“There’s a note here, too,” Dan continued, showing off his superior skills of detection, “and judging from the purple paper, I’d say it’s from Abby. She’s probably apologizing for getting you swacked tonight, and inviting you over for cocktails tomorrow.”
Taking advantage of the sudden opportunity, I yanked the list out from under the money and opened it in front of my face, acting like it was a note from Abby, and pretending to read both pages.
“You’re one hundred percent right, Detective!” I said, mentally crossing my fingers behind my back. “Abby says she’s sorry she put so much Scotch in my glass and swears she’ll double the soda next time.” I quickly refolded the list and stuffed it, along with the money, into the depths of my open purse. Then I snapped the bag closed and put it on the seat of the chair next to mine, out of Dan’s sight. “She says she hated to leave me alone in such a weakened state, but she had a hot date and figured I’d be sleeping for hours.”
“Weakened?” Dan chided. “Sleeping? I’d call it drugged and senseless.” He crushed his cigarette in the ashtray, downed the rest of his coffee, leaned back in his chair, and stretched his long legs out in front of him. Then he raised his arms and crossed them behind his head, breathing deeply and broadening his chest. His warm, wide, wonderful, welcoming chest.
He looked so adorable (and so seductive) I forgot all about Virginia and Sabrina and the three all-powerful men on the lavender list. I stubbed out my cigarette, leapt out of my chair, scrambled around the table, threw myself down in Dan’s lap, and wrapped my arms around his strong, steady (and sometimes overly stiff) neck. Then I relaxed for the first time that night, moaning softly, burrowing my head into his shoulder, and letting my crazed, anxious, and exhausted body collapse-like a rag doll-on top of his.
Dan chuckled and pulled me close, cradling me like a baby in his virile, protective warmth. “You’re pretty wiped out, aren’t you, kid?”
“Mmm-hmm,” I reluctantly admitted. I didn’t want him to leave. I wanted to stay coiled up on his lap forever.
“Then I’d better go home and let you get to bed.”
“Unnnph,” I protested.
“It’s late,” he said.
“Not really,” I whimpered, snuggling closer and holding on for dear life.
“C’mon, Paige, get up. If you keep on this way, you’ll get me excited again and I won’t go home at all.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“No, it would be great. But you’d hate yourself in the morning.”
Rats! Dan was right, as usual. As much as I adored him, and as much as I was longing to consummate our relationship (i.e., make mad, passionate love with him), I still believed that breaking our society’s strict edict against extramarital intercourse would lead to nothing but heartbreak and ruin.
What would I do if I got pregnant? I’d asked myself a thousand times. Would I coerce Dan into marrying me, then spend the rest of my life wondering if he’d taken me as his wife out of duty instead of love? Or would I be courageous enough to have the baby on my own? Would I try to raise it without a father-in total disgrace and greatly impoverished circumstances-or give it up for adoption to utter strangers? Most unthinkable of all, would I have a dirty, dangerous, illegal abortion that could mark the end of my life as well as my baby’s?
None of the choices were good ones, it seemed to me.
I had gone to the Margaret Sanger clinic on 16th Street to be fitted for a diaphragm (just in case), but I hadn’t yet used the contraband contraption. It wasn’t foolproof, I knew, and I didn’t want to take any chances. So I was determined to remain celibate (though not a virgin, since my late husband had already relieved me of that label) until I was happily remarried. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t engage in plenty of hot, convulsive (i.e., mutually satisfying) fun with Dan on the couch (as you may have noticed at the beginning of this chapter). It just meant I wouldn’t go to bed with him, or-as the Village bohemians were fond of saying-go all the way.
Not if I could help it, at any rate.
But my determination was dwindling fast.
Luckily, Dan was totally supportive of my wed-before-bed decision. As a rigorous law-abiding-not to mention law-enforcing-citizen, he was inclined to follow society’s rules as well as those of our criminal justice system. And after the pain and shame he’d suffered during the process of divorcing his unfaithful ex-wife, he was truly glad that I was the virtuous type. (All right, I admit it: I was a lot more cautious than virtuous. Sorry if I misled you, but what do you want from me? I had to try the halo on before I could tell it didn’t fit.)
“Cut it out, Paige!” Dan sputtered, twisting his head and yanking his earlobe out of the reach of my tongue. “You’re asking for trouble, and if I don’t get out of here quick, you’re going to get it.” He shifted his weight forward and began to stand up, forcing me out of his lap. Fortunately, my feet hit the floor before my bottom. “I’m going home before we both do something we’re sorry for,” he said, walking over to the armchair and strapping his holster back on his shoulder.
“Will I see you tomorrow night?” I asked, wanting to know his after-dark crime-fighting plans so I could safely make my own.
“Not likely,” he said, putting on his jacket and trench coat, then setting his hat at a slanted, sexy angle on his head. “I’m looking into a string of Mafia hits right now. There’s a mob war going on. I have to track down and question some of Frank Costello’s boys, and they never come out to play until after midnight. By the time I knock off, you’ll be drifting in dreamland.”
I wished.
Dan walked over to the door and opened it. Then he turned around and opened his arms to me. “Come say good night, Gracie,” he grunted, doing a really dopey imitation of George Burns.
I flew into his embrace, rose to my tiptoes, and lifted my lips to meet his, swooning with relief that our evening was ending with a kiss instead of a fight-and that my top-secret pact with Sabrina was still a big secret from Dan.
Chapter 9
I HADN’T HAD ANY DINNER, BUT I DIDN’T care. Food was the last thing on my mind. My coffee was stone-cold, but I didn’t care about that, either. All I wanted was to unravel the murder of Virginia Pratt-fast!-before Dan could discover what I was up to, forbid me to become further involved, get himself assigned to the case, and then find himself in serious (perhaps deadly) trouble with one (or all!) of Sabrina’s suspect clients.
I poured my coffee down the drain and quickly cleared the kitchen table. Then I grabbed my purse off the chair and pulled out the list. Unfolding it to the second page-which was crammed with much more information than the first-I began pacing from one end of my apartment to the other, reading and analyzing every word Sabrina had written about Brigitte and Candy, Virginia’s two best friends at the agency.
Brigitte’s real name was Ethel Maguire. She was a married nineteen-year-old nursing student, and she lived in Hell’s Kitchen with her husband, Ralph, who was twenty years her senior and so crippled from polio he was confined to a wheelchair. Ethel bathed and fed her husband every morning and then left him in the care of the elderly woman next door while-in noble pursuit of her chosen career-she attended classes at the Hunter College School of Nursing on East 68th Street. At night-after she’d given her husband his dinner, helped him get undressed, and tucked him safely into bed-Ethel transformed herself into Brigitte (so named by Sabrina because of her resemblance to screen sex kitten Brigitte Bardot). She slipped into a slinky dress, put on a pouty face, let down her long blonde hair, and went to work. Clever Brigitte. She had found a way to satisfy her deep personal desires and her demanding creditors at the same time.