Ten
The moment Michael left, Pandora turned the heavy bolt on the main door. Though it had taken them the better part of an hour, she was grateful he'd insisted on checking all the doors and windows with her. The house, with Pandora safely in it, was locked up tight.
It was entirely too quiet.
In defense, Pandora went to the kitchen and began rattling pots and pans. She had to be alone, but she didn't have to be idle. She wanted to be with Michael, to stand by him when he faced the break-in of his apartment. Was it as frustrating for him to go on alone, she wondered, as it was for her to stay behind? It couldn't be helped. There were two old people in the house who couldn't be left. And they needed to eat.
The chicken was to have been a joint effort and a respite from the haphazard meals they'd managed to date. Michael had claimed to know at least the basics of deep frying. While he'd volunteered to deal with the chicken, she'd been assigned to try her hand at mashing potatoes. She'd thought competition if nothing else would have improved the end result.
Pandora resigned herself to a solo and decided the effort of cooking would keep her mind off fresh trouble. Needing company, she switched on the tuner on the kitchen wall unit and fiddled with the dial until she found a country-music station. Dolly Parton bubbled out brightly. Satisfied, she pulled one of Sweeney's cookbooks from the shelf and began to search the index. Fried chicken went on picnics, she mused. How much trouble could it be?
She had two counters crowded and splattered, and flour up to her wrists when the phone rang. Using a dishcloth, Pandora plucked the receiver from the kitchen extension. Her foot was tapping to a catchy rendition of "On the Road Again,"
"Hello."
"Pandora McVie?"
Her mind on more immediate matters, Pandora stretched the cord to the counter and picked up a drumstick. "Yes."
"Listen carefully."
"Can you speak up?" Tongue caught between her teeth, Pandora dipped the drumstick in her flour mixture. "I can't hear you very well."
"I have to warn you and there's not much time. You're in danger. You're not safe in that house, not alone."
The cookbook slid to the floor and landed on her foot. "What? Who is this?"
"Just listen. You're alone because it was arranged. Someone's going to try to break in tonight."
"Someone?" She shifted the phone and listened hard. It wasn't malice she detected, but nervousness. Whoever was on the other end was as shaky as she was. She was certain—almost certain—it was a man's voice. "If you're trying to frighten me—"
"I'm trying to warn you. When I found out..." Already low and indistinct, the voice became hesitant. "You shouldn't have sent the champagne. I don't like what's going on, but it won't stop. No one was going to be hurt, do you understand? But I'm afraid of what might happen next."
Pandora felt fear curl in her stomach. Outside the kitchen windows it was dark, pitch-dark. She was alone in the house with two old, sick servants. "If you're afraid, tell me who you are. Help me stop what's going on."
"I'm already risking everything by warning you. You don't understand. Get out, just get out of the house."
It was a ploy, she told herself. A ploy to make her leave. Pandora straightened her shoulders, but her gaze shifted from blank window to blank window. "I'm not going anywhere. If you want to help, tell me who I should be afraid of."
"Just get out," the voice repeated before the line went dead.
Pandora stood holding the silent receiver. The oil in the fryer had begun to sizzle, competing with the radio. Watching the windows, listening, she hung up the phone. It was a trick, she told herself. It was only a trick to get her out of the house in hopes she'd be frightened enough to stay out. She wouldn't be shooed away by a quivering voice on the telephone.
Besides, Michael had already called the police. They knew she was alone in the house. At the first sign of trouble, she only had to pick up the phone.
Her hands weren't completely steady, but she went back to cooking with a vengeance. She slipped coated chicken into the fryer, tested the potatoes she had cooking, then decided a little glass of wine while she worked was an excellent idea. She was pouring it when Bruno raced into the room to run around her feet.
"Bruno." Pandora crouched and gathered the dog close. He felt warm, solid. "I'm glad you're here," she murmured. But for a moment, she allowed herself to wish desperately for Michael.
Bruno licked her face, made a couple of clumsy leaps toward the counter, then dashed to the door. Jumping up against it, he began to bark.
"Now?" Pandora demanded. "I don't suppose you could wait until morning."
Bruno raced back to Pandora, circled her then raced back to the door. When he'd gone through the routine three times, she relented. The phone call had been no more than a trick, a clumsy one at that. Besides, she told herself as she turned the lock, it wouldn't hurt to open the door and take a good look outside.
The moment she opened it, Bruno jumped out and tumbled into the snow. He began to sniff busily while Pandora stood shivering in the opening and straining her eyes against the dark. Music and the smells of cooking poured out behind her.
There was nothing. She hugged herself against the cold and decided she hadn't expected to see anything. The snow was settled, the stars bright and the woods quiet. It was as it should have been; a very ordinary evening in the country. She took a deep breath of winter air and started to call the dog back. They saw the movement at the edge of the woods at the same time.
Just a shadow, it seemed to separate slowly from a tree and take on its own shape. A human shape. Before Pandora could react, Bruno began to bark and plow through the snow.
"No, Bruno! Come back." Without giving herself a chance to think, Pandora grabbed the old pea coat that hung beside the door and threw it on. As an afterthought, she reached for a cast-iron skillet before bolting through the door after her dog. "Bruno!"
He was already at the edge of the woods and hot on the trail. Picking up confidence as she went, Pandora raced in pursuit. Whoever had been watching the house had run at the sight of the clumsy, overgrown puppy. She'd found she was susceptible to fear, but she refused to be frightened by a coward. With as much enthusiasm as Bruno, Pandora sprinted into the woods. Out of breath and feeling indestructible, she paused long enough to look around and listen. For a moment there was nothing, then off to the right, she heard barking and thrashing.
"Get 'em, Bruno!" she shouted, and headed toward the chaos. Excited by the chase, she called encouragement to the dog, changing direction when she heard his answering bark. As she ran, snow dropped from the branches to slide cold and wet down the back of her neck. The barking grew wilder, and in her rush, Pandora fell headlong over a downed tree. Spitting out snow and swearing, she struggled to her knees. Bruno bounded out of the woods and sent her sprawling again.
"Not me." Flat on her back, Pandora shoved at the dog. "Dammit, Bruno, if you don't—" She broke off when the dog stiffened and began to growl. Sprawled on the snow, Pandora looked up and saw the shadow move through the trees. She forgot she was too proud to fear a coward.
Though her hands were numb from cold, she gripped the handle of the skillet and, standing, inched her way along toward the nearest tree. Struggling to keep her breathing quiet, she braced herself for attack and defense. Relative or stranger, she'd hold her own. But her knees were shaking. Bruno tensed and hurled himself forward. The moment he did, Pandora lifted the skillet high and prepared to swing.
"What the hell's going on?"
"Michael!" The skillet landed in the snow with a plop as she followed Bruno's lead and hurled herself forward. Giddy with relief, she plastered kisses over Michael's face. "Oh, Michael, I'm so glad it's you."
"Yeah. You sure looked pleased when you were hefting that skillet. Run out of hair spray?"
"It was handy." Abruptly she drew back and glared at him. "Dammit, Michael, you scared me to death. You're supposed to be halfway to New York, not skulking around the woods."
"And you're supposed to be locked in the house."
"I would've been if you hadn't been skulking in the woods. Why?"
In an offhanded gesture, he brushed snow from her face. "I got ten miles away, and I couldn't get rid of this bad feeling. It was too pat. I decided to stop at a gas station and phone my neighbor."
"But your apartment."
"I talked to the police, gave them a list of my valuables. We'll both run into New York in a day or two." Snow was scattered through her hair and matted to her coat. He thought of what might have happened and resisted the urge to shake her. "I couldn't leave you alone."
"I'm going to start believing you're chivalrous after all." She kissed him. "That explains why you're not in New York, but what were you doing in the woods?"
"Just a hunch." He bent to retrieve the frying pan. A good whack with that, he discovered, and he'd have been down for the count.
"The next time you have a hunch, don't stand at the edge of the woods and stare at the house."
"I wasn't." Michael took her arm and headed back toward the house. He wanted her inside again, behind locked doors.
"I saw you."
"I don't know who you saw." Disgusted, Michael looked back at the dog. "But if you hadn't let the dog out we'd both know. I decided to check around outside before coming in, and I saw footprints. I followed them around, then cut into the woods." He glanced over his shoulder, still right with tension. "I was just coming up behind whoever made them when Bruno tried his attack. I started chasing." He swore and slapped a palm against the skillet. "I was gaining when this hound ran between my legs and sent me face first into the snow. About that time, you started yelling at the dog. Whoever I was chasing had enough time to disappear."
Pandora swore and kicked at the snow. "If you'd let me know what was going on, we could've worked together."
"I didn't know what was going on until it was already happening. In any case, the deal was you'd stay inside with the doors locked."
"The dog had to go out," Pandora muttered. "And I had this phone call." She looked back over her shoulder and sighed. "Someone called to warn me."
"Who?"
"I don't know. I thought it was a man's voice, but—I'm just not sure."
Michael's hand tightened on her arm. "Did he threaten you?"
"No, no it wasn't like a threat. Whoever it was certainly seemed to know what's been going on and isn't happy about it. That much was clear. He—she said someone was going to try to break into the Folley, and I should get out."
"And, of course, you handled that by running into the woods with a skillet. Pandora." This time he did shake her. "Why didn't you call the police?"
"Because I thought it was another trick and it made me mad." She sent Michael a stubborn look. "Yes, it frightened me at first, then it just plain made me mad. I don't like intimidation. When I looked out and saw someone near the woods, I only wanted to fight back."
"Admirable," he said but took her shoulders. "Stupid."
"You were doing the same thing."
"It's not the same thing. You've got brains, you've got style. I'll even give you guts. But, cousin, you're not a heavyweight. What if you'd caught up with whoever was out there and they wanted to play rough?"
"I can play rough, too," Pandora muttered.
"Fine." With a quick move, he hooked a foot behind hers and sent her bottom first into the snow. She didn't have the opportunity to complain before he was standing over her, gesturing with the skillet. Bruno decided it was a game and leaped on top of her. "I might've come back tomorrow and found you half-buried in the snow." Before she could speak, he hauled her to her feet again. "I'm not risking that."
"You caught me off balance," she began.
"Shut up." He had her by the shoulders again, and this time his grip wasn't gentle. "You're too important, Pandora, I'm through taking chances. We're going inside and calling the cops. We're going to tell them everything."
"What can they do?"
"We'll find out."
She let out a long breath, then leaned against him. The chase might have been exciting, but her knees had yet to stop shaking. "Okay, maybe you're right. We're no farther along now than when we started."
"Calling the police isn't giving up, it's just changing the odds. I might not have come back here tonight, Pandora. The dog may not have frightened anyone off. You'd have been alone." He took both her hands, pressing them to his lips and warming them. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you."
Confused by the sense of pleasure his words gave her, she tried to draw her hands away. "I can
take care
of myself, Michael."
take care
of myself, Michael."
He smiled but didn't let go. "Maybe. But you're not going to have the chance to find out. Let's go home. I'm hungry."
"Typical," she began, needing to lighten the mood. "You'd think of your stomach—oh my God, the chicken!" Breaking away, Pandora loped toward the house.
"I'm not that hungry." Michael sprinted after her. The relief came again when he scooped her up into his arms. When he'd heard her shout in the woods, had realized she was outside and vulnerable, his blood had simply stopped flowing. "In fact," he said as he scooped her up, "I can think of more pressing matters than eating."
"Michael." She struggled, but laughed. "If you don't put me down, there won't be a kitchen to eat in."
"We'll eat somewhere else."
"I left the pan on. There's probably nothing left of the chicken but charred bones."
"There's always soup." With that, he pushed open the kitchen door.
Rather than a smoky, splattered mess, they found a platter piled high with crisp, brown chicken. Sweeney had wiped up the spills, and had the pans soaking in the sink.
"Sweeney." From her perch in Michael's arms, Pandora surveyed the room. "What are you doing out of bed?"
"My job," she said briskly, but gave them a quick sidelong look. As far as she was concerned, her plans were working perfectly. She imagined Pandora and Michael had decided to take a little air while dinner was cooking, and, as young people would, had forgotten the time.
"You're supposed to be in bed," Pandora reminded her.
"Posh. I've been in bed long enough." And the days of little or no activity had nearly bored her to tears. It was worth it, however, to see Pandora snug in Michael's arms. "Feeling fit as a fiddle now, I promise you. Wash up for dinner."
Michael and Pandora each took separate and careful studies. Sweeney's cheeks were pink and round, her eyes bright. She bustled from counter to counter in her old businesslike fashion. "We still want you to take it easy," Michael decided. "No heavy work."
"That's right. Michael and I'll take care of the washing up." She saw him scowl, just a little, and patted his shoulder. "We like to do it."
At Michael and Pandora's insistence, all four ate in the kitchen. Charles, sitting next to Sweeney, was left uncertain how much he should cough and settled on a middle road, clearing his throat every so often. In an unspoken agreement, Pandora and Michael decided to keep the matter of trespassers to themselves. Both of them felt the announcement that someone was watching the house would be too upsetting for the two old people while they were recuperating.
On the surface, dinner was an easy meal, but Pandora kept wondering how soon they could nudge the servants along to bed and contact the police. More than once, Pandora caught Sweeney looking from her to Michael with a smug smile. Sweet old lady, Pandora mused, innocently believing the cook to be pleased to have her kitchen back. It made Pandora only more determined to protect her and Charles from any unpleasantness. She concentrated on cleaning up and packing them off to bed, and it was nearly nine before she was able to meet Michael in the parlor.
"Settled?"
She heard the familiar restlessness in his voice and merely nodded, pouring a brandy. "It's a bit like cajoling children, but I managed to find a Cary Grant movie that interested them." She sipped the brandy, waiting for her muscles to relax with it. "I'd rather be watching it myself."
"Another time." Michael took a sip from her snifter. "I've called the police. They'll be here shortly."
She took the glass back. "It still bothers me to take the business to outsiders. After all, anything beyond simple trespass is speculation."
"We'll let the police speculate."
She managed to smile. "Your Logan always handles things on his own."
"Someone told me once that that was just fiction." He poured himself a brandy and toasted her. "I discovered I don't like having you in the middle of a story line."
The brandy and firelight gave the evening an illusion of normalcy. Pandora took his statement with a shrug. "You seem to have developed a protect-the-woman syndrome, Michael. It's not like you."
"Maybe not." He tossed back a gulp. "It's different when it's my woman."
She turned, brow lifted. It was ridiculous to feel pleasure at such a foolish and possessive term. "Yours?"
"Mine." He cupped the back of her neck with his hand. "Got a problem with that?"
Her heart beat steadily in her throat until she managed to swallow. Maybe he meant it—now. In a few months when he was back moving in his own world, with his own people, she'd be no more than his somewhat annoying cousin. But for now, just for now, maybe he meant it. "I'm not sure."
"Give it some thought," he advised before he lowered his mouth to hers. "We'll come back to it."
He left her flustered and went to answer the door.
When he returned, Pandora was sitting calmly enough in a high-backed chair near the fire. "Lieutenant Randall, Pandora McVie."
"How d'you do?" The lieutenant pulled off a wool muffler and stuck it in his coat pocket. He looked, Pandora thought, like someone's grandfather. Comfy, round and balding. "Miserable night," he announced, and situated himself near the fire.
"Would you like some coffee, Lieutenant?"
Randall gave Pandora a grateful look. "Love it."
"Please, have a seat. I'll be back in a minute."
She took her time heating coffee and arranging cups and saucers on a tray. Not putting off, Pandora insisted, just preparing. She'd never had occasion to talk to a policeman on any subject more complex than a parking ticket. She'd come out on the short end on that one. Now, she was about to discuss her family and her relationship with Michael.
Her relationship with Michael, she thought again as she fussed with the sugar bowl. That's what really had her hiding in the kitchen. She hadn't yet been able to dull the feeling that had raced through her when he'd called her his woman. Adolescent, Pandora told herself. It was absolutely absurd to feel giddy and self-satisfied and unnerved because a man had looked at her with passion in his eyes.
But they'd been Michael's eyes.
She found linen napkins and folded them into triangles. She didn't want to be anyone's woman but her own. It had been the strain and excitement of the evening that had made her react like a sixteen-year-old being offered a school ring. She was an adult; she was self-sustaining. She was in love. Talk yourself out of that one, Pandora challenged herself. Taking a long breath, she hefted the tray and went back to the parlor.
"Gentlemen." Pandora set the tray on a low table and stuck on a smile. "Cream and sugar, Lieutenant?"
"Thanks. A healthy dose of both." He set a dog-eared notepad on his knee when Pandora handed him a cup. "Mr. Donahue's been filling me in. Seems you've had a few annoyances."
She smiled at the term. Like his looks, his voice was comfortable. "A few."
"I'm not going to lecture." But he gave them both a stern look. "Still, you should've notified the police after the first incident. Vandalism's a crime."
"We'd hoped by ignoring it, it would discourage repetition." Pandora lifted her cup. "We were wrong."
"I'll need to take the champagne with me." Again, he sent them a look of disapproval. "Even though you've had it analyzed, we'll want to run it through our own lab."
"I'll get it for you." Michael rose and left them alone.
"Miss McVie, from what your cousin tells me, the terms of Mr. McVie's will were a bit unconventional."
"A bit."
"He also tells me he talked you into agreeing to them."
"That's Michael's fantasy, Lieutenant." She sipped her coffee. "I'm doing exactly what I chose to do."
Randall nodded and noted, "You agree with Mr. Donahue's idea that these incidents are connected and one of your relatives is responsible."
"I can't think of any reason to disagree."
"Do you have any reason to suspect one more than another?"
Pandora thought it through as she'd thought it through before. "No. You see, we're not at all a close family. The truth is I don't know any of them very well."
"Except Mr. Donahue."
"That's right. Michael and I often visited our uncle, and we ran into each other here at the Folley." Whether we wanted to or not, she added to herself in her own private joke. "None of the others came by very often."
"The champagne, Lieutenant." Michael brought in the box. "And the report from Sanfield Laboratories."
Randall skimmed the printout, then tucked the sheet into the box. "Your uncle's attorney..." He referred quickly to his notes. "Fitzhugh reported trespassing several weeks ago. We've had a squad car cruise the area, but at this point you might agree to having a man patrol the grounds once a day."
"I'd prefer it," Michael told him.
"I'll contact Fitzhugh." Seeing his cup was empty, Pandora took it and filled it again. "I'll also need a list of the relatives named in the will."
Pandora frowned over her rim. Between her and Michael, they tried to fill in the lieutenant, as best as they could. When they had finished, Pandora sent Randall an apologetic look. "I told you we aren't close."
"I'll get the lawyer to fill in the details." Randall rose and tried not to think about the cold drive back to town. "We'll keep the inquiries as quiet as possible. If anything else happens, call me. One of my men will be around to look things over."
"Thank you, Lieutenant." Michael helped the pudgy man on with his coat.
Randall took another look around the room. "Ever think of installing a security system?"
"No."
"Think again," he advised, and made his way out.
"We've just been scolded," Pandora murmured.
Michael wondered if Logan's Run had room for a cranky, well-padded cop. "Seems that way."
"You know, Michael, I have two schools of thought on bringing in the police."
"Which are?"
"It's either going to calm things down or stir things up."
"You pay your money and take your choice."
She gave him a knowing look. "You're counting on the second."
"I came close tonight." He bypassed the coffee and poured another brandy. "I nearly had my hands on something. Someone." When he looked at her, the faint amusement in his eyes had faded. The recklessness was back. "I like my lights in the open, face-to-face."
"It's better if we look at it as a chess game rather than a boxing match.1" She came close to wrap her arms around him and press her cheek to his shoulder. It was the kind of gesture he didn't think he'd ever get used to from her. As he rested his head on her hair, he realized that the fact that he wouldn't only added to the sweetness of the feeling. When had he stopped remembering that she didn't fit into his long-established picture of the ideal woman? Her hair was too red, her body too thin, her tongue too sharp. Michael nuzzled against her and found they fit very well.
"I've never had the patience for chess."
"Then we'll just leave it to the police." She held him tighter. The need to protect rose as sharply as the desire to be protected. "I've been thinking about what might have happened out there tonight. I don't want you hurt, Michael."
With two fingers under her chin, he lifted it. "Why not?"
"Because..." She looked into his eyes and felt her heart melt. But she wouldn't be a fool; she wouldn't risk her pride. "Because then I'd have to do the dishes by myself."
He smiled. No, he didn't have a great deal of patience, but he could call on it when circumstances warranted. He brushed a kiss on either side of her mouth. Sooner or later, he'd have more out of her. Then he'd just have to decide what to do with it. "Any other reason?"
Absorbing the sensations, Pandora searched her mind for another easy answer. "If you were hurt, you couldn't work. I'd have to live with your foul temper."
"I thought you were already living with it."
"I've seen it fouler."
He kissed her eyes closed in his slow, sensuous way. "Try one more time."
"I care." She opened her eyes, and her look was tense and defiant. "Got a problem with that?"
"No." His kiss wasn't gentle this time, it wasn't patient. He had her caught close and reeling within moments. If there was tension in her still, he couldn't feel it. "The only problem's been dragging it out of you."
"You're family after all—"
With a laugh, he nipped the lobe of her ear. "Don't try to back out."
Indignant, she stiffened. I never back out.
"Unless you can rationalize it. Just remember this." He had her molded against him again. "The family connection's distant." Their lips met, urgently, then parted. "This connection isn't."
"I don't know what you want from me," she whispered.
"You're usually so quick."
"Don't joke, Michael."
"It's no joke." He drew her away, holding her by the shoulders. Briefly, firmly, he ran his hands down to her elbows, then back. "No, I'm not going to spell it out for you, Pandora. I'm not going to make it easy on you. You have to be willing to admit we both want the same thing. And you will."
"Arrogant," she warned.
"Confident," he corrected. He had to be, or he'd be on his knees begging. There'd come a time, he'd promised himself, when she'd drop the last of her restrictions. "I want you."
A tremor skipped up her spine. "I know." "Yeah." He linked his fingers with hers. "I think you do."