The Man For Maggie. Frances Housden
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So did I. You were there, hot as hell and pure, freaking magic.” Max’s lips curled without showing his teeth and his gaze stripped every stitch from her body.
Maggie had known it was coming, so she didn’t flinch away, didn’t try to retreat or shield herself. Nor would she essay an apology for who she was—especially to Max.
“Dammit, Max! This isn’t about me, or us. It’s about some poor woman who’s going be killed, who may already be dead. I pray she isn’t. But I can’t fix this on my own. You have to help me before it’s too late.” She let go of his hands. His skin was red where she’d gripped them. She got to her feet. Max stood, too, and then sat on the edge of his desk, sweeping the silver strand of hair back from the harsh red of his scar.
“You have no idea, Maggie. None at all. I’m the last person to ask for help. I’m a nonbeliever from way back.” His lips stretched in a grimace. “Hell, Maggie, I still want you, don’t want to lose you, but all this psychic nonsense will be the death of any relationship before it’s had a chance.”
“We never had a chance, never will. Not if you can’t at least try to believe. You make me feel, make me wish.” The fist she wanted to pound him with hit the arm of his chair. “Even without Jo’s wanting you, we never had a future. All we ever had was the possibility of a quick affair….” I could have settled for that. Maggie sighed and pushed her hands up under her collar. The touch of cashmere against her face felt good in a room where all warmth had been depleted. She straightened and looked Max straight in the eye, her decision made. She would go home. “We haven’t a hope in hell if you can’t even bring yourself to listen.”
“Lady, I wish to hell you’d never shown up today! I warned you last night: failure guaranteed. I already lost a marriage to all this psychic garbage. I won’t get mixed up in it again. No way! Never!”
“I didn’t expect to win, but I knew I had to try.” Maggie retrieved her purse, and as she stood, undid the clasp and took out a folded paper. “You see, I was damned if I did and she’s dead if I didn’t!” She tossed the paper on his desk. “I know you won’t make use of this, but hang on to it. I think you’ll be surprised at the likeness.” Maggie’s ironic laugh came out as a sob. “I even surprised myself.”
Max watched her walk away, amazed that for all the anger between them, he still had the same gut-wrenching reaction to the view of her slim ankles showing through the slit in the back of her coat. He closed the door, sat behind his desk with his elbows braced on it. “Jerk,” he muttered, cursing his inability to embrace the concept that would give him Maggie. The folded paper glared at him, challenging him to pick it up. He reached over and unfolded it.
The notepaper was Maggie’s father’s. Frank Kovacs, Kereru Hill Winery, Pigeon Hill. Max’s gaze skimmed the header to study the head-and-shoulders pencil drawing of a woman.
He didn’t recognize her.
The bow tied at her neck was another story. He knew for a fact it was red, tied with precision, each loop and tail the exact length of the one opposite.
It was scary the way Maggie had caught the eyes. And notwithstanding the simplicity of the medium, a cold chill slithered up his spine at the complete lack of life in them.
She’d got halfway to the civic car park before he caught her.
“Well, Sergeant, come to finish the job you did on me?” Her bold question was at odds with her grim expression.
An urge to rub away the hurt he’d caused stirred his hands. But only turning inside out and remodeling himself could achieve his aim to redeem himself in her eyes. Deep within him a wish flickered like a candle on one of the birthday cakes his mother used to bake when he was young, but even he could see it wouldn’t take much to blow out the flame.
“We need to talk. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
“I gave us a chance to talk not five minutes ago—I’ve changed my mind now.”
“Don’t be like that, Maggie. I’m not saying that you’re right and I’m wrong. I just want to discuss the possibilities.” He caught hold of her sleeve, wary of actually touching her skin. Of what it would do to him. “I’ve got the drawing with me,” he said persuasively. “We can go to the Blues Café in the Aotea Center. It should be quiet this time of day.”
“All right, but don’t think I intend spending the whole day in Auckland. I have work to do.”
“See, I told you, practically empty,” Max said, lowering his voice to prevent it bouncing off the hard surfaces of marble floors and avant-garde chandeliers. “Let’s sit by the window.”
Thickly padded tub chairs softened the starkness of the rest of the room. But the only warmth Max felt came from the body heat Maggie generated under all that cashmere. A part of him hoped she’d slip her coat off, the rest wanted to hide her lush curves from everyone but him. Dragging his mind back from under her coat, he asked, “This spot do?”
“Yes, fine…okay, I don’t mind.” She listened to herself agree every which way and do it twice over. Boy, Max was in for a shock if he thought her compliance normal.
“What will you have? Cappuccino?”
“Latté, please,” she said as Max headed for the counter. Decaf was her usual brew, but she needed a caffeine jolt. She’d begun the morning on an energy high that now fizzled from lack of sleep. Or maybe she had a touch of the Mary, Mary’s, letting contrariness be her guide in spite of his change of heart.
Or maybe she was just plain scared.
All along there’d been a small niggle working away at the back of her thoughts until it dug a hole big enough to climb out. But she wouldn’t voice it just yet. Time enough to hit him with it when he discovered this wasn’t just a case of her imagination playing up. Blast, she didn’t want to be proved right. But the odds ran against her being wrong. No, she wouldn’t mention her suspicions to Max yet; one small step at a time. That way when Max threw his doubts in her face she wouldn’t run into them.
“Any leads on the Khyber Pass Killer, Sergeant?”
Startled, Max spun around and spilled froth over the side of the cup, saucer and his fingers. Damn! Couldn’t he get a minute’s peace? A sinking feeling gripped him as he recognized Babcox, crime reporter with the Tribune. A man with the fierce animalistic tenacity of the weasel he resembled, all ginger hair, sharp features and canines. Young and eager, Babcox made up in effrontery for what he lacked in years and inches. Like the way he’d slapped the name the Khyber Pass Killer on the man they were after. A name that stuck once the other papers ran with it, though only the first victim, a young prostitute, had lived in Khyber Pass Road.
Apart from the killer, all three had only one thing in common. The police team’s latest clue, unearthed after the last murder. Certain aspects of the case needed to be kept secret, and if Max had his way Babcox would be the last to know.
And that was only one of his problems.
What he needed was a reasonable explanation of why Maggie Kovacs knew details that had Detective Inspector Henare threatening a stint in the Chathams for anyone who spilled his guts to the media.
Max turned his back on him. “No comment.”
“Come on, Strachan. Things must be progressing well if you can afford to take a coffee break in the middle of the morning.”
One glance at the waitress told Max she was agog with speculation. “Here,” he said, pushing the cup and its saucer full of milk toward her, “can you fix this for me?” Then he softened his demand with, “Thanks,” when she took it away. That done, he told Babcox, “You know all statements have to come through Detective Inspector Henare’s office. Call him.”
Max felt the reporter back off mentally if not physically. It took a brave man to approach Mike Henare. He wasn’t any taller than Max’s six-five, yet the inspector could make two of him, and the Maori half of his ancestry lent