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 like 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.