Ride a Painted Pony (Superromance)

by McSparren, Carolyn

  She kicked back at him. He chuckled. God, he was loving this.

  She was being carried farther and farther from Rounders, from light and safety and Nick...into darkness, towards the waiting Toyota pickup that had dogged her from Oxford.

  Her nine-millimeter lay useless on the front seat of her car. Her satchel hung just as useless from her shoulder and swung against her legs with every step he took.

  Yeah, she’d had all those damn self-defense courses, all right. She’d fought the guys in the protective gear and yelled the words. But it wasn’t like this. Then there had been light and air and an instructor urging you on, and the guy in the protective gear was a guy you went out for coffee with after you kicked him in his well-protected balls.

  This was for real. Eugene didn’t want coffee. He wanted her body, and when he was through with that he wanted her dead.

  “Settle down, sweet thang,” he whispered, his rough cheek close to her ear, his breath rank with nicotine and beer. “You gonna like it. We got us a lawwwng night.”

  One chance. Remember the lessons. Let him think he’s won. God! He had won!

  Taylor whimpered and let herself go limp.

  He hadn’t expected that. The hand across her mouth slipped two inches, the one beneath her breast loosened for an instant to get a better grip.

  “No!” she screamed, and bit him.

  He howled.

  She twisted free and landed with both heels on his right instep. He yelped.

  Every instinct screamed run. But if she ran he’d have her again in a second, and this time he’d deck her.

  She whipped around, came into him at a crouch, raked his face with her nails, and, with every ounce of strength she had left, brought her knee up into his crotch.

  Only then did she spring back and kick out at his kneecap. She heard the thunk of rubber on cartilage. If she’d worn boots she’d have broken his goddamn leg.

  He was down, but far from out. She grabbed her satchel by the strap and swung it at his face. It struck him in the throat.

  He gurgled.

  Light flooded from the third-floor windows of Rounders. Taylor turned and raced for the entry. She flung herself at the door as the buzzer sounded. Behind her she heard footsteps.

  They were limping, but they were leaving.

  She slammed the door behind her and leaned against it. A moment later she heard a car door slam. An engine started and roared away down the alley.

  Her breath sobbed in her throat. She felt the artery under her chin. Not quite atrial fibrillation, but close. She felt slimy with her sweat and Eugene’s. She sank to her heels with her back braced against the door.

  “Taylor? You okay?”

  Nick’s voice. She pictured him standing as he had on Monday evening, silhouetted in the open doorway of his apartment

  She wanted to run up those stairs and fling herself at him. She wanted to rip off her clothes and scrub her body until blood ran from her pores.

  She cleared her throat and called back, “Sure, Nick. I’m fine. Just let me brush off this rain.” She sounded remarkably normal. She cleared her throat again and dragged herself up using the doorknob.

  The whole thing had lasted no more than a minute, two at the most. She’d fought for her life outside, while inside Nick heard nothing, saw nothing.

  Even now he knew nothing.

  And she couldn’t tell him. Not if she wanted to keep this job.

  One hint that she’d nearly been dragged off by that Neanderthal for an evening of rape, probable torture, eventual murder, and Mel would chain her to her computer terminal until the twenty-third century.

  Nick would demand that Mel replace her immediately.

  She ran her fingers through her hair, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and squared her shoulders. She pulled down her sweater and prayed Eugene’s dirty paw hadn’t left traces. She took a deep breath and walked up the stairs.

  She’d been monumentally stupid. Eugene should never have been able to get to her. And she’d make sure he wouldn’t get another chance. Somehow she’d make certain that Mel and Nick understood how dangerous Eugene was. Somehow she’d get the word to Danny that Eugene was the key to this whole mess.

  But she wouldn’t tell anyone about Eugene’s attack. Not now. Not ever.

  CHAPTER TEN

  TAYLOR TOOK A DEEP BREATH and managed to run up the stairs to Nick’s apartment. She sauntered past him casually and hoped he’d put her rapid breathing down to exertion. She must not let him touch her. He was too quick to catch the scent of her fear. More important, he might catch the scent of Eugene.

  “You were supposed to check in before dark,” Nick said. “I was worried.”

  “You sound like Mel,” Taylor answered with what she hoped was insouciance. “I call him Papa Bear. Oxford took a little longer than I thought.”

  She realized they were not alone. The smallish dark man who leaned against the kitchen counter scaled the heights of dandified spiffiness that Danny Vollmer never quite attained. “Hi,” he said in a broad Boston accent that could have doubled for Teddy Kennedy’s. “Rico Cabrizzo.” He smiled a sleepy, seductive smile and extended a neat, manicured hand.

  He held hers a moment too long. The navy suit he wore had been tailored for him. His dark, wavy hair was nearly the same texture and length as Nick’s, but Nick probably had his lopped off whenever it caught on his collar. Rico must have his razored once a week by an expert. Even now in November, his face was tanned and taut.

  Even if she hadn’t just kicked and bitten her way out of attempted rape, she wouldn’t have responded to Cabrizzo. Beside Nick, every other man seemed to blur around the edges, like a copy of a copy of a male.

  Rico tilted his handsome head and smiled at her quizzically, then glanced at Nick with a smirk and a nod. Taylor felt her face flush. Her attraction to Nick couldn’t be that obvious, surely.

  All at once Taylor’s knees began to shake. She gulped away her now-familiar post-traumatic-stress nausea, then sank onto the sofa and set her satchel on the seat beside her. She didn’t want either of these men getting too close. “I could use a drink,” she said brightly.

  “Nonalcoholic, right?” Nick said.

  She forced herself to look squarely at Nick, smiled reassuringly and shook her hair back from her face. “The road was slick. Tough driving.”

  He nodded, unconvinced.

  She licked her parched lips and nearly gagged as she tasted Eugene’s palm on her mouth. “Diet soft drink if you’ve got one. In the can will be fine.”

  Her throat was so dry that she thought her voice sounded choked. When he handed her the soda, she willed her hand steady. She drained half the can at one gulp.

  “You okay?” Nick pulled one of the dining chairs across from her, swung it around and sat down with his arms across the back of it. Rico still leaned against the kitchen counter, and she felt his eyes assessing her.

  “Sure.” She drained the soda and set the empty can on a carousel magazine on the table beside her. “How about you? How’d it go with Danny?”

  “He’s mad because I hadn’t reported the theft or told him about Eberhardt’s death. He tried to build that into a motive for me to kill Clara Eberhardt.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “So I informed him,” Rico said, and chortled.

  “I’ll sic him on Officer Tom Owenwald in Oxford,” Taylor said. “I had a lovely chat with him this afternoon about arson.”

  “Good,” Rico said. “Maybe he won’t drag you in tomorrow morning and demand you drop the case for your own good.” He shoved off from the counter and walked over to the sofa. He shifted her satchel to the coffee table, arranged his trousers and sank beside Taylor with the grace of a premier danseur. “Not a bad idea. You dropping the case, that is.”

  “Fat chance.” Taylor felt the tension in her neck relax. She’d probably have hysterics later when she was alone.

  “I’m pretty sure it was Eugene who shot at you last night,�
�� she said to Nick.

  “You found out something today?”

  She hesitated a moment too long, then said casually, “The Oxford cops say he’s a real bad boy. No doubt the Eberhardts kept him around for cheap muscle. He must have helped move the animals from the storeroom. Either he’s doing this on his own—taking up where they left off—or more likely he’s set up another connection.”

  “With whoever organized the theft,” Nick added sadly. “You think he killed Clara?”

  “Not Eugene’s style. Whoever killed Clara was neat, competent, and ruthless. Eugene may be ruthless, but...” She wrinkled her nose at the memory of Eugene’s touch. She shuddered, took a deep breath and said in what she hoped was a normal tone, “Can you see Clara Eberhardt meeting Eugene at The Peabody? Or driving down here with him after dark?”

  “If she hired him, she wasn’t afraid of him,” Rico said reasonably.

  “Even after Eberhardt’s death?” Taylor shook her head. “Nope, Eugene would have bashed her over the head and left her where she dropped.”

  “You think he’s got the animals?” Nick asked.

  “Makes sense,” Taylor answered. “And probably whatever records exist about the thefts. That would give him a real hold over the Rounders connection.”

  Rico turned towards her. “I have just spent twenty minutes trying to convince Nick that he has absolutely no liability in the thefts. He doesn’t owe Pete Marley or anyone else money. Caveat emptor—Let the buyer beware. He didn’t turn the animals into convincing frauds, he didn’t sell them, he didn’t furnish the fake provenance. If Pete Marley was stupid enough to hand over thirty-five thousand dollars to a dealer he didn’t know, that’s his lookout, not Nick’s.”

  “How successful were you?” Taylor asked.

  Rico shrugged. “Guess.”

  “You got nowhere.”

  Nick shifted on his chair. “I have a moral obligation.”

  Rico waved him away. “Moral, my ass. Marley is blackmailing you, and you’re too dumb to see it. Tell him to publish and be damned.”

  “Better yet,” Taylor said, warming to the idea, “put ads in the carousel magazines explaining what happened and warning buyers to be on the lookout for the fakes.”

  “Not unless I have to,” Nick said. “People would always wonder if I had a hand in the whole thing. If I stood to gain.” He shook his head. “Unless they find out who killed the Eberhardts, I’ll never be entirely free of suspicion.”

  “My dear Nick, people will always gossip,” Rico said. “At least let me talk to Marley. He needs to hit Eberhardt’s estate with a suit, so he gets his thirty-five thou from them, not you. That way you stay out of bankruptcy court until we can trace the remaining animals. Then we sue the Eberhardt estate too for the additional losses, plus pain and suffering. Could cop a bundle.”

  With a pang of guilt Taylor thought of poor Estelle Grierson. Still, Rico was right. Even Nick had said he’d probably end up suing the estate, and there was probably plenty in it to pay off Marley and any others. She nodded in agreement.

  Nick sighed. “Not yet. And don’t expect Marley’s lawyers to cooperate. He doesn’t want anyone to know he got taken.”

  “Tough. I think we can keep it quiet, but my responsibility is to you, not only because I’m your lawyer, but because, I hope, I’m your friend.”

  He might also be a thief and a double murderer, Taylor thought. She needed to talk to him alone.

  Rico turned to Taylor. “And now, we have an extra-special treat for you.”

  Taylor looked at him suspiciously.

  “Rico, don’t be a jerk,” Nick said, then turned to Taylor. “We’re invited to Josh’s to talk strategy.”

  Taylor looked from one man to the other. “What am I not picking up on here?”

  “Margery does not entertain anyone except celebrities and society chez Chessman,” Rico said with an exaggerated sneer. “Even I have never been invited, and I am—I kid you not—a remarkably presentable bachelor who makes a hell of a lot of money. Unfortunately, I have a weird Yankee accent and I can’t advance Josh’s career one iota.”

  THE CHESSMANS LIVED IN A NEW, very expensive one-story house on the outskirts of Germantown. The style was what Realtors called “mansion architecture”—brick veneer with plenty of windows and little character. Margery opened the door herself.

  “You’re late.” Margery stood aside grumpily. She wore a navy turtleneck sweater tucked into taupe wool gabardine slacks. Taylor wondered whether that perky bosom and flat tummy had been achieved with the help of Jane Fonda—or plastic surgery.

  Around her neck Margery wore three heavy twisted gold chains, each with a different pendant—a broad white jade disk, a sixty carat citrine, a three-inch gold reproduction of an antique hypodermic needle. No doubt an award from one of her hospital boards. She wore heavy gold hoops in her ears and a three-inch gold cuff on her left arm.

  The inside of the house wasn’t nearly as cozy as the mortuary in Oxford. No magazines, no books, no family photos. No antiques. Two beige sofas, so overstuffed they looked as though someone had pumped them up like truck tires, sat on either side of a black marble fireplace. The sofas were piled thickly with down pillows the shape and color of raw ravioli.

  On second thought, Taylor decided it looked more like an upscale conference center than a funeral home. Even the dining-room table seemed designed for board meetings. Taylor peeked to see whether the chairs were on casters. They were.

  Josh came to meet them. Max struggled out of one of the sofas. From the other end, Veda smiled and waved her glass of white wine in their direction. Then she glanced up at Max. She looked worried.

  Max swayed slightly and sat down as far from Veda as he could on the same piece of furniture. “Ah, the main event.” He held up a half-full highball, dark enough to be straight bourbon. He spoke with the exaggerated care of a man who refuses to slur and knows he’s drunk enough to do just that.

  “I’ll leave now, Josh,” Margery said and kissed the air in the general area of his cheek. “I have an opera board meeting.”

  Chessman opened his mouth to protest, but by that time Margery was through the archway into the kitchen without a backward glance or acknowledgment of her guests. He shrugged. “Drinks?”

  Nick took a beer; Rico scotch-and-water, Taylor, diet ginger ale.

  Taylor, Nick and Rico sat on the second sofa. Taylor realized that she was ravenously hungry just about the time she found there wasn’t even a bowl of salted peanuts on the glass coffee table between the sofas.

  She watched Max over the rim of her glass. He smiled sardonically into his highball, and she felt waves of antipathy from him. She had no idea how she’d managed to antagonize him so quickly or so completely, but she knew an enemy when she met one. Were his feelings personal, or did he fear she’d discover he was a thief and a killer?

  “So,” Max said, “the suspects are gathered ready for the great detective to do his—pardon me, her stuff.” He bowed in Taylor’s direction. “What has our junior Miss Marple come up with?” He snickered.

  Taylor bit back a reply and glanced at Nick. He stared at Max with his eyes narrowed and his jaw set.

  Veda reached for his glass. “Max, honey, don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

  Max held it out of her reach. A few drops sloshed onto the leather couch. Josh yipped and leaned over to wipe them away with a cocktail napkin. Max sneered and took another swig.

  “Tonight is a special occasion, Veda,” Max said. “Not every day my best friend accuses me of murder.”

  “Come on, Max,” Nick said, “nobody’s accusing anyone of anything.”

  “Good. Because if she says I did it, I shall sue her and her precious agency for slander.” He glared at Taylor.

  “She hasn’t accused anyone,” Taylor said. “And I’m not going to.” She set her drink down. “Not tonight. I thought this was a council of war. Now I see it’s a lynching and I’m the lynchee.”

  �
��Max,” Nick said, “knock off the bull or let me drive you home right now. Your choice.”

  Max raised his eyebrows. “My, my, aren’t we protective of little Ms. Hunt’s sensibilities? You don’t seem to give a damn about mine.”

  “Crap,” Nick said, still amiable. He leaned back. “I’d forgotten what a lousy drunk you are.”

  Max’s chest heaved. Taylor was certain that he’d walk out, but Nick seemed to know the right note to hit with him. For a moment no one spoke, then Max waved his drink in Taylor’s direction and laughed. “Oh, all right.” He nodded to Taylor. “Sorry. Rude of me.”

  “No problem,” she said.

  Veda said quickly, “So tell us, Taylor dear, what have you learned?”

  Taylor looked at Nick. “Is it all right? I only work for you, you know.”

  “Sure.”

  She took a deep breath and gave them no more information than she thought they should have. When she mentioned talking with Estelle Grierson, she saw Josh Chessman stiffen, but he said nothing. Somewhere during her speech Max stopped frowning at her and switched his attentions to Josh. His smile widened as the level of liquid in his glass lowered.

  Veda didn’t take her eyes off Max. Taylor tried to read her look. Earlier, she’d appeared worried, but seemed to be growing more annoyed with Max’s every swig.

  “So, that’s where we stand at the moment,” Taylor said. She set her empty glass on a pewter coaster on the coffee table.

  “Ha!” Max said. “The woman hasn’t found out a damn thing worth knowing.” He stuck his nose in his drink. “Pay her off and send her packing. Let the police handle it.”

  “I haven’t found proof that you or Dr. Chessman stole the animals, if that’s what you mean,” Taylor said. “Not yet.”

  “Ah, pussy has claws.”

  Nick opened his mouth, but Taylor raised a hand to stop him. She could fight her own battles. For a man whom Nick had characterized as a gentleman, Max was being insufferably rude. But only to her.

  She glanced from Max to Nick. Maybe it was fear—simple, straightforward terror of being found out. Or was he jealous?