Enid craned her neck. The effort popped her bosom further out. “There she is! I’ll introduce you, Maitland—can I call you Maitland?”
“Of course,” he said. She hooked her arm around his elbow and towed him through the room. Aw. How sweet. His new little best friend.
“Hey! Nancy! This is Maitland! He’s the producer I was telling you about from MGM Studios!” Enid sang out.
Nancy looked over at her, her face oddly stiff and blank. “Huh? Oh. Enid, hi. Hey, have you seen Liam?”
Enid’s jaw dropped for a second. “Um, not lately, Nancy,” she said, in a warning tone. “Focus, please. Did you hear me? Maitland Sills? The guy from MGM Studios? Hollywood? Hello? Earth to Nancy?”
But Nancy kept rising onto her tiptoes, her gaze sweeping the room. “Hollywood? That’s nice. Could you folks excuse me for a sec?”
“Nancy!” Enid hissed. “Don’t be an idiot!”
“I’ll just be a moment. I need to check something in the hall.” She slipped like an eel through the crowd, and disappeared.
The predator inside him howled and gnashed its teeth.
Enid caught the vibe, and shot him a nervous look. “Um, ah, alrighty, then. I’m sure she’ll be right back. Say, how about if you just meet with me and Peter? We can speak for ourselves when it comes to big career decisions. Just come with me.” She began to tug on his arm.
Nancy had disappeared. The moment might be lost. The slut singer pulled again, babbling with a smile he wanted to knock right off her doll-like face. She tugged harder. His patience came to an abrupt end. He yanked his arm away, so roughly she teetered, stumbling on her tottering spike heels. “What is wrong with you?” she squawked.
He stared into her eyes. “Get out of my way.” He put a vicious punch of venom behind each softly uttered word.
Enid shrank away, stammering.
He forgot her utterly the second he turned his back on her and hurried after his prey, blood pumping fast and hot and hungry.
As Liam strode through the lobby, he avoided the hostile gaze of that butthead Peter Morrow as he strode through the lobby. He felt like he was caught in the guts of some pitiless machine, and it would churn on whether he was smashed to a pulp in its grinding gearwork or not.
He didn’t want to leave her alone, with the stairwell assholes gunning for her. He didn’t want to leave her at all. But that was not his problem. She’d made that clear. It never had been. She wasn’t his wife, his fiancée, even his girlfriend, and she wasn’t going to be. Because relationships weren’t based on fleeting perfect moments. They were based on solid, firm things. Respect. Compatibility. Shared interests.
Strange, how tired and pat that thought felt. Like he’d thought it a thousand times before, and worn off the nap.
“Liam!” Eoin bounded across the room toward him like a jackrabbit on crack, his eyes alight like flashlights in his skinny face. He had partied all night long, but he was still revved. “Hey, what’s up?” He looked at Liam’s bag. “I thought you were staying till tomorrow!”
“Can’t,” he said, though his mouth felt dusty and dry. “Gotta go.”
“I’m glad I saw you, then. A favor before you go, eh? I’ve been telling Eugene about that set of reels you wrote. I remember ‘The Dusty Shoon,’ and ‘Traveler’s Joy,’ but not the B and C parts of ‘The Old Man’s Beard.’”
His stomach curdled in dismay. “I have to go. Another time.”
“Oh, man, please?” Eoin entreated. “It’ll only take five minutes. Eugene has his DAT to record it. I had this great arrangement worked out, and the lads love it!”
Liam’s jaw ached from clenching so hard. “I don’t have my fiddle.”
“Eugene will lend you his!” Eoin’s eyes pleaded. “Five minutes?”
Christ on a crutch. Five minutes of stomach-churning agony. But he didn’t want to burden Eoin by telling him that the world had just ended. He let himself be towed into the small conference room and tucked Eugene’s fiddle under his chin. Tried to compose himself.
The kid was having such a great time. Let him fly, as far as the air currents would take him. A guy crashed to earth soon enough.
Liam wasn’t in the lobby. Nor in the parking lot. Nor in the showcase halls, or the alcoves, or the vending machine corners, or the lounge, or the gift shop, or the restaurant. No. He was gone. It was over.
Sadness settled down, like a smothering blanket. She’d come to depend upon him for feeling good. The world looked wretched and empty, dirt poor without him. And she was so angry. She wanted to break windows, smash furniture.
She couldn’t have caved to his demand. It took two to make a compromise. If she blew off an opportunity like this out of fear, she’d never respect herself again. And he wouldn’t respect her, either.
“Ms. D’Onofrio? Are you all right?”
Nancy dashed away tears, and looked over her shoulder. “What?”
“Can I get you something?” It was Enid’s Hollywood studio exec. Big, beefy guy. Muscle going to fat. He had a sleek black goatee on his broad face, gleaming black hair. His eyes were full of concern.
She tried to orient herself, vaguely remembering that this guy was significant for some reason. She was supposed to be kissing his ass.
“No,” she whispered. “Thanks. I’m fine.” She dug around in her pocket for a tissue. It was coming back to her now, in little fragmented pieces. The studio exec. The time crunch. The plane leaving for L.A. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We were supposed to have a meeting, right?”
“Yes, but it’s all right. I can see you’re not well,” the guy said.
Her spine stiffened with embarrassment. “No, actually, I’m fine. You’ve got a plane to catch, so let’s go to the bar and have some coffee.”
But Sills led her right past the bar and into the restaurant. He walked briskly past the few free booths, and sat down in the oddest spot. A table, not a booth, and way in the back. Out of sight of all but a few of the booths, but annoyingly close to the kitchen door, which continually swung open as tray-laden waitresses bumped and bashed their way through with hips and elbows to carry out orders.
The waitress brought them a carafe of coffee. Maitland Sills poured and pushed the cup across the table. “You look tired,” he said.
Did he but know. She gave him a wan smile, and took a deep, grateful gulp of coffee.
She knew within three seconds that something was wrong. A numb, crawling feeling spread from the tips of her toes and fingers, creeping inward toward her core. Her heartbeat, louder and faster in her ears. She couldn’t move. She was frozen, fighting to keep breathing as the darkness rose. What the hell? Was this a panic attack?
She looked into the eyes of the MGM studio exec. Her insides flash froze. Those dark eyes, fixed and cold. Reptilian. His mouth, so wet. Her eyes fluttered, and in those brief eyelid flickers, she saw like tiny nano-sized film clips the monstrous thing he was beneath his human mask. Something fanged, tusked. Ravenous and foul.
His breath was fetid. It smelled like death.
He leaned forward and pitched his voice low, like a snake’s hiss. “Do you wonder what your mother’s last words were when she was gasping on the floor, Nancy?” he crooned. “Do you want me to tell you?”
She tried to open her mouth, scream for help. Nothing worked.
A waitress burst through the kitchen door and bustled past them without looking at them. The open door let a wave of clattering sound swell in volume, then diminish again as it swung shut.
He reached across the table, seized the pendant Lucia had given her, and began to twist. The burn of the gold chain tightening around her throat kept her conscious. Snap. The chain broke. He pocketed it.
He got up, came around the table, and reached for her.
“Let us by!” John bawled. “Move over! She’s going to be sick!”
He shoved his way through the snarl of employees in the restaurant kitchen. Nancy stumbled alongside him, nearly unconscious. He’d plastered her own hand over her mouth to muffle any sounds she might make, clamping his own hand on top of it. Her hair dangled down to hide her face. He dragged her past a waitress carrying a loaded tray, jostling her hard enough to make her stumble.