Her price, and it was heavier than she’d ever imagined. “I will not, as long as you live.”
He spoke to her in Arabic softly, so that she paled. Then he turned away and left her standing in the rubble of her home.
“What did he say to you?”
Because it was important not to care, even now, she shrugged. “He said that he would live a very long time, but that to him, and to all members of the House of Jaquir, I was already dead. He will pray to Allah that I will die in pain and despair, like my mother.”
Philip rose and tilted her chin up with his hand. “You could hardly expect a blessing.”
She forced a smile. “No. It’s done, and I expected to feel a fabulous wave of joy, if not satisfaction.”
“What do you feel?”
“Nothing. After all this, after everything, I can’t seem to feel anything at all.”
“Then maybe we should go down and look at your building.”
Now the smile came easily. Then she laughed and dragged her hands through her hair. “That might do it. I need to know it was right.” When she looked over at her mother’s portrait her stomach muscles unclenched. “The money meant nothing to him, but I want to be sure he understood, and he remembers.”
“He understood, Addy. And he’ll remember.”
“Philip.” She touched his hand, then drew back. “We have to talk.”
“Am I going to need more brandy?”
“I want you to know how grateful I am for everything you’ve done.”
“Mmm-hmm.” He decided it best to sit again.
“Don’t take it lightly. You helped me turn the most important corner in my life. Without you I might have accomplished it, but it wouldn’t have meant the same thing.”
“Oh, I doubt it. Doubt that you could have pulled it off without me,” he explained. “But if it makes you feel better to think so, go ahead.”
“I knew exactly what—” She caught herself. “Never mind. The point is that I want to thank you for everything.”
“Before you walk me to the door?”
“Before we each get back to our own lives,” she corrected him. “Are you trying to annoy me?”
“Not at all. I’m only trying to be certain I know exactly what you want. Have you finished thanking me yet?”
“Yes.” She turned to kick at a broken vase. “Quite finished.”
“Well, you might have gushed a bit more, but I’ll have to settle. Now, if I have this right, you’d like me to stroll out the door and out of your life.”
“I’d like you to do what’s best for both of us.”
“In that case.” When his hands came to her shoulders she pulled away.
“It’s over, Philip, I’ve got plans I’ve got to start in motion. The clinic, my retirement, my—social life.”
He decided he could wait a day or two to tell her she would be working for Interpol. When the time was right, he’d add the fact that Abdu was going to have to answer some tricky questions about possession of a stolen painting. But they had other business, personal business, first.
“And you don’t have room for a husband.”
“The wedding was part of the act.” She turned back. This was supposed to be easy, she thought. Something they should have been able to laugh over before they went their separate ways. “It may be a bit awkward dealing with the press and well-meaning friends, but between us, the entire thing can be dissolved very simply. There’s no reason why either of us should be bound by a—”
“Promise?” he finished. “There were a few promises tossed about in there, I believe.”
“Don’t make this difficult.”
“All right, then. We’ve played it your way until now. We’ll finish it your way. How do I go about it again?”
Her mouth was dry. Adrianne picked up his brandy and took a gulp. “It’s easy. You only have to say I divorce you’ three times.”
“Just like that? I don’t have to stand on one foot and say it under the light of a full moon?”
She set the snifter down with a click. “That’s not funny.”
“No, it’s ridiculous.” He took her hand, curling his fingers tight around hers when she would have pulled away. He knew how to figure the odds, had always known. This time he couldn’t be sure they were in his favor. “I divorce you,” he said, then leaned down to touch his mouth to hers. Her lips trembled. Her own fingers tightened. “I divorce you.” With his free arm he pulled her closer and deepened the lass. “I—”
“No.” Swearing, Adrianne threw her arms around him and clung. “No, dammit.”
Relief made his knees weak. For a moment, just a moment, he buried his face in her hair. “You’ve interrupted me, Addy. Now I’ll have to start all over again. In about fifty years.”
“Philip—”
“My way now.” He drew her back so that he could look at her face. She was pale again. Good. He hoped he’d scared the life out of her. “We’re married, for better or worse. If necessary we’ll have another ceremony here or in London. The kind that requires solicitors, a great deal of money, and a great deal of trouble to dissolve.”
“I never said I’d—”
“Too late.” He nipped at her lower lip. “You blew your chance.”
She closed her eyes. “I don’t know why.”
“Yes, you do. Say it put loud, Addy. Your tongue won’t fall out.” When she pulled back he tightened his grip. “Come now, darling, you’ve never been a coward.”
That had her eyes opening. He watched them spit at him and grinned. “Maybe I love you.”
“Maybe?”
She let out a huff of breath. “I think I love you.”
“Try one more time. You’ll get it right.”
“I love you.” Now her breath came out in a rush. “There. Satisfied?”
“No, but I intend to be.” He dragged her down to the ruined couch.
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BRAZEN VIRTUE
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Grace heard the low, droning buzz and blamed it on the wine. She didn’t groan or grumble about the hangover. She’d been taught that every sin, venial or mortal, required penance. It was one of the few aspects of her early Catholic training she carried with her into adulthood.
The sun was up and strong enough to filter through the gauzy curtains at the windows. In defense, she buried her face in the pillow. She managed to block out the light, but not the buzzing. She was awake, and hating it.
Thinking of aspirin and coffee, she pushed herself up in bed. It was then she realized the buzzing wasn’t inside her head, but outside the house. She rummaged through one of her bags and came up with a ratty terry-cloth robe. In her closet at home was a silk one, a gift from a former lover. Grace had fond memories of the lover, but preferred the terry-cloth robe. Still groggy, she stumbled to the window and pushed the curtain aside.
It was a beautiful day, cool and smelling just faintly of spring and turned earth. There was a sagging chain-link fence separating her sisters yard from the yard next door. Tangled and pitiful against it was a forsythia bush. It was struggling to bloom, and Grace thought its tiny yellow flowers looked brave and daring. It hadn’t occurred to her until then how tired she was of hothouse flowers and perfect petals. On a huge yawn, she looked beyond it.
She saw him then, in the backyard of the house next door. Long narrow boards were braced on sawhorses. With the kind of easy competence she admired, he measured and marked and cut through. Intrigued, Grace shoved the window up to get a better look. The morning air was chill, but she leaned into it, pleased that it cleared her head. Like the forsythia, he was something to see.
Paul Bunyan, she thought, and grinned. The man had to be six-four if he was an inch and built along the lines of a fullback. Even with the distance she
could see the power of his muscles moving under his jacket. He had a mane of red hair and a full beard—not a trimmed little affectation, but the real thing. She could just see his mouth move in its cushion in time to the country music that jingled out of a portable radio.
When the buzzing stopped, she was smiling down at him, her elbows resting on the sill. “Hi,” she called. Her smile widened as he turned and looked up. She’d noticed that his body had braced as he’d turned, not so much in surprise, she thought, but in readiness. “I like your house.”
Ed relaxed as he saw the woman in the window. He’d put in over sixty hours that week, and had killed a man. The sight of a pretty woman smiling at him from a second-story window did a lot to soothe his worn nerves. “Thanks.”
“You fixing it up?”
“Bit by bit.” He shaded his eyes against the sun and studied her. She wasn’t his neighbor. Though he and Kathleen Breezewood hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen words, he knew her by sight. But there was something familiar in the grinning face and tousled hair. “You visiting?”
“Yes, Kathy’s my sister. I guess she’s gone already. She teaches.”
“Oh.” He’d learned more about his neighbor in two seconds than he had in two months. Her nickname was Kathy, she had a sister, and she was a teacher. Ed hefted another board onto the horses. “Staying long?”
“I’m not sure.” She leaned out a bit farther so the breeze ruffled her hair. It was a small indulgence the pace and convenience of New York had denied her. “Did you plant the azaleas out front?”
“Yeah. Last week.”
“They’re terrific. I think I’ll put some in for Kath.” She smiled again. “See you.” She pulled her head inside and was gone.
For a minute longer Ed stared at the empty window. She’d left it open, he noted, and the temperature had yet to climb to sixty. He took out his carpenter’s pencil to mark the wood. He knew that face. It was both a matter of business and personality that he never forgot one. It would come to him.
Inside, Grace pulled on a pair of sweats. Her hair was still damp from the shower, but she wasn’t in the mood to fuss with blow dryers and styling brushes. There was coffee to be drunk, a paper to be read, and a murder to be solved. By her calculations, she could put Maxwell to work and have enough carved out to be satisfied before Kathleen returned from Our Lady of Hope.
Downstairs, she put on the coffee, then checked out the contents of the refrigerator. The best bet was the spaghetti left over from the night before. Grace bypassed eggs and pulled out the neat plastic container. It took her a minute to realize that her sister’s kitchen wasn’t civilized enough to have a microwave. Taking this in stride, she tossed the top into the sink and dug in. She’d eat it cold. Chewing, she spotted the note on the kitchen table. Kathleen always left notes.
Help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen. Grace smiled and forked more cold spaghetti into her mouth. Don’t worry about dinner. I’ll pick up a couple steaks. And that, she thought, was Kathleen’s polite way of telling her not to mess up the kitchen. Parent conference this afternoon. I’ll be home by five-thirty. Don’t use the phone in my office.
Grace wrinkled her nose as she stuffed the note into her pocket. It would take time, and some pressure, but she was determined to learn more of her sister’s moonlighting adventures. And there was the matter of finding out the name of her sisters lawyer. Kathleen’s objections and pride aside, Grace wanted to speak to him personally. If she did so carefully enough, her sister’s ego wouldn’t be bruised. In any case, sometimes you had to overlook a couple of bruises and shoot for the goal. Until she had Kevin back, Kathleen would never be able to put her life in order. That scum Breezewood had no right using Kevin as a weapon against Kathleen.
He’d always been an operator, she thought. Jonathan Breezewood the third was a cold and calculating manipulator who used family position and monied politics to get his way. But not this time. It might take some maneuvering, but Grace would find a way to set things right.
She turned the heat off under the coffeepot just as someone knocked on the front door.
Her trunk, she decided, and snatched up the carton of spaghetti as she started down the hall. An extra ten bucks should convince the delivery man to haul it upstairs. She had a persuasive smile ready as she opened the door.
“G. B. McCabe, right?” Ed stood on the stoop with a hardback copy of Murder in Style. He’d nearly sawed a finger off when he’d put the name together with the face.
“That’s right.” She glanced at the picture on the back cover. Her hair had been styled and crimped, and the photographer had used stark black and white to make her look mysterious. “You’ve got a good eye. I barely recognize myself from that picture.”
Now that he was here, he hadn’t the least idea what to do with himself. This kind of thing always happened, he knew, whenever he acted on impulse. Especially with a woman. “I like your stuff. I guess I’ve read most of it.”
“Only most of it?” Grace stuck the fork back in the spaghetti as she smiled at him. “Don’t you know that writers have huge and fragile egos? You’re supposed to say you’ve read every word I’ve ever written and adored them all.”
He relaxed a little because her smile demanded he do so. “How about ‘you tell a hell of a story’?”
“That’ll do.”
“When I realized who you were, I guess I just wanted to come over and make sure I was right.”
“Well, you win the prize. Come on in.”
“Thanks.” He shifted the book to his other hand and felt like an idiot. “But I don’t want to bother you.”
Grace gave him a long, solemn look. He was even more impressive up close than he’d been from the window. And his eyes were blue, a dark, interesting blue. “You mean you don’t want me to sign that?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Come in then.” She took his arm and pulled him inside. “The coffee’s hot.”
“I don’t drink it.”
“Don’t drink coffee? How do you stay alive?” Then she smiled and gestured with her fork. “Come on back anyway, there’s probably something you can drink. So you like mysteries?”
He liked the way she walked, slowly, carelessly, as though she could change her mind about direction at any moment. “I guess you could say mysteries are my life.”
“Mine too.” In the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator again. “No beer,” she murmured and decided to remedy that at the first opportunity. “No sodas, either. Christ, Kathy. There’s juice. It looks like orange.”
“Fine.”
“I’ve got some spaghetti here. Want to share?”
“No, thanks. Is that your breakfast?”
“Mmmm.” She poured his juice, gesturing casually to a chair as she went to the stove to pour her coffee. “Have you lived next door long?”
He was tempted to mention nutrition but managed to control himself. “Just a couple of months.”
“It must be great, fixing it up the way you want.” She took another bite of the pasta. “Is that what you are, a carpenter? You have the hands for it.”