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.”
Bad move!
What he hadn’t said—might never say—had screwed him up.
“That was pretty facile even for a cop.” Maggie shrugged inside her coat as if she might shed him like water. No such luck. She’d started this and her impulse might have washed out any credibility she had left.
Reluctantly, she laid her thoughts out in front of him. “Five months before my father died, another Creighton aircraft, the same model as his, crashed in the Pacific somewhere near Hawaii. The accident report on that plane said it had been caused by a fuel leak in the engine. The sensors malfunctioned, so the fire extinguishers didn’t come on.
“As soon as the report came out, Dad had his plane checked from nose to tail. Knowing my father, I’d bet that engine was clean enough to eat off.” Max frowned down at her, but she insisted, “Dad wasn’t stupid, just stubborn. He didn’t take risks.” Max had to believe her, even though all she had to go on was intuition. She had to convince him.
“I
