her story and wasn’t too subtle about letting her know. “I doubt it.” She took another sip as if to prove him wrong.
Jo pushed her glass toward Max. “Thanks, I’ll have my usual,” she said, giving him another of the smiles she’d been rationing, as if the undercurrents in the conversation were passing her by. Maggie knew Jo wasn’t that dumb. Jo was sending a few signals of her own, and Maggie got the impression they were all for her benefit. Showing her the lay of the land. One minute Jo was practically pushing her to meet the guy, the next Maggie could see a sign in bold writing: Hands Off.
Maggie took another look at the clock with its small brass pendulum swinging back and forth. No chance of time slowing for her.
“Would you look at the time? I have to go.” She stood up and slid her arms into the camel-colored, cashmere coat she’d left hanging over the back of her chair. She turned her collar up till it framed her face, ready for the biting wind that had sprung up as the sun set. “Jo, give me a call when you’ve got the time. You’ve got my numbers. Nice to meet you, Sergeant Strachan.”
Max stood up and Jo followed his example. “Do you have to?” she asked.
Maggie slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder. “Yeah, I have to. Bye now.” She left them with an inane wiggle of her fingers, which showed the panic in her mind. Unable to get away quickly enough, she aimed for the door with the distinct feeling that Max’s eyes were boring into her back. With every step she took the door seemed farther and farther away.
A finely turned ankle.
Now, where the hell had that come from? It was one of those long-forgotten expressions lurking in the recesses of Max’s mind, but it fitted the pair of sheer, black-nylon covered ankles to a tee. The ones playing hide and seek with his libido through the long slit in the back of Maggie’s coat. Each glimpse made his breath catch softly, miniature versions of the drawn-out hitch in his breathing when he’d first spied her across the room beside Jo. He’d never been an ankle man, until now, but he’d always been a quick study.
Max watched her walk away, head high, shoulders straight, as if she didn’t give a damn. Each movement, from the tilt of her head and the slippery sheen of her black hair sliding over her upturned collar, to the firm click of her slender-heeled shoes on the tiles, were lies. A demonstration of body language lying through its teeth.
He knew it.
She knew it.
It wasn’t what had been said earlier. It was the denial that they’d had anything to say. The subtext had been deafening from the moment he’d seen her slender body surge across the table toward Jo. Passion and energy etched every line. Sparks bursting from that energy had lit a fuse inside him, and he’d known straight off it was too late to douse it. Max prayed the fuse was a long one, and a slow burner. He’d need all the time he could get to garner his defenses. From the moment he’d heard her name—maybe even before, when lust had driven him across the room, and Jo’s presence had eased the inevitability of their meeting—he’d known this was one situation that could blow up in his face.
The double glass doors, with their dull, fingerprint-yellow brass handles, swung on their hinges after her exit. But relief didn’t come as quickly as the doors shuddered to a halt. Max turned back to Jo and picked up her empty glass from the table. “Same again, you said?” He didn’t wait for her nod or the question shaping her eyebrows. He needed a moment to himself and his thoughts, and he’d get them at the bar while he ordered Jo a beer and himself a whiskey. A double.
Maggie Kovacs. Her father had been the one whose plane had crashed, but she’d been the one who’d hit the headlines.
He remembered the sergeant on the case, if you could call it a case—more like a retrieval job for the police divers, with a mop-up by the air-accident inspector.
Until Maggie had reached the scene.
To hear Sergeant Gorman tell it, she’d been out of her tree. Gorman was a bluff, red-faced character who looked as if he’d be more at home on top of a tractor than riding in a cop car. Still, it took all types. The man was retired now, and Max reasoned he’d only been handed the Kovacs case to get him out from behind his desk. The rest had been a bonus. The guy was probably still raising a few laughs at Maggie’s expense.
Maggie.
Sometimes prejudice got in the way of reality. Where were the hoop earrings and spangled head scarf? The “cross my palm with silver, mister?” Maggie didn’t look anything like the advertisements with their 0900 numbers littering the tabloids and women’s magazines. Madam Zelda and the likes, who’d read your fortune from cards, or your future from the vibes singing down the phone line, and charge you $3.95 a minute for the privilege. For a while there he’d almost let them get away with annihilating his future. They’d certainly robbed him of a fortune—and his marriage. It was something he’d never forgive or forget. Like the day he’d opened the final demand from the phone company, and felt the bottom drop out of his world.
He downed his first whiskey while they poured Jo’s beer, and was into his second before he reached the table. The heat entered his stomach and had spread to his veins by the time he sat down. He caught Jo’s glance and knew she’d be speculating about the second drink. Usually he nursed one glassful till the ice melted and the whiskey was as hot inside the glass as when it hit his tonsils.
“So…” he sighed. “Good-looking woman, Maggie. Catching up on old times, were you?” He tossed back another mouthful of the desperate man’s anesthetic and waited for Jo’s reply. The bombshell wasn’t unexpected; he just wasn’t ready for it to go off this soon.
“She came to see me about a murder. Three of them, to be precise.”
“Cut the crap, Jo. Next you’re going to tell me she dreamed them!”
“She’s psychic.”
“Then you’re going to tell me you believe in all this mumbo jumbo.” Max took another swallow. The effects of the anesthetic were wearing off quickly. He’d known Jo for five years now. Worked with her on and off for three of them. She was a good cop, with a quick, keen mind. She never flinched, even when things were at their hairiest. But believing in this psychic twaddle had to be a female thing.
“For heaven’s sake! This is a new age, Max. Sooner or later you’ll have to give in and open your mind to the possibilities. Hell, I like my job too much to put it on the block, but I’ve known Maggie all my life. You I’ve only known long enough to learn how hard you can dig in your heels.”
“I’m not interested in a rundown on her dreams. I’m not a shrink. Tell her to try the yellow pages.” He’d had enough on his plate with three unsolved murders in as many months. Not even a fool could deny they were connected, and he was no fool. Which was a good reason for staying away from anything that smacked of paranormal. Now if only he could convince his libido of the same thing where Maggie was concerned, he might be a damn sight nearer to suppressing the urge to get up and follow her out the door.
“Well, don’t get your Jockeys in a twist. It just so happens she doesn’t want to speak to you, either.” An edge of satisfaction colored Jo’s voice as she tossed the ball back at him.
“So what was this tonight? A social call, or is she after a little more publicity to keep the punters rolling in?” At the base of his skull a pain throbbed, and he wondered who he was really trying to hurt—Jo, Maggie or himself? “You thinking of flagging the police and taking up marketing, Jo?” The steel in his voice
