"No problem." He pulled out a cigarette. "I'll make it up this evening."
Michael stood between them, obviously not wanting to leave--and knowing there was no point in staying. "I'll go now," he said at length, "if you promise to go up to bed."
"Yes, I will. Michael..." She put her arms around him, feeling the familiar trim build, smelling the light, sea-breeze scent of his after-shave. "You and David mean so much to me. I wish I could tell you."
"David and I," he said quietly and brushed a hand down her hair. "Yes, I know." He cast Slade a last look before he drew her away. "Good night, Jessica."
"Good night, Michael."
Slade waited until he heard the front door close. "What kind of disagreement did you have with David?"
"It was nothing to do with this--it was personal."
"Nothing's personal right now."
"This was." Turning, she fixed him with weary eyes, but he saw the stubborn crease between her brows. "I have a right to some privacy, Slade."
"I told you not to see either of them alone," he reminded her.
"Book me," she snapped.
"Don't tempt me." He met her angry eyes directly. "And don't do it again."
"Yes, Sergeant." On a disgusted sigh, Jessica dragged a hand through her hair. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," he told her briefly. "Just do what you're told."
"I think I will go up. I'm tired," she added, not looking at Slade.
"Good." He didn't get up, nor did he take his eyes off her. "Get some sleep."
"Yes, yes, I will. Good night, Slade."
He listened to her go up the steps, then tossed his cigarette into the fire and swore.
Upstairs, Jessica filled the tub. That was what she needed, she told herself--an aspirin for the headache, a hot tub for the tension. Then she would sleep. She had to sleep--her body was crying for it. For the first time in her life Jessica felt the near weightlessness of true exhaustion. She waited until the bathroom was steamy, then lowered herself into the tub.
She knew she hadn't deceived Slade. Jessica wasn't fool enough to believe that he'd taken her excuse of being tired at face value. He was just as cognizant of what was going on inside her head as she was. The visit from Michael had been the last straw in a day filled with unspoken fears and rippling tension.
Nothing had happened, she thought in frustration as she let the water lap over her. How much longer would she have to wait? Another day? A week? Two weeks? On a long, quiet sigh she shut her eyes. Jessica understood her own personality too well. She would be lucky to get through the night much less another week of waiting and wondering.
Take an hour at a time, she advised herself. It was seven o'clock. She'd concentrate on getting through until eight.
At twenty past eight Slade went systematically through the first floor, checking locks. He'd waited, throughout an unbearably long day, for the phone call that would tell him his assignment was over. Silently he cursed Interpol, the FBI, and Dodson. As far as he was concerned, they were all equally to blame. Jessica wouldn't be able to take much more--that had been made abundantly clear during Michael's visit.
Another thing had been made abundantly clear. Slade had found himself entirely too close to stepping over the last boundary. If the doorbell hadn't rung, he would have said things best left unsaid, asked things he had no right to ask of a vulnerable woman.
She might have said yes. Would have said yes, he corrected as he stepped past a snoring Ulysses. And would have regretted it, he reflected, when the situation changed and her life was back to normal. What if he had asked her, then they'd been married before she'd had time to readjust? A good way to mess up two lives, Slade, he told himself. It was better to make the break now, draw back until they were just cop and assignment again.
At least she was upstairs resting, not beside him, tempting him to cross the line again. When she wasn't there where he could see her, touch her, it was easier to keep things in perspective.
The servants were settled in their wing. He could hear the low murmur of a television and the settling of boards. After he'd finished checking the locks, he'd go upstairs and write. Slade rubbed a hand over the back of his neck where the tension concentrated. Then he'd sleep in his own bed, alone.
As he walked toward the kitchen door, Slade saw the knob slowly turn.
Muscles tensed, he stepped back into the shadows and waited.
Eight-thirty. Jessica glanced at the clock again as she roamed her bedroom. Neither the bath nor the aspirin had relaxed her enough to bring sleep any closer. If Slade would come up, she thought, then shook her head. She was becoming too dependent, and that wasn't like her.
Still, she felt that her nerves would calm somewhat if she could just hear the sound of his typewriter.
An hour at a time, she reminded herself, glancing at the clock yet again. Well, she'd made it from seven to eight, but she wasn't going to make it until nine. Giving up, Jessica started back downstairs.
If he's annoyed, she mused, she'd just have to make the best of it.
Being confined in the house was bad enough without restricting herself to her rooms. She'd almost be willing to fill out some more of those silly cards--anything to keep her hands busy until...
Her thoughts broke off as she came to the foot of the stairs. For the second time the parlor doors were closed. A tremor ran up her back, urging her to turn around, go to her room, and pretend she'd never left it. She'd taken the first step in retreat before she stopped herself.
Hadn't she told Slade not to tell her to run? This was her home, Jessica reminded herself as she stepped forward. Whatever happened in it was hers to deal with. Taking a deep breath, she opened the parlor doors and flicked on the light switch.
Slade waited as the rear door opened quietly. At first there was only a shadow, but the build was familiar. Relaxing, he stepped forward into the moonlight. Startled, David whirled around and swore.
"You scared the hell out of me," David complained as he let the door swing shut behind him. "What're you doing standing around in the dark?"
"Just checking the locks," Slade said easily.
"Moving right in," David muttered. After turning on the lights, he went over to the stove. "Want some coffee?" he asked grudgingly.
"Thanks." Slade straddled a chair and waited for David to come out with whatever was on his mind.
The last report Slade had received from Brewster had put David in the clear. His name and face and fingerprints had been run through the most sophisticated computers. His every movement had been under surveillance for over a month.
David Ryce was exactly what he seemed--a young, faintly defiant man who had a knack for figures and an affection for antiques. He was also having what he thought was a discreet affair with a pre-med student.
Slade recalled Brewster's almost paternal amusement with David's infatuation.
Though he'd felt an initial twinge of guilt at keeping the knowledge of David's clean slate from Jessica, Slade had decided she had enough trouble keeping herself under control. Better that she suspected both men than for her to be certain that Michael Adams was up to his neck in the smuggling operation.
"Michael." Jessica stared, facing the truth and not wanting to believe it.
"Jessica." He stood with pieces of the desk in his hand, frantically searching for some viable excuse for his presence and his actions. "I didn't want to disturb you. I'd hoped you'd be asleep."
"Yes, I'm sure you did." With a quiet, resigned sigh, she shut the parlor doors at her back.
"There was a problem with this piece," Michael began. "I wanted to--"
"Please don't." Jessica crossed the room, poured two fingers of brandy, and drank it down. "I know about the smuggling, Michael," she told him in a flat voice. "I know you've been using the shop."
"Smuggling? Really, Jessica--"
"I said don't!" She whirled sharply, pushed by anger and despair. "I know, Michael. And so do the police."
"Oh God." As his color drained, he looked around wildly. Was there anyplace left to run?
"I want to know why." Her voice was low and steady. "You owe me that."
"I was trapped." He let the pieces of the desk fall to the floor, then groped for a cigarette. "Jessica, I was trapped. He promised you wouldn't be involved--that you'd never have to know. You have to believe that I'd never have gotten you mixed up in this if there'd been any choice."
"Choice," she murmured, thinking of Slade. "We all have our choices, Michael. What was yours?"
"In Europe a couple of years ago, I..." He took a greedy drag of his cigarette. "I lost some money... a lot of money. More than I had to lose, and to the wrong person." He sent her a swift, pleading look. "He had me worked over--you might remember when I took those extra two weeks in Rome." He drew in and expelled smoke quickly. "They were pros... It was days before I could walk. When he gave me an alternative to crippling me permanently, I took it."
Dragging a hand through his hair, Michael walked over to the bar. He poured bourbon neat, splattering drops, then downed it in one swallow.
"He knew who I was, of course, my family, my connection with your shop--your unimpeachable reputation." The liquor gave him temporary strength. His voice steadied. "It worked beautifully for him. It wasn't for the money, Jessica, I just wanted to stay alive. And then... I was in too deep."
She felt something soften inside her and quickly pushed it aside. No pity, she ordered herself. He wouldn't drag pity from her now. "Who is he, Michael?"
"No." Shaking his head, he turned to face her. "I won't tell you that.
If he found out you had his name, you'd never be safe."
"Safe?" She laughed shortly. "If you were concerned for my safety, you might have told me not to walk on the beach when someone was going to shoot at me."
"Sh-shoot... good God, Jessica, I didn't think he'd... He threatened, but I never believed he'd actually try to hurt you. I would have done something." His hand trembled, spilling ash onto the carpet. With a jerky movement of his arm, Michael tossed the cigarette into the fire.
"I begged him not to involve you, swore I'd do anything he wanted if he'd leave you out of it. I love you, Jessica."
"Don't talk about loving to me." With more control than she was feeling, Jessica bent over to pick up one of the pieces he had dropped. It was part of the inner molding. "What's in the desk, Michael?"
"Diamonds," he said and swallowed. "A quarter of a million. If I don't take them to him tonight--"
"Where?" she interrupted.
"To the shop, ten o'clock."
"Let me see them."
She watched him separate one of the partitions of a cubbyhole from the space where a drawer had been. Lifting a thin piece of wood, he revealed a false bottom. He drew out a small padded bag. "It's the last time," he began, clutching the bag in his palm. "I've already told him I'm through. As soon as I deliver these, I'm going to leave the country."
"It is the last time," Jessica agreed, then held out her hand. "But you're not delivering anything. I'm taking the diamonds, Michael.
They're going back where they came from, and you're going to the police."
"You might as well hold a gun to my head!" He swiped an unsteady hand over his mouth. "He'll kill me, Jessica. If he finds out I went to the police, I wouldn't even be safe in a cell. He'll kill me, and if he knows what you've done, he'll kill you too."
"Don't be a fool." Eyes glittering, she grabbed the bag from his hand.
"He'll kill you anyway, and me. Is he stupid enough not to know the police are closing in?" she demanded. "Is he stupid enough to leave you alive as a liability? Think!" she ordered impatiently. "Your only chance is with the police, Michael."
Her words touched off a fear he'd buried. Deep inside his mind, Michael had always known his involvement in the operation could only end one way. That fear, much more than money, had kept him loyal. "Not the police." Again, his eyes darted around the room. "I have to get away.
Don't you see, Jessica, someplace where he won't find me! Let me have the diamonds, I can use them."
"No." Her hand tightened on the bag. "You used me, no more."
"For God's sake, Jessica, do you want to see me dead?" His breathing was raw and jerky as the words tumbled out. "I don't have time to raise the money I'll need. If I leave now, I'll have a start."
She stared at him. A thin film of sweat covered his face, beading over lips that trembled. His eyes were glazed with terror. He'd used her, she thought, but that didn't kill the feelings she had for him. If he was determined to run, she'd give him what he wanted. Jessica crossed to a painting of a
French landscape and swung it out on hidden hinges, revealing a wall safe. Quickly she twirled the tumblers and opened it.
"Take this." She offered Michael a stack of bills. "It's not worth what the diamonds are, but cash should be safer in any case. It won't take you far enough, Michael," she said quietly as he reached for the money.
"But you have to make your own decision."
"There's only one I can make." He slipped the bills inside his jacket, then finally met her eyes. "I'm sorry, Jessica."
Nodding, she turned away. She heard his footsteps as he crossed to the doors. "Michael, was David involved in this?"
"No, David did nothing but take what he thought were routine orders." He saw everything he'd ever wanted, everything he'd ever cared about, slipping through his hands. "Jessica--"
"Just go, Michael. When you run, you have to run fast."
She listened for the click of the doors before she opened the padded bag. A cold, sparkling stream of diamonds fell into her palm. "So this is what my life's worth," she murmured. Carefully, she replaced them, then stared at the remains of the Queen Anne desk. "All for a whim," she whispered. If she hadn't had that impulse to bring the desk home then...
With a fierce shake of her head, Jessica broke off the thought. There were no if's. She needed to see Slade, but she needed a moment to herself first. On a sigh, she sank into a chair, letting the bag of diamonds fall into her lap.