THE DETECTIVE was there waiting when Kirsten’s taxi pulled into the Savoy alcove. He did not approach, did not really even look her way. But she felt a need to check things out once more. She walked over and pointed to his briefcase. “Is that it?”
His tone suggested he had fielded the question a thousand times before. “The trigger’s in the handle, miss. The coverage is excellent. Absolutely spot on. Used it several hundred times and never had reason to complain.”
“All right.” She took the revolving doors into the lobby and walked straight to the room telephone poised on the front desk. When the operator came on, she said, “Ms. Brandt’s suite, please.”
The phone clicked, rang once, then a man responded with “Yes, what is it?”
Kirsten recognized the voice of the well-padded manager who wore his suit like a sausage skin. “This is Kirsten Stansted.”
She knew the little man was tempted to hang up on her. But he ticked off the words “Stay there on the line.”
As she waited for Erin, Kirsten checked her shoulder bag for the FedEx envelope that had arrived from Marcus that morning. She then surveyed her own inner space, finding satisfaction in this new determination. She had spent her entire life avoiding the hidden side of people. Pretending she could escape ever noticing it, so long as she held to counterfeit blindness. But it had gotten her nowhere she wanted to go. It was time, as they said, for a change.
The dulcet voice declared, “Tell me I’m not dreaming, sister.”
“This is Kirsten. I’m downstairs.”
“Well, of course you are. I spent my entire night hoping this might happen.”
“I’d really like to have a minute of your time.”
“A minute? Darling, come up and let’s find us a few hours.” The low chuckle finally broke free. “I assume you’ve come to realize just how awful you were to me last night. And how wrong you were to leave.”
“There’s been a change of heart. Definitely.”
“Then your apology is accepted. Give me three minutes to free up my afternoon and put on something more in taste to the occasion.”
“I’d rather you come downstairs.”
“Nonsense. Three minutes. Suite four two six.”
When Kirsten hung up the phone and started for the rear elevators, the detective rose from his chair, picked up his briefcase, and fell in behind her. Several other people crowded into the cage with them. The detective did not say a word.
The fourth-floor doors opened to reveal Erin’s manager with his angry gaze peering at her through electric blue spectacles. “I have had to cancel an interview with the Daily Telegraph!”
The detective slipped by her and started down the corridor away from them.
Reiner Klatz stepped into the elevator, still venting fumes. “Do you have any idea how long it took to set that up?” He wagged a finger at her as the doors closed. “You are bad for my business!”
She waited until the elevator doors closed to reply, “I hope so.”
The detective returned, treading with catlike grace. “Room?”
“Four two six.”
“To your right. Make sure she comes outside.”
She watched him disappear around the next corner, then started down the hall. The suite had one of the old-style brass doorbells she had to pull. An instant later the door opened to reveal Erin dressed in heels and a floor-length silk dressing gown of periwinkle blue. “You are just as beautiful in the morning as you are at night.” She pushed the door wide. “But those clothes are far too stern.”
Kirsten took a step away. “I’m not certain I want to do this.”
“But of course, darling. That’s what makes you so positively irresistible.” She used one hand to sweep back her hair. “Now come in and have a glass of champagne, then you can struggle as hard as you like.”
“No, really.” One step more and she was touching the opposite wall. She risked a single glance down the hall, was dismayed to find it utterly empty. “I shouldn’t.”
“Oh, this is absurd.” Erin checked the hall in both directions, then stepped out far enough to grab her arm. “You know precisely what it is you want.”
“If only.” Kirsten wrenched her arm free, reached into her shoulder bag, and stuffed the papers into Erin’s outstretched hand. “You have now been served.”
Erin stared down at the mass of pages. “What is this?”
“A court order. You are hereby ordered to appear in Wake County District Court and relinquish the child Celeste Steadman to Judge Rachel Sears.”
In the space of two frantic heartbeats, Erin Brandt aged a decade. “You tricked me.”
“Yes.”
A movement out of the corner of her eye whipped Erin about. Kirsten was amazed to find the detective standing in the middle of the hallway, the briefcase by his feet.
Erin’s head spun back, her hair a cinnamon wash over her face. “This is your bodyguard?”
“I don’t want any trouble.”
“Trouble?” The laugh was as wild as the look in Erin’s eyes. She flashed an operatic gesture down the hall. “You think this muscle-bound beast can save you?”
“I am doing this for the child.”
“What an utterly provincial and wretched little sentiment!” She was shrieking now, the force of her voice striking Kirsten like claws. “Nothing can save you, do you hear what I’m saying?”
Without seeming to move at all, the detective was now between them. Erin struck at him with her fists. “Get away from me!”
She might as well have beat against a stone wall. The detective suggested calmly, “Perhaps we should be going, miss.”
“Yes.”
Erin reached for Kirsten, but was blocked by the detective. “That’s right! Run while you still can!”
Kirsten edged down the side wall, unwilling to turn her back on such wrath. “Run back to that stinking hole of a town! You think I can’t reach you there? You think you’re safe?”
Erin did not seek to move around the detective so much as to use him as a prop. She flayed at the air between them, then took the court order and shredded it. “You pitiful little creature, you’re nothing. You’ve spent your life running from anything that might even resemble pleasure! You’re a worm in human form, and you’re soon to be squashed. I’ll see to that personally!”
The detective kept his arms outstretched and gently nudged Erin back toward the door. She jerked her head toward the ceiling, spilled her hair back over her shoulders, then spun about and marched into her suite. The door slammed.
The detective hefted his briefcase and offered, “I’d say that went rather well, wouldn’t you?”