16
“So you’re a native New Yorker.” Felicity leaned against the door in the back of the limousine. “Well, now you’re home. Did you miss the city?”
“Not even a little bit,” Morgan said. “New York’s a big, dirty town. Always has been. I spent my first fifteen hard years here, fighting just to stay alive.”
“And then?”
Morgan shared a bittersweet smile. “Then I lied about my age and escaped into the United States Army. I wasn’t what you’d call well educated, but back then recruiters weren’t looking for computer programmers. What the Army needed was tough, vicious killers. The South Bronx was a perfect training ground.”
“You’re nothing like I expected a killer to be,” Felicity said, almost in a whisper. “What’s it like? Killing a man, I mean.”
“You saw it.”
“No.” Felicity tried to find his eyes in the darkness. “I meant what does it feel like.”
Morgan glanced at the back of the driver’s head and, seeing no reaction, shifted his gaze to stare out into the dark sky. “Can we change the subject?” he asked the window.
“Okay.” Felicity slid closer to him on the seat. “Tell me this, then. Why do you suppose it is that you can smell a dangerous situation coming your way? What is it makes us different…”
“I ain’t different,” he said, low but hard. “I’m just a damned good soldier. Damned good, and real lucky.”
“But aren’t you curious at all about…”
“No!” Morgan’s eyes snapped toward her. “I ain’t curious and I don’t want to talk about it either.”
To shut out the disturbing thoughts of his own uniqueness, he focused on the thin strips of night sky, which appeared between buildings as they rolled through the city. There was no shortage of light there, but not a star was visible. After almost two decades of wandering the world, his hometown seemed more alien to him than the jungle he so recently left.
Of course, when he lived there he had spent precious little time in this part of upper Manhattan. Knowing Felicity was wealthy, her having a second apartment on the East Coast should not have startled him. Despite his own six figure savings, he had never used his money this way.
Morgan slumped into his corner of the airport limo, glancing over at Felicity on the opposite side. Crossing three time zones and a four hour easterly flight combined to put Felicity and Morgan into J.F.K. Airport in the middle of the night. The long ride in from Long Island affected them like a slow motion sedative. In Morgan’s mind, the Van Wyck Expressway became an endless vibrator bed shaking them past shopping centers and mini-malls. Lights flashed like hypnotic strobes between the cables of the Queensboro Bridge, or as Morgan knew it in his youth, the 59th Street Bridge. Simon and Garfunkel had immortalized the bridge in song, back when Morgan was crawling through Southeast Asian tunnels for his country. Slow down, you move too fast, his mind was chanting as they joined with the traffic coming out of Long Island City and dropping onto the East Side.
Finally, the limo rolled past the Park Avenue street sign, turned a corner and stopped in front of Felicity’s New York address. A building somewhat taller than the one they left in Los Angeles loomed above them. A doorman rushed to the door to let them out and take their luggage. Felicity handed him a bill and ushered Morgan into a lobby that felt more businesslike but cooler than the one in California. A minute later, in the whisper quiet elevator, Felicity took Morgan’s arm and leaned against him.
“You look a little drowsy,” he said as the elevator eased to a stop. “I think you ate too much of that awful food on the plane.”
“You know,” Felicity said as she punched in the door combination of her penthouse apartment, “this is as close to home as I can get in the States.” The door swung open and when Felicity flipped the light switch, the room Morgan stepped into left him stunned into silence for a moment. The view was different, of course. From this point on Fifth Avenue, the lake he was looking at would be the reservoir in Central Park. Aside from that unavoidable difference, this apartment was identical to the one in Los Angeles. He scanned the same layout, the same furniture, the same stereo, the same everything. He half expected to see blood on the big overstuffed chair to his left.
So much hit him at once. This woman had gone to enormous trouble and expense to have two places, a continent apart, in which she could be equally at home. She must be quite a successful thief to be able to foot the bill. But there was more to her apartment choices than money, and he considered what she said just before they walked in.
“You know, this town is home to me,” Morgan said, carrying their suitcases to the sofa, “but you talk and act like you’re from another country.”
“I am,” Felicity said, kicking off her shoes. “I’m a real Colleen from the old country, born right outside of Belfast.” She dropped onto the couch.
“I think the shock of the last twenty-four hours has finally hit you.”
“I’m very much afraid you might be right,” Felicity said through a yawn. “Help me with this, will you?” She stood and turned her back to him. It took him a second to realize she wanted him to pull her dress zipper down. He unzipped her, then watched, shaking his head, as she walked silently and sluggishly off to her bedroom.
How do you figure a girl like that? Morgan wondered. She spent her life in a nerve shattering way, as a professional jewel thief. What could be scarier? Yet now she showed all the symptoms he had seen in combat veterans. He knew she was reacting to that chilling shock a person gets when they first realize that someone would really, really try to kill them.
“Morgan.”
It was Felicity. Had he heard a tremble in her voice? One thing was certain. Now that he listened for it, her brogue was definitely more pronounced when she was tired. Well, what the hell. He marched off to her room, peeling off his windbreaker, shoulder holster and shirt along the way. As he passed the guest room, his room in his mind, he tossed them in.
When he reached Felicity’s door he slowly pushed it open and stepped in. The city lights struck him head on and splashed around the blue room. The room held a slight scent of vanilla. Felicity lay face up, a deep blue handmade patchwork comforter covering her to the waist. Her bare breasts stood proudly alert, even though her head was propped wearily on two large, puffy pillows. Long red tresses lay splayed in all directions.
“Aren’t you going to tuck me in?” she asked meekly. He could feel her loneliness reaching out of those deep green eyes, trying to capture his. He had never seen anyone so defenseless. He hated himself for thinking it, but this was not the way he wanted this woman.
“I know just what you need, Red.” He stepped closer to her. “Turn over.” After Felicity numbly obeyed, he sat down on the bed. Carefully he removed his boots and turned to kneel on the bed. Poised above her, he caught the scent of a perfume that carried more drama than beauty. With strong, sure fingers he began to knead the knotted muscles in Felicity’s neck and shoulders. When he entered he had noted with interest the upsweep of her breasts. Now the firmness of the rest of her body intrigued him.
“Hey, lady, are you a body builder or something?”
“No,” Felicity mumbled. “Do a lot of gymnastics. Of course, I’ve been kind of busy these last couple of days. I usually work out three times a week. And I run. Three or four miles, three times a week. When you’re climbing into tenth floor windows and going hand over hand on a wire from one building to the next you’ve got to be…oooh, that feels good!”
He had worked his way down to her legs. It took all his strength to unknot those long, smooth thigh muscles.
By the time he had worked his way back up to her neck, Felicity’s breathing had fallen into the steady pattern of sleep. He stood beside the bed for a moment, staring down at her perfect naked form. How like a renaissance statue, he thought, with perfect innocence on her face. The lights of the grand city glinted off her alabaster form as he gently pulled the comforter up to her shoulders and padded silently toward the door.