The Man For Maggie

The direction of Carla’s thoughts was all too obvious. She rushed on, not waiting for introductions. All Maggie could do was let her run her course. Nothing and no one ever stopped Carla once she’d hit her stride.

“I haven’t seen you since Frank’s funeral. So sad, so sad, but it’s thanks to him that I’m here today.” She smiled gently. “You know what they say about ill winds.”

“I do?” What was the woman talking about? Here because of Frank? Maggie needed help keeping up with her. She needed coffee.

Max stood with his hand on the chair next to him. “Care to join us?” he asked, hoping like hell the woman would say no, yet interested in spite of himself in what she had to say on the subject of Maggie’s father.

“No, thanks. I’m just passing through. That’s what I meant, Maggie. I needed something to do. I was lonely without Frank—you know what I mean. You must miss him more than me. Such a beautiful man.”

For a moment Carla’s face crumpled and Maggie braced herself, but thankfully she carried on with her explanation.

“So I ended up getting involved with the opera company and now I’m on the board. We’re doing a short season of Turandot,” she said, as if she personally would appear on-stage. “It starts tonight with a gala opening,” Carla chiruped, her hands fluttering and chest quivering in excitement. “So much to do, so little time.”

“I’m happy for you. Very happy.” Maggie felt positive Max must have realized by now that Carla had been her father’s lover.

“Such a tragedy.” Carla looked over at Max, sighing gustily. “I’m sure Maggie’s told you all about it.” Max nodded, but still she carried on. “So unexpected, too. I mean, these things always are, but it’s just that Frank was always so careful, checking everything before we took off. I often went with him, you know, but not that day. He refused to take me….” Carla trailed off, then looked at Maggie apologetically. “You mustn’t think he didn’t believe in you—I’m certain he did. It was just that being the sort of man he was, he wouldn’t let it rule his life.”

Max reached under the table and took the hand he knew Maggie had clenched in her lap. He undid her fingers and wrapped his own around them, rubbing the back of her hand against his thigh. Blasted woman! Why wouldn’t she leave? Would nothing go his way this morning?

“Anyway, Frank saved my life, but I never understood how it happened. I mean the plane was only six hours past its last fifty-hour check.” Carla looked at the jeweled watch circling her plump wrist. “Heavens, I must run!” She leaned forward and planted a kiss in the air near Maggie’s cheek. “Look after yourself, dear, and remember,” she said with a wink, “don’t let life grind you down!”

“Phew! I’m exhausted. How about you?” Max asked as he watched Carla’s departing figure disappear into the auditorium.

Maggie felt drained, which wasn’t unusual after a meeting with the woman. She shook her head. “It’s all right, I’m used to her.” She laughed out loud at a joke she’d thought long dead. “I never understood her and my father. I mean, their personalities were so different it was like combining candy floss with a lit match, yet I’m sure he loved her. In fact, I always thought he would marry her one day, but they never even got engaged.”

“They say opposites attract. Look at us.” Max dropped the statement into the conversation, reminding her their relationship wasn’t all-business. Truth be known, he’d rather it was pleasure that had brought them to this stage, where Maggie was easy with him holding her hand, and trusting enough to let him warm it against his thigh. He looked at the lush redness of her mouth and wondered how long he would have to wait to taste it again.

But anytime now he would have to get back to the folded paper, and the drawing burning a hole in his pocket.

“At least my father and Carla had some common ground, like opera, flying and wine.” There were questions in Maggie’s eyes, thousands of them floating around in the dark brown depths.

Max didn’t know the answers. He wished he did. All he could do was work his way through them and pray for a miracle. For one clue to jump up and hit him in the eye.

“I like wine, but as for the rest…” Max shrugged. “…I can’t tell Turandot from a tarot card. But tell me, what really did happen to your father?”

“I believe he was murdered!”

Chapter 4

Maggie blinked. Max hadn’t disappeared, which surprised her as much as the words she’d uttered. I believe he was murdered. She’d hardly dared think it before, never mind give breath to such an outrageous idea. A few moments with Carla, a woman as irrepressible and gregarious as she was generous, and suddenly Maggie had deviated from her rules. Rules that kept her safe from people like Gorman.

Now Max really would think she was nuts.

And maybe he wouldn’t be far from wrong. She probably came from a whole line of nutcases. Look at her father. A rational man would have at least taken some heed or precautions after she’d warned him. The surprise, in what was rapidly becoming a day of them, was that he had listened, and saved Carla from certain death, if not himself. Dumb! Maggie would never understand men.

“There was no mention of murder in the notes, from either you or anyone else who was—”

“Notes!” She gasped at this revelation, “You checked up on me?”

“Did you expect anything less? I’m a cop, Maggie. I take no one at face value, even with a face as beautiful as yours.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? That you think I have a beautiful face? A shop window dummy is beautiful, but there’s nothing inside.” She quivered with anger and stared at the frothy latté in her cup. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to listen. Gorman had done it again.

Courage don’t fail me now!

She set her cup into the saucer with a clatter and searched blindly for her purse. “Sorry I wasted your time. But don’t worry, I’m out of here. Me and my beautiful face.” She lashed out at him in her disappointment. She’d expected the moon and been handed a false coin.

Hurt tears distorted an image of the woman from her dream. I tried. I really did try!

Max’s fingers circled her wrist as she pushed up from her seat. “Maggie, don’t go! Stay. Please.” His voice exerted the same light pressure as his hand. “Take it from me, nothing in Gorman’s notes made me think any less of you.”

“What does it matter?” She shook off his hand and slung her purse over her shoulder, determined to leave.

“What do you want from me? Blood?” Max blocked her way and the world shrank to the width of his massive chest and shoulders.

She fixed her gaze on his chin. Any higher and his blue eyes might be her undoing. True blue as they say, she couldn’t bear to see them lie. Teeth clenched, she muttered, “That would do for starters, then you might try relying on your own judgment instead of that mouth of Gorman’s!”

Blast! Forcing her eyes wide hadn’t held back the liquid frustration in them. Now a tear hit her cheek, and to cap it off, she probably had a drip at her nose. Typical—it never rained but it poured. Maggie dug in her pocket and drew out a tissue.

Drowning was too good for him, unless he could do it in that tear. That’s all it took: a little salt water and he felt like a jerk. The rest of the coffee bar patrons probably thought so, too. Max and Maggie had drawn a small audience, and the waitress seemed ready to get on the phone and call the cops. She’d scream police brutality if he showed her his badge.

Maggie’s tears gouged a scar inside him deeper than the bullet had done when it seared his forehead. “Hey. Why don’t you sit down, blow your nose and tell me about Frank?” He swiftly scanned the coffee bar. “People think we’re fighting.” The brusque heartiness of his words didn’t have the desired effect.

Discomfort was written all over Max, and a newer, more tender emotion crushed her resolve. This huge man handled the worst the criminal element threw at him, but a crying woman cut him off at the knees.

“They’d be right then, wouldn’t they?” Her question spilled out, wrapped in a mixture of sobs and pent-up laughter. Then Max’s arm came around her shoulders, and the feel of him, firm and strong, holding her, stole the rest of her resolution.

“C’mon, honey, let’s go outside where we can find some fresh air and privacy.” Quickly! Before he pulled her into his arms and kissed her senseless. Wouldn’t that give everyone something to stare at?

Wide steps flowed onto Aotea Square, and at their base he steered Maggie toward a convenient alcove. A curve designed for elegance would keep them private and would shelter them from the wind. He’d sweated it out back there, thought that Maggie would turn and run. But she’d capitulated, and he didn’t know who was happier—the cop or the man. His baser, more selfish, hormone-driven instincts howled at the thought of losing something they’d decided was theirs by right.

Maggie.

Base, because even while he offered comfort, dried her eyes and soothed her with gentling sweeps of his hands, those same hands wanted to rip open her coat and push her against the wall. He wanted her to feel his pain. Pain that wouldn’t subside until he’d had her, until he’d felt her hot wet flesh surround his needy hardness and welcome his seed—and still it wouldn’t be enough. He’d want her, again and again and again….

Who was he kidding? He needed her. Needed her to make him feel alive.

Whatever it took!

But the cop had his own agenda. The kind that pricked up its ears at the mere mention of murder. However implausible.

Max felt her breasts swell and subside against his chest as a sigh travelled through her. He restrained himself from increasing the contact. From gluing them together from breast to thigh. “Feeling better now?” he asked, pushing his Maggie-moistened handkerchief back in his pocket.

With another sigh, she murmured, “You must…think…I’m nuts.”

“Not really. Slightly kooky maybe.” That was better; he’d raised a smile big enough to play havoc with his good intentions. Much as he lusted after the feel of Maggie in his arms, it was time to get back to business. “Listen, Gorman never wrote that you’d warned Frank not to fly, and there was no mention of dreams in his report. Nothing. He saved all that—” Max bit back the word garbage. “He saved it to humiliate you in the media. I’d never treat you that way.” His finger tilted her chin toward him. “Look at me, Maggie. Know this. Anything you say to me is completely off the record. I’m no more crazy about journos than you are.”

Maggie didn’t answer. Instead, she stared at him and through him, as if she could see forever. A worm of apprehension crawled up his spine. His hands dove for his pockets and his feet wouldn’t stop fidgeting. He had an urge to shut his eyes and hide his thoughts of Maggie, way back in his mind. It showed that his natural skepticism could only stand so much. What the situation wanted was lightening, before the tension between them snapped like cheap elastic and he was the one who got stung. With a couple of quick swipes of his finger across his chest, he said, “Cross my heart and hope to die.”