You've Been Warned Page 5

  Chapter 21

  DAMN IT TO HELL! I stoop to pick up the Leica. Still in one piece, but the lens shattered on impact.

  Then I spin around — and it’s his eyes I see first, the same intense stare as yesterday. It’s that detective, the thin older man who smells of aftershave and tobacco and has that look that says “I know you did something.”

  He stands there, dressed in what appears to be the same dark gray suit, as I try to catch my breath. He says nothing — not even “Sorry I startled you.” Instead, he seems to be suppressing a smile. What, this is funny to you?

  Suddenly, I don’t care how foolish I might look to him.

  “Do you always sneak up and scare the hell out of people?” I ask him angrily. “You have some nerve.”

  “I was hardly sneaking,” he says.

  I watch as he pulls out a pack of Marlboros, shaking a cigarette loose. His hands are huge, knotted and gnarled. This guy works for a living.

  “So, what brings you here?” he asks, lighting up, then inhaling deeply, enjoying it. “Or should I say, what brings you back here?”

  It’s a simple question, certainly not unexpected given the circumstances. Still, I immediately get this vibe from him. He isn’t so much asking as he is interrogating.

  “I’m on my way to work,” I answer. “This is the route I take every day. Most days.”

  He exhales a thin stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. “You want one?” he asks, extending the pack.

  “No, thanks.”

  “You sure?”

  “I don’t smoke,” I say.

  “You used to, though.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “The way you’re looking at the cigarette,” he says. “Desire is an easy read with people — especially with the things we know we shouldn’t do. I’m a detective. Homicide.”

  He’s right. I used to smoke. More than a pack a day, in fact. I started after I moved to New York. Not that I’m about to admit it and give him the satisfaction.

  He takes another long drag and continues to stare at me. “Of course, there are so many things that can kill you in this city, what’s one more?”

  It’s the perfect opening to ask him what happened — who were the people in the hotel and how did they die? But again there’s that vibe. Is he trying to get me to talk about it? If so, why? What could I know about four strangers?

  “What brings you back here?” I ask instead.

  And like that, he grins. Not unpleasantly, and he seems more human. “Sometimes the bad guy is dumb enough to return to the scene of the crime,” he says. “Or bad girl, as the case may be.”

  So much for that vibe being just a vibe.

  “What did you say your name was again?” he asks.

  “I didn’t.”

  He reaches into his jacket. Out come a ballpoint pen and a notepad. “Any time you’re ready,” he says, poised to write.

  “Are you interrogating me?”

  “No, I’m just asking for your name.”

  “It’s Kristin Burns,” I quickly answer. “And yours?”

  He stares at me. Those eyes.

  “Delmonico,” he says. “Detective Frank Delmonico.”

  He reaches into his jacket again and hands me his card. I don’t look at it. On purpose. Instead, I glance at my watch.

  “Listen, I’m sorry to cut this short,” I say, “but I’m afraid I’m going to be late for work.”

  It sounds like such a line, and for the most part it is. Then again, this guy has never encountered the wrath of Penley “the Pencil” Turnbull. As much as I want to hightail it out of there, I also need to. Otherwise, Detective Frank Delmonico might be investigating another death, this time up on Fifth Avenue. Mine.

  “I promise,” I say. “If we can do this later, I’ll answer any question you have. But I don’t know anything. Just tell me where we can meet.”

  He snaps his notepad shut. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” he says. “I’ll find you. It won’t be a problem.”

  Then he touches one finger to the side of his temple. “Detective, remember? Homicide.”

  Chapter 22

  HUFF AND PUFF, huff and puff.

  But Penley isn’t waiting for me at the door when I arrive for work. I guess that’s my reward for sprinting the last few blocks up Fifth Avenue so I wouldn’t be late.

  I’ve barely taken two steps into the apartment’s foyer, however, before I hear her lovely voice call out from the kitchen. “Kristin, is that you? Tell me it’s you.”

  “Good morning, Penley,” I answer.

  Though, like yesterday, it’s been anything but a good morning. In fact, with the repeat of the bad dream, having to see that creepy detective again, and, in between, shattering one very expensive camera lens, the morning so far has been downright awful. One of my worst ever.

  I walk through the red velvet–lined dining room with its crystal-dripping chandelier and push through the swinging door of the white-on-white-on-stainless kitchen to see Penley sitting over a cup of coffee.

  Huh?

  Sitting next to her is Michael.

  Great . . . just great.

  This is hardly the first time the three of us have been in the same room together, but it’s the last thing I need right now. Of course, Michael’s probably getting a big kick out of it.

  Or maybe not.

  Actually, he doesn’t look too chipper as he glances up from his Wall Street Journal. With bleary eyes, rumpled ash-blond hair, and his body wrapped sloppily in a robe, hungover would be more like it.

  “Be careful we don’t talk too loud, Kristin,” says Penley in a sarcastic whisper. “Someone here was out a little late with the boys last night.”

  “You’re lucky it was the Swedes and not the Russians,” says Michael, barely above a mumble. “Otherwise, I’d still be in bed.”

  “Oh, yes, how lucky for all of us,” says Penley, rolling her eyes. She actually gives me a smile, as if the two of us are sharing some kind of female-bonding moment.

  Pu-lease.

  Michael’s evening with the Swedes must have gone on long after he said good-night to me. Long, long after, I should think, as he’s rarely late for the office.

  The only other time I saw him like this was when Penley last took the kids out to her parents in Connecticut for the night and Michael stayed in the city, claiming he had to work. The two of us snuck off to Brooklyn, grabbed a back table at a restaurant, Bonita, and drank three pitchers of sangria. We woke up the next morning — in a suite Baer Stevens keeps on Central Park South — with headaches the size of Mexico.

  Penley glares at Michael. “Well, aren’t you at least going to say hello to Kristin?”

  “Hello to Kristin,” he parrots, his eyes not budging from the newspaper.

  Penley whacks his arm, and I do everything not to smile. In his efforts to keep her in the dark about our relationship, Michael has mastered the art of complete indifference toward me when the three of us are together. So much so that it’s comical.

  Not to mention pretty smart.

  Seconds later, Penley assures us that the ruse is still working. After informing me that Dakota and Sean are in their rooms, getting dressed for school, she turns to Michael as if she’s just thought of something.

  “Hey, what about Kristin?” she says. She turns back to me, not waiting for Michael to respond. “I mean, I’ve never heard you talk about having a boyfriend. I assume that means you’re available. You are, right? Available?”

  Available for what?

  She explains, “I was telling Michael about this guy I know at my gym who was upset about his girlfriend leaving him. I think what he needs to do is start dating again as soon as possible. Would you like to meet him, Kristin? He’s cute.”

  “You mean, like a blind date?” I ask.

  “Call it whatever you want.”

  I glance at Michael, who raises an eyebrow. His “Ignore Kristin” facade looks to be crumbling at
the prospect of my going out with another guy who is “cute.” Nonetheless, there’s not much he can do or say at that moment, and we both know it.

  “Gee, Penley, I don’t know,” I hedge.

  She shrugs. “What’s there to know? Unless, of course, you’re gay — which is nothing to be ashamed of, mind you. You’re not a lesbian, are you, Kristin? You can tell me.”

  I shake my head, utterly speechless.

  “Oh, goody, it’s settled, then!” says Penley, over the moon. “His name is Stephen. I’ll tell him all about you and we’ll set something up. He is a hunk, Kristin.”

  Gee, I can’t wait.

  Chapter 23

  PENLEY SURE KNOWS how to clear a room.

  She saunters away to organize a guest list for her latest charity benefit. This one, gag me, is for the Elementary Etiquette Society and involves Dakota and Sean, poor kids. “Then it’s off to the gym.”

  Michael leaves to take a shower and get changed — finally —-for work.

  And I go to grab the kids for breakfast.

  “Good morning, princess,” I say, peeking my head into Dakota’s pink-and-lace room to see her sitting on the edge of her canopy bed, reading The Trumpet of the Swan.

  She looks up and gives me one of her heart-melting smiles. “Good morning, Miss Kristin.”

  “All dressed?” I ask.

  Dakota glances down, frowning at her Preston Academy uniform. It’s an adorable green-and-blue plaid skirt with a simple white top, but for a young girl who has to wear it every day, it might as well be a burlap bag.

  “Yes,” she groans, “I’m dressed.”

  “Meet me in the kitchen, okay? I’m going to check on Sean.”

  She holds up the book. “I’ll be there in one more page.”

  I continue down the hall, marveling at how much Dakota loves to read. So will Sean, I bet, as soon as he learns how, which we’re working on. Besides being loved, is there anything better for a child? I doubt it.

  Arriving at Sean’s doorway, I see him sitting on the floor, immersed in a sea of Legos. Last month, all he built was rocket ships. This month, it’s nothing but cars, albeit with “super-duper special powers.”

  “What does that one do?” I ask.

  Sean turns to me, his small face beaming. “Hi, Miss Kristin!” He presents his latest contraption in the palm of his little hand. “This one shoots lasers and missiles and can bust through anything. It can also go under water.”

  “That’s very cool, Sean.” You’re very cool, m’boy.

  “Oh, and it also makes ice cream!”

  Naturally.

  I look him over, head to toe, making sure he’s properly, or rather prep-erly, dressed. My eyes stop abruptly on his bare feet. This will not do at the Academy.

  “Where are your socks, Sean?”

  “I don’t know. No idea. I want to wear my Jimmy Neutrons, but I can’t find them.”

  “Maria might have left them in the laundry room. I’ll go check, sweetheart.”

  I head for the very back of the apartment, past a huge storage closet, and flip on the light for the laundry room. Sure enough, I see Sean’s Jimmy Neutron socks — named for the Nickelodeon cartoon character with the huge head and the pompadour — sitting on top of the dryer.

  As I reach for them, I hear a mischievous whisper over my shoulder.

  “Want to join the Maytag club?”

  Chapter 24

  I TURN AROUND to see Michael grinning from ear to ear. I shoot him a dubious look and whisper back, “Maytag club?”

  “Yeah, it’s like the mile-high club, only with a spin cycle.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m serious,” he says. He’s still in his robe, though it’s now open down the front. “I want you right here.”

  That gets him the mother of all dubious looks from me. “Sure, and when Penley wanders in, I suppose you’ll be able to explain everything.”

  He laughs. “This is the laundry room, Kris. It’s the last place Penley would ever wander into.”

  He has a point there.

  Still.

  “Go and take your shower,” I say, and push him away. “Better make it a cold one, buster. Thanks for thinking of me, though.”

  Instead of leaving, Michael takes me in his arms and begins to gently kiss the curve of my neck. He knows I like this a lot. Usually.

  I stand there, not giving in. “What happened to your hangover?” I ask.

  “All of a sudden I feel a lot better.”

  I glance down. “I can tell.”

  He pulls me closer, his lips moving toward mine. Michael has beautiful, sensuous lips that are nearly impossible to resist.

  But I’m still not giving in. “This is about Penley setting me up with that guy, isn’t it? The cute guy. Stephen.”

  “Not at all.” He leans back, gazing into my eyes. “You’re not really going to go out with him, though, are you?”

  “I knew it — you’re jealous!”

  “Okay, maybe a little. She is such a bitch. Phony, condescending, sadistic.”

  His hand glides down my stomach. He reaches into my pants, his fingers disappearing between my legs.

  Damn. There’s nothing more sexy to me than a very confident man displaying a dash of vulnerability.

  I start to give in a little. We’ve never done anything like this in the apartment. Not even the couple of times we’ve been here alone.

  “Michael,” I say, returning his kisses. “The children.”

  “They’re fine.”

  Not if they see this.

  I know this is wrong, that I should stop. This is so bad.

  But it feels so good. And Penley won’t come in here.

  I undo Michael’s robe all the way and stroke him with my hand. It’s as if I’ve lit a fuse. He’s very hard and very large.

  Quickly, powerfully, he grabs my shoulders, spinning me around — as promised. Down go my pants and my underwear.

  I reach and grip the back of the washer, the metal cold against my bare thighs. He enters me amid a swell of goose bumps, and after only a few swift thrusts I feel myself ready to explode.

  “Miss Kristin, where are you?”

  Sean’s little voice filters in from down the hallway. Michael and I both freeze in place.

  “Did you find my Jimmy Neutron socks?” he calls out.

  “Tell him you’ll be right there,” whispers Michael, slowly beginning to thrust again.

  Feeling every inch of him inside me, I can barely speak. The moment couldn’t be more dangerous.

  Or more of a turn-on.

  The socks are still in my hand, and I squeeze them tight as my body tenses, quivering.

  “Miss Kristin?” Sean calls out again. “Are you there?”

  Michael takes hold of my hips, thrusting faster and deeper, faster and deeper. My head whips back, my toes curl, and then my entire body completely lets go.

  “I’m coming!”

  5

  Chapter 25

  CONNIE SQUINTS AND MAKES a funny face, which is just what I need right now: funny. “They really should pass out flashlights with the menus, don’t you think?”

  “Either that or pay the electric bill,” jokes Beth.

  My two best New York friends and I share a knowing laugh, keenly aware that our restaurant of choice this evening — the very dimly lit and ultrahip Bond Street — is a far cry from our usual, more modest haunts. In the heart of downtown, the place offers Japanese cuisine at its trendiest and most expensive. The sake alone goes for twenty dollars a serving. Yikes!

  I raise my palms. “Speaking of paying the bill, what on earth are we doing here?”

  “You said you needed a night out, Kris, so I figured we’d splurge a little,” says Connie. “You’re worth it, sweetheart. Besides which, the Abbott Show is going to call any day now, any second, so we’re pre-celebrating.”

  I glance down at the menu with its skyrocket prices before looking back up at Beth, the struggling actre
ss, and Connie, the social worker with the city’s Division of Family Services.

  We’re splurging, all right.

  “So how’s the Pencil?” Beth asks.

  “Thin and mean as ever,” I answer.

  “Why doesn’t she like you, Kristin? I don’t get it. Who wouldn’t like you?”

  “Actually, I’m not sure Penley likes anyone. After two years, though, you’d think she’d at least trust me with the kids.”

  Connie chimes in with a smile. “She probably thinks you’re writing the sequel to The Nanny Diaries.”

  We all laugh at that one.

  “Seriously, if you hate this wretch of a woman so much, why do you keep working for her?” asks Beth. “This stepmom from hell.”

  “The kids,” I reply. “I love them. And they really do need me.”

  Never mind their father.

  There have been so many times I’ve wanted to tell Beth and Connie about my affair with Michael. Maybe I haven’t because I’m embarrassed or ashamed — which I am. Or maybe because I know what they would say — “Be careful, Kristin; you could really get hurt” — and I don’t want to hear it. Especially because they could be more right than I’m willing to admit.

  So I keep Michael to myself. From time to time I tell the girls about having a few dates with some made-up guy. The script is always the same: he seems so promising at first and then turns out to be a loser of one kind or another. At no point do Beth and Connie question my continuing bad luck with men because such is life for a single girl in Manhattan.

  Or is that true everywhere? It was definitely that way for me in Boston.

  “What can I get you this evening?” asks our waiter, almost sneaking up on us. He’s dressed in black, head to toe.

  The three of us order a small feast, and when it arrives everything is delicious. At least, I’m pretty sure it is. With all the drinks we’re also having, my taste buds are getting a little numb.

  And I’m starting to get buzzed.

  Soon there’s no recurring dream, no weird pictures in my darkroom, and no guilt over Michael and me in the laundry room this morning.