As Harrison’s fingers tightened around the trigger, Tony leaped from the darkness toward him like a panther. “Get away, Claire. Roll under the table!”
There was a crack of the pistol as Claire rolled to her right, slamming her ankle against the metal table leg. She was momentarily deafened by the noise.
The warehouse was plunged into darkness. The bullet had exploded the light fixture overhead. Crawling on all fours, Claire scurried out from under the table and circled a pallet of paper. Frantically, she tried to see what was happening.
Harrison appeared to be striking Tony with the gun, while Tony held Vincent’s legs, pummeling his torso and trying to knock him down. Both men’s breaths came in gulping gasps. Claire crawled closer. “Tony, get the gun! Throw it this way.”
Her voice seemed to energize the combatants, and their movements became more frantic. Claire spotted Harrison’s cane on the floor. It had fallen and rolled under the table near her. She turned and crawled back around the pallet to grab for it.
The silver head was cold against her hand. As she grabbed it and stood up, the gun went off again. For an instant, the night air was quiet, save for the tinny echo of the bullet. Then Claire screamed. With a slicing motion she swung the cane toward Vincent Harrison, who again aimed the gun at her.
As the cane slammed into his arm, another shot rang out.
Claire ducked under the printing table, crawling frantically toward the rear of the shop. She did not know how badly Tony was hurt, but he had not made a sound. All she knew was that she had to lure Harrison away from Tony in the hope Tony could get away.
She heard Harrison behind her. “Stop right now, Claire. It’s useless to run away. I’ve got the gun.”
Groping in the dark, she picked up a container and stood up. With all her strength, she hurled a huge bottle of ink in the direction of his voice. The shattering noise against the cement told her she had not hit her target, though his cursing gave her hope that maybe he had been slowed by a glass fragment.
Zigzagging under the tables and around boxes, Claire dropped back to her knees and continued crawling. Stopping under the heavy wooden cutting table where the individual pages of a book were trimmed, she slowly turned around. Her ears strained for the smallest clue as to Harrison’s whereabouts, but she heard nothing.
For several seconds she held her breath. Just when she thought she would choke with anxiety, the tabletop creaked. Harrison had crawled up onto the table.
A moan from the floor in the middle of the room told her Tony was coming around. Before she could move toward him, another shot rang out. Then she heard Harrison move. The table jiggled and the sound of ripping paper met her ears. His leather soles must have caught on the sheet that hung over the edge of the table. Suddenly Claire had an idea. As his steps got closer, just above her head now, she slowly placed her hands on the paper and yanked with all her strength.
She heard Harrison cry out as the gun went off again, the bullet ricocheting off the metal ceiling fans. Then it sounded as if the entire ceiling fell on top of the table she was crouched under.
Harrison screamed, and then a rushing, sliding crash of metal seemed to shake the whole building. The thudding noise of Harrison’s body hitting the ground sent Claire scooting out from under the table and running toward the spot where Tony had fallen. She had not counted the bullets fired, but at that point, she did not care if there were any left in Harrison’s gun.
When she finally reached Tony, he was on his knees and elbows, blood running down the side of his face. His dark eyes glowed with pain, grim determination apparent in his face. “My God, are you okay?”
Falling to her knees, she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him repeatedly, as he hugged her and stroked her disheveled hair. “I’m fine. But are you wounded? Are you okay?”
“Ssh, it’s okay, darling. The bullet just grazed me.”
Quickly Claire turned and pushed out of his arms. She was so glad to see Tony, she had forgotten about Harrison. She was engulfed by her returning fear.
Was he unconscious? Hiding in the shadows? At this instant was he pointing the gun at them again?
“Where is he?”
Tony sat upright and drew her against his chest, patting her hair with his hand. “Don’t even try to see. It’s all over now. He’s dead.”
In the dimness, Claire looked into Tony’s face. “But how?”
“The paper cutter. Guillotine for a murderer. The bullet hit the safety cord, and he fell against the lever. I don’t know what made him stumble, but when he did, he never had a chance.”
Tears of relief and horror rolled soundlessly down her face. “Tony, I’m so sorry. I was wrong about him, about Winesong. Can you ever forgive me?”
Gently cradling her face in his hands, he kissed her cheeks, then her nose, then her salty lips. “We were both wrong about everything but this.” He kissed her again, pressing her to him as if he would never let her go.
* * *
Tony and Claire walked hand in hand out of the Waldorf Astoria elevator, waiting patiently while the bellman unlocked their door. Inside, Claire fell onto the bed while Tony handed out a generous tip.
“Thank you, Mr. Poe. Have a nice stay. Ma’am.” The young man smiled, and then winked at Claire.
“Mr. Poe?” She giggled. “You registered us under Poe?”
He knelt on the floor and rained tiny kisses up her leg and thigh while she shrieked. He had discovered how ticklish she was the first night they were lovers, and he could not resist hearing her laugh. “I thought it was fitting.”
Pulling Tony onto the bed with her, Claire ran her hands down his face, nibbling on his chin. “Well, maybe you should consider writing some dark haunted prose when you finish your new book.”
“If I finish this book, I may go back to teaching. I like all those coeds looking to me for instruction.” Tony yelped as Claire nipped him, and then met her lips hungrily. She rolled off the bed and walked to the window, looking down at Central Park. Like a pantomime, taxi drivers gestured soundlessly as their cars moved in the soft summer evening.
“It was really great of Damien to take us to dinner. I think Tillie is going to be okay now. She looked like her old self tonight.”
“You look like your old self tonight. I love that dress, but I think you need to take it off now.”
Claire shook her head. “So impatient, Mr. Poe. Haven’t you heard that all good things come to those who wait?”
He smiled. “Tillie’s a survivor, Claire. Now that you have been named publisher of Cauldron Press, she has a new sense of duty. She told me tonight she thinks you’re working too hard.”
“She’s the one who’s working too hard. Mrs. Snow has finally signed a contract, so she’s spending sixteen hours a day getting Patricia’s book ready. And talking about working too long, what about you?” Claire slid the zipper of her silk skirt down and wriggled out of it, enjoying the tension in Tony’s face as he watched. “Ever since you decided to write your book, you don’t come to bed until all hours.”
“I come to bed before I work, or don’t you remember last night?”
“Oh, I remember last night very well.” She slipped off her blouse, then undid the lace garter belt, resting her foot on the bed near him as she slipped off one stocking. “And if you keep treating your editor like that, she’s going to have to insist on an exclusive agreement.”
“Exclusive?” Tony’s voice was thick, an edge of impatience creeping in to it as she draped her other stocking across his shoulder and unclasped her garter belt.
She now stood in the lacey teddy that did little to disguise the rise and fall of her breasts. “Of course an exclusive. All the work we’ve done this past month on your technique, and climax of a scene, why, I can’t have you sharing all that literary talent with any other editor.” Claire slipped the straps down her shoulders, letting the garment fall to the floor. She stood in a naked silhouette against the twentieth-floor window, waiting for Tony t
o speak.
Without a word, he rose and removed his clothing in fluid motions, then walked toward her and folded her against him.
Claire pressed one hand into the thick matting of hair on his chest, and then ran her fingers under the waistband of his shorts. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Mr. Poe?”
His voice was quite serious. “It’s not Mr. Poe. It’s Tony. Anthony Alessandro Nichols, to be exact. No actor. No con man. Just the man who loved you from the moment he saw you two months ago. Just the man who wants to show you how you’re going to be loved for the rest of your life.”
Tears welled up in her throat, clouding her voice as her eyes burned. She reached for Tony’s face, pulling his mouth down to hers for a tender kiss. “Thank you, Tony. You’ve given me so much already. A future. The chance to believe I can have a future that won’t disappear the moment I turn my back.”
He kissed her, squeezing her so tightly against him she felt part of him. “There’s no getting rid of me, Miss Kennedy. Not tonight, not ever. Now, have I waited long enough to get some of those good things you promised?”
“Almost. Since this is our special night to celebrate, I need you to do one more thing.”
Responding to the huskiness in Claire’s voice, Tony lifted her into his arias and plopped her onto the bed. “One thing? I plan on doing a whole lot more than one thing.”
“Get rid of these.” Claire lay back on the cool satin coverlet, slowly tugging his shorts down to his knees, smiling as he kicked them off onto the floor. “Just what I like. An author who does what he’s told.”
Pulling her into his arms, Tony nuzzled her neck. “And just what I like. An editor who knows just what she wants.”
“All the best stories are a collaboration of effort, remember?”
He lay next to her, stroking his hand upward from her stomach to her neck, then across her breasts. She moved onto her side facing him, her own hands busy. The quilt under him warmed to the temperature of Claire’s skin, and he ached to taste her moistness as she wet her lips. “I’d say it’s time for a masterpiece of collaboration, Miss Editor.”
“Is that a pun, Mr. Poe?”
They both chuckled as he rolled her gently onto her back.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Emelle Gamble became a writer at an early age. At six years old, she was bursting with the requisite childhood stories of introspection, and this itch to tell tales evolved into bad teen poetry and tortured short works that, thankfully, never saw the light of day, or an editor’s red pen. She took her first stab at writing a novel in an adult education class in Mobile, Alabama when her kids were in bed for the night. As ‘M.L. Gamble,’ she published several romantic suspense novels with Harlequin Intrigue.
Always intrigued by the words ‘what if’, Gamble’s books feature an ordinary woman confronted with an extraordinary situation. Emelle celebrates the adventurous spirit of readers, and hopes each will enjoy the exciting and surprising journeys her characters take.
Emelle lives in suburban Washington D.C. with her hero of thirty years, Philip, and two orange cats, Lucy and Bella. Like all good villains, the cats claim to have their reasons for misbehaving. Her children are happily launched on their own and are both contributing great things to society, their mother’s fondest wish.
Emelle welcomes any reader interested in emailing her at [email protected] and hopes they will visit her website, www.EmelleGamble.com or her Author Emelle Gamble FaceBook page.
BOOKS BY EMELLE GAMBLE
Classic Romantic Suspense eBook novels from Harlequin Intrigue
by M. L. Gamble
Trust with Your Life
A One-Woman Man
Classic Romantic Suspense eBook novels by Emelle Gamble
Dead Magnolias
Stranger Than Fiction
When Murder Calls (coming soon)
Diamond of Deceit (coming soon)
If Looks Could Kill (coming soon)
Novels of Ordinary Women in Extraordinary Situations by Emelle Gamble
Secret Sister, eBook, paperback and Audiobook
Dating Cary Grant, eBook and paperback
Duets, a novella, eBook
Molly Harper, a novel, eBook, paperback, Audio book
December Wedding, a novella, eBook
Molly & Cruz: The Collection of all three Molly Harper stories, eBook
Stranger Than Fiction Page 21