by Diana Palmer
“And...?” she asked, prodding. It hurt to think about Joe’s thin body being impersonally probed and inspected by people who didn’t even know him.
“The coroner’s assistant had some suspicions about the way Mr. Stephano died. He said it appeared to be a cut-and-dried case. But there was some doubt as to whether drugs or the impact of the crash was actually responsible for Mr. Stephano’s death. You see, they had no reason to suspect foul play.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“That could be cause for investigation by the police,” he suggested. “You might think about it. Because, if it was murder, and this suspect of yours has so much to lose, he wouldn’t think anything of putting out a contract on you. And, Miss Bennett...professional killers don’t miss. I urge you to go to the police.”
“Thank you for your advice,” she said calmly, although she felt anything but calm. “I’ll sleep on it,” she added, and hung up.
She didn’t sleep. She paced the floor, wondering what to do. She looked out the window, past the fire escape, and at the city spread out in a dazzling display of jeweled lights and wondered how many other people in that beautiful expanse were as troubled as she was. She was only twenty-six years old. She was frightened and alone, and she couldn’t even go to Marc for help, although she wondered now if he wouldn’t give it to her. He seemed much less furious with her, much more reasonable. She wanted so badly to go to see him, to be held and comforted by him, to let him take care of her. But that wasn’t possible. Now that she had only herself to rely on, she’d better decide what to do.
As if there was really any choice, she thought miserably. Of course, she’d go to the police, as she should have in the first place. They could conduct as discreet an investigation as a private detective. They wouldn’t storm into Motocraft, Inc., without evidence and start threatening Smith. Besides, what Harrolds had said had frightened her deeply. Yes, if Smith had killed once, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill again. Now he had nothing to lose.
With her mind made up she went back to the bed, leaving on the ruffled white lacy peignoir that covered her matching long negligee. She couldn’t seem to get the air-conditioning adjusted properly and felt chilled. She lay down, closing her eyes, and memories flooded into her mind, memories of how it had been between her and Marc years ago.
Memories of more recent times, of his ardent, early-morning passion on the beach in the Hamptons. Later memories—of his contempt and fury at Joe’s funeral. And now the hauntingly sweet memory of that last phone conversation with him. She’d live on that. No matter what happened, at least she knew that he didn’t hate her anymore. That was enough. Almost enough.
She seemed to sleep, but a noise awoke her in the early hours before dawn. She imagined she was hearing things, that it was just nerves. But when she heard it again, she knew someone was at her door. A feeling of sheer terror hit her, and Gaby jumped from her bed.
Afterward she didn’t remember how she’d gotten out onto the fire escape, it seemed to have been a frantic fumble through the curtains. She screamed, drawing attention from other rooms. And that might have been all that saved her. She scrambled down the steps, nearly falling as she went.
She heard a loud noise, like a firecracker, and it frightened her so much that she tripped as she was going down the last few steps. She fell roughly and felt a sharp pain in her shoulder. She didn’t even look up or behind her; she didn’t waste the time. She dragged herself upright, panting from exertion and nervousness, and started running again. There was something wet on her arm. She touched it and saw a red film on her fingers. The terror magnified. It was a nightmare, and she was actually on her feet and participating in it!
She ran around the building to the street, where traffic was coming and going, and she knew that the presence of other people would offer protection. She rushed for the telephone booth. There wasn’t a policeman in sight, but passersby stared. She fumbled with the receiver. She didn’t have a quarter, but she did remember her telephone credit card number. Please, God, let the operator accept it.
She punched the operator button and gave her credit card number from memory and only then, after she’d given the number she wanted, did she realize how instinct had taken over from logic.
The phone rang twice before a deep, calming voice came over the line. “Stephano.”
“Marc,” she said, weeping. “Marc...someone’s after me.”
He cursed furiously. “Where are you? Quick, where are you?”
She licked her lips. She was feeling terribly sick, she told him hesitantly.
“I’ll be there in five minutes. Stay put! Are there people around?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God.”
The phone went dead, but she didn’t hang it up. Standing on the street in her nightgown might look odd, but it was her only hope of survival. Whoever was after her might still be around. She couldn’t risk fainting. She had to stay right where she was until Marc came.
It seemed to take forever. She hung on to the telephone cord, oblivious to the slight wound in her shoulder, reciting rhymes in her mind, pretending to talk into the receiver while she held the phone so that it was actually dead. She didn’t know what to do. She was terrified now, really terrified, and certain that whoever had been at her door wanted to kill her. Her eyes closed. Please don’t let anyone hurt Marc, she prayed. Please don’t.
She didn’t even understand why she’d called Marc. The logical call would have been to the police, but she hadn’t thought logically. She had only reacted out of fear and need.
Several minutes later a screeching of tires caught her attention, and her heart leaped as she whirled, not sure what to expect, not sure it might not be the killer.
But that tall, hard physique was unmistakable, that confident stride. He was in slacks and a red knit pullover shirt, his hair disheveled, his eyes bloodshot.
“Marc!” she cried. She started toward him and almost collapsed into his hard, warm arms. “Oh, Marc!” He smelled of cologne, and she wanted to stay in his arms forever.
“It’s all right,” he said tautly. “It’s all right. I’ve got you now. You’re safe.”
His face was grim, pale, when he saw the blood on her arm. He ushered her toward his car and, lifting her as if she were a child, he put her gently into the front seat. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked in a voice deep with emotion. He whipped out his handkerchief and pressed it against the wound and tied it gently around her arm. Passersby were now taking a belated interest.
He was close, very close, and then she realized just how upset he was. His face was rigid with control, his eyes black and narrow with pain.
“Hey,” she whispered, touching that hard face gently with her fingertips, “I’m all right.”
He swallowed, but he didn’t say anything. “Stay still. I’ll get you to the hospital, then we’ll call the police.”
“But, Marc—”
“No buts!” he said curtly, and softened the impact by brushing a tender kiss across her mouth. “I’m taking care of you from now on, like I should have in the beginning. You’ll be all right now. You’ll be fine. If he comes near you again, I swear I’ll kill him with my bare hands!”
He went around and got in under the wheel, glancing at her to make sure she was all right. “Here.” He fastened her seat belt, arranging the shoulder harness so that it didn’t touch her wounded shoulder. “Okay?” he whispered softly, searching her pained green eyes.
“Yes,” she replied. She wasn’t, but it was heaven being near him.
“Just relax. It’s all right now, I’ll get you to a doctor.”
He cranked the car and drove quickly away from the hotel, weaving in and out of traffic with expert precision. She turned her head on the back of the seat, watching the way he drove, eyes straight ahead, glancing only occasionally
in the rearview mirror or the side mirror. He was single-minded in this, as he was in everything. Even when he made love...
Her face colored. He slowed for a turn and glanced at her. “Embarrassing thoughts?” he asked with faint humor.
“Yes,” she confessed. “I was just thinking how single-minded you are about things. You drive very professionally.”
“I used to race cars,” he said. “You didn’t know that, did you? It was after I...after we broke up,” he said, correcting himself. “You mind if I smoke, honey?”
“No.”
He jerked out a cigarette and fumbled with the lighter, laughing bitterly at his own lack of grace. “I’m a little shook up,” he confessed. “I didn’t know what I’d find when I got to you. It’s a miracle there weren’t six cops on my tail when I got to the hotel.”
“I’m sorry I involved you,” she said quietly. “I was so scared. I should have called the police, but your number was the only thing I could think of.”
“I’m glad you called me,” he said tautly, staring straight ahead. “So stop apologizing, will you? Don’t you think I know it’s my fault? If I hadn’t mistrusted you, if I hadn’t opened my big mouth and spilled everything to Smith, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”
So that was it. That was the root of his concern. Guilt. Just as he’d felt guilty for Joe, he felt guilty for bringing this on Gaby. She closed her eyes and, as her wound began to throb under the bloodstained handkerchief, she wondered if they ever would be free of guilt.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE HOSPITAL EMERGENCY room was crowded, but Marc bulldozed right through the red tape and got her quickly into a cubicle. A young resident physician treated the wound while Marc borrowed a phone and called the local police precinct. By the time Gaby was cleaned up, stitched and bandaged, a weary-looking detective sergeant was sharing the cubicle with her.
“Hard night, huh, little lady?” the sergeant asked without a trace of a smile. He was dark like Marc, short and a little overweight, and he looked like a man who was used to scenes like this. “I’m Sergeant Bonaro,” he said, introducing himself. “Hell of a time to do this, but I need you to answer a few questions for me.”
“I’ll tell you anything I can,” Gaby promised. She smiled. “But please don’t expect me to be too lucid. He gave me two shots, I’m not quite sure of what.”
“One was tetanus,” Marc volunteered, hands deep in his pockets as he leaned against a wall. “The other was for pain.”
“No wonder I feel disoriented.” Gaby sighed. “I get knocked out by an aspirin tablet.”
“Do you know who shot you, Miss Bennett?” Bonaro asked, holding a small pad and pen in his hands.
“No, sir. I never got a look at him. I woke up just as he was pushing the door open, and then I just panicked and ran down the fire escape.”
“Lucky for you,” Bonaro said ruefully. “For the guy to get past the doorman and into your room, it looks very much like we’re dealing with a pro. Do you have enemies, Miss Bennett?”
“I’m afraid so,” she confided. And with an apologetic glance at Marc she poured out the whole story.
When she finished, Bonaro sat back in his chair with a rough sigh. “This looks as if it could get sticky. Well, you can have police protection, for what it’s worth, but I have to tell you in all honesty that you may still be in a lot of danger—”
“Thanks a hell of a lot,” Marc said, interrupting curtly and glaring at the shorter man.
“I’m telling you the odds,” Bonaro said. “I happen to think it’s better to face facts. The lady needs to know how serious the situation is. She can protect herself a lot better that way.”
“What protecting needs doing, I’ll do,” Marc said, his face hard and imperturbable. “If it takes an army to guard her, I’ll hire one.”
The sergeant stared at him curiously. “Stephano, that your name? You related to this Joe Stephano who died?”
“My brother,” Marc said gruffly.
The sergeant pursed his lips and scowled. “Any kin to Michael Stephano?”
“That’s Uncle Michael,” Gaby volunteered.
Bonaro cocked his head. “Your uncle?”
“No. Marc’s. But everybody calls him Uncle Michael,” Gaby offered drowsily.
“There are lots of other things people call him, lady,” Bonaro said sarcastically, “but ‘uncle’ isn’t one of them.”
She smiled at him. “He believed me,” she said. “Long before anybody else would listen, he believed me.”
“I’m lost,” Bonaro confessed. He leaned forward. “Suppose you explain that.”
“About David Smith,” she said, “and something to do with theft at Motocraft, Inc.”
“Which I own,” Marc volunteered.
Bonaro ran a hand through his curly dark hair. “I must need more sleep,” he mumbled. “Okay. It’s your company,” he said, staring at Marc. “And your brother was stealing from it?”
Marc shrugged. His dark hair fell onto his broad forehead, and his eyes were heavily shadowed. He looked as if he hadn’t slept much, either.
“I loved my brother, Sergeant, but I wasn’t stupid or blind. Joe was in trouble most of his life. Usually it was from hanging out with the wrong people. He liked easy money, and he hated the fact that I was worth more than he was financially. Sure, he’d steal from me. And he wouldn’t really feel that guilty about it. After all, can you really steal from family?”
“We could debate that for hours, if I had more time,” Bonaro said disinterestedly. He scribbled something down. “This private detective you hired,” he said to Gaby, “you say he didn’t come up with anything you could use, from checking out the books at Motocraft, Inc.”
“That’s right,” Gaby confessed. “He did advise me to contact the police,” she added. “I’d planned to do that in the morning.”
He scribbled something else. “Give me the name of that detective agency again, will you?”
She told him, and he wrote that down too.
“Okay, I think that’s all I need for now. Where can you be reached, Miss Bennett?”
She started to give him the name of the hotel, but Marc interrupted her abruptly and gave his own address.
“No!” she burst out angrily, her auburn hair like fire where the light caught it.
“Yes,” he returned curtly. “Look, I got you into this mess. The least I can do is help you out of it!”
“I don’t need your help!”
“Like hell you don’t need it!”
Sergeant Bonaro sighed. “Could we dispense with hostilities long enough to verify this address?”
“Sure,” Marc said. “It’s verified. Now come on, honey, before I toss you over my shoulder and carry you out of here. Think how undignified that would look,” he added with a gleam in his black eyes.
She felt like exploding. He was worse than a brick wall, once he made up his mind. Stubborn, hardheaded... With a sigh she gave in. She was tired and still frightened, and his strength was comforting.
“Okay,” she said weakly.
“We’ll be in touch,” Bonaro said. “Good evening.”
He left. Marc paid the hospital clerk and escorted Gaby out into the darkness. Light was just glowing on the horizon, heralding a new dawn. She took a deep breath and almost fainted, she was so drowsy from the shot.
“I feel woozy, Marc,” she said numbly.
“Yeah, you look it too.” His black eyes scanned her bloodstained white gown and negligee. “You sure look interesting right now.”
“I didn’t really have the time to change my clothes before I left,” she reminded him haughtily.
He let out a heavy breath. “It was a close call, wasn’t it?” he asked quietly.
“It was just pure luck t
hat I woke up when I did,” she confessed, “and that there were people on the streets. I think one of the theaters had just let out. There were people all over the place.”
“And not one of them stopped to help.”
“What a risk to take,” she said gently. “Marc, it’s hard to ask a stranger to lay his life on the line for you, to risk his future and his family’s future to get involved in someone else’s problems. I know of one woman who interfered in a family quarrel to try to stop a man from killing his wife, and she was killed as well. I don’t blame anyone for not interfering, and neither should you.”
He caught her fingers in his and held them gently. “That’s one of the qualities in you I always loved,” he said softly, looking down at her lined face. “You always looked for the best in people. I never got past the worst.”
“We had different upbringings,” she reminded him. “It’s easy to look for the best when it’s all you’ve ever seen.”
“I guess so. I had it pretty bad. The rough edges still show, too, don’t they?” he asked with a rueful smile.
“I never even noticed them,” she said honestly, looking up at him with soft, adoring eyes.
His cheekbones had a ruddy look, and he glanced quickly away. “We’d better get you into bed.”
“Shame on you,” she chided. “I’m in no condition to be seduced.”
“I didn’t mean that,” he ground out. “You know it, too, so stop insinuating things.”
“Don’t you want to take me to bed?” she asked dizzily, laughing up at him as he put her into the front seat of the car.
“I always have. Probably I will when you’re ninety and sagging all over, but this isn’t the time or the place,” he said.
“Spoilsport. And it’s such a plush place too,” she added, glancing at the soft velour. Then she noticed the dark bloodstains and touched them with regretful fingers. “Oh, Marc, I’m so sorry.”
“I’ll have it reupholstered,” he said tautly as he got in beside her and started the car. “Don’t worry about the car. It’s you that concerns me.”
