A Fashionable Affair (11 page)

There was a tremendous fight going on between
Michael and two men. Patsy stared for a moment in
horror at the writhing bodies and flying fists and
then announced, loudly and clearly, “I’ve just
phoned the police. They said a patrol car was in the
area and would be right here.”

The fight subsided somewhat as the two stran
gers turned at the sound of her voice. “Let’s get the
hell out of here,” one of them yelled.

“The door,” Patsy pointed out helpfully, “is
open.”

They fled. Patsy continued down the stairs and
closed and locked the door behind them. Then she
turned to Michael.

He had gotten to his feet. There was blood on his face and on his shoulder. “Good for you, Red,” he
said.

“Are you all right?” She could feel herself start
ing to shake with reaction. “You’re bleeding. What
was that all about?”

“Did you really call the police?” he asked.

“No.”

He grinned. The blood ran heavily from a cut
over his eyebrow. He looked genuinely pleased.
“That’s my girl.”

Patsy felt her breath falter, and she inhaled
deeply. “Come along and let me attend to your
face,” she said, and obediently, he followed her into the kitchen. He sat on a wooden chair while she got
a clean towel and tried to staunch the blood.

“I presume those thugs were friends of the busi
ness associate,” she said flatly.

“Um.” She was pressing his head back against her
breast as she held the towel to his eyebrow. He
closed his eyes.

“Why didn’t you shout for help?”

His long lashes never flickered. “I thought I was
giving them as good as I got.”

“It was two against one,” Patsy said and he smiled
faintly. Her lips set in an unusually grim line.
“What did they want?”

“To scare me off,” he answered peacefully.
“Bully tactics.”

“And you don’t scare off easily,” she answered
slowly.

He let the whole weight of his head rest against
her breast. “Well,” he said. “I can be a bully myself,
if I have to be.”

Patsy removed the towel and looked closely at the
cut. “It might need stitches.”

“You patch it up, Red. You’re good at that sort of
thing.”

Patsy frowned. “Where are your bandages?”

“Upstairs, in the medicine chest.”

“All right. Here, hold this towel firmly in place.
The cut’s still bleeding.”

Patsy fetched the tape and gauze and placed a
makeshift butterfly bandage over the wound.

“You would’ve been a good nurse,” Michael told
her when she had finished.

“Sometimes I’m sorry I let myself get sidetracked away from it.” She went to the sink and washed her
hands. “I was all set to start nursing school, you
know, and I thought I might earn some money dur
ing the summer by modeling. It was a lark more
than anything else. I just walked into the Marks Modeling agency two weeks after graduation and asked if I might possibly be a candidate for a job.”

“And they thought you might.”

She dried her hands and turned to face him. “At
first I thought I’d delay nursing school for a year,
but instead of fizzling out, as so many modeling
careers do, the jobs kept coming. The money was
great, and it was fun, so” —she shrugged her slim,
graceful shoulders—“here I am.”

“Here you are,” he agreed. “And though you’re
not a nurse, you do make a great pot of coffee. How
about it?”

Patsy gazed at him assessingly. His face looked
tan against the white bandage. The cut on his
shoulder had been only superficial. Without his
shirt, the muscles in those shoulders and arms were
very evident. He was right. He had been giving
them as good as he got.

“Coffee it is,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

“Just toast, please.”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to give Sally a call,” he said as she got
out the coffeepot. “I want to store all your files at
her house. Would you mind driving?”

For a minute, as she measured coffee into the per
colator, she didn’t answer. Then she turned and said
carefully, “Michael, I don’t like this one little bit.”

“No need to worry, Red,” he said soothingly.
“Just a precaution.”

She stared at him, and her brown eyes were
troubled. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I won’t be.” He sounded reassuringly firm.
“Make the coffee.”

She turned back to the stove. “Why do you want
me to drive?”

“Well,” he said cheerfully, “I think I may have a
small concussion.”

Patsy closed her eyes. “I’ll drive,” she managed to
say calmly, and finished measuring the coffee with
a not-quite-steady hand.

Patsy and Michael ate a light breakfast and show
ered, then Patsy helped Michael load her car with
the cartons containing her files.

“You don’t have any other plans for today?”
Michael asked belatedly, after the last carton had been stashed in the back seat.

“No.”

He merely nodded. “Then let’s get started.”

“All right. Maybe my hair will finish drying in the
car.” She had washed her hair in his shower and the
ends were starting to feather a brilliant golden-red as they dried. “I never heard of anyone who didn’t
own a blow-dryer,” she added, with mock exaspera
tion.

“Well, now you have.” He looked a little preoccu
pied. “Just think of how I’m broadening your hori
zons.”

“Yes,” Patsy said dryly. “Get in the car.”

The long lashes lifted, his eyes looked very
green this morning, she noticed. “Yes, ma’am,” he
drawled, and opened the door.

The drive to Sally’s was quiet. Patsy kept surrepti
tiously checking Michael out of the corner of her
eye. If he looked as if he were drowsing off, she was
going to detour straight to the nearest emergency
room. He stayed awake, however, and his color
looked reasonably good. As she pulled into Sally’s driveway, he said, “Satisfied?”

She put the parking brake on. “What do you
mean?”

“You’ve been watching me like a mother hen for
the whole ride.”

She took the key out of the ignition and turned to
face him. “A concussion can be serious,” she said
severely.

He didn’t answer, only laughed and opened his
car door. “Hi, Sal,” he said to his sister, who had
come out to greet them. “Thanks for the loan of
your basement.”

* * * *

Michael and Steve carried the cartons to the base
ment, with Steven excitedly following them up and down, up and down. When they had finished, Steve
asked Michael, “How about a game of one on one?
We just put up a basketball hoop.”

Sally gave Patsy an ironic look. “For Steven,” she
murmured. “Of course, it will be at least four years
until Steven can reach the basket, but
...”

“Michael got bashed on the head this morning,”
Patsy put in very firmly. “He’s not going to play bas
ketball, Steve.”

A faint smile flickered across Michael’s face. He
turned to his brother-in-law. “So pretty,” he said
regretfully, “and so bossy.”

“How did you get bashed on the head?” Sally
asked in her best big-sister voice.

Steve took a small pencil-light out of his pocket
and shone it into Michael’s eyes. “Look to the
right,” he said. “Now left. Now over my shoulder.” Steve put the light back into his pocket and touched
the back of Michael’s head. Michael winced. Steve
frowned. “That’s some lump, fella.”

“That’s also some bandage over your eye,” Sally
commented. “For God’s sake, Michael, what happened?”

“Yeah.” Steve frowned harder. “And why do you
need to store Patsy’s files in our basement?”

“Didn’t you tell them?” Patsy asked Michael
incredulously.

“Er, no.”

“Tell us what?” Sally demanded.

“Fred was involved with a gang of crooks and he’s
swindled me out of a fortune,” Patsy answered suc
cinctly.

“Crudely put, perhaps, but essentially correct,”
murmured her accountant.

“What?”
Sally shrieked.

“Crooks?” Steve said.

“Sit down,” Michael replied resignedly, “and I’ll
tell you.”

The story took some time, after which Sally fixed them lunch. Then, because the sun was shining and
Steve so obviously was longing to play with his new
toy, Patsy took pity on him. “I’ll play you a game of
basketball,” she offered.

“You?” Steve asked with scarcely flattering incre
dulity.

Michael and Sally exchanged a glance. “Good
idea, Patsy,” Sally said. “He needs a challenge.”

Steve made an obvious effort to be polite. “Okay, Patsy, if you want to.”

“Mommy is terrible,” Steven added helpfully.
“She always misses.”

“Come and watch Aunt Patsy, honey,” Sally said
with a smile. “She’s better than Mommy.”

“I don’t know if I am,” Patsy murmured as they
all went out to the driveway. “I haven’t shot a bas
ketball in years.”

“I’ll park the car in the street,” Michael volun
teered, and as he backed out of the driveway, Patsy practiced a few lay-ups.

“Not bad,” Steve was saying kindly as Michael
returned.

“I played in high school but not much since,”
Patsy said. She dribbled the ball down the drive,
turned, and sank a jump shot. Steve’s eyes widened.
“No rough stuff under the basket,” Patsy warned as she walked back to him. “You’re bigger and I’m playing in espadrilles.”

“Well, that should even the odds,” Sally said
wickedly.

Steve turned to look at his wife. “I think I’m
being set up.”

Sally grinned. “Patsy was high scorer in the
county for two years in a row. Michael”—she
turned to her brother—”get a couple of beach
chairs out of the garage so we can watch in com
fort.”

The game quickly became hilarious, with Michael
rooting for Steve and Sally egging on Patsy. Steven,
joining the male club, loudly encouraged his father.
The game ended when Patsy missed a ten-footer
and Steve rebounded and sank the ball. He won by
two points.

Sally made lemonade, and Steve was a magnanimous winner. “You have a terrific shot,” he compli
mented Patsy. “I had no idea you played ball.”

“If she’d only been more aggressive, she could’ve
been the tops,” Sally said. “You were always too
nice, Patsy.”

“Mother always thought basketball was terribly
unladylike,” Patsy said.

The telephone rang, and Steve went to answer it.
He returned shortly and spoke to Michael. “It’s for
you. Your partner, Ted Lawson.”

Michael raised a black eyebrow, excused himself,
and went into the house. When he reappeared his
face was expressionless—so expressionless that
Patsy knew something was wrong.

“The office has been broken into,” he told them.
“Ted stopped by to pick up something and found
the door had been forced and the files rifled.” He looked at Patsy. “We’d better go over there now.”

She rose to her feet and answered quietly,
Okay.”

“Broken into!” Sally cried. “Michael, do you
think it’s those creeps who beat you up this morn
ing?”

“It’s certainly a possibility.”

Steve looked worried. “This is a tough crowd
you’ve gotten yourself mixed up with, Mike.”

“Yeah,” Michael said.

Sally kissed him. “Be careful.” She turned to
Patsy. “Are you going to be safe?”

“Of course,” Patsy calmly assured her. “Don’t
worry, Sally.” Then she said to Michael, still in the
same tone, “I’ll drive.”