“Tony…”
He managed another faint smile. “Look, Margrit, my dad’s a cop, too. I know how hard it is to be an officer’s wife. My mom’s good at it, but you know, that’s a choice she makes every day of her life. I like my job and I’m good at it. Quitting wouldn’t be my preference, but if there’s got to be a line drawn somewhere-” He allowed himself a shrug “Then I’m willing to look around for ways to cross it.”
“You’re serious.” Margrit’s heart fluttered in her chest, beating too fast and bringing washes of color to her cheeks that café latte skin wasn’t dark enough to hide. “Jesus, Tony, you’re serious?”
“Yeah. That was the point of this conversation, Grit. I’m serious. Or I want to be serious, anyway. About you. Come on, Margrit,” he added after a few seconds, taking in her expression. “Is it that surprising? Is it that bad?”
“No!” She blurted the word, wiping her hand compulsively on her napkin again. “No, it’s just…I just wasn’t expecting it. We’ve been through this whole thing so many times I didn’t expect…” She trailed off again, then managed a quiet laugh. “I didn’t expect anything to change.” She lifted a palm to stop his words before he spoke. “I’m not putting any blame on either of us for not trying to change before now. It’s not that important anymore. Not if we’re trying to look forward.”
Tony nodded and she let out a breath, glad to be understood, though she fell silent for a few long minutes as they studied one another. “Look,” she finally said. “There’s got to be some middle ground here. Neither of us should have to give up our careers to make this work. If you can keep me updated on when you’ve got to work late, I can at least try to make my late nights the same as yours. That’d be a good place to start, right? And when you have emergencies, I won’t get pissed and stop calling.”
“And I’ll stop riding you about your job,” Tony agreed quietly. “It’s a place to start.” He looked at the table. “Are you hungry?”
“Honestly?” She looked over the bowl of food and shook her head. “Not at all.”
“Want to go back to my place?”
Margrit’s grin broadened. “Yeah.” She poked her head through the gauze curtains, waving down their waiter, and asked for their dinner to be packed up to go.
“Call a cab or walk?” Margrit leaned heavily against Tony’s side, fighting off giggles as she wrapped an arm around his ribs and grinned up at him. He slung his arm around her shoulders, swinging the bag of food from his other hand.
“Probably better take a cab. It’s a long walk.”
Margrit slipped away and jogged ahead a few steps, turning to bounce on her toes in mockery. “C’mon, slowpoke. You can make it. Can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man!”
“You’re the gingerbread nut.” He stepped toward the street, waving the bag to hail a cab. “You can run home. I’ll be there waiting when you arrive all sweaty and smelly.”
“Then you’ll just have to wash my back in the shower.” Margrit glanced down the street before dancing into it, jabbing fists at the air. “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!”
“You already stung me once this week,” Tony said. “I’d rather not have a repeat performance. The shower, though…”
Margrit laughed and spun in the street as he stepped off the curb. “How about we skip the running, take a cab and just get right to the back-scrubbing?”
“Now that’s my idea of a da- Margrit! ”
Tires squealed and blinding headlights flashed. Margrit flung a hand up to protect her eyes, and an incredible weight and strength slammed into her belly. Her forehead smashed against something hard and solid.
The world went black.
CHAPTER 9
AN ACRID SMELL woke her. Margrit gagged and coughed, trying to wave the scent away. Her hand slapped against cool flesh that barely gave with the impact; someone moved as she opened her eyes. Blue neon lights swam in her vision and she shut her eyes again, clenching her teeth against nausea.
“How do you feel?” The male voice, deep and gravelly, was vaguely familiar. Margrit pried her eyes open once more and sat up.
The world did a sharp plunge and twist to the left, taking her stomach with it. She rolled to her side and vomited. A minute later, tears dripping from her eyes, she saw there was a stainless steel bowl settled on the floor, clearly meant for the purpose for which it had just been used.
“Your aim is excellent,” the voice said wryly. “Lie down. I believe you have a concussion.”
“Where am I?” Margrit curled into a ball, unable to do anything but lie down even if she wanted to. The room spun every time she opened her eyes, so she kept them closed, her forehead wrinkled with pain and concentration.
“In a safe place,” he murmured.
“A hospital? Am I in a hospital? There was a…a car.”
“Not in a hospital. The car didn’t hit you.”
Margrit let out a feeble laugh. “Then did you get the number of the Mack truck that did?”
“I’m afraid that was me.” Some of the gravel left his voice, making it more familiar still. Margrit’s eyes popped open and she regretted it when the room lurched precariously.
“Alban?” She pressed her eyes shut again as she asked the question, unwilling to risk another bout of sickness.
“Yes.” His weight squashed the mattress and he put a cold cloth against her forehead. “You have a concussion,” he repeated. “Mild, but you should stay still awhile, and shouldn’t fall asleep.”
Sleep. An overwhelming exhaustion swept over Margrit. “Sleep sounds nice,” she whispered.
“No.” Alban slid fingers beneath her chin, turning her head slowly and gently. Margrit clenched her teeth.
“Don’t do that,” she said hoarsely. “I’ll puke again.”
“Better that than sleeping. I apologize for the concussion.”
“What’d you hit me with? And what’s wrong with the lights?” Margrit kept her eyes closed and tried swallowing to clear the rasp in her voice.
She heard, rather than saw, Alban shift and look upward. “The lights?”
“They’re neon. Or is it just my eyes?” She was afraid to open them again to find out.
“Oh.” Alban was silent a moment or two. “They are neon. We’re in…” Wryness filled his voice again. “Not the best part of town. I apologize.”
“You dress well for somebody who can’t afford a decent place to live.” Margrit lifted a hand to her forehead, still without opening her eyes, and prodded the swollen goose egg there. “You’re also very polite for a murderer.”
Some of the politeness left his voice, surprise replacing it. “You’re personally acquainted with a lot of murderers?”
“You’d be surprised who you meet in my line of work.”
A droll note infused his response. “I suppose I would be. I’m not a murderer, Margrit. If I wanted you dead, the car would have done a fine job of it.”
“Except it wouldn’t be personal. They say serial killers like to make things personal.” Margrit’s eyes opened again against her will. “Wait.” The neon lights lunged toward her and she moaned. “You were driving that car?”
“Of course not. I was trying to save your life.”
She frowned faintly and pressed her fingertips against her eyes. Squealing tires. Blinding lights. An impact of colossal proportions. “Are you sure the car didn’t hit me?”
Alban chuckled and moved from the edge of the bed. “Yes.”
“It felt like a car hit me.”
