High Heels and Homicide mkm-4

by Kasey Michaels

  «I don't know. Because everyone's too busy inventing new and improved erectile dysfunction drugs?»

  «Yes!» Bernie sat up straight, her red hair a tangled mess, her nose a nearly matching red. «That's it! And tell me why the world needs three or so different drugs for erectile dysfunction. Are that many guys having trouble getting it up? Bull! They just all want to feel nineteen again, when all it took was waking up in the morning to get themselves in the mood.»

  Maggie nodded furiously, willing to tackle any subject, as long as it had nothing to do with Medwine Manor or the movie. «I know, I know. And then they show these commercials where the guy comes up behind his wife—we know it's his wife because she's washing dishes, and girlfriends don't wash dishes. That keeps it G-rated or something. Anyway, the guy comes up to his wife, who's washing dishes, or digging in the garden, or making supper. He's ready . So, of course, she's just overjoyed to drop everything she's doing and be a freaking receptacle . Those commercials make me so mad.»

  Bernie sneezed again, laid back against the pillow. «You do know that if they came up with a guaranteed-orgasm pill for women, no ads would be allowed on the air. We'd never see a bunch of housewives and young mothers bursting out of their suburban homes, dancing, and singing 'It's Raining Men.' Or that song from Jekyll and Hyde . 'Bring On the Men.' Yeah. That's a good one.»

  «Or 'Girls Just Want to Have Fun,' « Maggie agreed. «Okay, so now that we've settled that one, and before you start on world peace or the price of Jimmy Choo boots, I've got some bad news for you.»

  «Nothing could be worse than this cold. And, speaking of cold, why is it so cold in here? And why are you holding a flashlight?»

  «That's part of the bad news. The power cut out, and the generators are under water in the cellars—Marylou told me some fool left the service doors open and water was pouring down the stairs into the basement. We're completely surrounded by water from the rain, the ornamental pond, the stream, wherever it's coming from, so nobody goes in, nobody gets out. No household staff, no cook, nobody but us'uns. Oh. And it's still raining.»

  Bernie was quiet for some moments, then said, «A helicopter. We can call for a helicopter rescue. I've seen those on TV.»

  «I don't think so, no. According to Sir Rudy, this hap-pens all the time. Nobody's coming to the rescue. We just wait until the rain stops and the water goes down. Besides, I can't really see you in a harness, being pulled up over the rooftops, can you?»

  «Not sober, no. I'm starving. Feed a cold, right?»

  «Oh, I forgot. I brought us lunch, but I left everything on a table in the hall. Hang on, I'll go get it.»

  «No big hurry. I'm just dying here.»

  «Right,» Maggie said, heading for the hall, only to quickly close the door when she saw Byrd Stockwell and Nikki Campion standing in the open doorway across the way, lost in a lip-lock.

  «What's wrong? Is the flood up here now? Are we going to drown? Tell me, Maggie. I can take it.»

  «Shhh,» Maggie said, heading back to the bed. «I'll get the sandwiches in a minute. First… you're never going to believe this one…»

  Chapter eight

  It was amazing to Saint Just how, in such a very short space of time, he could become so bored with his Regency costume (tailoring was an art, one that obviously had not extended to whatever cow-handed buffoon had fashioned this coat).

  He was equally disenchanted with the company (most of whom would cheerfuly murder each other for an extra moment on film), Medwine Manor (cold, drafty, soon to be dark), and England in November (for no particular reason save that there was no television machine and he was certain to miss the New York Giants on Monday Night Football) .

  Already unclasping the crudely fashioned, prefabricated neck cloth with one hand while unbuttoning his waistcoat with the other, Saint Just stopped dead just inside Sterling's bedchamber and stared at his friend and compatriot. «What are you doing?»

  Sterling, who had pulled up his shirt, exposing his bare belly, quickly pulled down his shirt and smiled at Saint Just. «I'm not sure. Remember yesterday? When you were all talking about Maggie's latest manuscript?»

  «And you were admiring the scaffolding? Yes, I recall the moment. What of it?»

  «Well, everyone kept talking about what was wrong with Maggie's book, and somebody—I forget who—said the story had you contemplating your navel for several hundred pages. And I've been wondering exactly what that meant, and why anyone would want to, because I've been looking at mine for ten minutes now and—and now you're laughing at me, aren't you?»

  «Never, Sterling,» Saint Just said, keeping a straight face only with difficulty. «I believe what was meant was that Maggie wrote me as examining my life—who I am, what I am, where I'm going, where I've been.»

  «Why would anybody want to do that?» Sterling asked. «A person could discover things about himself best left alone, and all of that.»

  «Very true, my friend. You look nearly incomplete, Sterling. Where's the other Sterling?»

  «Perry. He's really Perry. He's only pretending to be me. And he's having a small lie-down in his room, if you must know. He thought he saw Uncle Willis, but it turned out to be nothing more than another suit of armor we found in the attics. The lightning flashed and lit it up, and Sterling— that is, Perry—screamed like a young girl, then backed up and fell over a small chest. Landed square on his rump. He's taking a restorative rest, but then we'll be off again. We have an entire other wing of the attics to search.»

  «Are you quite convinced there is a ghost, Sterling? In any case, it will be coming on to dark soon, so I'd rather you and your friend weren't stumbling about in the attics.»

  Sterling nodded sagely. «In case Uncle Willis shows up.»

  Saint Just smiled. «Exactly. And now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I'd like to retire to my own room, to bathe with what may be left of the hot water and attend to my toilette, then return these costumes to Marylou. Yours, too, Sterling. I think we've had enough of playacting.»

  «You're returning the costumes? But why? I thought these clothes suited you down to the ground.»

  «If the tailoring were better, perhaps. But possibly even not then. I wouldn't wish for Maggie to hear me, but modern clothing is immeasurably more comfortable. And, of course, everyone else will look the fool once I'm in my own impeccable wardrobe again.»

  «Except Byrd Stockwell. He cuts a rather dashing figure, don't you think?»

  «The robin? I can't say as I'd really noticed,» Saint Just said, avoiding Sterling's gaze. Because in truth, Byrd Stock-well annoyed him most thoroughly, even if he didn't want to believe the man's wardrobe and bearing had anything to do with that dislike. There was just something vaguely false about the man, and Saint Just knew he would feel more comfortable if the man wasn't in Armani while he was stuck in pantaloons and neck cloths, as if numbered with the actors.

  Once refreshed and clad in black slacks and matching shirt, Saint Just went on the hunt for Maggie, who had been conspicuous only by her absence after telling him that Bernie was feeling poorly and that Tabby was still among the missing. As Dennis Lloyd also had not been seen since breakfast, this had come as no great surprise.

  The cast had dispersed after a cold luncheon of meat and cheese, as Sir Rudy had suggested they all consider bringing blankets and pillows to the main saloon and prepare to spend the night sharing body heat—a suggestion that had been met with considerable derision and a snort or two from Evan Pottinger, who had said he'd much rather suffer hypothermia in his own room, thank you very much.

  What a jolly gathering, one to which Saint Just would be more than happy to wave his farewells the moment the rain stopped, which it showed no signs of doing.

  In the meantime, however, he would have liked a word or three with Sam Undercuffler, to take the fellow to task about his appalling lack of manners, and to point out to him that such boorish behavior toward Maggie would not be countenanced in the future. In other words, Saint Just planne
d to scare the clod spitless, which would serve to help him pass an enjoyable quarter hour.

  But Sam Undercuffler hadn't been seen in the past several hours, not even appearing for supper, which had consisted of unhappy people… and more cold meat and cheese.

  Indeed, most everyone seemed to have decided to give supper a skip, as most of the guests of Medwine Manor had bolted themselves in their rooms for the duration… doing Lord only knew what with Lord only knew whom.

  Saint Just was only interested in Maggie.

  So, after checking the empty study, the equally empty morning room, the likewise deserted main saloon, Saint Just climbed the stairs again, carrying a lovely silver candelabra that suited his mood as well as the architecture, and prepared to knock on Maggie's bedchamber door.

  He heard music coming from under the door, which stilled his hand as he was about to knock. Music? But there was no electricity. Ah! Of course! Maggie's battery-powered CD player. Maggie could no more exist without music than she could breathe without air. And, when she wanted the world gone, she just turned the music louder.

  Today, the music was blaring. Oh, dear.

  Opening the door slowly, Saint Just smiled as, with the aid of several branches of candles lit around the room, he saw Maggie dancing to one of her favorite songs, Linda Eder's «Never Dance.»

  She moved gracefully to the story within the song, of that night in Rio and the man she would never forget. Arms high above her head, Maggie's body told its own story as the pulsing beat throbbed through the room. Somehow happy, somehow sad. Never dance… never kiss… never love. And yet… feel the passion… the heat of desire. Just to dance again.

  Saint Just couldn't resist. Who could possibly resist?

  He put down the candelabra and moved to stand in front of her. Watched for a few mind-blowing moments as she swayed in front of him, her eyes closed, an expression of bliss on her beautiful face.

  And then he slipped his arm around her waist, took her hand in his and brought it down.

  And guided her into the dance.

  She opened her eyes, goggled at him, even as she moved with him. «What… what do you think you're—»

  «Shhh. This is the best part.»

  «Yes, but—oh, hell.»

  Hip to hip. Thigh to thigh. Moving to the rhythm.

  He was a marvelous dancer. Maggie had written him so. He was so very good at so very many things.

  He watched her as they danced, watched her watching him. Spun her out. Brought her back. Laughed as she finally grinned, as the devil peeked out from behind her eyes, as she gave herself up to the sensuous beat, the heat , the passion .

  The desire .

  One last whirl, one last dip, and the song was over. But not the dance.

  Saint Just knew what came next on the CD. «Vienna.» Love remembered. Love lost. Slow, sad… yet soaring. He drew Maggie close, tucking her right hand in his left, then folding them together against his chest as he held her, as they moved to the poetry that had been love in Vienna.

  And Maggie allowed all of it.

  Of course, being Maggie, she was not content for them to drift together silently.

  «You never knock,» she said as he pressed a kiss against her hair.

  «I'm a bad man.»

  «Yes, you are. And it's embarrassing, being caught like this.»

  «Dancing? I vow I wouldn't know why.»

  «No, you wouldn't. You're never embarrassed. I was just trying to, I don't know, blow off some steam?»

  «I see.» Saint Just lightly traced his fingertips down the back of her neck. «I could help with that.»

  «Yes, I'm sure you think you could. This… this isn't going anywhere, you know.»

  «I know.» He stroked her back, shoulder to hip. «Dear Lord, how I know…»

  The song began to soar, and he moved with it. They moved with it.

  «You could disappear as quickly as you showed up, you know. I couldn't… it's not possible for me to… oh, hell.»

  «There is such a thing as the moment.''

  «Like 'Vienna'? Love followed by regret? No, I couldn't do that. I just couldn't, Alex.»

  «And yet, ' 'tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.'»

  Maggie stopped moving, pushed slightly away from him even as they continued in the dance. «Tennyson? He wrote too late for the Regency Era. I'm very careful to use only quotes written before your time in history. So how do you know Tennyson?»

  «Noticed that, did you?» Saint Just rolled his eyes, smiled at this change of subject. Dearest Maggie, so transparent. But he was getting to her, and she had begun to weaken. He could afford to be patient. «My Maggie, the nitpicker. What? I cannot attempt to improve my mind?»

  She shook her head, walked over to the portable CD player and shut it off. «I suppose not. But you could have used Congreve. He wrote before the Regency. Remember? You said it in The Case of the Pilfered Pearls , right before you gave your mistress her walking papers. 'Say what you will, 'tis better to be left than never to have been loved.'»

  «And got my face slapped for my pains. Yes, I recall the moment. There are times, dearest Maggie, when I believe your mission in life is to deny me pleasure.»

  «Bite—never mind. And that's not true. I've written a couple dozen love scenes for you and—oh, no. I'm not going there. I don't want to talk about the books. I most especially don't want to talk about the love scenes. Do you have any idea how difficult that is for me since… since you got here?»

  She looked so lovely when she was flustered. Saint Just couldn't help himself. He pushed. «No, not really. Tell me.»

  «Oh, right. You'd love that, wouldn't you? Forget it.» She ran her fingers through her hair, which settled again most becomingly, which it should, for the price she paid for a silly man with scissors to snip at it once a month. «Okay. This has been a long time coming, and it's not going away without talking about it, is it? So let's get this over with, why don't we?»

  «Perceive me as amenable to your every wish, if the it you're referring to is our, shall we say, mutual attraction,» Saint Just said, fingering the ribbon holding his quizzing glass. «Shall I put the music on again?»

  «That was not what I meant, and you know it. God! This is like arguing with myself—you know all the snappy answers, probably even before I ask the questions. Do me a favor, Alex, and get out of my head.»

  «Done and done, my dear. Sterling and I both. Not that it wasn't enjoyable there, but I so much prefer our present situation. Although, after seeing Dennis Lloyd in the Saint

  Just livery, I must say I still do lament that you have yet to make him a fully well-rounded character, so that Clarence might join us here. He had such a way with boot black. I vow, I'm soon to shed a tear, feeling so very nostalgic for the man.»

  «Shut up. Just shut up.» Maggie began to pace, yet another of her fortes. For a woman who detested exercise, she was quite the accomplished pacer, some days going for miles in her own living room-cum-office when one of her stories was first percolating in her brain.

  Saint Just watched her for a few moments, then broke the silence. «Maggie. My dear, dear girl. We are destined, you know. The /e/Menant is a mild diversion, nothing more, poor man, and we both are aware of that, also. When you created me, the perfect hero of your dreams, there was nothing else for it but for me to appear in your life.»

  She stopped dead to glare at him. «Oh, really. Really? Boy, you're a piece of work. You're telling me you've ruined me for other men? Of all the arrogant, self-serving, miserable excuses I've ever heard, that one—»

  «Hits closest to the mark?»

  «The hell it does.» Maggie pressed her palms to her forehead, whether in pain from a dose of the headache or in a vain attempt to push him back inside her head, he didn't care to ask.

  But because he knew her so well, and because he was who he was, Saint Just advanced on her slowly, took hold of her hands, and gently pulled her into his arms.

  «The
hell it does, yes. I am everything you both love and loathe in a man, Maggie. I appeal to you physically, as well as to your mind. You are attracted to my strengths as well as to my foibles. I attract you even as I sometimes frighten you, as I did when you and Sterling were in danger, and for which I apologize yet again, even as we both know I would do the same again. I am your imagination, all of it, come to life. And even more, now that I have been here for a while and have—and I know how you loathe the word—evolved . Now, do you wish to know what I think of you? How I am attracted to you? How I was attracted to you from the beginning and am more so with each day that passes?»

  «No,» she mumbled against his chest. «No… no. I was wrong. Let's not do this. I'm not ready for this.»

  «Yet, sad to say, even your reluctance attracts me. Your determined obstinance in the face of all that's reasonable. But there is so much more. You're also a loyal friend in the face of all obstacles. You can be rather funny at times, most often when you are not aware of that fact. You're intelligent and most remarkably human. Genuine, even in your faults—your very few faults. You're endearingly vulnerable and yet courageous and strong. You are totally unaware of how very beautiful you are. And, of course, you had the splendid good sense to invent me.»

  Maggie pushed back fractionally and looked up at him as he held her in the cradle of his arms. «Oh, that was so Saint Just. There are times, lots of them, when I feel like Doctor Frankenstein after his monster ran amok in the village. Now let go, okay?»

  «You're afraid of me? Of yourself? Of M5?»

  She pushed a little harder, but he wasn't letting go. Not this time. «Cut that out. I am not afraid of you. Then again, I'm not nuts. You're a fictional character. My fictional character.»

  «All yours, my dear,» Saint Just agreed, trying not to smile. She was weakening. He could sense it.

  «Yes, but I don't write fantasy. And you're fantasy. A real fantasy.»

  «Also all yours, my dear. Have you ever wondered about that? About the need I might have filled in your life ever since the day you first dreamt me? Could I be the ex-planation for your reluctance to become seriously involved with other men?»