“I’ll say he doesn’t. And why, I want to know, is a
crook like that a business associate of Frank’s?”
“The plot thickens.” He sounded rather pleased.
Patsy stared at him. “And at least we know now how
Bob Hellman got my name.”
“You think Bob Hellman’s connected with—
what’s the business associate’s name, anyway?”
“Jack Garfield. And, yes. I think Hellman is con
nected. They all appear to have been buddies of the
sainted Fred.”
“Oh, dear,” Patsy moaned. “Poor Fred.”
“Sweetheart,” he said, “I think rather it’s a case of
poor Patsy. Do you realize that Fred had control of all your money?”
“Yes,” Patsy replied rather hollowly. “I’ve been
realizing that for the last day or so, Michael.”
“You stand to lose quite a bundle.”
“So I’ve gathered.” She linked her arm in his.
“We’ll have to try to recoup my fortune at the
races.” She looked into his face. “Who do you like in
the first?”
* * * *
Ebony Lad won his race in impressive style and Patsy succeeded in banishing the thought of Frank
and his unpleasant friend from her mind. They
stayed for the last race, which Michael won, cashed
in his ticket, and claimed their car.
“Can I buy you dinner before you set off for
home?” he asked as they got on the expressway.
“You certainly can. You can afford to, the way
you cleaned up this afternoon.”
“Mmm. I didn’t do badly at all. I’ll have to try this
horse-racing business again.” Someone cut him off
and he frowned slightly and hit the brakes. Patsy
thought he was absolutely the most imperturbable
person she had ever met. “Seafood okay?” he
asked.
She started a little. “What?”
“I asked if you’d care to eat seafood. For dinner.”
“Oh, yes. Seafood would be fine.”
They went to a small, unpretentious restaurant
near the beach and had clams, shrimp, and a bottle
of white wine. It was about eight o’clock when
Michael parked in front of his house. Patsy’s Volvo was in the driveway. They got out of the car, and he
gave her a friendly smile. “Got your keys?” he
asked.
Patsy stared at him. “It’s awfully early. You might
offer me a drink before you kick me out onto the
highway.”
“Mmm,” he said. “Well, come on in, then.”
Hardly a gracious invitation, Patsy thought as she
followed him down the path. Really, she didn’t
know why she was tagging after him like this. Pique,
probably, she decided. She wasn’t used to being
dumped.
Michael switched on the living-room lights. “I have ginger ale or Diet Seven-Up,” he said.
Patsy rested in a club chair. “Do you have
Scotch?”
“Yep. For me, not for you. You’re driving and
you already had a few glasses of wine.”
“Oh, all right,” Patsy grumbled. She took her feet
out of her espadrilles and wiggled her stockinged toes comfortably. “Seven-Up then.”
He went into the kitchen and returned with a tall
glass for her and a short one for himself. Then he
sat on the sofa. “About these shopping-center
shares,” he began.
Damn the shopping-center shares, Patsy thought
crossly. Was accounting all he ever thought about? She sipped her Seven-Up and looked at him specul
atively. There was a folder on the coffee table in
front of him and he leaned forward to open it.
“Is that my stuff?” she asked.
“Yes.”
He turned a paper over and Patsy suddenly got
up and went to sit beside him. She put her drink on
the table and bent forward, so that her head was
close to his. A silky strand of red hair tickled his
cheek. “Show me,” she said softly.
“Patsy ...” There was an odd note in his voice
and she turned to look at him. The green-gold eyes held a distinctly wary expression. She moved a bit
closer, her breast brushing against his arm.
“Yes?” she said, her voice even softer than
before.
His hair had fallen forward over his forehead.
“My dark-eyed siren,” he said, eyeing her with the
same wariness but now also, she could swear, with
amusement. “Are you by any chance trying to
seduce me?”
Her brown eyes widened slightly as the idea registered. She didn’t really know what she was trying
to do. She sat back a little as a whirl of thoughts
raced through her brain.
Patsy did not make a habit of seducing men. Her
moral standards might not conform to those of her mother, but she could say, with perfect truth, that
she had never gone to bed with a man she didn’t
love. Her boyfriends had always been long-term,
never spur-of-the-moment impulses. So what was
she trying to do now?
The answer came immediately. She was trying to
get him to pay some attention to her. Her pride was irked by his indifference, that was all. She suddenly
felt ashamed of herself. Good God, she thought,
this was Michael. He was practically her brother,
for heaven’s sake. “No, I’m not,” she said, and bent
forward to give him the kind of kiss he had once
given her—light, casual, sisterly.
He put his hand on her arm and kissed her back,
and this time his kiss wasn’t brotherly at all. In sec
onds Patsy, having completely lost the initiative,
found herself leaning back against the sofa cush
ions with Michael above her. When he finally raised
his head, she was trembling.
“Because if you are,” he added, and the eyes look
ing down into hers were pure gold, “I’m perfectly
willing.”
“Michael.” It was barely a thread of sound. She had never felt quite like this before; it was as if all
the supports had been knocked from beneath her.
She could get away now, she thought. She could laugh, make a joke, and everything would go back to the way it had been. Her eyes didn’t move from
the serious intensity of his face. There was a deep
nocturnal silence in the house, as if they were the
only two people in the world. She didn’t say any
thing more, and he bent his head to kiss her again.
Patsy’s arms reached up and encircled his neck.
When his mouth finally left hers and moved slowly
down her throat, she bent her head back for him.
He kissed the hollow of her throat and undid the first button on her blouse.
“You have such beautiful skin, Red,” he mur
mured. He undid another button and then
another, his mouth following where his hands led.
Patsy made no move to stop him. She lay back
against the sofa pillow and very slowly buried her hands, caressingly, in his hair. The blouse fell away
from her body, his hands moved again, this time to
unhook her bra. He kissed the white curve of her
breast. “Like silk,” he said.
“Oh,” she whispered and at the ragged little
sound, he lifted his head and looked at her.
There was desire in his eyes—hard, burning,
intense. It was a look Patsy was familiar with, and
usually it had given her a feeling of power. It had been rather satisfying to know one could reduce a
man to this. Strange that her feelings should now
be so different. She felt weak before that look in
Michael’s eyes; she wanted to succumb to him, to
please him, to let him please her.
“No?” he asked with a note of controlled inquiry.
Patsy gazed
at him. With those hazel eyes and
high-bridged nose he looked like a falcon, she
thought, a beautiful, merciless falcon. She was sud
denly afraid. This was different, she realized. This
was different from anything she had ever known
before. His question hung poised in the air between
them for several seconds, before Patsy, with huge
dark eyes and slightly parted lips, very slowly,
nodded her head yes. His eyes narrowed to slits of gold. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said.
Patsy’s knees felt weak when she stood, and she
negotiated the stairs with difficulty. She didn’t
understand what was happening to her, but she did
understand she was powerless before it. They
reached the second floor.
“This way,” Michael said, and effortlessly picked
her up, carried her into a room, and laid her down
on a bed. He bent to kiss her again and, while doing
so, competently finished undressing her. Then he
stood, pulled his crew-neck sweater off, and tossed
it onto a chair. “I’m glad you decided to stay for a
drink,” he said. He had finished unbuttoning his
shirt, and it followed the sweater.
Patsy watched him. Beyond him, near the window, a small lamp was lit on a dresser. A moth had
gotten in and was battering around under the
shade. With a part of her mind, Patsy was aware of
the small, violent, futile battle of the moth, and
then Michael was beside her, the bed squeaking a
little as it took the brunt of his weight.
Patsy had been right. It was different from any
thing she had known before. It was passionate and intensely sensual and soul-shatteringly sweet. It left her feeling as if she would do anything in the world
for him, and being Patsy, she kissed his shoulder and told him so.
He put an arm around her and drew her close.
“You might try a repeat of what you just did,” he
replied easily. He wasn’t as unruffled as he
sounded, however. Patsy was close enough to feel
the still-hurried beat of his heart. He felt warm,
strong, and comfortable beside her, and her eyes
closed in contentment. Above her head his voice
took on a tinge of amusement. “Though not, per
haps, just yet.”
Patsy snuggled her head into the nook of his
shoulder. “I’m glad you’re letting me stay,” she
murmured.
His fingers buried themselves in the silky tangle
of her hair and moved caressingly. Patsy sighed
with pleasure. “You can stay, Red,” and the amuse
ment was quite gone from his voice. “You can stay as long as you like.”
“Good,” Patsy mumbled drowsily. “I will.” And
she drifted off to sleep in the comforting shelter of
his arm.
He woke her up at seven the following morning
and she did, indeed, give him the repeat per
formance he had requested. Afterward they lay
together, drowsy and content, with the sunshine
streaming in between the slats of the blinds. The
bedroom, Patsy noticed, was sparsely furnished.
There was a big chest of drawers that someone had antiqued a Williamsburg blue; the bed, which was
only a frame, spring, and mattress; an end table
laden with books; and a straight-back chair, which
was now heaped with their clothes.
“Do you rent this house furnished?” she asked
lazily.
“No. The classy furniture you see is all mine.”
“Hmm. I see you thoughtfully provided yourself
with a double bed.”
He laughed deep in his throat. “One likes to be
prepared for any goodies that might come one’s
way.”
“Wretch,” Patsy said, but her thoughts were not
as pleasant as her voice. Was that all she was—a “goodie” who had come his way? Well, she asked
herself severely, what else should you be? You prac
tically begged him to make love to you, and even
after he had as much as told you he still loved some
one else.
The sound of the doorbell interrupted her
thoughts.
Michael swore softly. “Collecting for the paper,”
he said, and got out of bed.
“Let him come back another time.” Patsy yawned.
“Have a heart.” He had pulled a pair of jeans out of
the closet. “I’m never home. The poor kid could
spend his life trying to collect from me.” He went to
the door, his bare torso dappled with sunlight as he
passed the window. “I was a paperboy once myself,”
he said, and left the room, closing the door behind
him.
Patsy snuggled under the covers. The minutes
passed. Surely it shouldn’t take this long to pay the
paperboy, Patsy thought. From downstairs there
came the distinct sound of something breaking.
Patsy jumped out of bed and ran to the closet to
find Michael’s bathrobe. She wrapped it around
herself firmly and went out the door and halfway down the stairs, where she stopped and looked into
the living room.