High Heels and Holidays (9 page)

“Got a dollar, lady? Betcha got more'an a dollar, huh?”

“Ah, cripes, this just keeps getting better and better,” Maggie said on a groan, turning around to see a fairly tall, cadaverous man who'd come up directly behind her. “No—no, this isn't going to happen. You're not going to try to rob me, Alex is not going to come out of nowhere to rescue me, flourishing that damn sword cane of his and playing the hero. Not this time. I'm sick and tired of playing Penelope Tied to the Railroad Tracks, you hear me, buster? Now get the hell out of here before I do something you're going to regret.”

The bum looked at her purse, which she'd raised over her head as if ready to bash it into his skull, and backed up two steps. “Jeez, lady, I just wanted a dollar. Don't go all premenstrual on me.”

“And you're two seconds from being pre-concussed.
Move it
!”

“Wait a moment, sir, please. Don't rush off,” she heard Alex say from behind her, and she whirled about in a fury, just to have him neatly remove the purse from her grip. “I do believe the lady could be overreacting.” He tucked his package under his arm, and then fished in his pocket and came out with a twenty-dollar bill. “Here you go, my good man. Have a nice holiday.”

“You did that on purpose, damn it,” she told him as she grabbed back her purse and they both watched the bum shuffle off. “I was handling it. Now all of a sudden I'm Scrooge and you're Santa Claus. Why does stuff like this always happen to me? Why does—oh, hell.” She stepped closer and allowed her forehead to drop against his strong chest. “I'm such a mess. Nothing ever goes right for me. I need a cigarette. I need to lose ten pounds. Eight, I mean eight. I've got a
kick me
sign on me, Alex, and I'm the only one who can't see it. My clothes are too tight, J.P. is going to sit on me on Tuesday, you can just bet on that one. You keep kissing me, my dad has a chippie. I don't want to go home for Christmas, even in my dreams. And the worst, the very worst. I can't believe that you . . . that you've . . . oh, God, I'm falling apart. I nearly attacked that man! And my mother says I'm not sensitive? I should probably be on some kind of medication, huh?”

“
Shhh
, sweetings, it's all right,” Alex said, stroking her back. “Sterling told me what he said to you this afternoon while I was gone. I understand why you're a trifle out of sorts. It must have come as something of a shock.”

“Puberty,” Maggie muttered into his coat, at last giving in to what had been upsetting her ever since she'd heard the word. “You've been around since puberty. I didn't know, you didn't tell me.” She looked up into his face. His handsome face. The face she'd made. The man she'd made. The perfect hero she'd somehow conjured, the vision she'd nurtured, fed, molded and remolded until he'd been just that—perfect for her. Her perfect hero. And here he was with her, the imperfect heroine. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Would you have believed me?”

“You're standing here, aren't you? I believe that. It hasn't been easy, but I believe it. Oh, Alex, what am I going to do with you?”

His smile nearly undid her. “You could enjoy me, I suppose.”

She touched a gloved hand to his cheek. “I suppose. But you're not perfect, you know. I thought you were, but you're not. You're terrific as a Regency hero, but you're arrogant, and sometimes sarcastic, and a bit of a snob—and people keep getting murdered around you. You have noticed that, haven't you?”

“I solve crimes, Maggie. I save the heroine. I right wrongs. It's what heroes do.”

“Yeah, sure,” she said, pulling away from him before she could do something dumb, like let him kiss her. Like kissing him back. “I just didn't know I was fantasizing about Superman with a quizzing glass and sword cane. That's pretty embarrassing.”

“Got more where that come from, mister? We bet you do.”

Maggie felt Alex's arm tighten around her for an instant, and then she was semi-flying through the air, saved from a tumble into the snow only by falling into a low, snow-covered evergreen, which wasn't much better, actually.

By the time she'd caught her breath and was able to lever herself upright enough to see what was going on, two dark shapes were sprawled in the snow and a third was upright, but not looking too good as Alex pressed the tip of his unsheathed sword cane to the man's Adam's apple. “Alex, don't!”

“I wouldn't think of it, my dear. Unless the gentleman moves, that is. You aren't going to sneeze, are you, my good fellow? That would probably be most unfortunate for you. Now, if you promise to remain very, very still, I will lower my weapon. Agreed?”

The “gentleman” made some rather strangled sounds that must have indicated his agreement, for Alex lowered the sword cane, using it to indicate the two groaning shapes on the snow. “So very obedient. What an intelligent felon you are. However, if I might suggest that you assist your cronies to their feet and then take yourselves off before I lose this most astonishingly and laudable grip on my usual good humor?”

Maggie recognized the fairly snazzy, sophisticated but sarcastic line, of course. She'd written it for the Viscount Saint Just about three books ago. The trio of hapless muggers took off at a run and Alex neatly slid the thin sword back inside the cane before assisting her to her feet. “Oh, Alex. You just can't help yourself, can you?”

“I suppose not,” he said, and then bent to retrieve his package. Naturally, the vase was still intact, as he'd aimed it at a pile of still soft, untouched snow—which was very different from where he'd aimed
her
. She was just about to point that out to him when she heard a noise behind her and tensed, only to relax when she heard Sterling's voice.

“Saint Just, there you are! Oh, and Maggie, too. I was so worried we might have lost her and you wouldn't have liked that above half would you.” Sterling shut his mouth, grimacing, then looked imploringly at Saint Just. “I'm sorry. Spilled the broth there, didn't I?”

Maggie's sympathy for her creation—along with a variety of rather intriguing feelings she would examine later—disappeared with Sterling's words. “Yeah, Alex, you wouldn't have liked that above half, would you? Gotta keep her in sight at all times, right?
Why
, Alex? Hmmm?”

Alex tucked the vase under his arm once more, leaving both hands free to adjust Maggie's collar. “The woman is nearly assaulted by low-life felons, and she dares ask such a question?”

“I wasn't in danger of being assaulted by low-life felons in my apartment all day,” she pointed out as the three of them picked their way back to the path, lights, and the crush of people stepping around Bernie, who stood blocking the middle of the path, a large something-or-other wrapped in brown paper propped against her, nearly toppling her. “But I'll get back to you on that. What the hell is Bernie holding up? It's bigger than she is.”

“A portrait of her ancestors, actually,” Sterling told her, taking charge of the package that must be four feet wide and six feet high. “Isn't it exciting that she found them? Right back there, in that tent.”

“Yeah, exciting,” Maggie said as José ran up to them, clearly summoned by cell phone, and assisted Sterling in carrying the portrait to the limousine, Alex parting the way for them, Bernie and Maggie following in their wake. “You were adopted, right, Bernie?”

“Yes, sweetie. And now I've adopted ancestors. They'll look great over the fireplace, don't you think? Well, you haven't seen them yet, but believe me, they'll be perfect. I think there's even a dog. I'm going to name them all. Even the dog. Especially the dog.”

“Bernie, honey, you have to stop this,” Maggie said, broaching a subject she had been hoping to avoid. “You're trading one addiction for another.”

“I am not. What do you mean?”

“I mean, you've become a buyaholic.”

“Shopaholic, Maggie. There's no such thing as a buyaholic.”

“There is now. Some people shop. You buy.
Everything
. I've been watching, ever since you got back from the . . . from where you went. Shoes, clothes, jewelry—Cuisinarts, for crying out loud, and you don't cook. You're substituting, Bernie, the way I've been substituting food for nicotine, and we both have to stop. But this?” she said, gesturing toward the large wrapped portrait. “I didn't even know they sold stuff like this here.”

“They don't. The portrait was part of a display, to showcase some gallery. But I had to have it immediately, Maggie, I just did. Those people spoke to me, I swear it. So I whipped out my American Express, and now they're mine.”

“This gallery doesn't deliver?”

“Of course it does, but I had to have it now. I can't explain it.”

“I can. It's because you're a buyaholic,” Maggie said, nailing home her point.

“Warts and pimples, Maggie. I'm seeing warts and pimples. Now, come on, I can't buy myself a Christmas present?”

“Ancestors. You're buying ancestors for yourself for Christmas.” When Bernie made a face, Maggie threw up her hands, giving in. “Okay, okay. Just think about what I said.”

“Don't I always? You won't mind waiting with me until the van José ordered shows up? It's either that or trying to find a cab in this mess, and good luck with that. While we wait, you can tell me why you're covered in snow.”

Maggie was beginning to feel nostalgic for jolly old England and being marooned with a murderer. “I fell,” she said dully, then looked at Alex, who dared to wink at her, sending her heart rate into overdrive. It was only a matter of time now, and they both knew it. Yes, she'd fallen, and she was still falling, and she might as well just give up and let it happen. Maggie down the rabbit hole...

Chapter Eight

T
agging along with Bernie to the Hamptons for the weekend had proved an excellent way to keep tabs on Maggie, keep her within his sight at all times, but did little to improve her mood, as she had barely spoken to Saint Just, obstinately staying in her room to read J.P. Boxer's manuscript (which she adamantly refused to talk about), and to do some research on the Web about what she'd informed him had become known as the War of 1812 between England and America.

She'd been thinking, or so she'd said, of having Saint Just become involved in exposing some sort of scandal and murder having to do with the Crown's dealings with American Indians, and promises made and broken, and—well, she'd been rather vague, but Saint Just was sure she'd abandon the idea by the time they returned to Manhattan, so he didn't press her. Only if she came up with a title would he begin to pay attention, for then he would know she was serious.

There simply were times when a gentleman does not push, and this, definitely, was one of them. Besides, she hadn't been hounding him for the reason he'd been keeping her so close, and since he didn't have an answer for her—at least one he wished to give her—Saint Just was content to spend his own weekend reading books by Michael Connelly, and in deep admiration of the man's clever creation, Harry Bosch. Rough around the edges, Harry was, but definitely intriguing. Although the man seemed to have little luck in his love life, which may, Saint Just was loathe to think, have given the two fictional men something in common, if only that both their creators sometimes delighted in making their creations suffer.

They returned to the city Monday at noon, traipsing into the lobby of the condo building while Socks went off to park Maggie's car in the garage a block away. Paul, who usually worked the night shift on the door, was behind the desk in the lobby, having stopped by to ask Socks to cover for him on Saturday night so he might attend a Christmas party with his girlfriend.

Saint Just and the others knew this because Paul told them so, even though no one had asked why he was there and could not have cared less, if truth be told. Paul was not Socks, not by a long chalk, and had definitely been hiding behind the door when the good Lord had been handing out common sense. In fact, he'd just three weeks previously opened the door to Mrs. Tannenbaum's condo for a “delivery man,” and then assisted the miscreant in carrying out the woman's television set and stereo equipment.

Yes, Paul was a treasure.

“Got a package here for you, Ms. Kelly,” he said as an afterthought, just as the elevator doors opened.

“Oh, thanks, Paul, I—”

“I'll take that,” Saint Just said, neatly relieving the doorman of the package just as Maggie was about to grab it.

“Hey,” Maggie said, lunging for the package, “give me that. It's mine. Does it have your name on it? No-o-o. It's got my name on it—I can see my name from here. And Paul said so.
Give
.”

“I am not Wellington, Maggie,” Saint Just said, taking the package over to one of the couches in the foyer and placing it on the table in front of him, already pulling the tab on the large brown postal bag.

“True. Him I can lock in my bedroom if he doesn't—never mind, I don't want to go there. And cut it out. Don't open that, Alex. I know what it is and—oh, cute. Really cute. Happy now?”

Saint Just returned the clear plastic bag containing something pink and lacy into the padded envelope and handed both to Maggie, feeling somewhat silly, but not about to let her know that. “So sorry. I ordered something in your name, as you already had an account, but this clearly isn't personalized stationery, is it?”

“No, it clearly isn't,” Maggie told him, grabbing the package. “It's my free buy-two-get-one-free bra, damn you. And who said you could use my Internet accounts, huh? God. I'm going upstairs. Do yourself a favor and don't follow me!”

“That was unfortunate, wasn't it?” Sterling commented, speaking to Henry, who was happily running on the small wheel in the travel cage Sterling held up at eye level. “But we'll forget we witnessed anything, Henry, as a favor to Saint Just, who must be horribly embarrassed.”

Saint Just looked at his friend. “I overreacted, I agree,” he admitted. “This can't go on, Sterling, even if the esteemed NYPD is satisfied with a pronouncement of suicide. I'm going to have to tell Maggie about the dead rats.”

Sterling quickly lowered Henry's cage to his side. “Please, not in front of the children and all of that. But I agree, Saint Just. As you still harbor some reservations after speaking with the good lieutenant again, Maggie definitely must be told of your concerns, and of the R-A-T. I must say, I was rather disappointed in your decision to keep everything so very close to your own breast.”

“I made a mistake, Sterling, and I freely admit to that mistake. Not with Wendell, but with Maggie,” Saint Just said, amazed to hear himself so humble. “At the same time, I cannot rule out the possibility that I am overreacting, seeing bogeymen where there are none. She and I are . . . we're at the moment tussling with something rather disconcerting for both of us, and I didn't want to complicate matters, at least not until I'd done some digging, come up with some clues. Harry Bosch often labors under similar circumstances, you know, and he has always managed to persevere. So shall I.”

“But you haven't, have you? Come up with clues, that is.”

“No, Sterling, I can truthfully say I have not, especially after delaying my investigation by haring off to the Hamptons in the mistaken notion that I was doing the right thing. Tell you what I'll do, my friend. I'll give myself one more day to arrive at some answers on my own, and then I will tell Maggie everything I have learned.”

“She'll forgive you,” Sterling told him rather kindly.

Saint Just raised one well-defined eyebrow. Pity? From Sterling? Pity? From
anyone
? He, the intrepid, indomitable, unflappable Viscount Saint Just was being looked upon as an object of
pity
? Well, that tore it, didn't it? Perhaps Maggie was right to keep his fictional self flitting from flower to flower, rather than having him tumble into love. Love seemed to take the edge off a man, make him vulnerable, make him . . . fallible.

“Sterling?” Saint Just asked after a moment. “Would you mind terribly carrying up my bag as well as yours? I do believe I would like to take a walk.”

Sterling was still looking at him as if he might offer his shoulder, friend to friend. “Of course, Saint Just. Go, walk, clear away the cobwebs and all of that. Henry and I will watch over Maggie for you.”

How very sweet, how very lowering. “Thank you, Sterling, you're a good friend,” Saint Just said, inclining his head in a slight bow, then heading out onto the street, already knowing his destination. He walked confidently, his armor that of his well-tailored clothes, his black cashmere sports coat ample covering on such a crisp, sunny day, his red sweater vest and the whimsical sprig of holly he'd tucked into his buttonhole his tributes to the Christmas season. He also carried with him the gold-tipped sword cane he tucked under his arm, his outfit completed by the jaunty tilt of the wide-brimmed, low-crowned black hat Maggie teased him about but nevertheless admitted looked exactly right on his head.

Yes, he knew precisely where he was headed, and he'd probably put off the meeting much too long as it was.

He was off to see Dr. Robert Lewis Chalfont, known to Maggie and others by the unfortunate appellation of Dr.
Bob
. Maggie had been seeing the psychiatrist for approximately five years, at first to help rid her of her nicotine addiction—the man long had been a sad failure at that—and then to help her work through her unfortunate problem with her family, which Saint Just could have told him was a lost cause, as the problem did not lie with Maggie, but with that family.

Still, Dr. Chalfont had encouraged Maggie to realize there were things she could not change so it was better to learn what he called coping skills. As Maggie's coping skill with her brother, during their recent Thanksgiving visit to New Jersey, had consisted of telling Tate Kelly “where to get off,” Saint Just was fairly sure all Maggie needed was confidence in her own strengths.

She had no idea how very wonderful she was, how very talented, or how very competent. Hadn't that been the reason he'd given Sterling for their appearance on this plane: to help Maggie reach her full potential?

It had only taken one good look at her, one touch of her hand on his, to realize that he'd been lying to Sterling, and to himself. He simply wanted to be in Maggie's life. A part of that life....

Saint Just tipped his hat to a pair of middle-aged ladies who seemed to appreciate his kindness. Yes, he was a kind man. When he wanted to be. Kind enough to wish to thank Maggie for creating him.

Or, as he'd heard someone say with typical American forthrightness, he'd wanted to
jump her bones
.

But laudable or not, he was here now, and evolving, as he persisted in telling Maggie, and he'd progressed far beyond the rather crude notion of simply seducing her. Far beyond.

Saint Just stepped inside the large office building, removed his hat, and made his way to the fourth floor. Once there, he entered a small, unimaginatively decorated anteroom empty of other inhabitants, and used the head of his cane to knock on a door marked
Private
.

He had no worries that Dr. Chalfont would not be there, and immediately available to him. He was, after all, a fictional hero, and fictional heroes rarely had to come back a second time, try again. Now Maggie? She would have been disappointed if she'd hoped to see Chalfont at this precise time, which was rather all right, as Maggie had necessarily grown accustomed if not resigned to frustration, as most people do. Heroes, however, were entirely another matter; their lives ran much more smoothly.

The rather fleshy man who opened the door a few seconds later wore an air of distraction and a woefully unfortunate choice of brown tweed jacket and blue slacks. “Yes? I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't take walk-in patients.”

“I am Saint Just,” Saint Just said, giving his name its French inflection—
Saint Juste
—then brushing past the man and into the good doctor's elaborate inner sanctum, which was decorated, in his opinion, in
conséquence fausse
.

Dr. Chalfont closed the door. “Are you now?” he asked in an annoyingly professional tone, walking across the deep burgundy carpet and lowering his bulk into a large leather chair. “Margaret's Saint Just?” he asked, using the American inflection. “Indeed.”

“Yes.
Indeed
,” Saint Just drawled, leisurely strolling about the office, employing the tip of his cane to align the top magazine with the others in a rather tall stack on one of the tables. “I thought it was time we two met.” He turned, struck a pose of the sort he would hold himself to when gracing his hostess's Regency drawing room, and rather looked down his nose at the psychiatrist. “Met, sir, and had ourselves a small chat. To be perfectly honest, if descending into amazingly applicable cant, I've come to pick your brain if I might.”

“Indeed?” Chalfont repeated. “Cant? Is that the same as slang, Saint Just? English for slang? That is, you're actually Alexander Blakely, Margaret's distant English cousin, correct? Not
really
Saint Just.”

“Is that what you think?” Saint Just countered silkily, his smile deliberately nonthreatening. He had been aware of Dr. Chalfont during the time he'd resided solely in Maggie's head, but he hadn't actually been out in the world until he'd poofed, as Maggie called it, out of her head and into that world. Curiosity had prompted him to read rather extensively on this thing called psychoanalysis, and answering a question with a question had been a part of what he'd learned. And how nice to turn the tables on the good doctor. “Please, tell me about that, how you came to that conclusion, that is. Take your time.”

“You're an amusing man.” Dr. Chalfont adjusted his glasses on his nose. “I think, Mr. Blakely, that you may possibly have allowed yourself to rather, well,
merge
your personality with that of Maggie's famous Viscount Saint Just, yes? Interesting. Really. And not as uncommon as you might think.” He swiveled to face his desk and began paging through his appointment book. “I happen to have an opening as of this morning—a full hour free every Thursday afternoon. That should work nicely for us, Mr. Saint Just. Let me just pencil you in?”

“I don't believe it will be necessary for us to meet again, thank you,” Saint Just said, seating himself in the chair beside the large desk and placing his cane against the corner. “I am here on a hypothetical.”

Dr. Chalfont smiled knowingly, and then quickly covered his mouth as he faked a cough. “I see. You're here for a
friend
?”

“If that makes you more comfortable, certainly—I'm here on behalf of a friend,” Saint Just said, fingering a brass paperweight in the shape of a fat goldfish. “This hypothetical, if you please? Would you consider, for instance, a person who sends a vaguely threatening letter to be a real danger to, as you say, my
friend
?”

Dr. Chalfont punched at the bridge of his glasses once more. “What sort of threatening letter? You'll have to elaborate.”

“Certainly. A badly composed poem containing a vague threat, tucked up with the badly decomposing body of a rat. Would you consider that to be a warning of worse to come, or the onetime communication from, shall we say, a disgruntled admirer, so that this friend should not overreact to the incident, as some might unfortunately do? In your educated opinion.”