“That’s right, sweetie,” she said, scooping my stuff off the chair and steering me into the hall. Then she dug my keys out of my purse, unlocked my apartment, and ushered me inside. What happened after that, I wouldn’t know. My consciousness got lost somewhere along the way.
WHEN I CAME TO, I WAS FLAT ON MY BACK ON the couch in my dark living room, arms and legs flopped out in all directions. My shoes were missing, my skirt was hiked up to my hips, and my sweater was twisted so tight around my rib cage I could barely breathe. One of my stockings had popped free from my garter belt and was now wadded in a wreath around my ankle. My crusty eyes were seeing double, my gaping mouth was dry as cotton, my entire body was paralyzed in pain, and my buzzer was ringing repeatedly.
Great.
If I could have moved, I would have gotten up to answer the door. As it was, though, I could only lie there like a slab of cement, hoping whoever was standing out on the street and ringing my buzzer over and over again like a crazy fool would go away and leave me alone. I wanted to suffer and die in private.
My buzzer finally stopped ringing, but my caller didn’t go away. Instead, he let himself into the building, climbed the squeaky flight of stairs to the landing, and then opened the door to my apartment, using the key I’d had made specially for him.
“Paige?” Dan called out, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “Are you here?”
“Mmmmph,” I replied, horribly ashamed of my dazed, disheveled, prostrate position, but unable to do anything about it. My only hope was that he wouldn’t turn on the light.
Click! My only hope vanished with one flip of the switch on the wall by the door.
(Look, I really hate to break into the action here and interrupt the flow of my tale, but it’s for your own good. Seriously. I need to describe the layout of my apartment so you can properly visualize this and other forthcoming scenes. I know it’s annoying, but keep your shirt on! It’ll only take a second:
When you enter my modest domain, you’re standing in one small, narrow room, smack between the kitchen area and the living area. There’s no wall separating these two zones, but you can tell them apart because the stove, sink, Frigidaire, and secondhand yellow Formica dinette set are all to the left of the entrance, and the armchair, bookcase, rented Sylvania floor model TV, telephone table, and makeshift couch-which I constructed myself from an old door, six screw-on legs, a single mattress and lots of Woolworth’s throw pillows-are all to the right.
The windows in the living area look down on Bleecker Street, and the windowed door at the opposite end of the room-the rear of the kitchen-leads out to a rusty metal balcony-cum-fire escape, whose metal stairs lead down to the weed-choked, rat-infested courtyard below. And there’s another staircase inside my apartment. This one is extra-extra-narrow, with a wooden handrail and banisters, and it rises from the hind corner of the kitchen to the second level, where my tiny bedroom, tinier bathroom, and closet-size office are located.)
Do you get the picture now? When Dan stepped into my apartment and flipped on the overhead light, the whole first floor was illuminated. And so, therefore, was I! In all my slovenly, hungover, spread-eagled glory.
“Well, well, well,” Dan said, walking over to the couch and aiming his coal-black eyes down at me. “What have we here? Little Nell tied to a railroad track? Sleeping Beauty waking up from a ten-year nap?” He leaned over and gave me an overtly sexy smile. “You know, at first glance I thought you were offering your body to me, but now that I’ve had a closer look, I think somebody else beat me to it.”
That did it! Stifling a howl of pain and squeezing my eyes shut against the light (and the glare of Dan’s smile), I pushed myself up on my elbows, swung my legs around till my feet hit the floor, and then forced my stricken spine into a sitting position. The effort left me weak and dizzy. And so embarrassed I wanted to crawl under the rug.
“Very funny,” I groaned, rubbing my face with my hands and raking my fingers through my tangled hair. “It’s a comfort to know you find my agony so amusing.”
“What do you expect?” he said, still grinning. “I’m an officer of the law. It makes me happy when the punishment fits the crime.”
“Crime? What do you mean? What crime have I committed?” As the memory of my pact with Sabrina leapt back into my addled brain, a wave of guilt and panic swept over me. Had Dan found out about our furtive conspiracy? Did he know that I’d agreed to search for a brutal killer, and that I’d sworn to keep it a secret from him?
“You obviously drank too much tonight,” Dan answered, removing his gray felt fedora and trench coat and laying them on the armchair, “and now you’re suffering the consequences of your misconduct. That’s what I call justice.” He gave me an amicable wink, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned his shirt collar. Then he took off his suit jacket and leather shoulder holster and carefully draped them over the back of the chair.
As many times as I’d watched Dan perform this hat-coat-and-gun-removing ritual, it never ceased to excite me. He looked incredibly sexy in his open-collared white shirt, and I loved the way his dark, wavy hair fell over his hatless forehead. And since Dan had once revealed that he felt naked without his gun, I found the absence of his shoulder holster particularly provocative. Even in my deranged, dehydrated condition.
“I need a drink,” I said, slowly struggling to my feet and staggering into the kitchen, one nylon flopping around my ankle.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” I could hear him chuckling behind my back.
“I meant water, and you know it!” I croaked, grabbing a clean glass out of the dish drainer and filling it from the tap. After guzzling two glassfuls and thoroughly rinsing out my mouth, I splashed some water on my face and wiped it off with the dishtowel. “What time is it?” I asked.
“Eleven thirty,” he said.
Aaargh! I had been asleep (okay, passed out) for almost five hours. I hadn’t thought-or even dreamed-about the Virginia /Melody case at all. I hadn’t studied the second page of the lavender list or dialed any of the phone numbers on either page. Jeez, I hadn’t even followed through on my intention to call Sabrina to get more scuttlebutt on the suspects!
Some detective I was panning out to be. Slow and stupid as a slug. And now Dan was here, and I was a total wreck, and it was too late at night to do anything.
Well, maybe not anything.
Dan walked up behind me, took hold of my shoulders, and turned me around to face him. “Feel better now?” he asked, gazing down at me with his hot black eyes, pressing his warm, resilient body so close to mine I felt weak in the knees.
“I… I think so,” I said, doing my best not to wobble.
He brushed my hair back from my face, then traced his fingers around my ear and down the side of my neck. “Better make up your mind, babe, because if you haven’t fully recovered, I think I should go home and let you get some rest.”
“Oh, no, I’m fine!” I lied, hastening to reassure him (i.e., convince him to stay). “I feel pretty darn good, if you want to know the-”
I was about to say the word “truth” when Dan’s open mouth descended and enveloped mine, making further fabrication unnecessary.
Chapter 8
ABOUT FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, AFTER DAN had carried me back to the couch and had his way with me (well, sort of, anyway-explanation to follow), we rebuttoned and rezipped our rumpled clothes, and returned to the kitchen.
This was our usual routine when Dan stopped by to see me after he got off work. First would come the banter-friendly or otherwise, depending on the situation; next would come the groping-Dan and I were so wildly attracted to each other it was shameful; next would come the coffee or Chianti (whichever seemed more appropriate) plus an ardent tête-à-tête at the kitchen table; and last would come a long, lingering, loving good-night kiss, or-if Dan had discovered that I was involved in another dangerous murder story investigation-a hideous fight.