off the long, creamy slice of marble below the huge mirror and into her palm. Holding the comb firmly enough to mark her skin, she slicked her wet hair back without once looking at her reflection. Her father’s dark green silk robe hung on the back of the door and she slipped into it, hiding her nakedness.
A hint of Frank’s favorite cologne still lingered in the soft folds after all these months, the fragrance teasing at her memory as she wrapped the robe’s generous width around her. Doubling it over at the front, she crossed her arms tightly against her breasts, trying to remember the last time her father had held her—and failing.
So long…so long ago since the dreams began and the hugs had stopped. Puberty at least. But then, maybe all fathers began distancing themselves from their daughters at that age, and everything else was in her imagination. The way the dreams were, according to Frank Kovacs. Her father had had a way of saying things, like an edict from on high, and Maggie had known not to argue when he used a certain tone of voice.
Stubborn, arrogant man.
If only he’d believed in her.
Maggie’s lips quivered and she pushed the thoughts away before they undid all the good the shower had achieved. Just give her one dreamless night and she’d be okay. Thoughts of Max Strachan were banned as well. Thoughts like the ones that had made her stumble out of the shower, grab the towel and attempt to erase the graphic visions with rough friction.
The water had been hot, so hot—not as soft as the tank water at home, but with more pressure—and she’d luxuriated in the difference, letting the needle-sharp jets tingle against her skin, tilting her head back to let the water pour over the tightness in her throat, then split into three streams as it coursed around her breasts. She could put up with the smell of chlorine just for the way the spray sent her blood zinging through every particle of her skin till she felt as hot inside as out.
Then she’d glanced down while she’d soaped her breasts.
And seen Max’s hands.
His broad palms cupped her breasts from the sides and his fingers created patterns of tanned and pale skin across the full mounds. Max used the contained strength she’d felt earlier to conjure the silkiest of caresses from pure, latent power. His touch, gentle yet hot as fire, seared through to her soul as the water careened over the growth of dark hair, plastering it to taut, lean sinew and bone until it spilled off his wrists. Here was a vision that could shatter her fragile control, and as her nipples tightened into sharp points and stabbed into his palms, she squeezed her eyes shut and still couldn’t blank it out.
Damn, she was losing it.
Maggie hitched the belt of the robe around her waist and tightened it. Pulling hard on the ends until she could hardly breathe, she formed a bow with short jerky movements of her hands. Who was having the last laugh now? She could hear her father’s voice echo in her mind.
“Too much imagination.”
Thick carpet soaked up his footsteps, and heavily embossed, light blue wallpaper, hung with reproduction artwork, ate up all other sound, obliterating his presence. As he reached the terra-cotta door, which emphasized the similar-colored pattern on the dark blue carpet, a swift glance over his shoulder confirmed he was on his own. One more strike against the up-market apartment tower. If anyone was going to creep up on Max, he wanted to hear him coming. Sure, the tenants had probably paid a bundle to achieve this high-tech impression of peace and solitude, although if he lived ten stories up, his number one priority would be knowing no one had come along and kicked the rest of the building out from under him.
He reached out and rang the bell to the left of the solid wood door. A peephole had been set dead center in the thick plank bisecting the door. He eyed it for a moment, just a moment, and considered sticking his thumb over the aperture, then changed his mind. At thirty-four he was past playing those kinds of games.
Maggie would let him in—she had to. There was an awareness, an attraction. It had shimmered between them like a living, breathing thing no smelly, clamorous pub could pollute. He’d felt it, and he would swear she had, too—he wouldn’t have risked calling on her otherwise.
From his first sight of her on the other side of the bar, tension had begun to claw at his gut. Even learning her name and knowing her history hadn’t dulled the sharp edges of neediness he’d felt at the touch of her hand. And unless he mistook his instincts, it had driven her away. Among other things. But she would recognize what it had cost him to come here tonight. He was certain of that.
Max rang the bell again and stood close to the door, his hands braced on either side of the frame, waiting, wondering what he’d do if she wasn’t inside. Although she should have been expecting him. He’d shown his ID to the security guard at the desk when he’d asked for her on the way through, and if the guy had been doing his job he would have told her the police were on the way up.
Max could feel her watching him. He sensed her presence on the other side of the door as surely as if she’d reached out and touched him. That was all it took. His groin tightened and all the blood in his brain rushed down to his crotch. Max closed his eyes and swallowed, fighting for control.
A few more minutes and Maggie would have been sound asleep. She’d curled up on one of the sofas with the robe wrapped around her knees and her feet tucked under it. While the fire flickered gaseous flames up the chimney, she’d dozed lightly, with the TV droning softly, turned to a program guaranteed to cure the worst of insomniacs. It had taken her ten seconds to come to. Longer till the second ring confirmed the noise wasn’t coming from the TV.
A shiver splashed with excitement and muddied by apprehension flowed through her as she looked into the viewer’s fish-eye lens.
She knew him.
It made no difference that he was standing so close to the door only the lower half of his face was visible. She recognized the dark green shirt and loosely knotted, matching tie under the jacket of small, muted-green checks he’d worn earlier. Recognized the movement in the strong throat as he swallowed, and most of all she recognized the hard, square-cut jaw. Nothing had changed in the last few hours except the deepening shadow of a relentless growth of beard.
Maggie’s pulse quickened and the nerves on the surface of her skin vibrated the way a piano wire does when a fingernail scratches it from end to end.
It didn’t stop her asking, “Who’s there?”
“The police.”
“How can I tell? Hold your ID up to the security viewer.”
“For Pete’s sake, Maggie! Stop fooling around. You know it’s me, Max. Sergeant Strachan. Your memory can’t be that short.” His exasperation showed in the explosive bursts of language, harsh at first, then softening, cajoling. “Please, Maggie, open the door and let me in. I need to speak to you.”
She hesitated long enough to elicit another plea.
“Maggie, you know we have to talk.”
She could only guess why he’d turned up at her door at ten o’clock at night, and neither conclusion brought any comfort. But it appeared to be business as usual, otherwise he would have said “Max here” instead of “the police,” and the only way to discover if her suspicions were right was to let the man talk. “I don’t know what you think we have to say to one another, but you can come in—just for a few minutes,” she said, qualifying her previous statement as she undid the chain and clicked open the locks.
She
