At least pestered Candy for his frigging name!
She frowned. The heat and isolation were getting to her. She hadnt done anything bad to Candys friend yet. She couldnt have taken him into her arms and let nature take its course because he hadnt gotten there. She still had time to make things right. Feeling shed had a narrow escape from a level of guilt shed never get over, she collapsed on the first step leading up to the twelfth floor, drew her knees up, rested her forehead on them and closed her eyes, reflecting on the true value of certain New York status symbols, the Upper East Side apartment, the higher floor.
The noise from above had increased in volume. She suddenly realized that what she was hearing was not the voices of neighbors but frantic pounding and shouting. It galvanized her into action. She could feel her hair standing on end. Someone was being attacked, maybe killed! What manners, to mug somebody during a crisis! And in such a nice, safe building! Was there no honor among thieves anymore?
She had a whistle and a can of Mace shed carried around in her handbag for two years without needing them. She hoped they still worked. Where was the shouting coming from? She hated to retrace a single precious step. Shed start on the twelfth floor. Dredging up one last burst of energy, she raced up the steps and encountered a locked door.
Locked for security reasons, of course. She was pretty sure one of the keys shed been issued when she and Candy moved in unlocked the stairwell doors. As the pounding intensified and the shouts grew louder, she searched the depths of her handbag for the ring of keys, found them and began jabbing them at the keyhole one at a time. At least the guy was still fighting off the mugger. A key fit, turned and she barreled out into the twelfth-floor hallway, shining her flashlight to the left and to the right, yelling, Hands up! Ive got you covered!
The shouting stopped. The hall was silent. Nobody was being mugged that she could see. Hello? she said timidly. Is somebody up here.
Yes.
The voice came from right behind her and several feet above her. Blythe screamed. The flashlight flew out of her hands and the hallway plunged into total darkness.
2
WHO SAID THAT? Where are you? On her hands and knees, Blythe scrambled blindly for the flashlight. Her hand closed on it and she clutched it gratefully to her bosom, then remembered why she loved it so much and turned it back on.
Im in the elevator. Where did you think I was?
She shone the light on the bank of elevators. Which one? she said. Her voice was shaking. She pounded on the first doors. In here? The second. It sent back a hollow sound. Here?
She was moving on to the third when she heard, Stop, damn it. Im right here in the middle.
She stepped back. Are you okay?
There was a silence, then, No, Im not okay. Im stuck in the elevator.
Besides that, Blythe said.
Thats enough, he said.
How long have you been in there?
Since the lights went out! Can we end the quiz? Is there a way to get out of here?
She was calming down because she knew the answer to this one. Yes, she said, speaking slowly as if he were a child. You pick up the emergency phone and say
Its not working. Neither are the lights. Its really, really dark in here.
Nothing is working, Bart had said. She was beginning to grasp the idea. Weve had a major power outage, she said, but well get you out of there. Dont you worry. Dial 9-1-1. Do you have a cell phone? Because I dont.
I cant get a signal.
Ill go back downstairs, she said at last, groaning at the very thought, and see if J.R. or Santiago has something to pry open the doors.
No. Dont leave.
She paused. The man was admitting he was frightened. Claustrophobic, maybe. Or just a man trapped for hours in an inky-black box with no connection to the outside world until shed come. He needed her. Some strong, unidentifiable feeling surged up in her heart. He actually needed her. She couldnt let him down. Okay, I wont. Maybe I have something in my bag.
Can you see anything?
I have a flashlight.
Oh. A flashlight. Id kill for a flashlight.
Poor guy. She aimed the light at the doors. Can you see this?
What?
A ray of light.
No.
Some quality of his voice made her dump the contents of her handbag out on the hall carpet and aim the flashlight at the pile. She had a nail file. Still on the floor, she thrust it through the opening in the doors and wiggled it. Can you see my nail file?
I cant see anything.
Well, can you feel it?
Aim it higher. You sound like youre way below me. The elevator must have stopped between floors.
She stood and reached as high as she could to wiggle the file in.
There it is! He sounded like Columbus spotting land. She felt a tug on the file. Its not going to move the doors, though. Got anything bigger? Wait a minute. Ive got a Swiss Army knife.
You have a knife?
A spurt of air, something like a snort, came from above her head. Everybody has a Swiss Army knife. Chill, okay? The knife doesnt belong in the lead paragraph.
It was an odd coincidence that hed used a journalistic termlead paragraph. Okay. Sorry. She reached for the nail file and found that a tiny sharp point had emerged from inside the elevator. Now weve got two things through.
More, more.
Blythe was staring down at her comb. It was plastic with a thick, solid handle and long wide-spaced teeth, the kind called an Afro-comb, the only thing Blythe could get through her hair when shed been out on a windy day. It might work. She grabbed it and began forcing it through the practically nonexistent opening. One tooth took hold. Dizzy with excitement, she pushed harder.
Ouch.
She stopped pushing. What happened?
Something hit me in the nose. I crouched down here to see if any air was coming through the doors, and
This is good news, Blythe assured him. Its my comb. Try to grab it and help me get it through. She instantly felt a tug.
Ive got a grip on it. If I can just bend it without breaking it
With a clatter, the nail file and the knife fell from the widening crack in the door through which two sets of long, strong-looking fingers were emerging.
Its opening!
Forget the comb. Help me push the doors.
Blythe tucked the flashlight into her waistband. Moving closer for leverage, she put her fingertips through the opening and pushed with all her might. Her toe connected with something, the file or the knife, and kicked it through the space below the elevator car. For a moment she froze, listening as it fell down, down, endlessly down the elevator shaft to the basement thirteen floors below. She thought she might faint just waiting for it to hit bottom.
Keep pushing. He sounded desperate.
We have a slight problem, she said, willing her voice not to tremble. Youre pretty far up from the floor, actually. If I keep pushing and the doors suddenly open, Im going to fall down the elevator shaft. Not that anybody would miss me particularly, but I would hate the fall itself, if you know what I
Stop pushing. It was an order. Let me think. While he thought, a shoulder emerged through the opening above her. Okay, you step back and pull on the left side
My left or your left? She was still poised in the middle, one hand on each side of the opening, prepared to die.
Your left. And Ill push the door to your right. Got it?
She already had both hands gripped on one door, tugging. Got it.
Were almost there, almost there, dont give up.
With a terrifying suddenness, the doors popped open. Blythe fell backward. A suitcase landed on her left knee, followed by a body swinging a smaller bag. It felt like a huge body, a huge, trembling body. It covered her completely. Crisp hair brushed her face.
For a moment he just panted, then he said, I think I love you. Will you marry me?
Panic and all, she felt a smile rising to her face. Lets hold off on total commitment until morning, shall we? she said.
Youre right. He puffed out the words, still not rolling away from her. I was being impulsive. Names first. Im Max. Max Laughton. And actually, I already have a date tonight. Have to meet my obligations first. Unless, he added, sounding hopeful, Blythe thought, she didnt make it home.
What floor does your date live on?
Twenty-third. I just got into town and its a blind date, kind of a crazy situationWhats wrong?
The darkness, the fear, the tension, the relief had finally gotten to Blythe completely. She was shuddering beneath him, and gasped the words out between hysterical giggles.
Im your date, she gurgled. Hi. Welcome to New York.
YOU OKAY? MAX ASKED the little person struggling along beside him when theyd reached the fifteenth-floor landing. Want a rest? You must be worn out. Did you have to walk all the way home from the Telegraph?
Um-m, was all she said, or moaned, from a spot that just about reached his shoulder. She wasnt what hed expected. From the sultry, purring voice on the phone that had asked him out for a night on the town as soon as he got to New York, hed expected her to be more substantial, a blond bombshell, openly and deliberately provocative. Her voice had been full of heat and promise. When hed quizzed Bart about herBart being a longtime friend of his parents and an uncle figure to himall Bart had said was, Candy Jacobsen? Itll be quite a welcome.
Max didnt need any light to know that this woman was small, with fluffy hair that looked as if it might be red. She was sexy all right, but didnt act as if she knew she was sexy.
Of course, people often presented a different picture of themselves on the phone. Whatever she was, shed saved his life and that made her okay with him. More than okay. A person whose feet hed like to kiss.
Whydid you comeso early? she panted.
I was supposed to come as soon as I got to town.
Notseven oclock?
No. He paused and aimed the flashlight at his watch. Even if I misunderstood, its after eight now.
How time flies.
It was merely a whisper. Not in an elevator, it doesnt, he said, glancing down at the top of her head. Theyd reached the seventeenth floor, and she already sounded completely winded. Her shoulders, narrow little shoulders in some kind of a T-shirt, were bent over as she focused on the lighted steps, probably counting them. She must be exhausted, had probably been exhausted the whole time she was rescuing him.
His heart swelled with compassion and something elsebudding heroism. Yes, it was time for him to show the stuff he was made of. Time to be a macho man.
Youre pooped, he said by way of launching his plan.
Im fine, she gasped.
No, youre not. Wait a second. He shouldered his briefcase, grabbed her handbag over her squeak of protest and slung it over his other shoulder, then handed her his larger bag and swept her up into his arms.
Save your strength, she cried, and began to wriggle.
Youre not helping, he said. She might be little, but hanging on to, say, a hundred-pound wriggling tuna, who was dangling a thirty-pound suitcase way too close to the family jewels, had never been one of his lifes goals. Besides, he groaned, unable to help himself, what am I saving it for?
Later? she said and looked up at him, pointing the flashlight directly at their faces. She wore an oddly quizzical look. Maybe she had had quite a welcome planned for him. His body responded to this idea, but he told it to calm down. He needed the blood equally distributed through his veins to make it up the last six flights of stairs.
When he dumped her just inside the stairwell door so she could fumble through her handbag for the key, his knees were trembling in a way that was hardly heroic. He hoped she didnt notice how he staggered behind her down the dark hallway to her door. Hed hoped that when she opened it, the last rays of sunlight would come flooding through her apartment windows, but the room was in shadows. Once he made it inside, he knew he was washed up.
That was so sweet of you, she was saying, to carry me the rest of the way. Im all rested, and you have to be dead on your feet. Sit down, for heavens sake. I have to get out the candles first, but then would you like a drink? Her voice faded. Drawers opened and closed. Water, definitely, but I imagine you could use something stronger. I sure could. We have a pretty good selection. Whats your pleasure?
Hed made it to a sofa hed spotted in her flashlight beam, where he collapsed facedown with the word, Scotch, on his lips. It might be the last word he ever uttered. How ignominious.
BEARING A LIGHTED CANDLE, Blythe crept toward the sofa. When he was in range of the light, she simply had to stare at him for a while, at his broad shoulders in a black polo shirt, a tapered back, a narrow waist and a butt to die forfirm, contoured and thoroughly male. His long legs were encased in black jeans, his thigh muscles bulging against the fabric.
His thighs. She was going all tight just thinking about them wrapped around her. This idea of Candys hadnt been such a bad one after all.
How do you like your Scotch? It came out like a moan.
It took him a long time to answer, and when he did, his words sounded as if they were smothered by goose down, which, in fact, they were. Rocks.
Candle in hand, Blythe scurried to the freezer, automatically pressed a glass to the ice-maker button and remembered nothing was working. She stuck her hand in the storage bin and pulled out slick, already melting cubes.
She was going to make it all up to him. No more guilt. Even though this was Candys idea, not hers, hed gone through hell to get to her and shed make sure he wasnt sorry. She already knew she wouldnt be. Any man whod carry her up six flights of stairs had to be as sensitive as Candy had promised.
Forgetful, maybe. She was sure Candy had said he was coming at seven oclock, and for him to get stuck in the elevator, it meant hed arrived around four oclock. But then, Candy was often careless about details.
The important thing was that he was here. Theyd have a drink together, shed give him a chance to rest and come up refreshed, and then theyd see what course nature took.
Who was she kidding? One look at his back and she was ready to go at it like bunnies. For mental health reasons only, of course. When she got a look at his front, she might become uncontrollably aggressive about getting this therapy.