“I’ve got to go,” he said. “But I’ll call you tonight.”
She smiled. “I’ll be here. Trying to recover …”
“It’ll be an early evening for me, too.” With his index finger under her chin, he pulled her face toward him and then kissed her, full and long. His mouth tasted fresh, clean, and she was briefly embarrassed that she hadn’t had the chance to brush her teeth.
He stood up. “Bye, you.”
“Bye, Michael. Be careful.”
She drifted there a few moments as he turned off the bathroom light, plunging the room into darkness. Then she heard footsteps on the metal staircase and the front door opening, then closing again as he left.
Taylor fought off sleep long enough to get up, put on her robe, and walk downstairs to the front door to lock the dead-bolts. Then she walked into her kitchen and thirstily drank half a small carton of orange juice. When she got back upstairs to bed, she flicked on the table lamp next to her bed.
The sheets were tangled, bunched, the bottom sheet pulled completely off the mattress.
“It was a good fight, Ma,” she whispered. “But I think I won.”
And as she crawled back into bed, reset the alarm clock, and turned off the lamp, she lay there in the dark a few moments staring at the ceiling.
“Good heavens,” she muttered. “What have I gotten myself into?”
CHAPTER 8
His head still buzzed as Michael Schiftmann snapped the plastic cable tie that had been looped through the latch on his hotel minibar and pulled out a tiny, airline-size bottle of Dewar’s. He unscrewed the cap, poured the contents over a tumbler filled with ice, and took the first sip.
That first sip always burned, but it was a good burn to Michael, for it signified the end of another long day. Five days into the second phase of his book tour and he was already starting to have trouble remembering where he was.
And tomorrow, he left for two days in San Francisco, then on to what felt more like a whistle-stop tour down the coast to L.A. and San Diego. He raised the glass to his lips, downed the rest in one gulp, then grabbed a second bottle from the bar. He crossed the room, sat down on the bed, and picked up the hotel phone. He dialed 9, waited for a second dial tone, then punched in ten numbers from memory.
The phone rang four times-Michael knew the machine would pick up on the next ring-when a rushed feminine voice answered. “Hello.”
“Hey you,” Michael said, raising the glass to his lips and taking a small sip.
“Hey you right back,” Taylor said. “I was hoping you’d call. How are you?”
“Tired. I just finished the signing at Gambling on Murder,” he said.
“Great. How’d it go?”
Michael pressed his head deeper into the pillow and sipped again from the drink. “Fine, just fine. About seventy-five, I’d say.”
“Michael,” Taylor said, her voice rising. “That’s wonderful! Do you have any idea how big a crowd that is in Las Vegas?”
“I would’ve thought with this being one of the most famous mystery bookstores in the world, I’d have had bigger.”
“Stop it,” she scolded. “I’ve been in Gambling on Murder.
You can’t fit any more people than that in the whole store. In fact, my guess is you’re lucky the fire marshal didn’t show up.”
Michael smiled. “You always make me feel better.”
“I’m your agent; it’s part of my job. How’d the interviews go?”
“That lady on the public radio station did an okay job. She at least had read one of the books. But I did that noontime talk show, with that-oh hell, what’s his name? God, I met him seven hours ago and can’t remember his name.”
“That’s life on the road for you,” Taylor interjected.
“No kidding,” Michael said. “Stress-induced memory loss.
Anyway, he was an idiot. Typical daytime talk show blow-dried anchorperson. Hadn’t read the book, didn’t know who I was. At least he sort of stuck to the prepared questions.”
“That means he can read,” Taylor said. “In the TV business, he’s an overachiever.”
“So what’s new on your end?” he asked.
“I had dinner tonight with Brett,” Taylor answered.
“Oh, so no hot date?” Michael offered.
Taylor hesitated. “No, no hot date. But she did tell me you’re climbing to number three on the list Sunday.”
“Great!” Michael said.
“And on top of that,
“Oh man, I love it!”
“And the contracts have been processed and I expect a check within the next couple of weeks.”
Michael stretched on the bed and finished off the Scotch.
“If your job is to make me feel better, you’re sure doing it well.”
“All part of the package,” she teased.
“I wish you were here,” he said. “I’m stretched out all alone on this king-size bed with no one to massage the tension out of my tired muscles.”
“So get a rubdown,” Taylor said.
“That’s not the muscle I meant,” he teased, then lowered his voice. “I miss you.”
Her voice lowered as well. “Well, hmm.”
There was a long silence filled only by a faint whisper of static on the line.
“You still there?” Michael asked after a moment.
“Yes.”
“Something bothering you?”
Another long pause. “I’m just not quite sure what’s going on, that’s all,” Taylor answered. “I mean, I’ve never done this before.”
“Done what before?” Michael asked. “You mean you were a-”
“No, silly,” she snapped, laughing the tension out of her voice. “I’ve done
Michael rolled over on his side with the phone resting on his right ear. “Okay, so it’s a little weird, mixing business with a personal life. But there’s something going on here, Taylor. Something powerful. I don’t know where it’s going, but I’d sure like to find out.”
“I just don’t want to … don’t want to make another mistake, that’s all.”
“Look,” Michael said, “this stupid tour is almost over. At least I can see the end. Then I’m going back to New York City and find a place, get moved, and get back to work.
That’s a tall order. I think I’m going to need a rest before I take that on.”
“So-”
“What say we get on a plane and go lie on a beach for a week or so? Just the two of us? Maybe someplace in the Caribbean.”
Taylor cleared her throat and was silent again for a few moments. “I don’t know, Michael, I-”
