“But,” he finally resumed, “I do worry about you, personally, Laura. You know how I feel about Howard. You could be my own daughter—and I’d warn her about Max Kraig.”
Laura came around to the front of his desk. “Is he that horrible?” Her voice held a mildly ludicrous note.
A shrug of unsureness bounced over the D.A.’s shoulders. “I like the man personally. But he does seem to give an image of moving very quickly, both to and from the prettiest girls around. He has never married. Strange”—he lowered his voice—“he has so much to give, yet seems to have no desire for a wife, children…” Laura conjured up a vivid image of Phyllis Potter, Frank’s faithful, if invisible, wife, and their family of eight mostly grown children. Poor Frank, she mused; he would have trouble understanding.
“Maybe he’s just…not ready,” she suggested as dispassionately as she could.
The D.A. looked keenly at her. “He’s thirty-nine, Laura. I’d say it’s time. But, acch,” he reproached himself, “it’s none of my business what he does with his life. But you…that is my business. I don’t want you hurt.” There was a vehemence in his tone which touched her. In a spontaneous gesture she walked around the desk and put an arm around his shoulders.
“I know that, and you have no idea how much I value it. I won’t be hurt. Please believe me, Frank—this is just another case with just another lawyer.” She squeezed his shoulders as a final note, yet her own words returned to haunt her in the next few days.
Just another lawyer. Just another lawyer. If that was the case, why was she plagued by memories of him—his dark face, his large hands, his powerful arms, his mind-drugging kiss?
three
BY THE MIDDLE OF THE WEEK LAURA CONGRATULATED herself on having regained control of the situation. It was simply a matter of more deeply immersing herself in her work. There were court appearances to be made, cases to be researched, tactics to be chosen. Having pushed herself even harder than usual, she was, by Friday, tired and the slightest bit more touchy than normal.
The morning had been spent with the state troopers, trying to ferret out the admissible evidence on an armed robbery case she would be prosecuting. Having hurriedly picked up a yogurt and coffee at the small cafeteria across the street, she returned to her office to review the results of that morning’s meeting.
As fate would have it, the telephone began to ring. And ring. One call after another came through, each concerning entirely different matters, none concerning the one case on which her mind had been focussed. Then, forty-five minutes later, Sandy walked innocently into her office to give her the news she least needed.
“Courthouse grapevine has it that Maxwell Kraig is visiting his client at the county jail,” he announced tartly, his eyes sticking to Laura’s for instant analysis of her reaction.
Her voice shot up in surprise. “He’s here? In Northampton? Now?”
He nodded. “So says the grapevine.” Then his eyes widened as Laura dramatically slammed shut the book with which she’d been tussling.
“That does it!” she declared loudly. “I’m getting out of here. Between that telephone and…other interruptions, I won’t get a thing done.”
Sandy was bewildered. “Hey, Laura. It’s no big thing. Is he supposed to show up here too?”
“Not that I know of. But I’m not taking any chances.” She piled several pads of paper atop the book, added several pens, and was busily putting folders into her briefcase as she spoke. “I have too much work to get done to risk an afternoon of interruptions!”
Both hands on his hips, he confronted her. “And where are you going?”
“Upstairs to the library. But”—she leveled her gaze and raised a pointing finger at him—“you are not to tell a soul. Got that?”
Suddenly, he burst into a sly grin. “You’re trying to avoid him, aren’t you?”
“Avoid who?”
“Laura, don’t pull that one on me again. Kraig. Are you trying to avoid him?”
Exasperated, she mirrored his stance, putting both hands boldly on her waist, and sent him a grimace. “Of course not! But I don’t want his interruption any more than I do…yours, Sandy, old pal!” Her face softened at the end. Even had it not, the seasoned trooper would not have taken her spiked words to heart. He knew her too well.
“Okay,” he acquiesced, turning to the door with a smile. “It’s your loss.” Then, abruptly, he faced her once more. “But I agree with you about Kraig.”
Laura frowned. “What do you agree with?”
“I don’t think you should see him. Frankly, I don’t like the man. And I wouldn’t trust him further than a—”
“Tsk, tsk, Sandy, that’s just your natural prejudice. I do trust him. But there’s no reason why I have to see him today. If he wants something, he can make an appointment, like everyone else!”
Sandy held the door as she walked past him into the hall, her arms laden now with the tools of her trade, plus the heavy wool reefer and scarf she had pulled off a hanger on her way. As he came alongside her, he nodded his approval. “Spoken like a truly hard-nosed prosecutor! Say, can I give you a hand?”
Shifting the weight of her book more comfortably she shook her head. “No, thanks. But you can give Sara the message at the switchboard that I’ll be incommunicado for the afternoon.” She lowered her voice to sound purposefully mysterious, yet her gaze warned Sandy to say no more. With two fingers to his lips, he indicated they were sealed, then left her to maneuver the stairs herself.
Her good humor returned slowly as she settled herself in the second-floor library. It was a favorite spot of hers, containing cushioned leather chairs, a long oak table, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with a prime selection of legal reference books and journals. There was a certain pacifying effect here. More often than not, it was deserted, as it was now. She loved its silence, its warm ancient-lamp lighting, its distinctly musty smell.
Quickly she became engrossed in her reading and notetaking, the passage of time holding no import as she had no further call to return to her office. She had worked for an hour or two when she decided to check a cross-reference on a case. She climbed up the sturdy ladder standing before the shelves and withdrew the volume she wanted from one of the higher shelves. She remained in a half-seated position with her back to the door and scanned its contents, quickly locating and verifying the information she sought. She turned once again on the ladder, to replace the book in its slot, then reversed direction. With a loud gasp of surprise, she realized that she was not alone.
“You frightened me!” she exclaimed breathlessly, clutching at the ladder with one hand, her chest with the other. “Do you always creep up on people like that?” Her embarrassment took the form of annoyance and was directed at Maxwell Kraig, who stood in all his masculine glory by the foot of the ladder.
He cast a nonchalant glance at the worn carpet as he spoke. “I am sorry. Had I realized that the carpet would absorb the sound of my footsteps, I would have put bells on my toes.” His blatant attempt at humor did nothing to put Laura at ease.
“You could have…spoken…or s-something,” she stammered. “And did you have to come right up so close?” In a quandary as to how to most gracefully descend the ladder now, she continued to babble.
“Actually”—Max’s low tone was as smooth as she remembered it—“I’ve been standing by the door watching since you climbed up there. I thought I could give you a hand coming down.”
“I don’t—” Her words of denial were cut short as his strong hands circled her waist and effortlessly lifted her down, lingering a moment too long in their hold for her psychological comfort before they released her completely and disappeared into his trouser pockets. It was proving to be a favorite stance of his, a maddening one for Laura, emphasizing as it did the force of his thighs and the slimness of his hips.
“Thank you,” she mumbled softly as she returned to her seat and dissolved into it, outwardly assuming that Max had come to do some spot research of his own, thoug
h suspecting he had not. A shot out of the corner of her eye located his topcoat and briefcase by the door; he made no move to retrieve them. Rather, he eased his rangy frame into the chair opposite hers at the table, and waited. As the minutes passed, he made neither sound nor movement.
Productive work was out of the question. Worse than that, the situation was ludicrous. In fact the more Laura thought of dark, compelling Max sitting there, as quiet as a mouse, doing absolutely nothing but studying the top of her silky hair, the more irresistible he became.
Finally, with a smirk of helplessness, she put down her pen and looked up into the face that innocently beamed back at her. “You’re impossible, do you know that?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Impossible? I might have hoped for delightful, charming, witty, or even irresistible. Must I settle for impossible?”
“Yes,” she declared vehemently, fearing that he was indeed all of the others, though adamant that his ego be spared further enlargement.
He shrugged his shoulders in mock resignation. “Then impossible it is. How have you been, Laura?”
She had been just fine until he showed up. Now her pulse raced strangely. “Very busy,” she hedged.
“What are you working on?” His eyes fell to the papers before her.
“I’m trying to prepare for an armed robbery. We need to use a piece of evidence that could be fairly controversial. I’m trying to find legal precedence.”
“May I see your notes?” In his more businesslike form Laura felt more relaxed.
“Help yourself,” she offered, pushing the papers toward him. She was not one to let pride refuse an offer of assistance, even one from the opposition.
Actually, his gesture had a side benefit which Laura had not anticipated. For the few moments that he perused her case summary and notes, she was treated to a free perusal of him. As always she was impressed. His suit was gray with a minute pinstripe running through it, his shirt a very masculine pink, his tie a bolder navy-and-gray. The late afternoon shadow of his beard gave him an even more manly aura, though he already had a monopoly on that dangerous element.
“Try Commonwealth v. Jacobs, 375 Mass.,” he suggested, then uncoiled his own length, thumbed across the span of volumes of Massachusetts Reports at the side of the room, and presented her with the one book opened to the page that rapid survey told her held exactly the case she needed.
“That’s phenomenal, Max,” she exclaimed enthusiastically. “It’s perfect. I might have spent two more days trying to locate it. Thanks!” She flashed him her most appreciative smile as she marveled at the man’s mind. In addition to everything else, she mused, he had a reference system in his brain, and a memory trained to utilize it to the fullest.
“It’s nothing,” he murmured softly, then resumed his seat…and his silence.
Laura was so intent on wondering what he couldn’t do, that it took several moments for her to realize that the two were staring at one another. She forced herself to break the silence.
“You’ve seen the Stallway boy?”
“Sandy keeps you up-to-date, I see.”
Impulsively she began to protest. “Sandy didn’t—” Then she stopped, realizing that Sandy had tipped her off. Suddenly her thoughts flew further. “How did you know I was up here. Did Sandy—”
This time Max cut her off, his gaze falling to the creamy expanse of neck and throat visible through the open V of her crepe blouse. “No, Sandy would never betray you. Those troopers have the loyalty of blood-hounds. But I had a feeling you’d be up here. It seemed like…your type of place. Do you work here often?”
“Whenever I can,” she answered eagerly. “It’s always pleasant. And there are rarely interruptions.” She threw a pointed look at him, which he chose to let pass.
“Do you have plans for this evening?”
Laura recoiled. Just when she had begun to relax and enjoy his presence, no less his help, he had to spoil things! But she had no intention of hedging on the matter. “No.”
“Would you like to have dinner with me?”
It occurred to her that more than anything she would. Yet, she had to stick by her principle. “No.”
For the first time Max was impatient with the response. “Dammit, Laura! Don’t you think you’re carrying this too far?”
Laura clung stubbornly to her refusal. “We have a working relationship, Max. I’ve already told you that I made it a practice never to mix—”
“Oh, spare me the lecture,” he grumbled, standing up abruptly. “I’d enjoy having dinner with you…and so would you. And you know it damned well!” He kept his voice low, but its bridled anger was something new to contend with.
Tongue-tied, Laura merely stared at him. Everything he said was true. She would enjoy having dinner with him. What was she afraid of? Why was she being so rigid? At this point her refusal was merely on principle. Was she right?
When he spoke again, Max’s voice was taut and rising rapidly. His eyes flashed, sending a disquieting jolt through her. “You know, you may be beautiful and talented, but you’ve got about as much common sense as that kid I’m defending! There are times when you sound like a sexless automaton. And I’ve got better things to do…” His voice trailed off as he stalked toward the door, sweeping his coat and briefcase up in one deft motion, then throwing open the door and leaving in a flurry of movement. By the time the door had drifted closed once again, he was gone.
Laura sat in a stupor. Since the moment she had met Max Kraig a week ago, she had experienced a gamut of new, often perplexing emotions. But she had come to respect and like him as a person. Now she had perhaps shattered the good feeling that had existed between them—and the thought of it shattered her.
Suddenly, all pleasure had left the room. An aura of gloom settled over her, thwarting any desire to work. Angry for a wealth of reasons she couldn’t begin to sort out, she gathered her things, put on her coat against the January chill, and left the library in nearly as great a huff as Max had.
That evening, as she sat curled in a corner of her sofa, a much-heralded novel open but unheeded in her lap, she brooded. She did want to go out with Maxwell Kraig. He was warm, courteous, intelligent, and handsome. As frightening as was his physical effect on her, she recalled the ecstasy of being held against his strong body, being kissed by his warm lips. That, too, she wanted to experience again.
Saturdays were customarily busy, and this one was, mercifully, no exception. To her dismay, thoughts of Maxwell Kraig managed to intrude in spite of her varied activities. It wasn’t enough that the supermarket swallowed up an ever-larger chunk of her weekly pay—and of that pitiful social security check of her landlady, Mrs. Daniels, for whom Laura always did the marketing—but she found herself wondering, as she pushed her basket up one aisle and down the next, what Maxwell Kraig had had for dinner last night, and what she might herself have eaten, had she accepted his invitation.
She imagined, as she jogged the four snow-lined blocks to the YMCA where she taught tennis to “her kids,” as they had become known, what Maxwell Kraig did during his spare time to keep in shape. After all, one just didn’t look that well and fit by pacing back and forth in front of a jury!
The two friends she met for lunch in a quaint quiche-and-salad place outside the college campus were not much help either. The one thing they wanted to discuss was her career, or, more specifically, the case and the glamorous lawyer defending it.
An afternoon of wading through mid-season discounts on snow gear—boots, parkas, knickers—proved as unhelpful. First she found herself wondering whether Max knew how to cross-country ski—not that it was a relevant issue, since she did not, but she had always wanted to give it a try. Then she had the misfortune of spotting Marilyn Hough, the auburn-haired beauty with whom Max had appeared the weekend before, and she wondered whether Max had sought her company last night after his premature exit from the library. With growing annoyance she imagined his having spent the night at that woman’s place, woken up in
that woman’s bed this morning, shaved and showered in her bathroom—the list of possibilities was infinite.
Laura was jealous! She knew it as clearly as the nose on her face. Yet, what right had she to be, when she had refused two, now three times, to go out with the man? But could she go out with him? How would it affect her performance as a lawyer when she had to face him in court?
No closer to a resolution, she paid for her purchases and began the walk home in the brutally cold wind, drawing her shaggy fur jacket up closer around her. Normally she was vehement about walking. Northampton was a small town; her second-floor apartment was in a two-family house equidistant from the courthouse, the college, the stores, and the Y. Her small Honda was more often than not left in the old garage behind the house. She had used it this morning to carry the supermarket bundles, and now she cursed her own bullheadedness for having retired it immediately to its berth. Laden with bulky parcels, she was cold and cross. Damn her own stubbornness! And damn him, she swore under billowing white breath!
Her date with Tom McCann that evening was pleasant. Tom was a live wire, and provided fun and laughter. After a simple dinner at her apartment, he took her to a production by the five-college theater group of Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya, then to a coffeehouse in nearby Amherst. It was only at the end of the evening, during the inevitable goodnight kiss, that her mind began to wander. As she leaned back against her bolted front door, having sent the mathematics professor on his way with as enthusiastic a thank you as she could muster under the circumstances, she thought of Max’s kiss, its hunger, its challenge, its reward. By comparison Tom’s paled sadly. Instinctively, she knew that future suitors would meet the same fate. Maxwell Kraig was a man above others, in so many ways.
Sleep was elusive that night, as peace of mind had been elusive that day. When finally it overtook her in the early morning hours, it was fitful and disturbed. Only after she woke at seven to the unceremonious thump of the Sunday paper at her front door, did she finally fall into a sound slumber. She was not ready for the doorbell when its harsh squeal speared her oblivion at nine thirty. Ignoring it did no good; the heavy hand that activated it was persistent, bearing down every thirty seconds such that she was wide awake and very grumpy by the fifth ring. Angrily, she slammed out of bed, thudded barefoot through the living room to the front hall, where she stood at the top of the stairs and yelled irritably, “Who is it?”
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