Protect Me, Love Part 8

"No," she said after the details came clear again. "I'm fine."

If Nick was taken aback by how much that differed from her earlier insistence on the urgency of his errand, he didn't let it show. Instead he turned her toward him before they left the shelter of the Tivoli entryway and wound her scarf back around her neck to s.h.i.+eld her from the storm.

"Good," he said. "That's what I wanta"for you to be fine."

The deep timbre of his voice pulsed through her like warm, vibrating sunlight. That sensation remained with her for a long moment. Not till it had worn off did she think to ask if he'd had any trouble finding the pills at her apartment. They were heading down the block by then. As they hurried on, Nick told her what had happened to him. She was still exclaiming with concern when they reached the cafe. The first thing she did after they'd ducked inside was to pull off first her glove, then the baseball cap he was wearing and start feeling behind his left ear where he said he'd been struck.

Her fingers touched the lump and circled it carefully. She was so intent on checking for any break in the skin or sign of blood and so relieved to find none that she didn't notice right away how tenderly he was smiling down at her. His dark hair was tousled from her pulling his cap off, and a thick lock had fallen across his forehead. Her fingers moved from behind his ear to lift that lock and smooth it gently back into place. He smiled more tenderly still, and she felt herself drifting into the spell of that smile.

"Welcome to Kavehaz," a friendly voice said from just beyond the soft cloud of Delia's reverie. "May I take your things?"

She turned slowly toward the young man in black who stood smiling expectantly next to them. What things could he be talking about, and why would he want to take them? Fortunately, Nick was apparently less entranced than she. He'd already begun unwinding her scarf. Delia came back to her senses enough to help out by removing her other glove, stuffing it into her pocket and unb.u.t.toning her coat. Her cap was the last to come off. She'd had her hair tucked up underneath. It tumbled free now, dampened into wavy strands around her face, oblivious to how hard she'd worked over the years to tame it straight and smooth. Nick was still beaming down at her. He'd taken off his own gloves by now and reached up to touch her cheek.

"You are absolutely beautiful," he said.

Delia forgot all about the waiter then and gazed up into Nick's ruddy, handsome face and glowing eyes. "So are you," she whispered.

The waiter cleared his throat, but when Delia recalled his presence enough to glance his way he didn't look the least bit impatient. He was still smiling. She glanced around the restaurant, as well. n.o.body was watching, and if they had been, Delia suspected they'd he smiling, too. This was Soho, after all, perhaps more amenable than places farther uptown to unorthodox behavior, such as lovers lost in gazing into each other's eyes even before they'd taken off theft coats. Delia liked this place already, even before she looked around farther and saw how pleasant it was.

What caught her attention first was the art on the walls, paintings and photographs so well executed and interesting that she was tempted to walk over and look at the an more closely. However, Nick had taken her arm and was guiding her along in the waiter's wake. Comfortable-looking couches faced each other across a long coffee table in the front of the room. A young woman with blond, straight hair down her back sat on one of the couches sketching on a large pad, a gla.s.s of wine on the coffee table in front of her. Delia was fascinated. She would have liked to peek to see what the artist was working on, but the waiter had already led them beyond the couches to a cozy, marble-topped table near the wall.

After being seated, Delia took a moment to settle into the charm of the placea"soft lighting over the bar, other grouping of couches toward the back of where several people, all fas.h.i.+onably dressed in keyed downtown style, chatted among White pin lights here and there were a subtle but ful reminder of the holiday season. Delia self to relax for what felt like the first time in forever. She almost forgot about being a a former life, and about being stalked. She even forgot what she'd been so eager to tell Nick they'd collided in front of the Tivoli.

"Oh, yes," she exclaimed. "You'll never happened."

She was only partly aware of gus.h.i.+ng somewhat ishly or of how incongruous that was with to say. Meanwhile, Nick was still smiling at her the candlelit table.

"I think I know who put that guy on my night," she continued. "I just saw her down Seaport."

Chapter Sixteen.

Nick stared at her across the narrow table. He'd put out of his mind for a while how mad she'd made him by slipping off on her own. Now that tight, hot feeling was right under his surface again. He vowed to keep it there.

"The Seaport? Are you talking about South Street Seaport? What were you doing down there on a night like this? The place must have been completely deserted."

"It was. The snow made it look like a white desert on a riverbank."

Nick ignored the poetic description. "Delia, you know better than this. A deserted spot is the most dangerous place of all for you to be."

"I know that, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you worry."

Worry was too small a word for what she'd put him through. And, once again, he found himself doubting her words. She knew exactly how he'd react to knowing she was off somewhere in the night by herself. She knew that would drive him crazy, and he had a hard time believing she hadn't meant it to happen. He wondered, as he had too many times before, just how much truth there was in some of the things she said to him.

"So, what were you doing down there? Thinking about taking a boat tour of the harbor?" He couldn't help the sarcasm.

She looked at him in that studying way she had. She was doing it again, he could tell, deciding how much of the real story she wanted to tell him. He sighed and let his exasperation be tempered by how beautiful she was with her hair a halo of candlelight and her cheeks still rosy from her trek through the snow. She looked up then at the waiter hovering nearby. Nick had been gazing directly into her eyes. He was relieved to have the spell of that gaze broken for a moment. He found it difficult to think sensibly around her too much of the time, and sensible thinking had to be top priority here. "Let's order," he said, picking up the menu. Whatever she was or wasn't going to tell him wouldn't change in the few minutes it took to satisfy -the waiter and send him on his way. Besides, Nick was hungry. He was a hearty eater most of the time, and meals had been few and far between since he hooked up with Delia. He was surprised at how little that had bothered him. He must have been living on something else besides food. He wasn't yet ready to think about exactly what that something might be.

"The cooking's good here," he said.

She nodded as she read through the menu one item at a time.

"I feel like I'm having my first meal after a long fast, and I have to be very particular about what I choose,"

she said.

He didn't answer though he felt a little of that himself. He guessed her real priority was to divert his attention from the Seaport question for as long as possible. He ordered fast as a signal he wasn't about to be taken in by that tactic. I'll1 take the grilled chicken," he said. The waiters here usually spic led off a list of specials at about this time, including just about every ingredient used in preparing each dish. Something in Nick's att.i.tude must have alerted their waiter against doing that, because he simply jotted down Nick's order on a pad then turned toward Delia. "What's on the pfit plate?" she asked. Nick sat on his impatience the best he could while the waiter described the mixed salad, special mustard and whatever else came with the d.a.m.ned pfit. Why would she want to eat liver on a night like this, anyway? "That sounds fine," she said at last. "I'll have the pfit plate She handed her menu to the waiter then turned back to Nick. Her smile seemed to brighten the candlelight and almost threw him off course in his determination to get this conversation back on track. "I wanted to order something I don't often have because this feels like such a special night." Her smile beamed even brighter. She's good, Nick thought. She has the makings of a first-cla.s.s con artist. Of course, that's pretty much what she'd been these past five years. He didn't like to admit to himself what pretending on a full-time basis could have done to her basic sense of honesty.

Unfortunately, he had to remain aware of exactly that and not forget it for a minute. Keeping her alive could depend on figuring out the difference between her truths and her not-so-truths. Whatever else about himself might be affected by whether or not he could trust her was yet another area he wasn't ready to get into.

"Do you come here much?" she was asking.

Nick almost didn't answer. He could cut her off instead. The abruptness of his response all but did that.

"Once in a while but not too often," he said. "I go everywhere once in a while but not too often."

"Is that your habit with relations.h.i.+ps, too?"

He'd been about to snap her back to her Seaport story, but her question and the sincere way she asked it took him totally by surprise.

"I don't have any relations.h.i.+ps," he said before he could think if he really wanted to be that candid, or sound that pathetic, either.

She reached across the table, past the bud vase of fresh flowers and the gla.s.sware twinkling with reflections of candle flame. She took his hand, and Nick was lost. His barrier of determination began to dissolve as surely as sugar would dissolve in the Ceylon a she'd ordered to go with her pate. She didn't say anything for a while. She just sat there with her hand gently covering his. She wasn't looking at him, only into the candle flame. Finally she spoke in a voice barely loud enough for him to hear.

"I know you want to talk about where I went tonight and why I went there. I'm going to tell you all of that now."

Nick almost turned his hand over to grab hers, but he understood he mustn't disturb the delicacy of this moment. He also understood that she'd made her decision. He could only hope that decision was to trust him. As for himself, her closeness and the touch of her hand was having such a profound effect on him that he had to concentrate on not leaping up from his chair to take her in his arms. His heart was slamming so hard in his chest he wondered if she could hear it.

"I received a message earlier, when I picked up my mail," she began.

Nick forced himself not to jump in with the many questions that came to mind.

"It was an invitation to a meeting tonight at the Seaport. It wasn't signed."

And you went anyway? Nick wanted to shout, but he didn't.

"I know it seems crazy for me to have run off down there by myself on the strength of that alone," she said, as if she might have read his mind. "But the card in my mail referred to me by a nickname only my father used. A private name between just the two of us."

"But your father's dead." The words popped out before Nick could stop them.

"Not for me," she said even more quickly. "In my heart, he's still very much alive. That's what I found out last night when I got the gla.s.s angel as a gift. It's so like one he gave me when I was a little girl."

Again, Nick wanted to bolt out of his seat and brace away the sadness that was so audible even in her very quiet voice.

"Don't be sad for me," she said, once more as if she'd divined his thoughts. "It's a good thing really, in a way. I'd kept myself from thinking about my father for so long that I'd all but lost him. I feel like I've got him back again."

Nick did turn his hand over now. He closed her smaller hand gently into his larger one, and she let him do so. The candlelight glistened in what might have been tears at the corners of her eyes. He wished he didn't have to press her further.

"But it wasn't your father at the Seaport, was it?" he asked as tenderly as he could.

" " No, it wasn't ." "

"Then who was it? You said you recognized somebody there."

Delia sighed and pulled her fingers away from his. All of a sudden, his hand had never felt so empty before.

"There were two people actually," she said, "but I only saw one of them clearly. The first was just a re-flection in the front of a telephone.

I'm only certain it was a man. Maybe it was the guy from the Waldorf, maybe not. He ran away when he saw the other one coming across the street toward us." "What other one?" " "The woman." "

Nick couldn't help being impatient for the details. What woman? What woman? he wanted to shout. Delia's subdued manner kept him from speaking. She'd been so bright and buoyant when they arrived here. She'd lost that brightness now. Nick wished he could carry her back to those elated moments and rearrange the world so she could stay there. Unfortunately, all he could do was listen and allow her to tell her story at her own pace.

"The woman was Penelope Wren," Delia said next. "Did you know her?"

"From Denver?" Nick searched his memory. The name did sound familiar.

Delia nodded. "She was Tobias Wren's wife."

"I remember now. I dealt with Tobias, but I didn't have much to do with her. That's why I didn't recognize the name right off."

The Wrens had been the caretaker couple at the Lester estate. As Nick recalled, Tobias was in charge of the grounds, and his wife was in charge of the house. They'd taken charge of Rebecca, as well, after her father and stepmother were killed. Edward Lester's will provided for the Wrens to do that. "Are you sure it was her?" Nick asked. "Absolutely positive. I saw her face very clearly. She looked exactly the same, and I have my reasons for not forgetting what she looked like." "What reasons?" Nick had to wait for his answer till after the waiter, who had just returned, set their plates down in front of them. I'll1 never forget Penelope Wren or mistake somebody else for her," Delia said when they were alone again, "because I've always suspected she and Tobias might have had something to do with framing me for Morty Lancer's murder." "Are you thinking the Wrens killed him?" "Not on their own, but they could have been paid by someone else to help out somehow, especially with making it look like I was the killer. The Wrens had copies of all the keys and free access to the house, more so than just about anybody else." "I see." That sounded a little more possible to Nick. As he remembered it, she was right about that unlimited access. "Didn't they have a kid with medical problems that cost them a lot of money?" He was already thinking in terms of motive. Delia nodded with renewed vigor. "Exactly. And there's something else I remember, too." "What's that?" "Penelope Wren is a small woman with very small hands, just like the ones that left prints on my windowsill."

"You're right. She was very small." Nick knew he had to be careful not to jump to conclusions, but this was the first real lead they'd had.

"Unfortunately, I have no idea how to go about finding her again," Delia said.

"Well, first of all, we can a.s.sume she chose the Seaport as a meeting place because she-knows the vicinity." This was Nick's area of expertise. Even though he was a bodyguard now, not a detective, he still thought like one. "She may live or work near there."

"That doesn't narrow it down much. The Seaport is only blocks away from the financial district and hundreds of companies she could be working for."

"It's not very likely that she's a broker or a trader. We could try to track her down by way of what she might be instead, but before we do that there's a much simpler place to begin. Come with me?"

Nick got up from the table. Delia hesitated before following while she looked longingly at her dinner plate.

"We'll be right back," Nick said. "We're only going to the telephone."

She did follow him then, out of the table area, past the bar to an alcove between the dining room and rest rooms. There was a pay phone on the wall. Unfortunately, there was no phone book, as is so often the case with New York City public telephones. Nick picked up the receiver. When he heard the tone begin, he dialled 4-1-1 and waited till the Information operator answered.

"Do you have a Penelope Wren in Manhattan, possibly in Lower Manhattan?

And if she isn't listed, could you please check for Tobias Wren?"

Nick spelled out the last name then said what amounted to a silent prayer for the result they needed.

Maybe it was the prayer that did the trick because when the operator came back on the line she said there was, in fact, a Penelope Wren listed on Water Street.

"What street number would that be?" he asked. Sometimes Manhattan operators got impatient with being used as an address service. Sometimes they even refused to give out that information, but Nick's prayer was apparently still in effect because this operator pa.s.sed on the number he needed without so much as a hint of exasperation in her voice. Nick committed the address to memory along with the phone number that followed, from a recorded voice this time.

"Bingo," he said to Delia after he'd hung up the phone. "We've got her, and she does live in the Seaport neighborhood."

Delia smiled and nodded. "So, can we eat first before we go after her?

I'm starved."

"We can definitely eat first," Nick said.

He was also thinking about some other things they could do first, when they got back to his hotel room, though he knew he shouldn't be. As he watched the dance of candlelight in Delia's eyes, Nick wondered if the search for Penelope Wren couldn't wait until tomorrow. Delia's slow smile made him wonder further if she might be feeling the same.

EVEN BEFORE they left the cafe, Delia had begun to think about how much she wanted to touch him. She ate much faster than was usually her habit. Of course, usually she'd be eating alone and did so slowly to stretch out the time. She did that to make each meal feel at least a little like the social event it couldn't be. Tonight was different.

She cut the pfit wedges with her fork and slipped them into her mouth almost one after the other. She tasted their deep, interesting flavor only slightly. She'd ordered this dish in an automatic throwback to times past, when she'd try to eat something out of the ordinary at a meal marking a special occasion, as if that would make the experience stand out even more in her mind. Tonight, however, her special delicacy turned out to be nothing but an obstacle between herself and the delicacy she really most wanteda"a private place with Nick by her side.

Probably, they should be taking off after the Wrens fight now, but Delia was tired of stalking and being stalked. The cloak and dagger of these past few days had left her longing for a bit of normal human life if only for a few hours till the chase began again. She suspected Nick's diligence would make him try to convince her otherwise. She also suspected she could distract him from that resolve, at least for tonight. The truth about Tobias and Penelope Wren, whatever that might be, would still be around for the uncovering tomorrow morning.

By the time they got back to Nick's hotel room, Delia was actually feeling waves of warmth ebbing and rippling through her, like water over parched earth. She'd never been even remotely close to this filled with desire, not even five years ago when she'd first met Nick and found him so irresistible. She'd been able to keep herself under control then. She had nothing like that control now. In fact, she'd decided that if Nick put up any resistance to making love with her tonight, she'd force herself on him anyway. Fortunately, she sensed that wouldn't be necessary.

He'd matched his dining pace to hers back at the cafe, then snapped his fingers impatiently for the waiter when they'd finished as much of the meal as they could force themselves to eat. After that, they'd both fumbled quickly into their coats and braved the storm with m.u.f.flers still unwound. They'd hurried, down the street toward the Tivoli despite the danger of possible slippery patches under the snow, with Nick holding her firmly under the elbow against a fall.

Consequently, she wasn't surprised when Nick closed and locked the door of his room then turned and swept her into his arms, all in a single motion. They kisseda"his mouth over hers, her tongue seeking hisa"oblivious to hats and scarves and the smell of wet wool until the heat they were generating inside their coc.o.o.ns of outerwear became unbearable. They began undressing each other then, unwrapping the layers from each other's swaddled bodies with urgency, like children pulling paper from Christmas packages to get to the treasure underneath.

Nick had less on than Delia did. Still, he was making better progress. He had her coat open in no time, his fingers sliding from one b.u.t.ton to the next like a rapid fire. Then the wet, oversize garment was off her shoulders and sliding down her arms to the floor. Almost instantly, her sweater was lifted over her head, as well. Then her turtleneck had been pulled up across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She could apply herself only sporadically to her own task of undressing him. He kept her hands and arms too busy for that. She welcomed what he was doing all the same, and not only because the air of the room felt much cooler and more soothing on her skin than the layers of humid clothing had. Even more welcome and wonderful was the way each graze of his fingers along her flesh brought with it tingles and flashes that acted like firecrackers and skyrockets in her blood, sending it crackling and surging to the most private part of her. She could barely breathe from the intensity of the sensation.

While Nick moved on to the b.u.t.ton at the top of her jeans, Delia pulled down the zipper of his jacket. She knew she could never have managed b.u.t.tons as fast as he had. Her hands were trembling too much for that, and her fingers were difficult to control, almost as if they belonged to someone else. Still she managed to force him to stop undressing her while she pushed his jacket over his shoulders, gasping at their hard round-ness, then down his arms where she could feel the taut sinews even through his sweater. She set immediately to removing that sweater and the T-s.h.i.+rt underneath before Nick could get in her way by busying himself with her jeans once more.

As she was doing all of that, he'd begun trailing kisses down her bared and highly sensitized neck, beginning just behind her earlobe and continuing in a maddening advance toward her shoulder. She gasped at that, too, and moaned deep in her throat, so low she might have thought she imagined the sound if she hadn't felt its echo in her bones. Until his lips touched her shoulder blade and the hollow above it, Delia'd never guessed she was capable of so much feeling there. She couldn't wait to be naked against him. She reached behind her to unclasp her bra and shrugged to help him ease the straps from her shoulders. He pulled away from her just long enough to peel the pale lace from her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

He might have stopped to touch her there, but that wasn't what she wanted right now. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him close, crus.h.i.+ng her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his chest and moving her body just enough from side to side to feel the tantalizing torture of his dark chest hair across her nipples. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s agonized for that friction, that pleasure that was almost pain, as if they must have been longing for him for years. She pressed into him farther down, as well, maneuvering her leg between his and rubbing against his groin. He raised his mouth from her throat and groaned. Under other circ.u.mstances Delia might have been taken aback, even frightened by the animal quality of that sound. Now, she reveled in its resonance with her own low moaning. She let herself go limp as Nick lifted her, seemingly without effort, into his arms and carried her to the bed.

Chapter Seventeen.

The morning dawned glorious both in- and outside Nick's cozy room at the Tivoli. Delia opened the curtains to a vista of pure white rooftops sparkling in the sun. The dinginess of the city had been frosted clean overnight, and she felt the same. How could she be happy at a time like this with her life in peril and so many crucial questions remaining, not to mention the threat of imprisonment or worse forever looming? Once again, just like yesterday morning at the Waldorf, the answer lay on the bed where Nick still slept. She'd truly never met anyone like him. She probably never would again. Still she knew such thoughts must wait until her future, if she had one, could be made secure. After all, some of those crucial questions were about him. He turned toward her then as if that skeptical thought of hers might have startled him awake, or maybe it was only the sun brightening through the window.

"Good morning," he said with a sleepy smile that nearly sent her leaping across the room to him.

They'd made love several times last night. Delia felt very well-loved this morning, more so than ever before in her life. His smile reminded her of that, and all doubt about him disappeared, at least for the moment.

"Are you coming over here, or do I have to leave this warm bed and bring you back myself?"