence filled only by a faint whisper of static on the line.
“You still there?” Michael asked after a moment.
“Yes.”
“Something bothering you?”
Another long pause. “I’m just not quite sure what’s going on, that’s all,” Taylor answered. “I mean, I’ve never done this before.”
“Done what before?” Michael asked. “You mean you were a-”
“No, silly,” she snapped, laughing the tension out of her voice. “I’ve done that before! I’ve just never done it with a client.”
Michael rolled over on his side with the phone resting on his right ear. “Okay, so it’s a little weird, mixing business with a personal life. But there’s something going on here, Taylor. Something powerful. I don’t know where it’s going, but I’d sure like to find out.”
“I just don’t want to … don’t want to make another mistake, that’s all.”
“Look,” Michael said, “this stupid tour is almost over. At least I can see the end. Then I’m going back to New York City and find a place, get moved, and get back to work.
That’s a tall order. I think I’m going to need a rest before I take that on.”
“So-”
“What say we get on a plane and go lie on a beach for a week or so? Just the two of us? Maybe someplace in the Caribbean.”
Taylor cleared her throat and was silent again for a few moments. “I don’t know, Michael, I-”
“C’mon,” he said. “It’s wintertime. You need to get away.
We need to get away. Please?”
“Let me think about it,” she said.
“Fair enough. At least it’s not a no. So what are you up to for the rest of the evening?”
She laughed. “It’s nearly eleven here,” she said. “And I’m pooped. I might finish reading the paper and go to bed.
Don’t know if I’ve got that much left in me.”
“Me, too,” Michael said, raising up on the bed and plant-ing his feet on the floor. “I think it’s a phone call to room service and then some free HBO. I’ll call you tomorrow from San Francisco. Okay?”
“What time’s your plane leave?”
“Not until eleven, which is a real treat. Writers aren’t used to being up in time to make seven A.M. flights.”
“You and Carol will get a break tomorrow,” Taylor said.
“By the way, how is she?”
Michael felt the muscles in his jaw knot up and fought to keep the tension out of his voice. “She’s Carol,” he said.
“You know.”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“Sleep well,” Michael said.
“You, too. Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Taylor said. “And Michael-”
“Yeah?” he asked after a moment.
“I miss you, too.”
Michael grinned and rattled the ice around in his glass.
“Go to bed,” he said. “Think of me.”
“Can’t help it. Good night.”
Michael hung the phone up and stood, stretching his arms high over his head and arching his back. He walked over to the large window that nearly covered the wall opposite him.
He pulled the drapes aside, revealing the buzzing, chaotic, hyper light show that was Las Vegas on any night of the year. In the distance, he spotted the beam of light coming out of the apex of the Luxor, a light so bright it was visible from the space shuttle when the sky was clear. Off in another direction, the strip ran twenty-five floors below him, lined with cars bumper-to-bumper.
Michael felt restless. He was in Las Vegas, one of the most exciting cities in the world, on a Friday night in a luxury hotel room someone else was paying for, with a very generous expense budget included. And he was alone.
He reached down and picked up a spiral-bound notebook that described and promoted the various features of the hotel. The room service menu was extensive and available any time, day or night. Just pick up the phone … Maybe there was a movie on he hadn’t seen.
Then again, maybe there wasn’t.
Michael walked into the bathroom, ran water over his face and rubbed his tired eyes, then brushed his teeth and combed his hair. He pulled a navy-blue double-breasted jacket out of the closet and slipped it on, then walked to the door of his hotel room and opened it. He stopped in the doorway, took one last look at the rumpled bed, and pulled the door behind him.
In the two years Carol Gee had been the senior publicist at Accent Press, she thought she’d seen just about every form of schizoid author imaginable. She’d once accompanied a best-selling author on a twelve-city tour in which the famous literary author managed to get himself arrest
ed four times-twice in the same city. A mega-best-selling female author had once called her in the middle of the night from her four-room suite and demanded that Carol clean up the mess where her cat threw up. And she’d been hit on by famous authors so many times, she no longer bothered to record that in her mental diary.
Twenty-eight years old, Yale graduate, second-generation Korean-American, and with an IQ that placed her in the top point-five percent of the world’s population, Carol Gee was finally beginning to wonder what the hell she was doing with her life. All her career aspirations, her ambitions, her desire to achieve and succeed had been thrown into jeopardy by the behavior of one man: Michael Schiftmann.
Carol had never seen anyone like him. Charming and affable, even warm, one minute, he could in an instant become an over-controlled, seething cauldron of cold fury. In Detroit two days earlier, at an old Waldenbooks in a decaying strip mall, the two of them had arrived for Michael’s book signing only to discover that no advertising had been done, no announcement made, and the only notice of the signing was a handwritten sheet taped to the cash register with the wrong date listed. To add even further insult, the five cases of books Carol had overnighted to the store hadn’t even been opened. It took the assistant manager and the sixteen-year-old girl working the night shift five minutes to even find them.
This was not the first time Carol Gee had seen a book signing botched, although it was relatively rare to see one bungled this badly for a New York Times best seller. Carol was prepared to deal with it, go on to the next city, and make a note to never schedule a signing at the store again. The usual procedure was to stick around for an hour, chat up the bookstore salespeople, then sign every copy in the store so they could be sold as autographed copies, a practice known in the business as “signing stock.”
Carol had grimaced as they walked into the nearly empty bookstore only to have the teenage girl behind the cash register stare blankly and ask if she could help them find anything. Carol started to say something when Michael shot her a look, the coldest, blackest look she’d ever seen in another human being, then turned to the salesgirl.
“Let me see your boss,” he said quietly. The young girl gulped, excused herself, and disappeared into the stockroom. The assistant manager came out seconds later, a concerned look already on her face as the enormity of her problem gradually soaked in.
By Blood Written Page 8