Night Of The Blackbird

He smiled, crushed out his cigarette. “Nothing,” he told her, drawing her head toward his, kissing her lips, then drawing her downward to continue a more liquid approach to her sensual assault on his body. He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time.

She was very good, and it had been a long time since he’d had such an opportunity to dally. He let her have her way, then returned the favor, and when he made love to her—if one could, even politely, call the act “making love” when it with a woman who was a stranger and a whore at that—he did so with energy and pleasure, a courteous partner despite the fact that he swiftly climaxed. Even as he rolled to her side, he checked his watch again.

“Late,” he muttered, then kissed her lips and headed for the shower. “Coffee’s on. Cigarettes are by the bed.”

He showered quickly, with an economy of motion learned over the years. He emerged well scrubbed, hair washed. He grabbed a towel from the rack and studiously worked at drying his hair while he opened the bathroom door and exited, head covered, body naked.

“Did you get your cof—” He began politely, but then paused, muscles tightening “What are you doing?” he asked sharply.

She was on her knees, his pants in her hands.

“I—” she began, dropping his pants, looking at him. She stumbled to her feet. Had she been about to rob him?

He wondered what she had seen. He noted quickly that she had been through more than his pants. Drawers weren’t quite closed; the dust ruffle around the bed was still up at the foot of it. What had she discovered that had caused the look of fear she wore?

Or was it merely what she was seeing in his eyes?

She stood, clad in her bra slip and stockings. He watched the workings of her mind. She was wishing she’d got dressed and got the hell out while he had showered.

But she hadn’t.

Her eyes, glued to his, registered her fear. He didn’t look away; he saw the room with his peripheral vision. She’d done a good job in the time she’d had. Thorough. She was just a working girl—and, it appeared, a thief.

Or was she?

“I was just looking around, just curious,” she said, moistening her lips.

Whatever else she was, she was a damn poor liar.

“Ah, love,” he said softly. “Hadn’t you ever heard? Curiosity killed the cat.”

“Ah, your good friend Daniel O’Hara,” Josh teased. “Think of it. If it hadn’t been for old Danny boy, you and I might be married now.”

“And divorced—we’d have killed each other in a week,” Moira reminded him.

“Maybe, maybe not. Let’s see, you were intellectually in love with me, but you lusted after your old flame. I was the good, decent man who meant to do all the honorable things, but he was an unobtainable, intriguing and dashing young lover, and though never present, he took your heart as well as your—well, you know.”

“Josh, we would never have gotten married.”

“Probably not,” he agreed, a bit too cheerfully.

“Well, I don’t appreciate the dramatics. He’s an old family friend—”

“And the fact that he’s built like a linebacker and looks like an Adonis has nothing to do with it?”

“You’re being incredibly…shallow. As if I don’t judge men by other standards. Besides, you’re a very good-looking man yourself.”

“Thanks. I’ll take that. But I’m not sure I compare with your exotic foreign lover. And no, it’s not just his looks that affect you. It’s the accent, the voice, the tradition, the fact that he’s an old family friend.” He put on a Hollywood Irish accent. “Aye, me lass, your lover has a definite presence.”

“He’s not my lover!”

“How quickly you protest.”

“I haven’t even seen him in years.”

“I can tell you when you saw him last. Summer, almost three years ago. And you wound up lying to your family, saying you were coming back to New York, but you stayed at the Copley with him in Boston. You thought he’d stay here, because you wanted him to. He wasn’t ready, you got mad. And when he called again the following Christmas, you refused to see him.”

“I never told you all that!”

“Well, I may not have made it as husband material, but I am your best friend. And there’s something about him you can’t quite shake.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

“Trust me, I have shaken him.” She looked at her watch. “How time flies when you’re being tortured by your supposed best friend. I have to meet Mrs. Grisholm. She missed her connection this morning. She’s the lady from that little mystery theater group in Maine where the audience joins in and they do the show together. They even cook and eat dinner together. You know. I told you all about her, and it sounds like a—”

“What’s Michael going to say about the return of your old flame? Did you ever tell him about Daniel O’Hara?” Josh interrupted, amused.

“Dan is my past, Michael is none of your business.”

Josh started laughing. Her cheeks flamed.

“Saint Patrick’s Day could be lots of fun. Your sleeping arrangements may be none of my business, but we hired Michael as location manager before you two became involved, so I assume he’ll be joining us in Boston.”

“Yes, of course he’ll be joining us in Boston.”

Josh was still grinning.

“Oh, will you wipe that smirk off your face?”

“I’m sorry. As your one-time would-be lover, I find it amusing that you’ve spent half your adult life in celibacy and now you’re going to have both of the great loves of your life home for the holiday.”

“Josh…” she said warningly.

“Maybe that’s not so bad. Mum and Dad can protect you.”

She stood up. “I would thank you for being such a great business partner—”

“If I wasn’t being such a prick.” He was still laughing.

“I could tell your wife you’re being a horse’s ass.”

“She knows all about my ancient crush on you. I think she’ll find the situation just as much fun as I do.”

“You’re impossible, and I’m leaving.”

“You’re leaving because you’re late, and you love me anyway,” he called after her, since she was already heading for the door.