Gage nodded slowly. “Sure. But I want you to know that I wasn’t asking out of... morbid curiosity. I care. I don’t know why. I mean, we hardly know each other. Despite, you know... last night...”
Emma felt heat bloom on her face. “Can we please not talk about that, either?” Turning, she crossed to the open front door, scooped her raincoat up off the stoop and started struggling into it. “I want to get out of here.”
“What about the locks?” he asked, coming up behind her and helping her with the coat. “Aren’t you gonna have them changed?”
She sighed. “Yeah, but not today. I really don’t want to stick around here. And even if the locks are changed, I won’t feel safe.”
“I’ll take you back to the Plaza,” he said.
“No.” Emma didn’t think she could keep up the playacting. It had gone on too long already.
“Where will you stay?” he asked.
“At my...” Sister’s apartment. That’s what she’d been about to say. Should she try, one last time, to convince Gage of her true identity? She’d come to care an awful lot about him in an awfully short time, odd given that she’d never been impulsive before—far from it. Zara was right; Emma hated taking risks and had always kept her feelings under lock and key. But now they’d ambushed her. That might not be so bad, except that the object of her sudden affection a) thought she was someone else entirely and b) was flying back to Arkansas tomorrow, and she’d never see him again. Even if she could persuade him of the truth now, what would she gain? He’d still go back to Arkansas—he’d made it clear that nothing would keep him here—but he’d go back despising her for her dishonesty. She didn’t think she could bear that.
“Zara?”
“My... mother lives on East 86th. A building called the Sans Souci. I’ll go there.”
He frowned in evident confusion. “Your mother lives in town? I thought you said you had no one to stay with.”
“I didn’t. She... it’s a long story, but I didn’t want to go there. There would have been questions, problems. I’m still not eager to face her, but—”
“Then come back to the Plaza with me.” Smiling, he reached out and lightly stroked her cheek. “Pretty please?”
“No, I can’t.” It was time for the final curtain.
“Then how about dinner tonight?”
“No, it’s... impossible.”
His disappointment was obvious. He opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it. Finally he handed her the jewelry box. “Here, you’d best keep this with you.” Taking her hand, he led her down the front steps. “I’ll get a cab and take you to your mother’s.”
He held her hand in the cab until they got to East 86th and while they said goodbye in front of Zara’s apartment building.
“I don’t guess we’ll be seeing each other after this,” he said softly.
Emma shook her head, her throat tight.
“You know where I’m staying,” he said. “Call me if... well, for any reason. Even if you just want to talk.” He threaded his fingers through her hair. “I wouldn’t mind hearing your voice one more time.”
Emma clutched the jewelry box to her chest and nodded.
His jaw clenched. “You’ve got my number.”
She nodded.
Gage sighed, bent his head to hers. “I could fall in love with you,” he whispered against her lips. “It would be so easy. But I can’t stay here.”
He closed his eyes, Emma closed hers. His lips were so warm they made her eyes tear up. He prolonged the kiss, cupping her head with both hands while his mouth moved over hers so slowly, so tenderly. A man whistled as he passed them on the sidewalk; some teenage girls giggled.
Emma’s heart ached. Her face was wet. Never in her life had she felt such an excruciating sense of loss.
MACGOWAN BYRNE SAT in a window booth at the Calypso Cafe on East 86th, washing down his third apple Danish with his fourth cup of coffee and waiting for the couple across the street to stop kissing. Man, they were really going at it. He couldn’t blame the guy for his enthusiasm. Emma Sutcliffe was one tasty little piece—her and Zara both.
She was dressed the same as she’d been yesterday in the subway in a gold raincoat over a yellow leather suit. No way did she have the ray gun on her. All she had with her was one of those little canvas tote bags and her jewelry box, and she’d need something bigger to put the gun in—a suitcase, guitar case, something like that.
The jewelry box meant she’d definitely been to her house that morning. Mac would have sold his soul—what there was of it—to see the expression on her face when she opened her front door and saw his handiwork. Wait till she went up to her sister’s apartment and discovered what was missing.
Mac had been a busy boy last night. After his fruitless tossing of that squalid little pit in Queens, he’d returned to Manhattan and broken into Zara’s apartment to do the same. Only what he’d found there, perched on the couch watching a tape of Blood Wedding, surrounded by movie memorabilia that William would kill for, was the big prize herself, the one and only, mint-condition Candy Carmelle.
He’d recognized her immediately; damned if she didn’t look the same—or nearly so—as when she was screaming her head off on the silver screen thirty years ago. The sight of her had confounded him, bringing back all those hours in front of the TV watching replays of The Slithering just for the scene where she’s walking out of the lake in the shredded remains of that almost-transparent nightgown, her hair drenched but still perfectly coiffed, eyeliner and lipstick unaffected, breasts heaving with emotion beneath what was left of her sodden costume. Candy Carmelle had fueled Mac’s fantasies for years, and suddenly here she was in her astoundingly abundant and preternaturally youthful flesh.
At first, all he could do was gape at her—until she tried to brain him with an electrode-studded head in a glass dome; that woke him up. He’d disarmed her, or rather dis-headed her, during which she put up a surprisingly effective struggle. He demanded to know where the ray gun was hidden, and she swore it wasn’t there; his gut told him she was telling the truth. Instinct took over then. Within about five minutes he had her bound and gagged in the trunk of his Jag. If William was willing to pay a cool two mill for that idiotic ray gun, how much more would he pay for Candy herself, given his obsession with her?
But one step at a time. First, Mac had to come up with the ray gun. The lovely Ms. Carmelle might come in handy there. Then he could wipe the slate clean on that transaction and start on the next, even-more-profitable one. When the time seemed right, he’d offer William his ace in the hole—Candy Carmelle. Ten million didn’t seem like too much to ask for a superbly well-maintained blond starlet from the eighties.
Mac swallowed the last of his coffee and signaled for the check just as the couple in front of the Sans Souci drew apart, hesitantly, it seemed. It was the cowboy from the subway station. He brushed his hand over Emma’s face. Seeing her tears, Mac smiled. She was probably crying over what he’d done to her place. Or maybe she was still upset about the subway.
The waitress handed Mac the check. As he took it from her, he glanced with studied nonchalance around the coffeehouse, and then up and down the block as far as he could see through the window, searching for his perennial shadow. Things were trickier now that Mr. Big-shot G-man had started sniffing around. That bastard was making it his life’s work to keep Mac from acquiring his collectibles by more... unorthodox means. Mac appeared to have thrown him off the scent for now, but he’d have to watch his step. He hated having to keep looking over his shoulder while he struggled to find that ray gun—one more tiresome complication.
Mac paid his bill and stood in the doorway of the Calypso, growling, “Come on come on come on,” as Emma and the cowboy just stood there holding each other, for Chrissakes. Mac wondered about that guy. He’d been with Emma since yesterday. He was probably in on the ray gun scam; maybe he was even the brains behind it. This was starting to look like a conspiracy. Way too many p
eople were becoming involved, all of whom would need to be deleted from the equation before Mac could rest easy.
In the meantime, there was probably plenty the cowboy could tell him, if Mac could get him in a talkative mood. Fingering the Indo-Persian dagger stuck in the waistband of his black linen trousers, he assessed the other man’s potential for self-defense. He was as tall as Mac, and lean, and he moved like the kind of guy who could take care of himself, plus which he’d jumped in front of a subway train, which proved he had balls. But chances were he was unarmed, which gave Mac the edge.
“It’s about time,” Mac growled under his breath when lover boy and the twin finally—finally—called it quits on their little street-side soap opera. They turned away from each other more or less simultaneously. Emma stepped up to the front door of the Sans Souci. While the doorman was opening it for her, she turned to watch the cowboy dragging a hand through his hair as he walked away. Then she disappeared into the building.
Mac slid his mirror shades onto his face and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He walked west along 86th, keeping the cowboy in his line of sight. At the corner, he crossed over to the same side of the street and picked up his pace. He spotted an alley up ahead; perfect.
Speeding his gait up to a jog, he quickly overtook his prey, right in front of the alley. With one hand he grabbed the guy by his shoulder, stilling him; with the other, he pressed the tip of his dagger into his back through his leather jacket, hard.
“Mornin’, Maverick,” he said softly. “How about we step into my office and have a little chat?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
OH, GOOD,” GAGE DRAWLED as he was nudged at knifepoint into a dismal alley cluttered with trash cans and wooden crates; he smelled rotten vegetables and stale urine. “The full New York experience. Lucky me.”
“I don’t want your money.”
Gage did not find it reassuring that his mugger had a mystery agenda; guy probably had at least one broken toy in the attic, which would make him all the harder to deal with. He’d known this kind of thing would happen if he kept coming back to this town.
The knifepoint eased up some. Gage turned around slowly, aiming for a sense of calm that would rub off on the nut with the knife, all the while thinking, Why did it have to be a knife? Why couldn’t it have been a gun, a baseball bat, a lead pipe, anything but a knife? It had been his least-favorite form of weaponry since the attack at St Vincent. He could barely stand to watch someone cut a steak; how was he supposed to keep his cool while he faced down a crazy mugger with a steel blade aimed at him?
The mugger wasn’t quite what he would have expected. He was in his mid-thirties, maybe, and tall, with dark hair hanging loose past his shoulders. His clothes were black—baggy pants, silk shirt and leather jacket. The hand that held the knife—it was a bone-handled dagger, Gage saw—wore a vintage-looking gold watch with an alligator band. The mirrored sunglasses were the perfect accessory. He looked like a TV coke dealer.
“Like I said,” the guy purred. “All I want is to talk.”
“Well, now,” Gage said, eyeing the knife, “I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time, partner, ’cause I’m not much in the mood for conversation right now.” After his wrenching goodbye to Zara, that was no more than the truth.
“I’ll make it easy on you. I’ll ask questions, you answer. How does that strike you?”
“Like a line from a bad cops-and-robbers movie.”
“Where’s the ray gun?”
Gage kept his expression neutral as his mind ran a filmstrip of Zara taping that ridiculous chrome contraption inside her raincoat. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘ray gun’?” he asked, going for a tone of mild incredulity.
He didn’t see the punch coming, didn’t expect a lightning jab in the stomach, leaving him doubled up and gasping. From the corner of his eye he saw his assailant lower the knife. Seizing his chance, he rammed his fist into the guy’s ribs, sending him sprawling.
Gage tried to sidestep him, but the bastard stuck out a leg and tripped him. He landed faceup on cold concrete, the dagger pressed firmly against his throat. Son of a bitch was quick, Gage had to give him that.
The feel of steel pinching his Adam’s apple did a real number on Gage’s cool, although he tried not to show it. He wondered whether, if he’d seen the knife coming, he would have shielded his throat with his hand, like in the St. Vincent E.R. No hands, he silently commanded himself. Anything but the hands.
The mugger hovered over him, his hair hanging in his face, his entire body quivering, his expression one of fierce and singleminded concentration. He’d lost his shades in the scuffle, so Gage could see his eyes now. They were ghostly gold, with the feral gleam of the predator.
A memory ambushed him: Zara describing the guy who’d snatched her bag and thrown her in front of the train.... His eyes, they were wolf’s eyes... golden... savage.
No...
“Save your energy, cowboy.” Goldeneye stood up, clutching his side where Gage had punched him, and motioned with the dagger for Gage to rise. “This isn’t the subway,” he growled. “Your girlfriend’s not here to impress.”
Yes... the long hair, the height. What was going on here?
Gage gained his feet and bought a few seconds by making a show of dusting off his jeans as he tried to sort it all out. This was the guy who’d pushed Zara onto the tracks. But first he’d stolen her bag, probably thinking the ray gun was in it, never suspecting she had it taped inside her coat all along. No doubt he was also the one who’d redecorated Zara’s house last night, searching for the gun.
The pieces didn’t make a whole lot of sense—why would anybody go to those lengths over a toy gun?—but they added up to one crystal-clear conclusion: Zara was in danger, big-time. This guy was fixated, homicidal and at least a little deranged. And he was armed. With a knife, which gave Gage the sweats just thinking about it. His instinct was to get away from this lunatic and that blade as quickly as possible, but if he did that, the guy would be loose on the streets, and he’d probably go after Zara.
Gage had to make sure that didn’t happen. Knife or no knife, he was going to have to take this clown out of circulation so he couldn’t get to Zara. He’d have to immobilize him somehow and turn him over to the cops.
“I want that ray gun,” Goldeneye rasped, the hand with the dagger shaking slightly, the other still gripping his side; good, he probably had a couple of cracked ribs. “I want it very badly.”
“Ask me if I give a flying f—”
The knife whipped out. No hands. Gage ducked beneath the silver blur, rolled and leapt up as his opponent wheeled to face him. Darting sideways, Gage struck at the arm that held the dagger, hoping for a nice fractured radius. The bone didn’t break, he could tell, but Goldeneye howled and dropped the knife.
Gage kicked the weapon under a Dumpster—Yes!—and swung again, grateful that skills honed during the tussles of his youth had managed to lurk in a forgotten cerebral nook this long. One blow connected with the guy’s jaw, another with his eye.
His attacker stumbled back, his arms over his face; not what Gage would have expected from a knife-wielding bad-ass all dressed up in black. Clearly, he didn’t like being hit, not in the head, anyway; that was good to know. Turning, Goldeneye lurched toward the Dumpster, threw himself down and started feeling around beneath it for the knife.
He had to be kidding. Gage was on him in a heartbeat. He yanked him to his feet and slammed him into a wall, sending metal trash cans toppling. Before the guy could raise his arms to protect himself, Gage landed another punishing blow to his head. As the shock of getting hit began to wear off, the creep started fighting back. Gage took a punch to the shoulder and one to the side of the head, but he shook them off; he was driven to stop this guy, had to stop him for Zara’s sake.
A burst of pain in his groin squeezed the air from Gage’s lungs. Bastard got me in the nuts! Hard. His legs crumpled; his body curled automatically into a fetal position. Amid his breathtaki
ng nausea, he was dimly aware of legs moving past him. The son of a bitch was getting away. With a grunt of effort, Gage reached out and grabbed one of the legs. Goldeneye stumbled, fell. As Gage struggled to rise, the man in black grabbed the lid of a trash can, raised it high and brought it down hard.
Gage’s head exploded; that was what it felt like, a white-hot eruption that consumed him in a blinding flash. Gradually it receded, leaving his ears ringing, his head pulsing. His groin still thudded with pain. He swallowed down the urge to throw up.
With a monumental effort he managed to uncurl himself and sit up. The alley was empty. Nice going, cowboy. You let him get away. Gage touched his throbbing forehead and felt a nice, big lump sprouting. You blew it, Foster. Now what do you aim to do about it?
There was only one thing to do, he reasoned as he rose unsteadily to his feet and made his halting way out of the alley. He had to get to Zara before Goldeneye did. Let her know what kind of danger she was in, figure out how to stop that bastard before he killed her over a toy gun, for fuck’s sake.
By the time he got to the Sans Souci, he was walking fairly normally and his breathing had steadied. Nevertheless, the doorman—an enormous brute with a pencil mustache, of all things—gave him the evil eye as he held the front door open. “May I help you, sir?”
“I’m here to see...” Shit, he didn’t know the mother’s name; well, she’d have the same last name, right? “Mrs. Sutcliffe.”
“Ms. Sutcliffe isn’t home.”
“Well, her daughter’s here.”
“Daughter?” The doorman cocked his head. A bald, bespectacled, sweat-suited man chatting with another tenant at the bank of mailboxes turned and blinked at Gage. The jock was as burly as the doorman.
“Zara. Zara Sutcliffe. I just left her here,” Gage insisted.
The doorman shook his head as if to clear it. “Ms. Sutcliffe—Zara Sutcliffe—went upstairs a few minutes ago, but then she came back down again right away and ran out the front door. She. Is. Not. At. Home.”
Good to Be Bad (Double Dare Book 1) Page 12
