High Heels and Holidays

Chapter Ten

Maggie awoke slowly, wondering why she was smiling in the darkness.

Oh. Right. Now she remembered.

Still smiling, she turned onto her side and stretched her hand out and over the sheets, expecting to encounter Alex's sleep-warm body. Maybe kind of sort of walk her fingers over his bare hip and ...

... nothing.

She scooted more to the middle of the king-size bed, stretched out her hand again, ran it up and down the surface of the mattress.

Still nothing.

Panic, the kind that freezes the blood in your veins and prickles the hairs on your arms, sliced through her.

He was gone? How could he be gone? Sure, she'd wondered about it, wondered if ... if doing what they'd done would change something somehow. Maybe make him poof back out of her life just as unexpectedly as he'd poofed into it.

But that was ridiculous. He'd been here for months. He wouldn't leave now.

He couldn't leave now.

Oh, God, what had she done?

She'd made love with a figment of her imagination, that's what she'd done!

And now that she had, maybe that would be the end of it; fantasy fulfilled. He'd leave, go away, go back into her head or wherever he'd come from, and she'd never see him again.

Because there had to be rules to this sort of stuff, right? Look, don't touch? Some sort of line they shouldn't have crossed? Like, hey, people can fall in love with imaginary heroes, sure. But they don't actually make love with imaginary heroes.

It was like that old joke about talking to God. When you talk to God, that's called praying. But when you start to think you hear God talking back to you, it's time for a psychiatrist.

Was it time for a psychiatrist?

Hell, she had one of those.

Sure. Like she could tell Dr. Bob any of this. Yeah, that would happen ...

"Oh, jeez, calm down, will you?" she ordered herself, turning onto her back, blinking as her eyes became accustomed to the near darkness. Then she saw the time as it was digitally projected onto her ceiling thanks to the nifty new clock she'd treated herself to last month. After all, if the hero could have a Foreman grill, the heroine—that would be her—could have a nifty gadget of her own.

Seven o'clock.

Well, that wasn't so bad, was it? It was morning, or at least it was on the other side of her room-darkening shades. Alex wouldn't have wanted to upset Sterling, so he was probably just back in his own condo across the hall. He hadn't poofed. He wouldn't dare poof. Would he? He could control that stuff. He'd poofed in, right?

"Right, that's settled then," Maggie told herself sternly as she stumbled toward the shower, dragging fresh clothing with her as she went. "Shower, dress, wait for him to show up again. No panic, no reason for panic, no—ah, hell. How do I even look at him again after last night?"

She got her answer sooner than she'd expected, once she was showered and dressed more carefully than was her custom—which meant she'd actually put on mascara and lipstick. When she walked out into her large living room, it was to see that the dishes and glasses on the table were gone, so that she retreated down the hallway, past her bedroom door and into the kitchen, to see Alex at the sink with his back to her, rinsing a wineglass.

Okay. This was good. This was great. He hadn't poofed. He was still there, and looking good in the clothing she'd come fairly close to ripping off him last night.

Very good. Except for one thing.

What was she going to say to him? What happens now? Where do you go after you've been to bed with each other? Because there's no going back.

"Good morning, Maggie," Alex said without turning around. "I attempted to be quiet until I heard your shower running, but the mess is fairly well cleaned up now. Are you hungry?" he asked, finally turning around to face her, the hint of morning beard on his face kicking off a series of butterfly flutters in her stomach.

"Ah. Yeah. Famished."

"Good. I'll just go attend to my morning ablutions and the three of us will adjourn to Styles Cafe for a hearty breakfast, all right? You look wonderful, by the way," he ended, dropping a kiss on her cheek as he breezed by her, on his way to his own condo.

That was it? Hi, let's have breakfast? A kiss on the cheek? No postmortem? No ... God help her, no encore?

She held up a hand in a "wait a minute, we have to talk" gesture, and then gave it up because they might have to talk, but she'd be damned as to what either of them would say, so she just poured herself a glass of orange juice and retreated to her computer. She knew what she was doing at her computer, or at least she used to, before Alex showed up.

So what was he up to now? She'd made him, she ought to know.

Maggie opened her bottom desk drawer and pulled out the character description sheets she'd written before writing her first Saint Just mystery. She'd added to the description over the years as she'd learned more about her character, but could there be anything in those notes to tell her what to expect from him now?

Age: 35

Physical description ... well, she already knew that one. One could say she now knew that intimately.

She knew about his youth, his relationship with his parents. She knew his hobbies, his likes and dislikes—from the color of his waistcoat to the flavor of jam he liked best on his morning toast—but there was really nothing to tell her how he'd react in a situation like this.

Had there ever been a situation like this?

Giving her investigation up as a dead-end pursuit, Maggie woke her computer and started her search engine, and then typed in santasforsilver.org, just hoping for an easy hit ... and she found one.

The site certainly looked professional, or as professional as a site could look with a line of animated high-kicking Santas doing their Rockettes thing along the top of the page. The site was composed of several pages. One for locations of Santas for Silver both in Manhattan and on Long Island and Staten Island. Another page contained an application to become a Santa for Silver. Another page was loaded with hearty endorsements from people associated with soup kitchens, homeless shelters, youth clubs, all those good things, stating how Santas for Silver was always so generous, etc., etc.

"Nothing here to hurt anybody," she said and closed the page, deciding that a few games of Snood wouldn't turn her back into a Snood addict. She'd kicked nicotine, right? She certainly could play Snood without becoming hooked again. Besides, it was pretty hard to think of anything else when the Snoods were dropping, and she really didn't want to think about anything else. Anyone else ...

"Good morning, Maggie."

Maggie looked up from the screen to see Sterling standing just inside the door, dressed in his Santas for Silver suit, a large brass bell in his gloved hand. He even had a small silver badge pinned to his chest. On it was a carved Santa head and S-4-S —Santas for Silver. Cute. "Oh, don't you look sweet," she said, getting to her feet and giving him a big hug. "Are you going to have time to go to breakfast with us?"

"No, I'm sorry to say, but I must be on duty in an hour, and I still must return to Santa headquarters to retrieve my chimney. Saint Just said you weren't feeling well last night, so he sat up with you until the wee hours, then fell asleep on the couch. He's a true friend, Saint Just is, isn't he? Are you feeling more the thing this morning, Maggie?"

"Sure, Sterling, thank you, it was ... it was just a headache," Maggie said, one question answered. Alex wasn't going to borrow Sterling's bell and go around town ringing it and yelling, "I got some, I got some!" Thank heaven for small favors ...

"All set, Maggie?" Alex asked from behind Sterling who, although he had no hat to tip, graciously shook his huge red stocking cap, the one with the bell on the end, and then headed for the elevator. "Lord bless him, I'd hate to burst his happy bubble."

"You don't have to," Maggie said, grabbing her coat from the hook beside the door. "I looked up Santas for Silver, and they sure look legit. Legal, that is, if you don't know that term. Come on, I'm starving."

And she wasn't kidding. Until she took her first bite of scrambled eggs, she hadn't realized just how hungry she was, but once those eggs hit it was as if her body moaned "And it's about damn time, lady!" and it wasn't until she was munching on her second slice of bacon that it occurred to her that neither she nor Alex had said anything after giving their orders to the waitress.

"Um ... thanks for covering for me," she told him, then quickly took another bite of bacon. "I mean, with Sterling. He ... he might have gotten ideas, and we don't want to hurt him, get his hopes up or anything."

Alex merely nodded. "Have you spoken to your mother, Maggie?"

"Huh?" Talk about changing the subject, jeez. "No, and you know I haven't. I've been ducking her calls, just like the loyal, loving child I am. Why? Oh," she added a moment and one brain synapse later. "Oh, no. You're not going to—no, you wouldn't do that. Would you?"

"Travel to Ocean City with you for Christmas and apply to your father for your hand in marriage because I compromised you last night, you mean?"

Maggie could feel her cheeks going crimson. "Yeah. That. That honorable Regency gentleman happy horse hockey. You wouldn't do that, would you?"

Alex lifted his coffee cup and smiled at her over the rim. "No, I don't think so."

She collapsed against the red leather booth in relief and then just as quickly sat up very straight again. "Hey, wait a minute, buster. What do you mean, I don't think so? What? I'm not good enough for you?"

Alex took a sip of coffee, then returned the cup to the tabletop. "Very well, if you insist."

"No!" Maggie clapped a hand over her mouth and looked around the small cafe, hoping no one had overheard her. "No," she repeated quietly, "I don't want you to do that." Then she told the truth. "But you could have at least pretended, you know."

"I'm sorry. Should we go back and begin again?"

Maggie shook her head and then dropped her paper napkin on her half-eaten breakfast. "Nope. I'm done. We're done. What do you say we go check up on Santa Sterling."

"Father Christmas Sterling," Alex corrected. He smiled at the waitress who had been leaning on the counter, looking at him, and she flew to the table to ask if there was "anything else the gentleman needed."

"Boy, that torks me," Maggie told him after they'd paid the check—she'd paid the check, actually, just to let the waitress know she'd been sucking up to the wrong tipper—and they were out on the street once more. "I could have been a department store dummy you'd propped up across from you, for all the attention I get when I'm with you. But you eat it up, don't you? When you even notice. Not only that, you encourage them."

"I beg your pardon?" Alex asked as he tipped his hat at the female cop at the corner who waved back to him, called him by name. "I encourage what?"

"You know what. Women, fawning over you. You called that waitress by name—"

"Loretta, yes."

"Right. Loretta. She's been waiting on me for years. Years, Alex. I don't know her name."

"You're not a people person, Maggie," he explained. "You live in your work, your books. And, as a beneficiary of that myopia when it comes to the rest of the world, you have my gratitude. Ah, and there's our boy now. He looks so happy."

Maggie shifted her attention from glowering at Alex to grinning at Sterling, who was industriously ringing his bell and ho-ho-hoing each time someone stopped to give some silver to Santa.

"You know, that's kind of cute, in a cheesy, commercial sort of way," she said as she watched a child place a quarter inside what looked to be a large funnel inside the clear fiberglass chimney. The quarter began at the top, going round and round, descending by mere inches with each revolution, until it finally disappeared into the hole at the bottom of the funnel, at which time the chimney flashed red and green for a few moments and the child wailed to his mother, "More! I want to do it again!"

"And four quarters equal one dollar," Alex pointed out as the child dropped another coin and clapped as it did its descending rotations around the funnel. "American ingenuity at work. Quite impressive."

They watched Sterling for some minutes, then crossed the street to hear Vernon, aka Snake, his Byronic good looks and deep voice as enticing as the Hamlet soliloquy he was performing.

" '... a consummation devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep—To sleep' —hiya, Alex— 'perchance to dream.' "

"Handsome, even talented, but, unfortunately, dumb as a red brick," Alex said, sighing.

"Yup. Snort-snort and all that," Maggie said, grinning. "And, handsome and great voice and all to one side, he also has the bladder control of a poodle when he's upset, as I remember it, anyway. Do you remember the day we found that out? Oh, Alex, we've had us some fun, haven't—"

"Hey, shut up, lady. Can't you hear he's talking?"

"Hey, sorr-eee." Maggie rolled her eyes as the man who'd shushed her turned to listen to Vernon once more. "And you want me to get out more, Alex, interact and all that good stuff. Sure."

"If you can go out without causing a riot, yes. And speaking of riots," he said, taking her arm and steering her back the way they'd come, "I suggest we keep our faces averted and step lively."

"Why?" Maggie asked, trying to pull her arm free as she looked back over her shoulder. "What's the—oh, cripes. It's true—stand on a street corner in Manhattan long enough, and eventually you'll see everyone you know passing by. Man, I hate knowing that's true. Move it, Alex."

But it was too late.

"You!" Nikki Campion screeched in her unpleasantly high voice. "I thought it was you. Oh, this is terrific. You just wait right there while I get my Uncle Salvatore. Don't move, if you know what's good for you!"

Alex stopped at the curb, even though Maggie was pulling on his arm now. "Are you nuts? Don't listen to her. You want Salvatore Campiano to see us? After what we did to Nikki? Or are you anxious to see if you can tread water in the East River—with an anchor tied to your ankle? Alex? What are you doing? Don't just stand there."

"I'm remembering a quote about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer," Alex told her as a large man in a camel colored wool topcoat with a real fur collar and wearing a fedora approached, two smaller men following behind him, in the way pilot fish follow a whale. "Ah, sir, a pleasure," he then said, extending his right hand to the man.

Salvatore Campiano looked at Alex's hand for a long moment, and then clasped it between both his huge paws. "I understand you put in a few good words with the coppers over in England. For my loopy niece here. Stupido. My arms are long, capisca, but not so long they reach all the way across the sea. What you want for your help, huh? I give you something. Fruit, yes. Much fruit I send you, fresh." He kissed the tips of his fingers. "Molto buon, grapefruit the size of the cantaloupe, I swear it. And," he ended in a near whisper, stepping closer to Alex, as he took his hand once more, "if you ever were to find a need for my services—you take my meaning here?—you call this number, capisca, and I take care of everything for you. Anything you need."

"Hardly necessary, Mr. Campiano, but I accept with gratitude," Alex said as Maggie half cowered and half peeked at the powerful mob boss, fascinated.

"Yes, yes, now thank the man, Nikki, and we'll be about our business."

Maggie's upper lip curled as Nikki Campion grinned at her, then sashayed—she really did; she sashayed—up to Alex and planted a big wet one square on his mouth. "Anything you need," she purred, repeating her uncle's words.

"I don't believe it. I don't freaking believe it—and I'm not talking about that kiss, because I know you didn't have any real choice there," Maggie grumbled a few minutes later as she and Alex made their way back to the condo building. "One, I don't believe you put in a good word for Nikki with the locals and got her off. And two, I can't believe you gave your address to that wiseguy. With a guy like that, that was as good as giving him a key. Oh, and three? Three is, why the heck didn't you ask for a lifetime of free transmission service, huh? Boffo Transmissions, remember? But you didn't think of me, huh, did you? Oh, God, listen to me! I'm angry because you didn't ask some scary mobster-type to check my transmission. What's happening to me? I need to seriously rethink my life, Alex. I really do."

"Maggie, you're overreacting," Alex said, slipping the mobster's business card into his pocket. "Mr. Campiano seems a very nice man, a gentleman."

"Uh-huh, sure. A gentleman. Right up until you wake up to a horse head in your bed, you betcha he's a gentleman. Socks," she called out as they neared the condo building just as the doorman was closing the door on a taxicab, "guess who Alex's new best friend is. Oh, come on, guess. No, never mind that, because you'd never guess. Salvatore Campiano. Can you believe it?"

Socks gave a low whistle as he held open the door to the building. "Way to go, Alex!" he said, following them into the building. "That's better than knowing the mayor. Oh, hey, Maggie, someone came by to see you a while ago, but I knew you were out. He didn't leave his name."

Maggie paused in the act of pushing the elevator button. "For me? I don't know any men. Well, I know some men," she added, rolling her eyes. "What did he look like?"

"Yes, Socks, what did he look like?" Alex asked.

"Down boy, you're not in charge, remember?" Maggie told him quietly. "We figured that out at breakfast."

Socks took off his billed cap and scratched his head. "What did he look like? Okay. Tall, black—blacker than me. I mean, the brother was dark. Seriously buffed. And good-looking, in a young James Earl Jones way, you know?"

Maggie shook her head. "Nope. I don't know him. Oh, wait, maybe it's ... no, he wouldn't come here. Why would he come here?"

"Fascinating as it is, listening to you converse with yourself, who wouldn't visit you here?" Alex asked silkily.

"A writer I know. He lives about two blocks from here, actually. Bruce McCrae. He works with Bernie, too. Gee, I haven't seen him since last year's Toland Books Christmas party. Maybe he wants to know why there isn't a party this year? Oh, wait. Maybe it has something to do with Francis Oakes. You know, like maybe he wants to know about the funeral or something—he knows Bernie and I are friends." She shrugged. "Yeah well, he'll come back, if that was him. You coming, Alex?"

They were silent in the elevator, all the way to the ninth floor, Maggie suddenly feeling very alone with him again, so that she stepped out into the hall even as the doors were still opening.

"I'd like to speak to you, Maggie," Alex said as they walked down the hallway. "There's something we need to discuss."

Maggie stopped in front of her door, her keys already in her hand. He looked serious, and she wasn't ready for him to be serious. "No, Alex, we don't. Let's just play it by ear, okay? J.P. is coming at one, and I want to think a little more about what I'm going to say to her. That gives me what, two hours?"

"Shall I casually drop by a little after one, or are you able to handle her disappointment on your own?"

"She's a lawyer. A professional. She won't go ballistic on me, or anything. I mean—okay, stop over. Casually. Give me a half hour or so first."

"Until then," he said, stepping closer even as he put his hand under her chin, lifted her face for his kiss. "Ah, delightful," he then breathed against her lips before kissing her again.

By the time she'd recovered enough to ask him just what the hell he thought he was doing, he was gone, and she was standing alone in the hallway.