Authors: Elizabeth Adler
“It’s not late. I just went to bed early.” She shuffled upright against the pillows.
“I got your message.”
“You did?”
He thought she sounded breathless. “It wasn’t very long.”
“I thought it said it all.” She was smiling, enjoying him despite herself
“Succinct,” Harry said.
“That’s me.”
He could hear the smile in her voice. “What does it feel like to be an enigma?”
“Oh, enigmatic, I guess.” Then she laughed. “The flowers were beautiful. How did you know lilacs were my favorite?”
“I didn’t, but I’m glad they are. I just thought they suited you. Fresh and fragrant, like spring.”
“You’re getting poetic, detective.”
“It’s Harry. Remember? Did you ever think you might drive a man to poetry?”
“Or to music. I like the Elgar.”
“It’s romantic, over-the-top.”
“And so, I suspect, are you, Harry Jordan.”
He grinned, imagining her lying in bed. “How about giving me a chance to show you how romantic I am? I could wangle a night off tomorrow.”
She hesitated. He could almost hear her thinking it over. “I’d like that, Harry. Only dinner’s on me this time. My place at eight?”
“Eight it is. Mallory,” he added. “And thank you for the invitation.”
“I think I’m looking forward to it,” she said cautiously.
“Me too.”
“Then I guess this is good night.”
“I guess it is. After all, I’m in Boston and you’re in New York.”
“Not much we can do about it, is there, detective,” she said, laughing. Then: “See you tomorrow,
Harry”
and she hung up.
Harry was still smiling as he put down the phone. He forgot that he was supposed to be finding out what she knew about the man on the photo-fit. He felt like a young guy taking out the prom queen.
He whistled for the dog, clipped on his leash, and took him for a long walk. He wondered what Mallory Malone wore to bed.
Mal lay back on the pillows, thinking worriedly that she really should not have succumbed to Harry Jordan’s charm. He was a threat to her—he could ruin her carefully constructed life. But she couldn’t resist him. And it was just this once. She would have to be on her guard, that’s all. Then she turned on her stomach and buried her face in the pillow. She was asleep within minutes.
H
ARRY WAS HAPPIEST
in comfortable well-worn jeans, but for her he put on his one and only good jacket and pants, a white linen shirt, and a bright silk tie he’d picked up on sale somewhere. As he tied it in the mirror, he thought with a grin that this was twice he had dressed up for Ms. Malone. He hoped she appreciated his sacrifice.
He had taken a room at the Mark Hotel on Madison and planned on catching the early-morning shuttle back to Boston. He felt like a kid playing hooky. As if to remind himself that he was not here solely on pleasure, he picked up the manila envelope containing the photo-fit of the killer, folded it, and put it in his pocket.
The concierge called from downstairs to say that his flowers were waiting. He took one last glance in the mirror, straightened the tie, ran his hands through his too-neatly combed hair, and headed out.
The florist had done a terrific job, filling an enormous wicker basket with parma violets. Clutching it gingerly, he edged into a taxi.
“You goin’ to a funeral, bud?” the driver asked sourly.
“I hope not,” he said, “but flowers sure smell better than this cab.”
At the apartment building he gave the doorman his name. “The penthouse floor, sir,” the doorman told him. “Ms. Malone is expecting you.”
In the elevator on the way up, Harry checked his digital
watch. He was right on time. He smiled, anticipating what she would look like, what she would say, being alone with her.
Carrying the enormous basket of violets, he stepped from the elevator into a marble foyer. There were expensive antique Venetian mirrors on the walls, soft-hued French rugs on the floor, and an attractive woman in a red silk dress was smiling at him. It wasn’t Mallory.
He said uncertainly, “I think I’m in the wrong place.”
The woman had long black hair, laughing dark eyes and a sexy smile. She looked him slowly up and down, then shook her head. “Oh, I do hope not.” Then she laughed. “Who are you looking for?”
“Mallory Malone.”
She stepped closer to him, inspecting the violets. He could smell her perfume over the scent of the flowers, spicy and strong. “Then I’m glad to say you are in the right place.” She gave him another sexy little smile, then led him to the door.
“Mal,” she called loudly over the babble of conversation. “The delivery man is here. Come and look at him.”
Mal appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a tight black lace sheath lined with gold satin. The scalloped lace at the low neckline clung to her breasts as though it belonged there, and the short skirt and high-heeled black suede sandals made her legs look impossibly long and slender.
“Oh, it’s you, Harry,” she said, putting her fingers to her mouth to hide her laughter at the sight of him clutching his big basket of flowers, and at Lara’s introduction of him as the delivery man.
The room was crowded with people, and waiters were busy passing canapés and drinks. Harry’s eyes met hers.
“You didn’t mention a party,” he said, surprised.
She lifted one tanned slender shoulder in a careless shrug. “We just heard the ratings for last week’s show
were the highest yet. I decided to throw a party to celebrate.”
The woman in red watched them interestedly. “You mean you’re not the delivery man?”
Harry handed the basket to Mal. “These are for you.”
She buried her nose in them. “They’re heaven, gorgeous, like woods in springtime.” She smiled up at him, genuinely pleased. “And so many of them, Harry, you must have plundered all the florists in Manhattan. Thank you.”
For some silly reason he melted when she smiled at him like that. She looked as though he had given her the world on a plate instead of a bunch of violets. Still, he was disappointed about the party, though he supposed he had no right to be. He had no claims on Mallory Malone, and she had none on him.
“Come on, Harry,” the woman in red said gaily, linking her arm in his. “You look like a party animal to me, and personally I’ll settle for just the animal. I’m Lara Havers.” He could feel her warm body next to his as she stepped closer. “And exactly who
are
you?” she asked, half laughing.
“This is Homicide Detective Harry Jordan of the Boston Police Department,” Mal introduced him coolly.
“A cop? But how exciting. Tell me, Harry”—Lara drew him into the buzzing room—“are you here on business? Or purely pleasure?”
Mal stood by the door holding the basket of violets, watching them jealously. She felt that sudden clutch at her heart that she used to feel as a child when she had been the one not invited to the party, or asked to sleep over, or chosen for the team. For a minute she felt like Mary Mallory again, the loner and the loneliest.
She shrugged it off. This was
her
party,
her
home,
her
guests. It was
her
success that had brought all these people together. What did she care if Harry went off with
Lara Havers, anyway? He meant nothing to her—just a flirtation that’s all.
Then why had she woken up this morning with Harry on her mind? Why had she hurried to inspect her closet, filled to overflowing with beautiful clothes, and decided she didn’t have a thing to wear? Why had she rushed out to Dean & Deluca and picked up all those goodies to cook for him tonight? She had even called the wine merchant and had him locate the champagne Harry liked.
And why had she also dashed into Barney’s, first thing, and dithered like a teenager over whether to buy the sexy black lace or the demure cream satin shirt and black leather pants? She had been determined not to be caught on the wrong foot—sartorially—this time, so she had bought both.
And then she had told herself that she was crazy. There were a dozen men she could go out with tonight. She didn’t need Harry Jordan or his serial killer, and somehow she just knew he intended to bring up that subject again.
She had been quite relieved when the ratings had come in and the producer had suggested a party to celebrate. “Let’s have it at my place,” she had cried enthusiastically. “You’re all invited, every one of you.”
Beth had called the caterers, and she had called her friends, and before she knew it, she was stashing the Dean & Deluca goodies in the refrigerator and changing into the little black lace, and there was a party going on.
She watched Harry from across the room. He was surrounded by attentive women, Beth and Lara among them. Harry was telling them a story and they were laughing and flirting with him. He looked as though he was having a great time.
She walked to her bedroom and put the basket of violets on the table under the window. She sank into a chair, looking at them. They weren’t just a nice bunch of flowers—they were a sensitive and thoughtful gift chosen specially
for her. She decided Harry really was sweet after all, under that tough cop exterior. She got up, smoothed her skirt, took a deep breath, and walked back to her party.
It was eleven o’clock when people finally began to leave and she still had not had a chance to say one word to Harry. He had been the star of the evening, entertaining her guests with stories of murder and mayhem. He’d taught Lara and Beth and her other friends how to dance to Gloria Estefan’s
“Si Señor”
and he had promised to show them the perfect exercise for abs. He had discussed basketball with the guys and talked about the Moonlightin’ Club and how well it was doing, and that maybe they would build an ice-hockey rink and get up a team. He was everybody’s friend, and she was the busy hostess.
Mal watched mockingly as every woman there kissed Harry good-bye, and she laughed when Lara whispered, “Isn’t he the sexiest cop you ever saw outside of TV? And so much more available, darling. You won’t mind if I call him, will you? I mean, he said it was just a business thing between you two.”
“Go right ahead,” Mal said airily. “There’s absolutely nothing between us.”
Lara shook her head, amazed. “You must be out of your mind, darling. But lucky me, then.”
Mal said good night to the director and his wife, and the producer, and then to Beth and Rob.
“Oh, wait just a minute,” she said, running into her bedroom. She came back seconds later with a parcel. “Anniversary present,” she said, handing it over. “Sorry, I forgot. The London trip erased all my memories.”
As Mal waved good-bye, she was aware of Harry’s eyes on her. She turned and looked at him. He was standing by the fireplace, his hands in his pockets, leaning casually against the mantel. His hair was rumpled, and his beard was growing in. He looked like a man who wanted to take off his jacket.
“What does a guy have to do to get some food around here?” he asked with a grin.
She shrugged. “There was food. Good food, and plenty of it.”
“Tidbits,” he said, still looking at her. “Remember me? I’m the guy who was asked to dinner.”
“If you hadn’t been so busy teaching my friends to dance, you might have noticed the fine food from the top caterers that most of the other people were eating.”
“I only taught the
women
to dance. And dinner doesn’t count unless you sit at a table to eat it. Preferably opposite the person who invited you.”
“What makes you think I invited you to dinner anyway?” she said, amused. “I never mentioned the word
dinner
. Or has your perfect cop’s memory let you down tonight?”
“Sure,” he said casually. “The way yours let you down over the photo-fit. Exactly what was it about that picture, Malone? Did you recognize him or what?”
She shrugged impatiently. “Don’t be silly. Of course I didn’t recognize him. Why should I?”
“Well, for one thing, it’s your job to recognize killers. You’ve met plenty of criminals. I thought it might be someone you’d met in passing. Or maybe it’s your brother?”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Okay, so it’s not your brother. Then who the hell is it, Malone?”
“How the hell do I know?”
They faced each other, glaring silently.
“Are we having a fight?” he asked her with a grin.
“That only happens to people who know each other well, and let me remind you, detective, that we do not.”
“I thought that was why you invited me tonight. So we could get to know each other better.”
She laughed. “If it weren’t for the violets, I might think you just wanted to ask me about the killer.”
“They were a small gift that I thought the beautiful woman I was going to have dinner with would like.”
“You really think I’m beautiful?”
“Half of America thinks you’re beautiful.”
“And that means the other half doesn’t.” She bit her lip, wishing she hadn’t said that; she had let her guard down in front of him.
He stared, astonished at her. “What does it matter to you what they think? You know what you look like. You’re great at what you do, a big success. Can you really be that insecure, Malone?”
She shrugged, avoiding his eyes. “I was just joking.”
He watched her puzzled. “No, you weren’t,” he said gently. “You want to tell me about it?”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Yes, there is.” He cupped her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. “You can tell me, Mal,” he said. “I promise I can keep a secret.”
“Oh, Harry,” she said, laughing, “you sound just like me.
“Sometimes
you
don’t sound like you. And that’s the puzzle.” He ran his fingers along the nape of her neck, up through her soft hair.
Mal could feel the pads of his fingers against her scalp and the warmth emanating from them. A tiny frisson of pleasure ran down her spine, and she leaned into him. He held her gently, massaging her neck until she drooped with sensual pleasure.
“Feel good?” he whispered.
“Mmmm. You’re in the wrong career, detective. Your true vocation is as a masseur.” She was melting and she knew it.
She tilted her face up to him. Their eyes locked in a long deep look. His lips brushed hers softly, and she
sighed. Then she pulled her wits together and stepped away from him.