“Am I that bad?”
“No,” she said. “Not bad at all.” He felt her take his hand, interlace her fingers with his, and give it a little squeeze. “In fact, you’re good. Taking Tome in like you did is, well, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone doing that for a sim.”
She rested her head on his shoulder. The scent of her hair and the wave of warmth seeping up from where their hands coupled enveloped Patrick, making him feel as if he were riding a cloud.
What is it with this woman? he wondered. We’re only holding hands but it feels like we’re having sex.
He rode that cloud all the way to Brooklyn, and too soon they were stopped in front of a neat, four-story brick-faced building.
“I’ll walk you to your door,” he said.
Romy shook her head. “No, you won’t.”
“We’ve got to be careful, Romy…”
She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. “You’re not walking me to my door. You’re coming up.”
“For a nightcap?”
“A drink, coffee, anything you want.”
Patrick couldn’t see Romy’s face in the dimness, couldn’t read her eyes. His first impulse was to ask her to repeat her last statement, but he feared she might take it as a wisecrack. Some sort of spell had been woven here tonight and he wasn’t about to risk breaking it.
“Let’s go,” he said, and fumbled his wallet out of his pocket to pay the cabby.
The stairway within was too narrow to ascend abreast so he had to follow Romy, which positioned her hips at eye level before him. Their rhythmic sway within her cleathre coat only exacerbated the electric ache in his groin.
They stopped climbing at the third floor. Romy keyed open a door marked 3A. She stepped through, turned, and pulled Patrick inside. Without turning on the lights she slammed the door and slipped her arms around his neck. Patrick responded instinctively, pulling her close. His lips found hers, he felt her left leg sliding up the outside of his thigh as he slipped his right hand along her ribs toward her left breast—
—and then the lights came on.
Romy spun, ending up beside him, hands out, ready to fight.
But the blond-haired guy with one hand on the lamp switch held a silenced automatic in the other. A second man, his dark hair tied back in a neat little ponytail, sat in an easy chair and held an identical silenced pistol. Both wore dark suits and white shirts buttoned to the top.
The seated man smiled as he spoke. “Well, well. Look at this, won’t you. A two-for-one special.” He had a faint Texas accent.
Amazing how fast lust can fade—Patrick’s insides had already turned to ice.
“What do you want?” Romy said.
“You, Ms. Cadman,” Ponytail said. “Not for anything carnal, I’m sorry to say, although I’m sure that would prove to be a mutual pleasure. We simply wish to ask you some questions. And as long as your lawyer friend is here, we have questions for him as well.”
“Forget about it,” she said, turning and reaching for the doorknob.
“Please don’t,” Ponytail said. “These silencers aren’t in place for show. Wewill shoot if necessary. Not a killshot—a knee, a thigh, just to get across the point that we have questions that we intend to have answered. We can do this friendly, where no one gets hurt and you both walk away wound-free, or we can do it messy. I prefer the friendly path, don’t you?”
“Friendly sounds good, Romy,” Patrick whispered, nudging her with his elbow. “Especially when we’re outgunned two to zip.”
She didn’t look at him. All he heard was a soft, “Shit!”
Patrick raised his hands, hearing the words to that old blues song about being a lover, not a fighter. “Let’s do friendly.”
“A practical man,” said Ponytail. He rose and moved toward two ladder-back chairs sitting side by side on the carpet. “We took the liberty of moving these in from the kitchen.” He did a mocking, maitre d’-type flourish. “Both of you remove your coats and be seated, s’il vous plait.” It sounded weird with that Texas accent.
Patrick tossed his herringbone overcoat onto the couch and guided Romy to one of the chairs.
“Portero sent you, didn’t he?” she said as he helped her out of her coat.
“Portero…Portero…,” Ponytail said slowly. “No, I don’t believe we’ve met. Is she as pretty as you?”
Blondy guffawed.
That laugh says it all, Patrick thought as he seated Romy, threw her coat on the couch, then dropped into the other chair. He tried to relax but quailed as he felt the muzzle of Ponytail’s silencer suddenly press against his temple.
“Ms. Cadman,” the man said, “my associate will put down his weapon while he affixes you to the chair. You will allow him to do so without resistance. If you resist you will end up with a very messy carpet and we will be faced with the unfortunate circumstance of having only one person to interrogate.”
Patrick’s bladder clenched. He wasn’t cut out for this. He’d been trained to pose logical arguments based on law and precedent in an arena overseen by a supposedly impartial magistrate. If he won, great; if he lost, at least he could walk away knowing—hopefully—that he’d acquitted himself well in the contest. But this…the loser here didn’t walk anywhere.
The blond guy laid his pistol on the carpet far from Romy. He produced a roll of aluminum duct tape and began taping her arms and legs to the chair. When he finished he bent over her and cupped one of her breasts in his hand.
“Nice,” he said, grinning.
Romy jerked her head forward, ramming it into his face. He staggered back, clutching his nose. When he recovered he bared his teeth, cocked his fist, and started toward her.
“Uh-uh-uh!” said Ponytail in a schoolmarm tone. “Mustn’t mar the merchandise. Tape up Mr. Sullivan, please.”
Scowling, Blondy taped Patrick to his chair, winding it blood-stoppingly tight. When he finished, he retrieved his weapon from the floor and holstered it inside his jacket.
But he wasn’t quite finished. He stepped over to Romy and grabbed the tip of her breast through her sweater. He gave the nipple a vicious twist and said, “Thatwon’t mar the merchandise.”
Romy winced but didn’t give him an iota more.
Patrick twisted against his bonds. “You shit!” He didn’t kid himself about being a tough guy but the way he felt at that moment left no doubt he could kill the bastard.
“All right now,” Ponytail said, holstering his own weapon under his left arm and pulling a leather case from under his right. “Enough fun and games. Let’s playWho Wants To Spill The Beans? ”
He snapped open the case, revealing an inoculator and two vials of amber fluid. He loaded one of the vials into the chamber of the inoculator, then pulled a recorder out of his pocket and set it on the coffee table.
“Now,” he said, smiling. “Who wants to be first? Let’s see…eenie, meenie—”
A softthump sounded from an adjoining room.
“What was that?” Ponytail said.
Blondy shook his head. “Don’t know. I checked it out when we got here. It was empty.”
“Probably just my cat,” Romy said.
Ponytail snarled, “You don’thave a cat!” He jerked his head toward the doorway and told Blondy, “That could have been the window. Check again.”
Blondy pulled his gun and edged into the dark doorway. He poked his head inside, looked around, then reached his free hand inside for the light switch.
And then—Patrick couldn’t be sure—it looked like he either tripped and fell into the room or something pulled him in. Whatever the cause, one second Blondy was there, leaning through the doorway, the next he wasn’t. A faint sound, something like a strangled grunt came from within, followed by a thump—it didn’t sound heavy enough for a falling-body thump; maybe just a dropped-gun thump.