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Knight, I decided, enjoyed throwing people off balance.
His breezy flirtation of the night before had less to do with perceiving me as an attractive woman and more to do with pushing my buttons.
Little did he know a master had installed my buttons: my mother. The interesting side effect of having a master button-pusher in your life is similar to receiving that new polio vaccine. It can render you immune to the poking of others. Recognizing his actions for what they were now, I felt certain I would handle Knight better in future dealings.
As I headed into work the next morning, I gave consideration to his provoking comments about a possible relationship between the government and shifters, and how I might go about proving or disproving it.
Knight was correct about one thing—I wouldn’t find the answers sitting behind a typewriter.
Unfortunately, Miss Climpson thought that’s where I belonged. I entered the office to find a mound of paperwork stacked on my desk, and no sooner did I place a file in my outbox than two more appeared. I would have been suspicious she was creating busywork for me except for the fact there was a lot of traffic in and out of the office. Russo and Miss Snowden both came in several times over the course of the morning, along with an influx of other people I’d never seen before. The phone never stopped ringing, and Miss Climpson’s perpetual frown deepened as she hurried in to Mr. J’s office with her dictation pad. A quick glance through the open door revealed a large number of new markers on his wall map. A smaller state map of New York was festooned with enough red pins to pass for a Christmas decoration.
Because of the increased activity, I ended up with quite a bit of Climmy’s overflow typing. From her pinched expression and pursed lips when she handed the files over, I could tell she wasn’t happy about having to delegate, but for the most part, the information in the files was meaningless to me. A missing dog. Strange lights reported at night on a country lane. A box of valuable antiques stolen out of the back of a car. A runaway teen. A case of sudden amnesia without an obvious cause. A woman who thought a dangerous beast was living in her refrigerator. A town that experienced a total failure of all mechanical devices at one time, which sounded like an electromagnetic pulse to me. My time spent researching scientific articles in the library suggested thermonuclear reactions generated EMPs, so it seemed reasonable to expect an influx of emerging shifters from that town in the near future. If the major world governments didn’t sign a weapons’ testing ban soon, the day would come when shifters outnumbered the rest of us.
I still considered myself one of “us”, despite Ryker’s suspicions about my genetic makeup.
My probation remained in effect. Dr. Botha had yet to arrive, which meant I had no pretext for going down to the lower levels. I suspected it would annoy Knight when I didn’t show up in the labs, but try as I might, I couldn’t even find an excuse to leave my desk, save for my lunch break.
Miss Climpson was so stressed by the increased workload she left me alone during her own lunch break, something she patently hadn’t wanted to do, given the pursed lips and sideline glances tossed in my direction as she left. Either Ryker had taken my security improvements to heart or else no one trusted me to not make off with artifacts again because now there were two guards on duty in the reception area. They were cut from the same cloth as Russo—which is to say taciturn—with a tendency to dress like greasers in jeans, white T-shirts, and leather jackets. One even sported a pompadour.
I believe they would have been inclined to be a bit chatty, but Miss Climpson must have put the fear of God in them. The guard with the pompadour gave me a grin and a wink from time to time, but both of them kept their distance, even when Climmy left for her lunch.
When the delivery man arrived with a package needing a signature from Ryker, the two guards stiffened to alertness like actual watchdogs. The delivery man cast a wary eye in their direction as he pushed both package and clipboard toward me.
I buzzed Ryker’s office from Miss Climpson’s desk, but there was no response. After explaining that Ryker did not appear to be in the building and I had no idea when he would return, I failed to convince the delivery man to come back later. He tapped his watch and insisted the sender had paid for express delivery.
In the end, I signed for the package. It was the first time in memory something had arrived in this manner. Always before, someone like Russo or Miss Snowden hand-delivered sensitive items. The box, wrapped in brown paper, seemed harmless enough, and the delivery man was anxious to be off, so I scratched my name on his clipboard and placed the box on the corner of my desk.
It was addressed without salutation—just “Ryker”—care of Redclaw Security. There was no return address. The label was handwritten in spiky, bold lettering. The package weighed about the same as a sweater box, and for a brief moment, I thought it might be an article of clothing from one of the retailers. I soon dismissed that notion. If it had come from a department store, the name would be on the label. Dismissing it as none of my business, I turned back to my mindless typing.
Not ten minutes later, I lifted my head to sniff around me. An acrid odor seared my nostrils. Something was burning.
“Do you smell that?” I asked the guards.
Both began testing the air, nostrils flaring as they sniffed about.
“Something’s on fire. Chemical, I think,” said Pompadour, only to have the other guard contradict him.
“No, electrical.” He looked about uneasily, as if he could spot faulty wiring through the walls.
For all I knew, maybe he could.
“Could it be coming from the lower levels?” I pointed toward Mr. J’s office.
Pompadour shook his head. “Nope. It’s somewhere in this room.”
All eyes turned to the box on my desk, where a small curl of smoke wafted upward from the wrapping paper.
“We need to evacuate the building.” The second guard made for Mr. J’s office, but I stopped him.
“Don’t be silly. Maybe that’s exactly what someone wants us to do.” I pointed to Pompadour. “Give me your jacket.”
He clutched his lapels as though I might jerk his jacket off him. “What? No!”
“You can get another one. Leather is the best thing for transporting the box. Hurry!” The smoke was thicker now, a black oily plume that made me cough.
His cohort punched him on the arm. Pompadour gave in with a heavy sigh, removed his jacket and held it out. I snatched it from his reluctant hands and tossed it over the box.
“Get the door.” I waved the other guard back when he would have followed us. “You watch our backs in case this is a trick to get us out of the office.”
After draping the jacket around the box, I scooped it up and hurried to the door. Intense heat now radiated through the thick leather. It felt as if I was carrying a bucket full of lava. I stumbled as I entered the hallway, and Pompadour steadied me with a hand under my left arm, causing a slight twinge of pain. I’d almost forgotten about the bullet wound.
A quick glance toward the outer door had me rethink my plans to get the box outside the building. There was no telling what would happen if the thing exploded in the street. Even if no one got hurt, it might draw the wrong kind of attention to Redclaw.
I held the box, wrapped in the jacket, stiff-armed in front of me. “To the restroom—hurry!”
Pompadour skirted around me to fling open the door to the public washroom. Hesitating just long enough to make sure the facilities were empty, I heaved the package out of the jacket and into the sink. In a flash, it burst into flames.
Pompadour and I jumped back, shielding our eyes from the furnace-like heat. Something about the color of the flames wavering in the tiny tiled room reminded me of the spectrum of light surrounding Ryker when he was in phoenix form.
As soon as the conflagration had begun, it died down. Several objects lay within the black ashes that were all that remained of the original box.
“Be careful,” Pompadour cautioned as I opened the tap. The cold water sent thick, black smoke billowing up from the remnants of the package.
Within the wreckage of the box lay two items. One was a stack of folded cloth, black with an iridescent shimmer where it caught the light. The other was a small metal box about the size of a cigarette case. A cursive R emblazoned the lid.
Taking out my handkerchief, I attempted to pick up the metal container, but it was still too hot, so I left it for the time being. When I brushed my fingers over the clothing, to my surprise, the cloth was cool to the touch. Water beaded on its surface and ran off as I poked at the material.
“What is it?” Pompadour asked, sounding petulant, and yet not hurrying forward to take over the investigation.
I picked the item of clothing up by the shoulders. It almost flowed as I unfolded it. “As near as I can tell, it’s a catsuit.” I frowned at the offending article.
“A whatsit?” Pompadour whined.
“A catsuit. An extremely form-fitting—” I gasped when the material seemed to undulate in my hands. I let go, but the cloth curled around my wrist and hung on. I wished for my ray gun, which I’d left in my desk, and wondered how to explain having to shoot a piece of clothing.
As if sensing my distress, the cloth released its hold and collapsed in a heap among the ashes.
“Did that thing just move?” Pompadour put his hand in his pocket, as though reaching for a weapon of his own.
“Yes, but I think it’s okay. Be ready to act if it should move again, though.” I had a horrid vision of cloth rising to envelop and smother me, and my hand shook as I reached for the metal case.
This time it was cool enough to touch. I shook off the water and pried the lid open. Inside, was a note written in the same bold handwriting from the outer wrappings.
Ryker—
I hear you’ve been flitting around town on fire again. It must be inconvenient to leave your clothes behind when you’re pretending to be a moral, upright citizen. The suit is made of dragoncloth, and as you can see, can withstand even your flaming temperatures. The best part is it conforms to whatever form you shift into.
Still think we shouldn’t make use of the technology available to us?
The sender signed the note with a single initial, “R.” The paper was brown around the edges and a little crispy to the touch, but otherwise intact.
With more assurance than I felt, I draped the catsuit over my arm. “I think it’s okay to head back into the office.”
Pompadour shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”
He followed at a slight distance behind me down the corridor. When I opened the door to the office, the second guard crossed the room to join us.
“There’s something alive in your desk.” Guard Two chucked his head back over his shoulder at my workstation. “I heard it moving around in one of the drawers.”
The three of us went to my desk. I laid the catsuit over my chair. After a quick nod at the guards, I eased the drawer open. We stared down at the contents: a couple of legal pads, a rubber stamp and a bottle of ink, a little dish of paper clips, and my clutch. As we watched, the purse twitched and flopped.
I blew out a sigh of relief. “Oh, that’s nothing. It’s just my purse.”
The purse holding the little ray gun, to be precise.
The guards exchanged a side glance with lifted eyebrows but said nothing as they took their former positions. I gave the clutch a comforting pat and shut the drawer, then folded the catsuit and placed it on the corner of my desk with the note on top before taking my seat at the typewriter again.
It didn’t surprise me when Ryker blew into the office as though propelled on fury and caffeine. One day I would discover how he kept tabs on the office in his absence. Was he aware of Knight’s nocturnal prowling? If so, why did he allow it? The thought raised all kinds of questions I couldn’t answer, so I set it aside. I stayed calm, continuing to type as Ryker pulled up beside my desk.
“Package arrived for you.” My comment was unnecessary, but the way his nostrils flared as he read the note rather amused me. Crumpling the paper, he placed it in his pocket and reached for the cloth.
I stopped him. “Er, a word of warning, sir. The suit has some rather interesting properties. It moved when I touched it.”
The faintest smile touched his lips. “I’m not surprised. I take it you read the note?”
“It wasn’t intentional, sir.”
“Understood. Never mind. Though his methods are less than conventional and frequently alarming, I don’t believe my brother would hurt me.”
Before I could process the notion of Ryker having a brother, he changed the subject. “Which reminds me, Dr. Botha should be here on Friday. I’m interested to see your genetic profile. The more information we have, the better we can help others. Someone will escort you to the lab for testing when he arrives.” He collected the suit and stroked it absently when the material flowed over his arm like a living creature. That hint of a smile was still on his face when he met my gaze. “Quick thinking on getting the package out of the office, Bishop.”
So. Perhaps no longer in the doghouse?
I watched Ryker leave with a sigh and returned to the odious typing he’d once promised I wouldn’t have to do.
Later that evening, a cold rain fell as I left the office. The thought of stopping on the way home for dinner held little appeal. Even though the score from the bullet was healing as expected, my arm ached just the same. I just wanted to get back to the apartment and settled for the evening. I needed to finish my mending. A television wasn’t in the budget, otherwise I might have sat down for a half hour with Dragnet while I sewed. I could now see the appeal of losing one’s self in mindless entertainment at the end of a long workday. At least Em’s shower was this weekend. As much as I dreaded the long train ride out of the city, a change of scenery would do me some good. With any luck, the rain would stop and I could look forward to a brisk walk by the shore. I did my best thinking when walking.
I toyed once again with the idea of getting a little dog for company, but dismissed it as impractical. Mrs. King would never allow it, which meant moving, and I’d be hard-pressed to find rooms as cheap. Besides, who would let the dog out when I was at work all day?
As soon as I took my seat on the bus home, I opened the police report on Margo Knight’s death that had arrived earlier that day. I’d kept it under wraps until now, not wanting to field any awkward questions about it. As I feared, the report shed no further light on the matter. Perhaps I was going about this all wrong. What if her death was the end of her story? Perhaps I should look into Margo Knight’s life instead. I could ask Knight what he knew of her background, talk to her relatives, and see if there was another reason for her death we didn’t know about. The thought was encouraging, and once I got home and had a quick meal of tuna salad on crackers, I felt cheered enough to paint my toenails.
I’d just put on the second coat when I heard the telltale scratching at my kitchen window. Hobbling into the kitchen with cotton balls stuffed between my toes to prevent the polish from smearing, I flipped the switch and sighed when I saw Knight outside the window. I would have to do something about the fire escape.
“What are you doing here this time?” I asked, stepping back so he could climb in the window. At least my hair wasn’t in curlers.
Rain blustered in behind him, slicking his coat and making it shine in the overhead light. He removed his hat and tossed it on the counter before draping his dripping outerwear over one of the kitchen chairs. “’It ain’t a fit night for man or beast’,” he quoted with determined cheerfulness. “How’s the arm?”
“The arm’s better, thank you.” Grudging gratitude tempered my irritation. Having to keep the gunshot wound secret from most acquaintances meant there was no one to offer any sympathy.
With a satisfied nod, he helped himself to my cupboards. After opening the third one and closing it again, he frowned. “What on Earth do you eat? There’s no food in here.”
Shrugging, I pointed to the little pantry. He opened the folding door and after a moment, turned around holding up a single can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup and a packet of saltines. “That’s it?” He sounded aghast.
“I wasn’t expecting company.” I grabbed the dishcloth from the sink and dropped it on the floor, using my heel to scoot it around to mop up the rainwater. If I smudged my polish, I would have to hit him.
“I’d run around to the Third St. Deli and pick up sandwiches, but I have nothing to pay the gatekeeper at the tollbooth again.” He pointed an index finger at the apartment below. “I’ve given her my last bottle of hooch.”
“Probably just as well.”
He nodded. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you’d said the night—well, the night you picked me up from Moneta’s.”
“For starters, I didn’t pick you up. That sounds... unsavory. Besides, what could I have said that made such an impression on you?”
He tapped his temple with an index finger. “You pointed out the rate at which I was killing brain cells. I realized you were right. I could see them dying right in front of my eyes.” He made a fluttering motion with his fingers as he withdrew his hand from his head.
His little theatrics amused me. “Someone stop the presses. I can’t recall the last time a man took my advice.”
He lifted a sardonic eyebrow and opened the nearest drawer. Finding a can opener within, he set about opening the can of soup. “I don’t know about that. Given the new security measures now in place at Redclaw, I’d have to say someone was taking your advice. Weren’t they your idea? According to that little man, Jessop, it was your suggestion to beef up security.”
I pulled a pot out of the cupboard, placed it on the burner, and turned on the gas. “More like they’re making sure I don’t leave with the silverware.”
“You’re just upset because you’re on probation. Trust me, you won’t be for long. They’d be fools not to utilize your skills.” After dumping the soup into the pan, he filled the can with water and added it to the pan.
It was a tidy, almost domestic little scene that he had to spoil with his next words.
“Are you one of those women who refuses to eat?” He raked me with his glance as he stirred the soup.
Stung, my answer was snippy. “No. I’m one of those women who lives alone. Dinner for one is hardly conducive to becoming Betty Crocker.”
A sly grin stole over his face as he gave me an assessing glance. Snapping his fingers, he said, “I’ve got it. You can’t cook.”
The ray gun lurched within my pocket. I had to agree with it, shooting Knight seemed like a good idea to me, too. “I just don’t see the point in making a huge mess in the kitchen for one person.”
“No. I’m right. You don’t know how to cook. Fancy that. I’ve discovered something Henrietta Bishop doesn’t know how to do.” He was entirely too gleeful at the prospect.
“It’s Rhett,” I said automatically.
He wrinkled his nose as if he’d caught a whiff of bad fish. “Rhett Bishop? You can’t be serious. That’s too close to Rhett Butler. Though frankly, I can picture you not giving a damn.”
This wasn’t the first time someone had alluded to my name being like that of Clark Gable’s character in Gone with the Wind, but it was the first time anyone had compared me to Butler himself. I sniffed. “At least you don’t think I’m like Scarlett.”
“I don’t know about that.” He stirred the soup. The aroma of chicken broth wafted up from the stove. “Tomorrow is another day for you, too. You seem pretty resilient to me.”
I couldn’t decide if he’d insulted or flattered me, so I said nothing, but took two bowls down from the cabinet. Regardless of my earlier snack, the soup smelled good as he ladled it into the bowls.
He just shook his head when I added crumbled saltine crackers to my portion as we sat at the table. “Why don’t you just open the shaker and pour salt directly into your mouth?”
“I like crackers with my soup.”
He stabbed at my bowl with his spoon. “That’s more like you enjoy a little soup with your crackers. It looks revolting. Like chicken-flavored porridge.”
Put that way, it did sound disgusting. As I eyed the sodden mess, I changed the subject. “You never said how it is you’re able to leave Redclaw with no one being the wiser.”
Especially in view of the added security.
He must not have been all that hungry, for he pushed the bowl of soup aside and fished something out of one of his pockets. After placing it on the table in front of him, he gave it a gentle push in my direction.
I didn’t reach for it. Much like the previous devices I’d seen, this one had that same dull metallic casing, with odd markings carved on the sides. Unlike anything else I’d seen before, however, it had a raised ring in the center that cast a warm yellow glow. “What’s that?”
An infectious grin lit up his face. “I call it an image-projector. I think about what I want to look like in great detail, and it projects that image over me. I’m still wearing the same clothes and everything, but if I can imagine it, I can look like it.” He swept the device back toward him when I would have picked it up. “Few people question the boss when he’s leaving the building.”
“What if you run into the boss? That could be awkward.”
He didn’t seem concerned. “The odds are low. Besides, I can just as easily be an anonymous lab tech. Have you been downstairs? There’s a lot going on, and as I said the other day, they’re more worried about unauthorized people getting in than paying attention to who’s getting out.”
“But to what purpose?” His attitude made little sense. “You’re safer inside Redclaw. Why leave?”
“Boredom.” He shrugged when I raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “Okay, then. The desire for decent food.”
My eyebrow went even higher as I stared pointedly at the cooling soup in front of him.
“Fine. I don’t like being caged. Is that answer enough for you?”
I could see his point. And since I had him here, I asked about something that had been on my mind since the day of the mechanical spider. “What do you think is the purpose behind these artifacts?”
He leaned back in his chair to the point he risked toppling it over backward. The front legs lifted until he settled the chair back in place with a thump. “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?” His raised eyebrow implied both curiosity and concern. The combination was frankly compelling. “Where do they come from? Who or what is behind the technology? It’s beyond anything I’ve ever seen, and I’ve worked on some top-secret projects. My guess? It’s not from this planet.”
My mouth dropped open. “You mean...alien?” I sputtered.
He nodded in all seriousness.
“You seriously believe Martians or Moon Men or something like that is seeding our plant with their gizmos?” The shock of his statement having worn off, scorn now laced my voice.
His shrug was eloquent. “Maybe. I think it more likely an advanced race implanted these devices millennia ago, knowing at some point we’d develop nuclear technology, hence the activation of said devices now.”
“But why?”
He shook his head. “A test? A trap? Who knows? Maybe the awakening tech triggered some kind of signal to the developers and even now, they’re on their way to greet us.”
I wondered if we would disappoint them. It was a distinctly disturbing thought. “Is this a working theory or are you just blowing smoke?”
His devilish smile made an appearance. The way it peeped out of hiding, combined with the fall of that rebellious lock of hair over his intense eyes when he leaned forward, would have charmed the pants off most women I know.
I don’t charm that easily.
“My dear, I just tinker with the gizmos.” He leaned back in his seat once more, his clever fingers toying with his spoon as he spoke. “I’ll leave winkling out the motives of the artifact-builders to the scary people, like you and Ryker.”
I straightened. “Me? Scary? What on earth have I done to give you that impression?” Ryker, I could understand. We knew so little about the shifters, how they lived, and what they could do. The way Ryker had tossed Billy around that day in the office was a fair indication he was stronger than most men, and of course, there was the rapid healing thing as well. More than that, I didn’t know.
“Scarily competent.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Am I supposed to thank you? That makes me sound like every other woman in the workplace. Standing behind the boss and making him look good.”
His laugh caught me off guard. “No, you have it all wrong. The smart man stands behind the girl with the ray gun.”
Okay. Perhaps I could be charmed a little.
Another thought occurred to me. “You must have the shifter gene.”
His head snapped up at that. “What?”
“The shifter gene. In order to make the technology work. Not everyone can, you know. Only those with the gene.”
Narrowing his eyes, he said, “Then you must have it too. The other night, you with the ray gun.” His brows furrowed in concern. “Does that mean we’ll both change into some creature when we least expect it?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Ryker seemed to think it’s a recessive gene in my case. But that’s why they’re bringing in a geneticist. To test me, among other things.”
His expression cleared. “Ah, yes. Botha. Yes, they wanted a sample of my blood too. That explains it.”
For a split second, the question of what would happen if two people with recessive shifter genes got together and had children leapt into mind, but I dismissed it as immaterial to the discussion at hand. I would have responded to Knight’s statement, but the buzzer at the front door sounded. Frowning, I lifted a finger to my lips and glared a warning at him before I plucked the cotton balls from between my toes and went to answer the door. Though it made for a lumpy bulge, I felt comforted by the weight of the ray gun in my kimono pocket.
When I opened the door, Em breezed in as though she were at a red carpet event in Hollywood. She even looked the part, wearing a cream-colored wiggle dress decorated with sequins, and a mahogany-brown mink stole that slid off one shoulder and emphasized the grace of a lush, bare arm. The sparkling diamond bracelet completed the picture of sophisticated wealth. There had been a time when dressing in this manner would have been as natural to me as breathing.
“Rhett, darling.” She glanced around with a delicately arched eyebrow, as though she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. “What a charming little place you have. Don’t think I’m rude but I haven’t much time. I’ve got a car waiting so I must get right to the point. I need your help.”
I shut the door and joined her in my small living room. She flopped down in the nearest chair, opened her bag, and pulled out her cigarette case. I pushed the ashtray on the coffee table closer to her and took a seat on the settee, hoping Knight would have enough sense to stay in the kitchen and be quiet until I could get rid of Em. “Sweetie, what’s wrong? Wedding planning got you down?”
She turned her lovely wide-eyed stare on me, pausing mid-strike of her match. “How did you know? Everything’s a mess.” She shook her head so hard her dark-brown waves bounced, despite the heavy application of hairspray. “You must come and make things right.”
“I doubt they’re as bad as all that. Perhaps I can make a few phone calls for you next week on my lunch break.”
Lighting the cigarette, she took several deep drags before speaking. “No, I need you there on the spot. Promise me you’ll come help straighten out my wedding. There’s only four weeks left to fix things. Milly has been such a sad sack and has left everything up to the planners, who have gone crazy with the expenses. Mrs. Hardcastle keeps demanding lavish changes that would put the Rockefellers to shame. Daddy might be rich, but I don’t want to bankrupt him with ridiculous expenditures.” To my surprise, Em pulled a dainty handkerchief out of her clutch and dabbed at her eyes. “I thought these people had class! But Eddie’s mother actually approved gold leaf trombones for the wedding cake.”
“Trombones? What’s the significance of that? And I thought Milly was just the maid of honor. How did she—or her mother—wind up authorizing the decorations like this?”
Em’s chocolate-brown eyes flashed with anger when she looked up over her handkerchief. “Mrs. Hardcastle decided I had too much on my plate to plan my own wedding. The truth of the matter is she didn’t trust me to do any planning, so she nominated Milly for the job. Milly abdicates every decision back to her mother, who has the most frightful taste I’ve ever seen. I thought society bluebloods were supposed to be classy. She’s decided on a Nutcracker ballet theme. You know, ballerinas and hideous grinning toy soldiers. Who wants that hideous junk tarting up the venue?”
Stifling a snort, I patted her hand. “A place in society is no guarantee of good taste, I’m afraid. Just tell your father. I’m sure he’ll put his foot down if you don’t want what Mrs. Hardcastle has planned.”
“He says Mrs. Hardcastle must know best and I should bow to her expert opinion.” Em’s voice rose to a wail as she completed her sentence.
“Then I’m not sure what you think I can do. Why don’t you elope?” I kept an ear cocked for any sound from the kitchen, but all was silent there.
“I said as much to Eddie but he just roared like a hyena. He thought I was joking. Darling, I know you could reel them in. Come back with me tonight to the Hamptons. Since the bridal shower is this weekend, we’re staying in the Hamptons until the wedding. You can sort everything out. Daddy will listen to you. He thinks you’re the bee’s knees.”
“Honey, I can’t leave my job for a whole month.” I spoke gently but firmly.
“All expenses paid! I’ll even hire you as a wedding consultant. You must come!”
I shook my head. “And then after the wedding, I’d still be out of a job.”
“Maybe, maybe not. You said you wanted a job that would take advantage of your organizational skills. What about becoming a full-time wedding planner? I’m sure you’d be marvelous.”
“I’m sure I would not.” The thought of marshalling vendors and caterers into creating the perfect event for high-strung brides made me shudder.
“You don’t know until you try. Why don’t you ask your boss for the time off?” The sound of a strange voice made both of us whip our heads around.
The person standing in the kitchen doorway was the spitting image of my downstairs neighbor, complete with cigarette trailing from her lips.
The smirk on her face, however, was reminiscent of a certain scientist’s.
“I didn’t realize you had company.” Em sat up straighter, giving my platinum-blonde ‘neighbor’ a narrow-eyed glare.
“She just dropped in to borrow a cup of sugar.” I fixed Knight with my own glare.
“Only Rhett doesn’t have any. Her cupboards are bare. Like Mother Hubbard’s.” Knight had my neighbor’s languid drawl down pat. Just how many times had he spoken with her?
“So she was leaving.” I bounced up from the settee and took Knight by the arm. I almost gave the show away by reacting to the feel of his coat sleeve—and the undeniably masculine arm beneath it—instead of the silk dressing gown I expected.
Nor had I expected Knight to be so difficult to budge. He simply refused to move a single step toward the door. I had to relinquish my grip when he shook me off and lounged in the doorway instead. My hand itched to slap the infuriating smirk off his face. Fortunately, I have excellent self-control.
“I don’t know about you, but I’d love an excuse to take off to the Hamptons for a few weeks. So very la-di-da.” Knight waved his own cigarette about airily, flowing past me to take a seat beside Em on the sofa. “Trixie LaSalle, at your service.” He waggled his fingers in Em’s direction.
I started to push the ashtray closer to him, then hesitated. Was he actually smoking a cigarette or just projecting an image of one? And would the image extend to the falling of ash or not? And how did he learn my downstairs neighbor’s name, if indeed that was her real name and not some stage persona she’d adopted? No doubt during one of his bargaining sessions with her on the fire escape.
Em fixed him with a look that this act of friendliness hadn’t deceived her, but she didn’t know how to respond other than to pretend she was. Her smile was very feline as a result. “Now see, Rhett? Miss LaSalle agrees with me. What harm can it to do ask?”
“I just started this job in March. I can’t ask for time off so soon, especially not a full month. I’m not exactly in good graces with the management right now, either. Perhaps I can come down a few days before the wedding, though.”
“Two weeks minimum. I’ll never make it through the ceremony with anything less.” Em sat up straighter. “Oh! I know! You can bring your boyfriend along. There’s plenty of room at the house. Tommy will be wild with jealousy. Won’t that be a nice little incentive?”
I’d almost forgotten about the boyfriend I’d invented for Em’s—and my—sake. I found Knight watching me with bright, interested eyes.
“Oh, do tell us about the boyfriend.” He leaned back on the sofa with the air of someone settling in for the evening.
“I can’t invite my date to spend a month in the Hamptons with me,” I snapped, directing my annoyance toward Em. “He works at the same agency I do. We can’t both leave the office at the same time.”
Em’s eyes turned into feline slits, and she flicked a quick glance at Knight before skewering me with her glare. “How can you both work at the same place? You hadn’t even interviewed for this job when you told me about him.”
Resisting the urge to slap my forehead for such an obvious error, I said stiffly, “That’s how I heard about the job in the first place. Through him.”
Em’s brow cleared as she stood up. “Well, that might make it hard for you to both leave, then. But he could certainly come down for a few days before the wedding.” She stood. “You’ll ask about getting some time off, please? Two weeks.”
“A long weekend. At best.”
“Seven days. I’m only asking for seven days.”
I smiled as I lifted my cheek for her to kiss. “I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not making any promises. Call me tomorrow with a list of vendors. At the very least, I can make some phone calls and see if I can tone down the extravagance.”
“I knew I could count on you.” She turned to Knight. “Rhett is utterly, one hundred percent reliable. If I needed to steal a diamond necklace, or infiltrate a palace, or bury a body, I would call her.”
“Em!” I choked back laughter as embarrassed heat flamed my cheeks. “What a thing to say.”
“You know what I mean, darling. You’re the real deal. Twenty-four carat gold.” She fixed a steely gaze on Knight. “Which means I would defend her to the ends of the earth.”
“To be sure,” Knight murmured without the slightest trace of amusement.
Satisfied with this challenge delivered and understood, Em took her leave.
I almost jumped when I turned back from closing the door to see Knight in his usual form sitting on my couch.
“What a fascinating woman.”
If there was a trace of sarcasm in his voice, I couldn’t detect it. “She’s taken.”
“I’m not looking. But I think you are—or do you really have a boyfriend?”
I sighed. “I’m not looking either, but an old boyfriend believes he’s in love with me. Em thinks the way to restore my lifestyle to its former glory is to marry well. She keeps offering Tommy as an example.”
He followed me back to the kitchen. The cooling soup, with its skim of congealed chicken fat, held little appeal for either of us. I poured it into the trash.
Knight leaned in the doorway again. I was beginning to think he had issues with standing upright. “What grown man goes by the name Tommy? That’s a boy’s name.”
“Tommy is still very much a boy. He avoided serving in the army by claiming to be an asthmatic, a condition which seems to have magically resolved with the end of the Korean War.”
“Now, now.” Knight’s tone was almost gentle. “Perhaps he’s taking that new drug—whatchamacallit—corticosteroids or something.”
“Or something,” I agreed. “Anyway, I’m not interested in marrying my way out of poverty and back into good social standing, so I refused. Tommy doesn’t take no for an answer easily, hence the fake date to accompany me to the wedding.”
Something in Knight’s expression darkened and his brows drew together. “He hasn’t been annoying, I hope?”
“Annoying has so many interpretations, doesn’t it? Suffice to say, I can handle Tommy.”
“No doubt.” Knight’s smile at my assurance faded. “Back into good social standing? Am I missing something?”
“This isn’t 5th Avenue.” My hand swept the surrounding room. When he continued to look at me with expectation, I sighed. “My father committed suicide last year, after he lost the family fortune. My mother remarried shortly thereafter. I chose not to move in with her and her new husband.”
Somehow, he gleaned all he needed to know from my terse summation.
“I see.” He infused those two short words with sympathetic understanding. After a pause, he continued more briskly. “If I can be of any use, I’d be honored to be your fake date for the wedding.”
I must have blinked at him several times before I found my voice. “Why in Heaven’s name would you do that?”
His little shrug was eloquent. “The way I see it, I owe you. I’d be a prisoner—or worse—of some organization right now if it weren’t for you, and you’re in bad odor with your boss as a result.” He levered himself off the doorjamb and crossed to the counter to retrieve his hat on his way to the window. Placing it on his head at a jaunty angle, he flashed his brilliant smile. “Besides. I like Em. I think her wedding will be a blast.”