by Anne Stuart
“I don’t know. My grandmother would have died for Errol Flynn.”
“Your grandmother was married to a brilliant philanderer. No wonder she had to settle for fantasy.”
“You don’t. Have to settle, I mean.”
Susan’s smile grew a little braver. “I know. That’s why I’m getting rid of things. Including his key. I’m not going to be bringing him chicken soup when he gets a cold anymore. I’m not going to pick up his mail and water his plants when he’s out of town on a shoot.”
“Sucker,” Laura chided.
“I know, I know. I’ve seen the light, I’m ready to move on with my life. I just need to tie up some loose ends.”
“What if he’s there?”
“I can’t imagine he would be. He doesn’t seem to have been in his loft for more than a few minutes in the last seventy-two hours. But if he’s there, it’ll be even better. Then I can say goodbye. A sense of closure is important, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so. What if he doesn’t feel like losing his plant waterer and chicken soup maker?”
Susan shook her head. “You never liked Frank much, did you?”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I liked him very much. I just didn’t like what he was doing to you.”
“And that’s where you made your mistake. He wasn’t doing anything to me. I was doing it to myself. He didn’t need me to make chicken soup for him. There were half a dozen women willing to do the same. Women just tend to want to do things for Frank.”
“He’s a user.”
“Maybe. But not an ungrateful one. And if people kept throwing things at your head, do you really think you’d have the moral stamina to refuse them?”
“Probably not.”
“So,” said Susan, hoisting the box in her arms. “I’ll say goodbye to him for you if I happen to see him.”
“Don’t cry,” Laura advised.
“Are you kidding? I’d rather die.”
Maybe, thought Laura. But she wouldn’t place any bets on it.
She moved through the spacious offices, flicking off lights. She couldn’t understand why she felt so restless. Maybe it was the weather. It had been a hot, muggy September day, and heat lightning sizzled in the thick city air. She could see it snaking across the sky through the smoked glass panels. If there was any justice in this life, that lightning would find Michael Dubrovnik and strike him dead.
However, with her luck the lightning would find Dubrovnik safely ensconced in his ninth-floor apartment. The Glass House had withstood blasting, enraged bulldozers, two world wars, blizzards, hurricanes, and the vicissitudes of the de Kelsey family fortune. At this point in its venerable life it might not withstand the wrath of God in the form of a lightning bolt.
She locked the door behind her and headed for the utility stairs, rubbing the narrow bridge of her nose behind her oversize red glasses. She slammed into Michael Dubrovnik before she realized what she was doing.
His hands righted her. Strong hands, first holding, then immediately releasing her. “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded sourly, dropping her glasses back onto her nose and staring at him defiantly through the clear lenses. The safety door swung shut, leaving the two of them cocooned on the narrow landing.
St. Clair de Kelsey had been a thorough man. Even the utility stairs in the Glass House had elegance. The space was lighted by Italian bronze wall sconces, the railing and stairs were of wrought iron, the walls a now faded but once glorious shade of peach. The light was muted, playing with the shadows as Laura glared up at her nemesis.
“Looking for Cinderella,” he replied, unmoved by her displeasure. He held up her red leather shoes, and she noted with an odd, uneasy feeling that her size five and a half shoe fitted far too well into his large hand.
She snatched them away, belatedly remembering where she had left them. Outside his apartment. “Thanks,” she said with little grace.
“Did you enjoy yourself last night?”
“What do you mean?”
“When I left you alone in my apartment. Did you give in to temptation and search the place, or were you honorable and noble?”
“Hell, no. If I tried to conduct this battle with honor, you’d probably stomp me into the ground. I searched your apartment, and then I searched your office,” she said frankly. “As you very well know, I couldn’t find a damned thing.”
“Not even on the computer?”
“I could barely turn the damned thing on,” she lied. “I don’t know much about computers. And yours wanted a password!” Her indignation at the memory wasn’t feigned. “I tried one or two possibilities, but your computer didn’t like them and shut itself off.” That much at least was true. When you lie it’s always best to stick as close to the truth as possible, Laura had learned long ago. And since she spent a certain amount of time lying, she’d learned to do it right.
Dubrovnik was looking at her with a veiled expression in his dark blue eyes. What had Jeff Carnaby called him? A fancy-looking hoodlum? At first it had seemed amusingly apt. Now Laura wasn’t so certain. With his narrow, unforgiving face, Michael didn’t look so much like a hit man tonight. He looked just slightly like a tired businessman, with his Armani jacket rumpled, his shirt unbuttoned, his tie loosened. He looked human and vulnerable, not like the wolf at all.
“How about a truce?” he asked quietly.
She was disappointed. She didn’t believe for one moment that he was ready to call off their war. He wasn’t going to give in that easily, not unless he knew she now held the trump card. And there was no way he could know that, unless his damned half-human computer was a snitch as well.
“Permanent or temporary?” she asked.
“Temporary, of course. More of a ceasefire, actually.” He ran a weary hand through his thick black hair, rumpling it, and Laura had the sudden insane, irrational urge to smooth it down again. Rumpled hair made the Whirlwind seem real, touchable. She wanted his touch again. “For tonight. For dinner.”
“You’re asking me out to dinner?”
“I hate eating alone.”
“I’m sure you can find a dozen women who’d drop whatever they were doing to go out with you.”
“I don’t want half a dozen women. I don’t want to be charming, I don’t want to flirt, I don’t want to banter.”
“So you thought I’d do?” She should be outraged. Instead she was amused. “Some men think I’m worth flirting with.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t. I just said that with you I didn’t have to.”
“It would be a waste of time,” she agreed. “I suppose if I come out with you, you’d think I’d let something slip. Something you could use against me later.”
“Maybe. But the same thing could happen with me. Why don’t you see if I can’t be a little indiscreet after my second Scotch?”
She considered the notion, and Dubrovnik himself, for a moment. Her restlessness, her malaise, had vanished. Jeff Carnaby and Marita were a million miles away; even Susan’s troubles were now her own responsibility. “All right,” she said finally. “But if you say anything useful, I’ll eat your computer. You didn’t get to where you are by being indiscreet.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I haven’t come up against too many Laura Winstons in my time.”
“Lucky for you.”
“Indeed. Do you need a coat?”
“On a hot night like this? No.”
“An umbrella? There might be rain.”
“I don’t own one.”
“All right,” he said, holding out his arm like a proper gentleman. “Let’s go.”
She looked at him. Being a gently reared child of Spence, Sarah Lawrence, cotillions and Edgartown summers, she was used to taking a man’s arm. She wasn’t used to touching someone like Michael Dubrovnik. The few times she had, she’d felt the energy humming through him—an energy she found oddly threatening.
But she couldn’t let him know that. She put her hand on his forearm, light
ly, so that she wouldn’t have to feel the bone and muscle beneath the rumpled linen jacket. “Let’s go,” she agreed, tossing her head back recklessly. “I’m very, very hungry.”
His dark eyes glowed as they swept over her small, narrow body. “So,” he said, “am I.”
Susan clutched the cardboard box to her chest as the taxi careened down Second Avenue. She should have headed straight to Frank’s apartment when she left work, but she couldn’t quite work up the courage. For all that she’d insisted to Laura that she wanted to say goodbye, when push came to shove she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. If she faced Frank she would cry, she knew it. And the whole miserable situation was degrading enough.
So she’d gone home, taken a shower, poured herself two glasses of Chardonnay, and called Frank’s number to make certain he was out. As usual the answering machine had clicked on, and Susan knew that she was safe.
It was a warm night, and she dressed accordingly in a blue-flowered Laura Ashley shift. It was one of her favorite dresses; she looked soft and sweet and innocent in it, and clearly not the sort of woman for a man like Frank Buckley. She tucked her hair into a loose knot at the back of her neck, put on just a trace of makeup, because no woman worth her salt steps outside her door in Manhattan without makeup, and grabbed the first taxi she saw, before she could change her mind.
The windows in Frank’s third-floor walk-up on Spring Street were dark. Only after the taxi disappeared around the corner did Susan realize she should have had him wait for her. Taxis didn’t cruise in this area, at least, not often.
She’d have to call for one. At least his apartment was empty.
She rang his doorbell just to make certain, then rapped sharply on the door. When she let herself in, the familiar smells assailed her. Spices. Leather. And the faint, enticing scent of Frank’s cologne. He was the only man she knew who used it. He’d been part of that very expensive advertising campaign, and he’d taken a liking to the stuff. It was subtle, enticing, but unfortunately both for the manufacturer and for Frank it had never caught on.
Lucky for herself though, Susan thought, flicking on the lights and closing the door behind her. She’d never smell that cologne without feeling her heart twist inside her.
Frank’s apartment was half of an old loft, one huge, untidy room cluttered with paraphernalia. The bed, a sprawling affair in the middle of the room, was covered with dark-patterned sheets and exotic-looking throws. The floor was booby-trapped with Oriental carpets in various stages of decrepitude, and the walls were hung with more Oriental wall hangings. The entire place looked exotic, sensual, foreign. A far cry from Susan’s patchwork quilts and stenciled borders.
With a sigh she set down the box on a low table, looking around her one last time. She ought to leave him a note, but couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Besides, she’d already made enough of a fool of herself on his answering machine. The box and the key would be enough.
She headed back for the door, noticing for the first time that there were no pictures on the walls. In particular, no pictures of Frank. When she’d visited before, when Tracey Michaels had been in partial residence, the walls had been hung with huge blowups of Tracey looking haughty, seductive, innocent et cetera. Of course those were gone, but Frank didn’t have any of his own to replace them. Curious. She’d never been in a model’s apartment before where the walls weren’t covered with photographic images of the occupant.
It wasn’t so much ego, she’d always thought. It was a reminder of who and what they were. Apparently Frank didn’t need reminders. Or maybe he’d just gotten rid of them.
She heard the key in the door when she was only a few feet away from it. Panic sliced through her, and she looked around in sudden desperation for a back door, for a window to dive out of, for a closet to hide in. Before she could do more than that the door opened and Frank walked in, looking weary, unshaven, and absolutely beautiful.
He looked up and saw her standing there, holding her breath. And then he smiled, a warm, welcoming smile that could have melted her bones. “Thank God it’s you,” he said, shutting the door behind him. Locking it. Three times. And putting the chains and safety bar on. “I was afraid it was someone I didn’t want to see.”
She refused to allow herself to take pleasure in that statement. She’d been pathetically grateful for crumbs before. She simply had to let go. “Do that many people have keys to this place?”
“A fair number.” He moved across the room and began opening windows to the hot night air. Outside lightning crackled, mixing with the street sounds. “Sorry I can’t put on the air conditioner, but my Con Ed bill is already close to the national debt. Sit down and I’ll get you a drink.”
“I can’t stay,” she said. “I just brought your stuff. The check came in from Parker House, and I rushed it through. I thought you might need it.”
“Bless you, darling.” He walked past her into the kitchen, and returned moments later, with a glass of white wine for her and beer for himself. She was still standing there, feeling stupid and lost, and he put the glass into her hand, took her by the shoulders and gently pushed her down onto the lumpy old sofa. “Sit,” he said. Susan sat.
He dropped beside her, stretching out his long, jean-clad legs, one thigh touching hers as he yawned, running a hand through his absurdly long hair. “It has not been my best week,” he said, tilting back the beer and taking a long swallow. Then he turned to look at her, and his turquoise eyes had a strange light in them. “What about you?”
“Me?” Susan’s voice came out squeaky, nervous.
“Yes, you. How was your week?”
“Incomparably rotten.”
He grinned. “Partners in misery, then. At least you don’t have a hangover. I have the Cadillac of hangovers. If I drank as much as I think I did last night, it’s a wonder I was able to make it to that early-morning call.”
“When did you get in?” She shouldn’t ask him, but couldn’t help it. In her unaccustomed nervousness she took a large swallow of her wine, forgetting she’d already had more than her allotted portion for the night.
“Oh, I never went out last night. I spent the entire time drowning my sorrows until I passed out on the floor by the bed. I dreamed about you.”
She managed a laugh. “That’s because you must have been hearing my phone messages while you were asleep.”
“I heard them when I was awake,” he said.
There was an uncomfortable silence. She couldn’t remember for sure what she had said during all those panicked phone calls. Too much, of course. If she hadn’t told him she loved him, she’d come too damned close. And she wasn’t going to stay here and let him feel sorry for her.
“I’ve got to go,” she said, draining the wine and standing up.
Frank caught her wrist and pulled her back down again before she even realized what he’d planned. “No, you don’t.”
“Frank,” she said, her voice pleading, almost desperate.
“Susan,” he mocked, his eyes alight with something she didn’t dare believe. He released her wrist, put his hand at the back of her head, and held her still as his mouth dropped onto hers.
She’d been used to his kisses. To the friendly, lingering brush of lips, to the casual hugs, to the gentle teasing. She wasn’t expecting his mouth to open against hers, hot and wet and seeking; she wasn’t expecting the surge of desire and despair that swept over her, shaking her to her very bones.
It took only a moment for her to gather her resolve, only the touch of his tongue against hers. She tore herself away, shoving him, and scrambled for the door, knocking over her wineglass as she went.
He caught up with her as she was fumbling with the locks, his strong arms on either side of her, trapping her there. She had no choice but to turn around and face him, but she kept her head down, refusing to look him in the eye. “This is ridiculous, Frank,” she said in a low voice. “We’re friends, for heaven’s sake.”
“We’re about to becom
e lovers.” His voice was equally low, beguiling, and it ripped into her heart.
“I don’t need a charity fuck, Frank. I don’t need your pity.”
She could feel the sudden tension that rushed through him. “Is that what you think this is?” he demanded. “Is it?”
She couldn’t help it; she had to look up. His beautiful face looked almost brutal in the dimly lit room, and the anger in his eyes was unmistakable. “Frank, you don’t really want me.” If her voice was nothing less than a miserable wail, there was nothing she could do about it.
The anger left his eyes, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mobile mouth. “I don’t?” he asked flatly. “If you say so.” And leaning his elbows against the door, he plastered his body against hers and kissed her, his long fingers cradling her head and holding it still.
This was no gentle preliminary, no idle flirtation. His mouth was open and hungry and demanding, his tongue thrust into her mouth in a gentle, unbearably erotic demonstration of what he intended to do with his body, and the heaviness of his arousal pressed against her stomach. He rocked against her, lightly, making certain she was aware of just how much he really did want her, and with a helpless little moan she slid her arms around his neck.
“That’s it.” He murmured his approval against her face as his hands deftly unfastened the tiny buttons in the front of her cotton dress. His mouth caught hers in short, teasing little kisses, kisses she clung to, kisses she returned. “I’m not that crazy. Of course I want you.” He finished with the last button and began to push the dress from her shoulders. It landed in a heap on the floor, and she was standing in his arms wearing nothing but a pink silk teddy.
She didn’t even have time to get self-conscious. “You have the most beautiful body,” he whispered, his mouth traveling down, brushing the tops of her full breasts as his fingers slid the narrow straps down over her arms, pushing the silk away from her body to land on the floor. She was standing naked in his arms, and shyness washed over her body in a dull pink haze. She tried to turn from him, but he wouldn’t let her, and the hands that ran up the length of her were gentle, almost worshipping. “I love your breasts,” he whispered, his hands brushing their softness, so that she wanted to cry with longing. “I love your hips brushing against me, I love your arms around me, I love your mouth under mine, I love your legs, I love...”