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thinking that s.l.u.t would take you in."
Conroy glanced over, burped, and went back to his fleas.
"One trip to the vet," Michael muttered as he spooned up cereal. "Just
one trip and a couple of snips, and your letching days are over."
Pleased that he'd had the last word, Michael opened the paper.
There was the usual business about the Middle East, the latest in
terrorism. Some routine b.i.t.c.hing about the economy. Beneath the fold
in section B was an article about the capture and arrest of one Nick
Axelrod, a small-time second-story man who had hopped himself up on PCP
and axed his lover.
"Here's the guy," Michael said, holding out the paper for Conroy's
perusal. "Found him in an apartment downtown, shooting up the walls and
screaming for Jesus. See, here's my name. Detective Michael
Kettlerung. Yeah, I know, I know, but it's supposed to be my name. If
you're not interested in current events, why don't you do something
useful, like getting my cigarettes. Go on, fetch."
Moaning, Conroy started off. He tried a limp, but Michael had gone back
to the paper and wasn't paying attention. Scratching his bare chest,
Michael turned to the Entertainment section.
His fingers curled in, fisted, and held against his heart as he stared
at the picture.
It was Emma. She looked-G.o.d, he thought, she looked outrageous. That
shy little smile, those huge, quiet eyes. She was wearing
some skimpy strapless dress, and her hair was down, raining over her
shoulders in thick, wild waves.
There was an arm over her shoulders as well, and the arm was attached to
a man. Michael tore his eyes from Emma's face long enough to stare at
the man.
Drew Latimer. His brain connected face and name. He was smiling, too.
Positively tucking beaming, Michael thought. He s.h.i.+fted back to Emma,
studying every inch, every angle of her face for a long time. Conroy
came in and dumped a s...o...b..ry pack of Winstons on his lap. But he didn't
move.
Very slowly, as if it were a foreign language, he read the headline.
RocK PRINCESS ENMA McAvoy
MAMES HER PRINCE
In a secret ceremony two days ago, Emma McAvoy,
daughter of Devastation's Brian McAvoy and author Jane
Palmer, married Drew Latimer, twenty-six, lead singer and
guitarist for the rising rock group, Birdcage Walk. The newlyweds met
on Devastation's recent European tour.
Michael didn't read any more. Couldn't. "Jesus, Emma." He closed his
eyes and let the paper fall back to the table. "Oh, Jesus."
EMmA WAS THRiuED to be back in New York. She could hardly wait to show
off the city to Drew, and to spend their first Christmas together in the
loft.
It hadn't mattered to her that their plane had been late, or that a fine
icy sleet had been falling. They would have four weeks for the
honeymoon that had been delayed by the completion of Drew's new alb.u.m.
She wanted to spend that time in New York, in her home, as she made the
