He even finally called Gio's, only to be met by alternating threats of violence and pleas to tell them where she was. Wherever she was, she wasn't at Gio's.
At nine that night, he turned toward home. He wasn't giving up, he'd search all night if he had to, he was not going to leave her alone in the dark, but first he was going home to try to regroup. He'd tried all the logical places; now he was going to have to do some fast thinking on the illogical ones.
The night was hot, beyond hot, and he rolled down the car window and drove through the city, trying to ignore the whine of police sirens and the screech of cars stopping too fast and the laughter of women that sounded like screams. His heart was so swollen with fear that it filled his chest, pressing on his lungs so that he couldn't breathe deeply enough, and his breath came in shallow sighs.
Please, God, let me find her,
he prayed.
I'll never ask for anything again. Just let me find her and let her be all right.
As the afternoon faded to evening and then to night, a new knot formed: Mitch should have been back by now. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, it was past nine, and he should have been back by now.
What if he was hurt?
What if he was dead?
What if the shots hadn't been aimed at her? What if the shooter was aiming at Mitch?
What if he'd found him?
Carlo had been headed for jail the last time she'd seen him, but he'd be out by now. Uncle Gio's lawyers had getting Carlo out down to a science. Suppose he'd decided to put an end to Mitch's involvement with her. Suppose he'd decided to put an end to Mitch.
Mae leaned her head back against the iron bedstead and closed her eyes and concentrated on not panicking. She was fine alone. She could handle anything alone. She didn't need Mitch to get her out of trouble.
But she did need him.
She drew a ragged breath at the realization. She needed him in her Me, not because he could protect her, or support her, or even put his arms around her.
She needed him because she loved him.
And suddenly she was terrified that she was never going to see him again. It didn't matter that he was a terrible relationship risk, that he was never going to be able to commit to her, that she was asking to get kicked in the emotional teeth by loving him. Those things were all logical and true and had nothing to do with love. Love had its own truth; you knew when you were in it and the likelihood of the success or failure of it had nothing to do with the fact of it.
At that moment, all she needed was to know that he was safe. That would be enough. She didn't need him to hold her or to save her. Just let him be all right.
Somewhere. He didn't even have to be with her, he just had to be all right.
Then she heard a key scrape in the lock, and he came into the dark room, and she said, "Oh, thank God," and her voice was like a prayer.
"Mae?" In the gloom, she could see him stop and lean against the door, which closed under his weight. "Mae?"
"I'm here."
He drew a deep, uneven breath and said in a shaky attempt at lightness, "I've been looking for you, Mabel."
"I've been here," she said, trying to match his tone. "I figured you were with a librarian."
He came over and sat on the bed, and it sagged under his weight, tipping her toward him. He put his hand against her cheek and just sat there for a moment, touching her, and she closed her eyes because it felt so good to have him close, to feel his hand on her face, to know that he was all right.
He sighed. "I almost lost my mind." His voice was shaky again. "I thought I'd lost you forever."
She reached out for him, putting her hand against his chest, curling her fingers to clutch his shirt. "I was so scared. I thought Carlo had killed you. All I wanted was to know that you were safe. I'm all right now that you're safe." To her horror, she started to cry from relief. "I'm all right. I just couldn't stand it, thinking you were—"
"I love you." He kissed her and stopped her words with the soft caress of his mouth, making her dizzy with relief and comfort and love. She put her arms around him, holding him hard against her to prove that he was really there, and he held her just as close, just as tightly. "From now on, we stay together," he whispered in her ear. "This was just too damn scary. From now on, you stay with me."
"That's really what you want?" she asked him, swallowing hard. "No more pipeline?"
He smiled in the dark, his lips moving against her cheek. "No more pipeline. I've lost all my interest in the West. The only thing I want to explore is you."
"You wouldn't lie to me, would you?" she asked, and he said, "Everybody lies, Mabel. Everybody but us."
She nodded against his chest, too overwhelmed with relief and love to say anything else, and he kissed her again, deeper this time, and she melted into him, trying to merge with him so they'd never be apart again. He slipped his hand under her shirt, stroking his fingers up her damp back, holding her to him, and she pressed her lips to his neck, breathing him into her. "Make love to me," she whispered. "I want to be part of you."
He held her tighter for a moment, and then he said, "You're already part of me."
She stood up to pull his shirt over her head, breathing heavily in the heat that filled the room like fog, watching him gaze up at her in the blue light from the window. The shirt stuck to her, and she had to peel it off her sweat-slicked skin. She saw him stand then, too, the breadth of his body like a wall between her and whatever lay outside the door, and she heard him breathe deeper as he took off his shirt. She crawled back onto the bed and leaned forward to kiss his chest, licking at his salty dampness, and he stripped off his pants and then pulled her down on the bed with him, hot and damp and solid and safe.
She held him for a moment, savoring the warmth and weight of his body against hers, both of them slippery with sweat and heat and remembered fear and growing desire.
"It's almost enough just to hold you." He wrapped his arms tighter around her. "I'm just so damn glad that I'm holding you again."
She stretched against him, clutching him closer, trying to melt into him, dissolve her flesh into his, and he said, "Almost enough," and rolled his hips against hers. The heat flared low in her, and she bit him hard on the shoulder as he slid his ringers down her slippery body and into her, and she clenched around him, her tongue licking across his collarbone as she breathed into the waves of pleasure he stroked inside her.
They moved against each other slowly, rediscovering in deliberate detail what they'd found in tumbling haste the night before. The heat kept them slippery with need, salty with desire, and what had crashed and exploded before built slowly, inexorably, in low, swelling waves this time, moving higher and tighter, and when he finally arched himself into her and she enclosed him, they stopped for a moment, not breathing, listening to the lap of the blood in their veins, feeling the pulse where they were joined together and the throb of each other's hearts.
"I love you," Mae whispered to him, her lips moving on his. "I will love you forever."
His lips traced a silent echo on hers, and then all thought faded, and they were only rhythm and flesh and friction and heat and finally fusion, mindlessly one. And when all thought and fear and relief had been burned away, they slid wordlessly into sleep, still locked in each other's arms.
"I need a shower." She kissed him and then slipped away, so Mitch shrugged and followed her.
It was a long shower.
"You know, if we do this often, we're going to have to start getting up earlier," Mae told him later as she went through his cupboards. "Why don't you have any food?"
"Because I never eat here. There are cockroaches the size of Bob here, and I don't want to encourage them."
Mae looked around warily.
Mitch sat on the edge of the bed. "Mabel, there have been some new developments."
"I know." Mae leaned on the counter. "I think I'm under arrest."
"I've got that handled. We're going to go see Nick right now, and he'll take care of everything."
Mae swallowed. "Okay. That sounds good."
Mitch hesitated. "There've been a few...updates on the situation."
Mae closed her eyes. "Hit me with them."
"Well, the good news is, you're not broke. The bad news is that your Uncle Armand embezzled your trust fund and then wrote in the diary that someone was forcing him to pay it all back. He deposited eight million in your account in the past three months. That's a motive for killing him."
Mae frowned. "The police think I was leaning on him? I didn't even know he'd done it."
Mitch blinked at her. "Mabel, did you miss the part about the eight million?"
"No." Mae walked over to the bed, and Mitch spared a moment to enjoy watching her move. He was going to spend the rest of his life watching her move. It was enough to make a man enthusiastic.
She picked up her purse and pulled out one of Armand's diaries. "Look what I found at the town house."
Mitch took it, read the date on the spine and gaped at her. "I searched that town house. Harold searched that town house."
Mae nodded. "I think somebody left it there to be found. Just not by me. Probably by the police. There are pages missing at the end, but there was enough there for me to figure out he'd put a lot of money back into my fund and into several other funds he'd looted. He was really unhappy about it because he'd worked it so there was no legal redress unless he confessed, which of course he did in the diary. He must have thought he was invincible."
"That sounds like our Armand." Mitch opened the diary and flipped through it. "Who made him put back the money?"
"Claud. Once he found out what Armand had done, he leaned hard on Armand to put it all back before the Lewis name got any more tarnished. It must have been Claud on the phone that night, making sure Armand had restored the accounts he'd looted. It's all in the diary." Mae laughed shortly. "Poor Uncle Claud. He finally forces Armand to pay everything back and gets everything covered up, and he even gets a bonus when Armand dies and won't be letting down the family anymore, and then we come along making noise about the diary." Mae sat down beside him. "No wonder he was willing to pay a fortune to get you out of the picture. He had everything taken care of, and there you were, screwing things up. That's what he meant that night when the lawyer told us there was nothing. Remember, he said, 'You and June and Harold will be taken care of? He meant the money was back in the trust fund."
"Why didn't he just
tell
you that?"
"Uncle Claud doesn't tell people things. He takes care of things for them."
"When do you get that fund?"
"My thirty-fifth birthday. Six weeks from now."
Mitch whistled. "Armand was cutting it pretty fine." He flipped to the part of the book where the writing stopped. "Somebody's ripped out the last pages here. What did Armand do right before he died?"
Mae shrugged. "Married Barbara. Sold the house to Dalton. Slept with Stormy. Maybe they were all in it together."
Mitch grinned. "Barbara, Dalton and Stormy? Not a chance." His grin faded. "How about Claud, Gio and Carlo? They all had motives."
"No, they didn't." Mae sounded exasperated. "They didn't like him, but they didn't kill him."
"It's the only thing that explains all the stuff that's been going down," Mitch told her gently. "Look at the motives. Claud sees the family name disgraced and his reputation damaged. Gio gets swindled and broods about it for years on end. Carlo thinks Armand turned him in to the police."
"He did. It's in the diary. Armand thought it was funny."
"Armand wasn't too bright. Just look at what they've done since then. Claud tries to buy me off and then buys my building and has me evicted. Carlo kills my car. Gio makes threatening phone calls to my clients. They're the only ones doing this stuff, Mae. They must have been in it together."
"And they shot at us? They shot at me? I don't believe it."
"You were wearing my jacket," Mitch told her. "It was dark. Carlo would love to pick me off just on general principle, let alone if he thought I was getting close to the diary and his motive for killing Armand."
"I don't believe it." Mae's voice was stubborn. "I do not believe that they all clubbed together and murdered Armand. Forget it."
"Well then, there's also this." Mitch reached for his jacket and pulled out the 1952 diary. "This is the year June's son, Ronnie, was born."
Mae took it from him. "I don't get it."
"It was a thought I had the other day, after the condom hunt. If June got pregnant, and Armand wasn't happy about it, what would he have done?"
"Made her get an abortion." Mae began to leaf through the diary.
"And he tried. But she wouldn't. So he stopped sleeping with her, and then, to make sure it never happened again..."
Mae looked up from the book. "He had a vasectomy."
Mitch nodded. "That was my theory. And sure enough, it's in there. And then, because Stormy wanted kids, he wore condoms rather than tell her that he was sterile."
"Stormy poked the holes in the condoms."
"Right." Mitch stood up. "I'm not exactly sure what that means, but it means something."
"You think Stormy killed Armand because he didn't tell her he'd had a vasectomy?" Mae rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on."
"Somebody killed him. The police don't go looking for trouble. If they were ready to arrest you, they're sure Armand was murdered."
Mae shook her head tiredly. "Can we think about it after we've eaten?'' She tossed the diary on the bed. "I'm starving. I haven't had anything to eat for more than twenty-four hours, and you're going to have to buy me breakfast because you took my last twenty last night for gas, which, by the way, is why I had to walk a hundred miles to get here."
"You have plenty of twenties," Mitch said, abandoning his argument for the time being. "Eight million worth."
"Not for another six weeks." Mae stood and wrapped her arms around his waist pulling him close. "Until then, I'm at your mercy. Give me my twenty back."
"If you want my money, you have to marry me for it." Mitch stopped when he saw the expression on her face.
"Marry?" Mae swallowed and let go of him.
"What happened to the librarians? Opening the West? I'm not your type?"
"You've got to be kidding." Mitch shook his head in amazement. "We went over this last night. Haven't you been paying attention the last forty-eight hours? We're in a different place now."
Mae nodded. "I know. I know. It's just... I've known you a week. Exactly a week. And I'm under arrest. And I'm hungry. And..."
"Okay." Mitch leaned over and kissed her cheek. "You're right. I'll feed you, get you unarrested and then we can talk. But I'm not leaving you."
"What are you talking about?" Mae grabbed his shirtsleeve. "Of course you're not leaving me. Are you crazy? I'm not sure about marriage, but I'm sure about us. You must be nuts. Leave me? Not in this lifetime, buster."
Mitch started to laugh. "Then you're going to have to make an honest man out of me, Mabel." He pried her fingers off his sleeve. "Stay here. It would not be a good idea for the police to see you having breakfast with me before Nick shows up to take your hand. I'll get breakfast and bring it back."
"And my twenty," Mae prompted. "I hate being broke."
"Well, in your case, it's not permanent." Mitch picked up his keys. "Stay here. Don't open the door. Don't talk to strangers. Don't—"
"I'm starving to death." Mae collapsed back onto the bed. "But I'm being polite about it because I don't have any money so I am completely in your hands."
"I mean it, don't move." Mitch opened the door. "Unless somebody shoots at you."
"You know, my life has gotten so much more exciting since I met you."
She smiled at him, and Mitch had to take a deep breath before he could speak. "Did I mention that I love you?"
"No," Mae said. "Mention it often."
"Don't move," Mitch said. "I'll be right back." He hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Don't move'' again, and left.
He had a terrible feeling that leaving her was a bad idea, he just wasn't sure why.