Читать книгу The Man For Maggie - Frances Housden - Страница 10

The baby was fussing again. For almost a week now, it had kept Maggie awake. Fussing and fretting, fussing and fretting, driving Maggie mad as it brought her maternal instincts screaming to the surface. Instincts she could do nothing to quash, as the source of her dilemma hid in the center of her mind where no human hand could find it. There were no ear-plugs or sleeping pills to fix what ailed her.

A baby fist reached inside her and twisted her gut, more tightly than any man’s could, with its demands for succor. She wanted, needed to find it, to comfort it and relieve herself of the torture her nights brought.

Maggie slammed her fist into the pillow, displacing the feathers. Hands above her head, she twisted and turned while attempting to cover her ears with the soft, insulating sound barrier.

There was no hiding from herself.

“Go away! Go to sleep and leave me alone…leave me alone.”

She didn’t want to cry. It was exhaustion, not self-pity, that spilled tears from her eyes. She tried unsuccessfully to focus on Max, anything but the plaintive cries in her head. Max wasn’t the answer. How dare he or any damn cop think she’d wished this on herself?

Pulling the pillow off her head, she slapped it a few more times and threw herself on top of its downy softness. She lay partly on her stomach, twisting sideways as she brought her knees up to ease the ache pulling at her insides. It was 11:02 p.m. by the bedside clock when the baby stopped crying and Maggie fell asleep.

And began to dream.

He stepped back from the bed to admire his handiwork and frowned. Under the heels of her shoes the duvet wrinkled slovenly. With care he slipped the shoes off, set them neatly at the side of the bed, then smoothed out the creases.

He sighed, thinking, I’ll bring my camera next time. Definitely. A ripple of pleasure caressed his senses. The way the red scarf picked up the flecks in her suit, she could almost have dressed for the occasion. Even the bedcovers, sprigged with roses, added to the overall effect. She had good taste. They made a beautiful picture. He’d arranged it just right. Madonna with child.

And the baby! So good, so angelic. No more crying now it had found its mother. The effort it had taken to tuck the babe against its mother’s breast had been worthwhile. Luckily she was a full-busted woman, ample. The child would never have to go without again.

He walked to the door. His surgical gloves snapped as he rolled them tighter across his knuckles. He touched the light switch, then hesitated. He couldn’t bear to turn the light out. One more look, just one, and then he would go.

He smiled the smile of an artist who knows when to paint the last brushstroke. So perfect. To leave them in the dark would be a crime.

Quietly, he slipped out of the house into the night. As he vaulted the back fence his head spun with pictures of blond hair arranged across a pillow scattered with rosebuds.

And two pairs of matching blue eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

Maggie parked her car in the civic car park and walked up the slope of Mayoral Drive. Auckland Central rose six stories above her. A patchwork of earth-colored scoria blocks some volcano had spewed up millions of years ago formed the basement wall. It opened halfway along its length, a gaping black maw indiscriminately swallowing cop cars, cops and prisoners alike. Dim, hollow, a place where slamming metal doors and screaming sirens echoed in air heavy with disinfectant, vomit, fear and defeat.

Maggie took the last few paces at a run, turning into Cook Street and up the steps to the entrance as if the devil nipped at her heels. Time, precious time didn’t allow for a meeting on neutral ground and had driven her to this place against her will. On the top step she paused, her heart in her throat. Hadn’t she vowed never to cross this threshold again? And here she was doing just that.

Conscience drove a hard bargain. Hers had been up and running from the moment she’d opened her eyes. Three women dead. Three too many. A single thought, blinding in its simplicity, had forced her out of bed, into the shower, and sent her in search of paper and pencil.

Maybe it’s not too late.

This, the first dream of death she’d had in Auckland, had been clearer, more edgy in its intensity. Pathetically, she shied away from the word murder. It was too out there, too in her face. The word death was easier to swallow, if it stopped her wanting to run to the nearest bathroom and throw up. And if living the dream slammed her with a knockout punch, the flashes, images, caught her off guard, winding her with short, sharp jabs to the solar plexus. What could be worse? Nothing—except maybe the ridicule she knew waited on the other side of the door.

She’d been directed to the fifth floor. Reception was empty, though a light, electronic hum issued from a double-doored office. Her muscles tightened, screaming with tension. Maybe she should barge in and sing out, “Can anyone tell me where to find Sergeant Strachan?”

Impatience gave in to need. Fists clenched, teeth clamped over her bottom lip, she stepped toward the office.

Maybe it’s not too late!

A huge, tawny-haired man dressed in uniform blues preempted her decision. Doors swinging in his wake, he asked, “Need any help?”

He had a look of authority, of reliability, and a badge with the legend Sergeant McQuaid sitting squarely on his massive chest. A cop she could trust, thought Maggie, taking in his attractive, craggy features. If only he was the one she had come to see. “Yes, could you show me to Sergeant Strachan’s office?”

“Sure thing.” Warm, teasing hazel eyes gave her a quick, speculative once-over. “Follow me,” he said as he walked on, keeping her pinned with his inquisitive gaze.

Since he hadn’t asked her name, she didn’t have to suffer a swift change in his attitude. Taking two steps to his one, she kept pace with him, keeping close to the wall; the sergeant’s shoulders needed all the space they could get.

They passed two interview rooms before they reached the corner office. Knocking once, Sergeant McQuaid opened the door. With her view blocked by his bulk, Maggie listened for Max’s voice with her nerves prickling her skin like an invasion of ants.

Maybe it’s not too late!

Max looked up as Rowan McQuaid invaded his privacy. “What’s up?” Although McQuaid was slightly younger than Max, they’d been in the same year at Trentham Police College. Jamie Thurlo, the other member of their trio, had been a helicopter jockey when he signed on and now rode the skies in a blue-and-white beauty. Their friendship had survived the years and been tempered by them. The young hotheads were long gone. Rowan, the more methodical member of the group, had stuck to the route where the donkey work lay, the papers and reports that Max hated. Like the ones littering his desk. After eight agonizing hours of constant arousal, while his mind reran in a constant loop every second spent with Maggie, he’d woken up feeling as if half his brain had shut down while the rest worked at half speed.

“Visitor for you, Max.”

Secretly glad of the interruption, he grumbled, “This better be important. I’m busy.” Anything was better than reading each line three times over without taking it in. The hell with it. He needed something, someone, to take his mind off Maggie. “All right, show them in.”

“I’m sure you’ll want to see this one,” Rowan said, grinning, and he moved out of the way, giving Max his first glimpse of his visitor.

“Maggie!” Max was halfway out of his chair before she’d stepped into the room. He caught the conjecture in Rowan’s glance as he rounded his desk. “Maggie,” he said, “this is a friend of mine, Rowan McQuaid.” He watched her offer her hand as he finished, “Rowan, meet Maggie Kovacs.” But her eyes were on him.

Max took in Rowan’s recoil without surprise. The trouble with friends close enough to know your whole life history, preferences, prejudices and the kind of breakfast cereal you ate was they took a personal interest in what you were doing and with whom. They stood up with you at your wedding and cried with you over your divorce, and because of the last two, this meeting with Maggie wouldn’t make any sense to Rowan.

Max cut off the question forming in Rowan’s eyes with a meaningful glare and a nod that said he should leave.

“I’ll leave you to it then.” Rowan started to turn away, speaking over his shoulder as he left. “Good luck, and don’t sweat it, mate. I won’t tell a soul.”

Max brushed past Maggie and closed the door, shutting out his friend and the rest of Auckland Central. He’d no idea why she had come, but he wasn’t sharing. A pulse throbbed in his temple as fantasies born in the dead of night flooded his memory. At the mere sight of her, his palms itched to touch and the fire in his groin as her scent filled his head warned him to keep his distance if he was to maintain control.

“Take a seat, Maggie.”

“I won’t, thanks.” Turning her back on him, she walked over to the corner window and stood looking down.

“If all you came for was the view, there’s a better one from your apartment.” Drawn by the vulnerable picture she made, Max followed, but instead of dropping a kiss in the unguarded hollow at her nape to appease his craving, he turned her to face him. All his good intentions crashed and burned the moment he searched her eyes. They shone darkly, sparkling with unshed tears that made his breath catch. “What are you doing here, Maggie?”

“Maybe it’s not too late!” Emotion made her voice crack as she uttered the words chasing through her brain in a monotonous litany. “It doesn’t have to be.”

“Too late for what? C’mon, give me a clue, babe. I need more.” His hands tightened on her shoulders.

Dammit, he needed Maggie!

It had happened so swiftly, this blinding need for the one woman who should be anathema to him. Steady boy, steady. Max drew a deep, calming breath and compounded his dilemma with her womanly scent. The perfume she favored blended subtly with her own secret essence. It had lingered on his hands and driven him crazy replaying the pleasure derived from touching her. Tasting her. Crushing her against—

He had to stop punishing himself. He couldn’t.

Her warm camel coat, the same one she’d worn last night, seemed to melt away beneath his palms as her tight muscles communicated with him. Could Maggie feel him through it? Feel the heat generated by the burning ache in his groin? Hell! No wonder. Being close to her was playing with fire. And he knew it. Sliding his palms from her shoulders to her hands, he pulled her away from the window before he could set her on the ledge and take her there, for all the world to see. He forced the words “Let’s sit over here,” past the stricture in his throat, and settled Maggie in a chair, pulling the other one close. “What’s got you so upset? Are you still worried about Jo?”

“No, not her!” She felt Max’s hands caress hers as if he would rub her cares away. How would he react when she told him her reason for searching him out? He looked tired, and a strange longing to hug him tightly shoved her other emotions aside. Not that she wanted to mother him. How could she? He was so big, so handsome. And the rakish silver blaze in his hair curled on his forehead and fought with the tenderness in his eyes.

Any second now, all that would change. Preventing it was beyond her control.

She wished this small section of time and space could be set aside for herself and Max. Wished everything standing between them to the farthest ends of the earth. And knew there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of it happening.

What would Max think if she told him she didn’t want him to make her dreams come true? She wanted him to make them go away!

But all this heart searching could only delay the inevitable. Time he faced up to who she was, even if it drove him away.

Pulling her hands back, she reversed their positions, holding his long fingers and taking courage from their strength. “Max, I had another dream last night.”

His withdrawal was more spiritual than tangible. The heat drained from his hands. She gripped tighter. His eyes iced over, still true blue, but cold, icy cold, and although she’d expected his reaction, it still hurt.

“Sure you did, baby. So did I. You were there, hot as hell and pure, freaking magic.” Max’s lips curled without showing his teeth and his gaze stripped every stitch from her body.

Maggie had known it was coming, so she didn’t flinch away, didn’t try to retreat or shield herself. Nor would she essay an apology for who she was—especially to Max.

“Dammit, Max! This isn’t about me, or us. It’s about some poor woman who’s going be killed, who may already be dead. I pray she isn’t. But I can’t fix this on my own. You have to help me before it’s too late.” She let go of his hands. His skin was red where she’d gripped them. She got to her feet. Max stood, too, and then sat on the edge of his desk, sweeping the silver strand of hair back from the harsh red of his scar.

“You have no idea, Maggie. None at all. I’m the last person to ask for help. I’m a nonbeliever from way back.” His lips stretched in a grimace. “Hell, Maggie, I still want you, don’t want to lose you, but all this psychic nonsense will be the death of any relationship before it’s had a chance.”

“We never had a chance, never will. Not if you can’t at least try to believe. You make me feel, make me wish.” The fist she wanted to pound him with hit the arm of his chair. “Even without Jo’s wanting you, we never had a future. All we ever had was the possibility of a quick affair….” I could have settled for that. Maggie sighed and pushed her hands up under her collar. The touch of cashmere against her face felt good in a room where all warmth had been depleted. She straightened and looked Max straight in the eye, her decision made. She would go home. “We haven’t a hope in hell if you can’t even bring yourself to listen.”

“Lady, I wish to hell you’d never shown up today! I warned you last night: failure guaranteed. I already lost a marriage to all this psychic garbage. I won’t get mixed up in it again. No way! Never!”

“I didn’t expect to win, but I knew I had to try.” Maggie retrieved her purse, and as she stood, undid the clasp and took out a folded paper. “You see, I was damned if I did and she’s dead if I didn’t!” She tossed the paper on his desk. “I know you won’t make use of this, but hang on to it. I think you’ll be surprised at the likeness.” Maggie’s ironic laugh came out as a sob. “I even surprised myself.”

Max watched her walk away, amazed that for all the anger between them, he still had the same gut-wrenching reaction to the view of her slim ankles showing through the slit in the back of her coat. He closed the door, sat behind his desk with his elbows braced on it. “Jerk,” he muttered, cursing his inability to embrace the concept that would give him Maggie. The folded paper glared at him, challenging him to pick it up. He reached over and unfolded it.

The notepaper was Maggie’s father’s. Frank Kovacs, Kereru Hill Winery, Pigeon Hill. Max’s gaze skimmed the header to study the head-and-shoulders pencil drawing of a woman.

He didn’t recognize her.

The bow tied at her neck was another story. He knew for a fact it was red, tied with precision, each loop and tail the exact length of the one opposite.

It was scary the way Maggie had caught the eyes. And notwithstanding the simplicity of the medium, a cold chill slithered up his spine at the complete lack of life in them.

She’d got halfway to the civic car park before he caught her.

“Well, Sergeant, come to finish the job you did on me?” Her bold question was at odds with her grim expression.

An urge to rub away the hurt he’d caused stirred his hands. But only turning inside out and remodeling himself could achieve his aim to redeem himself in her eyes. Deep within him a wish flickered like a candle on one of the birthday cakes his mother used to bake when he was young, but even he could see it wouldn’t take much to blow out the flame.

“We need to talk. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

“I gave us a chance to talk not five minutes ago—I’ve changed my mind now.”

“Don’t be like that, Maggie. I’m not saying that you’re right and I’m wrong. I just want to discuss the possibilities.” He caught hold of her sleeve, wary of actually touching her skin. Of what it would do to him. “I’ve got the drawing with me,” he said persuasively. “We can go to the Blues Café in the Aotea Center. It should be quiet this time of day.”

“All right, but don’t think I intend spending the whole day in Auckland. I have work to do.”

“See, I told you, practically empty,” Max said, lowering his voice to prevent it bouncing off the hard surfaces of marble floors and avant-garde chandeliers. “Let’s sit by the window.”

Thickly padded tub chairs softened the starkness of the rest of the room. But the only warmth Max felt came from the body heat Maggie generated under all that cashmere. A part of him hoped she’d slip her coat off, the rest wanted to hide her lush curves from everyone but him. Dragging his mind back from under her coat, he asked, “This spot do?”

“Yes, fine…okay, I don’t mind.” She listened to herself agree every which way and do it twice over. Boy, Max was in for a shock if he thought her compliance normal.

“What will you have? Cappuccino?”

“Latté, please,” she said as Max headed for the counter. Decaf was her usual brew, but she needed a caffeine jolt. She’d begun the morning on an energy high that now fizzled from lack of sleep. Or maybe she had a touch of the Mary, Mary’s, letting contrariness be her guide in spite of his change of heart.

Or maybe she was just plain scared.

All along there’d been a small niggle working away at the back of her thoughts until it dug a hole big enough to climb out. But she wouldn’t voice it just yet. Time enough to hit him with it when he discovered this wasn’t just a case of her imagination playing up. Blast, she didn’t want to be proved right. But the odds ran against her being wrong. No, she wouldn’t mention her suspicions to Max yet; one small step at a time. That way when Max threw his doubts in her face she wouldn’t run into them.

“Any leads on the Khyber Pass Killer, Sergeant?”

Startled, Max spun around and spilled froth over the side of the cup, saucer and his fingers. Damn! Couldn’t he get a minute’s peace? A sinking feeling gripped him as he recognized Babcox, crime reporter with the Tribune. A man with the fierce animalistic tenacity of the weasel he resembled, all ginger hair, sharp features and canines. Young and eager, Babcox made up in effrontery for what he lacked in years and inches. Like the way he’d slapped the name the Khyber Pass Killer on the man they were after. A name that stuck once the other papers ran with it, though only the first victim, a young prostitute, had lived in Khyber Pass Road.

Apart from the killer, all three had only one thing in common. The police team’s latest clue, unearthed after the last murder. Certain aspects of the case needed to be kept secret, and if Max had his way Babcox would be the last to know.

And that was only one of his problems.

What he needed was a reasonable explanation of why Maggie Kovacs knew details that had Detective Inspector Henare threatening a stint in the Chathams for anyone who spilled his guts to the media.

Max turned his back on him. “No comment.”

“Come on, Strachan. Things must be progressing well if you can afford to take a coffee break in the middle of the morning.”

One glance at the waitress told Max she was agog with speculation. “Here,” he said, pushing the cup and its saucer full of milk toward her, “can you fix this for me?” Then he softened his demand with, “Thanks,” when she took it away. That done, he told Babcox, “You know all statements have to come through Detective Inspector Henare’s office. Call him.”

Max felt the reporter back off mentally if not physically. It took a brave man to approach Mike Henare. He wasn’t any taller than Max’s six-five, yet the inspector could make two of him, and the Maori half of his ancestry lent a fearsome cast to his features that intimidated felons and scared the crap out of journos. It was a skill Max hadn’t mastered, one that needed cultivating, seeing that Babcox still took up space beside him.

“Why bother with the ringmaster when I can get it from the horse’s mouth? Doesn’t it worry you that women can’t sleep at night without wondering who’s going to be next?”

Max glowered at him and swallowed a curse as he heard the waitress set the coffee down on the counter behind him. The nerve of this guy! Hell, it was his embroidering of the facts that kept women awake at night. “Take it up with Henare.”

“Who’s the babe? Any connection with the case?”

Damn! Max didn’t want this jerk sniffing around Maggie. “Give me a break, mate, I do have a private life.” Maggie’d be sure to clam up if she caught on to Babcox’s line of work.

“Can’t say as I blame you. Wouldn’t mind a piece of that myself.”

Max stiffened and his hands fisted as he fought back the urge to plant them in Babcox’s filthy mouth. His nostrils flared with loathing as he sucked in a breath and held it.

With a nod of his head he drew Babcox’s attention to a poster advertising MacBeth. “If it’s more bloody murder you’re after, try backstage. You’ll learn more there than you’ll get out of me.”

“Yeah, real funny, Sergeant. But at least they know who did it.” The reporter put a couple of paces between himself and Max, then added, “Never let it be said I couldn’t take a hint. I’ll be seeing you, Strachan.”

“Not if I can help it. Listen good, Babcox, keep out of my face or I’ll get you banned from media releases.”

Max set Maggie’s coffee down in front of her. “Here you are. I hope it’s not cold. I got held up. Did you want something to eat with it? I didn’t think to ask if you were hungry.”

“No problem, coffee’s fine. Who was your friend?”

“Friend’s the wrong word for a lowlife you wouldn’t wanna be caught dead near,” answered Max, and realized his mistake as he saw Maggie’s expression tighten. He took the tub chair beside her, keeping his back to the window so he could see the whole room. He didn’t trust that guy one inch. “Anyway, he’s gone and the air’s fresher for it.”

“I suppose in your line of work you meet more people you dislike than not.”

“That just about sums it up.”

Maggie didn’t reply; instead she tore open three of the small packs of sugar and tipped them one after the other into her coffee. Caffeine was what she needed but a little sweetness wouldn’t go amiss.

“Maggie Kovacs! It is you.”

Suddenly Maggie found herself smothered in a soft, pillowy chest and a designer fragrance.

“I could hardly believe my eyes, it’s been so long.”

Once she’d been released and could breathe again, Maggie recognized Carla Dunsmuir. “Carla, how are—?”

“Oh, my dear! I’m so pleased to see that at last you’ve come out to play. And is this the man who’s rescued you? Your father would be so pleased.” Ever flamboyant, Carla gushed over both of them in warm, scented waves, eyes flashing and hands keeping time with her mouth.

The direction of Carla’s thoughts was all too obvious. She rushed on, not waiting for introductions. All Maggie could do was let her run her course. Nothing and no one ever stopped Carla once she’d hit her stride.

“I haven’t seen you since Frank’s funeral. So sad, so sad, but it’s thanks to him that I’m here today.” She smiled gently. “You know what they say about ill winds.”

“I do?” What was the woman talking about? Here because of Frank? Maggie needed help keeping up with her. She needed coffee.

Max stood with his hand on the chair next to him. “Care to join us?” he asked, hoping like hell the woman would say no, yet interested in spite of himself in what she had to say on the subject of Maggie’s father.

“No, thanks. I’m just passing through. That’s what I meant, Maggie. I needed something to do. I was lonely without Frank—you know what I mean. You must miss him more than me. Such a beautiful man.”

For a moment Carla’s face crumpled and Maggie braced herself, but thankfully she carried on with her explanation.

“So I ended up getting involved with the opera company and now I’m on the board. We’re doing a short season of Turandot,” she said, as if she personally would appear on-stage. “It starts tonight with a gala opening,” Carla chiruped, her hands fluttering and chest quivering in excitement. “So much to do, so little time.”

“I’m happy for you. Very happy.” Maggie felt positive Max must have realized by now that Carla had been her father’s lover.

“Such a tragedy.” Carla looked over at Max, sighing gustily. “I’m sure Maggie’s told you all about it.” Max nodded, but still she carried on. “So unexpected, too. I mean, these things always are, but it’s just that Frank was always so careful, checking everything before we took off. I often went with him, you know, but not that day. He refused to take me….” Carla trailed off, then looked at Maggie apologetically. “You mustn’t think he didn’t believe in you—I’m certain he did. It was just that being the sort of man he was, he wouldn’t let it rule his life.”

Max reached under the table and took the hand he knew Maggie had clenched in her lap. He undid her fingers and wrapped his own around them, rubbing the back of her hand against his thigh. Blasted woman! Why wouldn’t she leave? Would nothing go his way this morning?

“Anyway, Frank saved my life, but I never understood how it happened. I mean the plane was only six hours past its last fifty-hour check.” Carla looked at the jeweled watch circling her plump wrist. “Heavens, I must run!” She leaned forward and planted a kiss in the air near Maggie’s cheek. “Look after yourself, dear, and remember,” she said with a wink, “don’t let life grind you down!”

“Phew! I’m exhausted. How about you?” Max asked as he watched Carla’s departing figure disappear into the auditorium.

Maggie felt drained, which wasn’t unusual after a meeting with the woman. She shook her head. “It’s all right, I’m used to her.” She laughed out loud at a joke she’d thought long dead. “I never understood her and my father. I mean, their personalities were so different it was like combining candy floss with a lit match, yet I’m sure he loved her. In fact, I always thought he would marry her one day, but they never even got engaged.”

“They say opposites attract. Look at us.” Max dropped the statement into the conversation, reminding her their relationship wasn’t all-business. Truth be known, he’d rather it was pleasure that had brought them to this stage, where Maggie was easy with him holding her hand, and trusting enough to let him warm it against his thigh. He looked at the lush redness of her mouth and wondered how long he would have to wait to taste it again.

But anytime now he would have to get back to the folded paper, and the drawing burning a hole in his pocket.

“At least my father and Carla had some common ground, like opera, flying and wine.” There were questions in Maggie’s eyes, thousands of them floating around in the dark brown depths.

Max didn’t know the answers. He wished he did. All he could do was work his way through them and pray for a miracle. For one clue to jump up and hit him in the eye.

“I like wine, but as for the rest…” Max shrugged. “…I can’t tell Turandot from a tarot card. But tell me, what really did happen to your father?”

“I believe he was murdered!”