Hunger (7 page)

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Authors: Karen E. Taylor

BOOK: Hunger
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He flinched and I realized I had drawn blood. I could feel its warmth oozing onto my fingertips, the thought that I had gone too far with him intensified my anger. “I could kill you very easily right now. Unfortunately, I would be a serious suspect in that murder.” As I pushed him away I noticed a gleam in his eyes. I walked to the door, trying to calm myself, wondering at the deepness of my rage. I didn't want him dead, just frightened and in my control. In a gesture designed to unnerve him, I proceeded to lick the traces of his blood from my hands. He watched me, with a look of fascination on his face. Then, to my surprise, he turned his back to me, took off his jacket and began to unbutton his shirt.
“Care to finish what you started, my dear?” He turned around and I saw deep ruts in his shoulders, each surrounded with drops of congealing blood. I turned my head away in answer, disgusted at my behavior. “No? Well then, let me just clean up a bit and we'll talk about it all.” I looked at him again and saw that he had wiped the blood from his arms with his shirt. He discarded both the shirt and jacket into the wastebasket and went to the closet behind his desk to get new clothes.
“No, Max,” I said desperately, anxious to leave him. The taste of his blood lingered in my mouth, the smell of his blood in the air. “There's been enough talk for one night. I must go now.” I left the room and closed the door behind me. Leaning up against it, I tried to catch my breath. What was happening? I wondered, how could I lose control so quickly? If he had shown the slightest trace of fear I would have been on him in seconds, my teeth imbedded tightly in his neck. I recalled the gratifying feel of his torn flesh beneath my fingers and shivered.
“Damn,” I swore softly, then hurried down the hall toward the exit, to put as much distance between us as possible. Soon I was running, as if pursued by all the demons of my past and present. The doorman hailed a taxi and I rode into the comfort of the night.
Chapter 5
T
he roses began to arrive at my office on Monday afternoon, bouquets of massive, deep-red blooms overwhelming in their fragrance and their beauty. Every day that week another arrangement was delivered, each one more spectacular than the previous. No cards were included but I knew who had sent them. They all had Max's signature, a single pure black rose embedded amid the profusion of red. He had once, in an uncharacteristic, poetic mood, referred to me as a “rose clad in black.” The mood had passed quickly and soon he was his cynical self, but the epithet had remained. Ever since, any gift or message he sent was accompanied by a black rose. He was, I knew, seeking forgiveness and a reconciliation. The first I could grant, given time. But the second seemed to be a risky venture. The passion and anger that he had inspired frightened me, more than I cared to admit even to myself. Yet, as the week went on, and the flowers continued to arrive, I began to soften towards him, the emotions I felt subsided. Perhaps I had misjudged him; he really had not had a chance to explain, maybe I did owe him that chance.
In actuality, I spent very little time worrying about Max and our relationship. Even the thought that there might be another of my kind prowling the city was pushed into the back of my mind. The week proved to be as busy as I had expected and I immersed myself in the work. I could lose my identity in the designs, following and coaxing the ideas and drawings into something with texture, something with a tangible beauty. By Friday evening, when my office was overflowing with flowers, all delicately displayed in tall alabaster vases, a similar array of colors decorated the rack of finished garments in the dressing rooms.
The show was now only a week away and we had made great progress. I worked like one obsessed and had expected no less of my employees. With the prospect of a free weekend ahead of them they had matched my long hours with few complaints and were now tired but relieved that the rush was behind us. The tasks that remained for the next week were the final fittings, some accessorizing, and the staging of the show itself, mostly work for Gwen, myself and a few of our top seamstresses.
When everyone else had left the building, Gwen entered my office bearing two cups of coffee, one so diluted with sugar and cream it lost all resemblance to its origin, and for me, one black and steaming. I took it from her appreciatively and gestured to one of the office chairs. She flopped down with a sigh.
“Tired?” I questioned, needlessly, for even in the dim light I could see the dark circles beneath her eyes.
“Tired doesn't even come close to describing it, Deirdre. I don't think I could move from this chair, even if the building were on fire. But you, you still look as good as you did first thing Monday morning. Come to think of it, you still look like you did almost ten years ago. However do you manage it?” Her tired eyes squinted at me.
“Clean living, Gwen,” I joked. “I don't eat junk and I work like a dog. It's the Protestant work ethic, you know.”
“Whatever it is, it sure works for you. I feel like I've aged twenty years in the past five days. I had an argument with Nick about it; he wanted to go out tonight, but if I let him see me like this, the wedding would be off.”
“You're such an ass, Gwen; he loves you very much, tired or not. Go home, take a hot bath, chill a bottle of wine and invite him to your place. You can spend the entire weekend in bed if you're so tired.”
“Deirdre, if I didn't know better I'd think you were jealous. Don't you and Max have plans? I just assumed that with all these flowers you two had something special going on.”
“I hate to disappoint you, but there is nothing between Max and me, there never really was. Part of my secret is having no serious involvement with anybody.” I smiled indulgently at her. “But you are already involved, so my advice comes too late. Go home, Gwen, and have a nice time.”
She rose slowly from the chair and was walking to the door, when the intercom on my desk buzzed. We jumped in unison, having both supposed the office was empty. I answered and the front desk receptionist's voice filled the office.
“Miss Griffin, I'm sorry to bother you. I just came back upstairs to get something and found someone here waiting for you. Should I send him back?”
“I'll be right out to get him,” Gwen broke in. She turned to me. “Nothing happening, huh? Finally I get to meet the great Max.” With no trace of her professed exhaustion, she rushed out of the office and down the hall.
Unlike Gwen, I was not so sure that the visitor was Max. He had never before made any attempt to see me outside of the confines of the club, yet, given the precarious course our relationship had taken, he would have a better chance of making his explanations in person. Perhaps it was logical for him to make his appearance tonight.
I didn't have long to ponder the question, for I could hear Gwen's chattering approach my office.
“You're not anything like I pictured you, but it's nice to meet you. I'm sure Deirdre will be thrilled to see you. She's so maddeningly private about her life, she never even told me you'd be stopping here tonight. But I knew something was up, when all those beautiful flowers started to arrive. Here we are.” She was so excited about the visitor as she escorted him into my office, I felt it was cruel to disillusion her but it was necessary.
“Gwen,” I said as sharply as a slap and watched the smile fade from her face, “meet Detective Mitchell Greer.”
“Oh, God, I'm so embarrassed.” She flushed a bright red. “I'm sorry, Detective, I thought you were someone else.”
“Obviously,” he said with a kind smile, “but thank you for the greeting, anyway. People seldom meet me with such enthusiasm.”
“No, I bet they don't,” she started, then blushed more deeply. “I mean, or I didn't mean . . . oh, shit . . .”
“Gwen,” I said reassuringly, “you're tired. Just go home, I'll see you later.” With a muffled good night she scurried through the door and we were left alone.
I cleared my throat. “Your visit is such a surprise to Gwen and me. I have very few friends and none ever come here to the office. She just jumped to conclusions about who you are. I apologize if she embarrassed you.” I knew it sounded as if I were babbling, but it seemed a good way to cover the nervousness I felt in his presence. “We were just about to leave for the night; had you come a few minutes later you would have found an empty office.” I sat down behind my desk and began to restlessly shuffle papers around. “Sit down, please, and let me know how I can help you.”
He glanced around the office for a few seconds. “Thank you,” he said, sitting down, then abruptly, “Who died?”
I stiffened at his question, until I saw he was studying the flowers. “It is a bit excessive, isn't it?” I said with a small laugh, but supplied no further information. “Now, I hate to be rude, but it has been a long week and I am very tired. Can we get on with it?”
“Get on with it?”
“Yes, get on with it. Ask me your questions and then let me get out of here.”
“Well,” he began with infuriating slowness, “there is one very important question I'd like you to answer. Are you hungry?”
“Hungry?” What was he getting at? “Actually, I have been so busy this week, I can hardly remember my last meal. So, now that you mention it, yes, I am very hungry. Why do you ask?” His line of questioning worried me; there was no way for him to know of my habits and yet he was so unnerving. I rose from the desk and walked across the room to the flowers. Absently, I plucked a few of the drooping blooms, showering the credenza with a flood of scarlet petals.
He began to laugh. “No wonder you have so few friends, Miss Griffin. Don't you recognize a dinner invitation when you get one?” His face was lit with a mischievous smile and I could see that he was enjoying the situation.
His grin was infectious and I found myself smiling back. “Actually, I get very few dinner invitations and accept even fewer, so I never know how to react to them.” I hesitated for a while; if this was a friendly gesture on his part, it would do no harm. If it was part of his investigation, still I could get more details on the progress of the case from him than from anyone else. He could be an invaluable help in tracking the murderer for me. “Yes,” I replied at last, “I would like to have dinner with you. And since I assume you are not on official business, please call me Deirdre.”
“Fine, if you'll drop the detective and call me Mitch. What would you like to eat? I know a place not far from here that's wonderful. Nothing fancy, but they serve good steaks and some seafood.” He looked at me for my approval.
“A nice rare steak would be great for me. Just let me freshen up a bit and we can go.”
 
As we rode the elevator, I wondered what on earth possessed me to accept the invitation. There was something about Mitch that intrigued me, but I was hardly in any position to begin or pursue a relationship with anyone. And my idea of a dinner date hardly coincided with his. But as the doors opened into the lobby and I met his eyes and matched his smile, I felt strangely content with the situation.
A car was parked at the curb, a rather dingy sedan of indeterminate color, but unmistakably his, as the placard in the window proudly proclaimed “Official Police Business”.
“Business?” I questioned, giving him a sidelong glance as he opened the door.
“Well, no . . . I forgot to take it out of the window. Besides,” he said wryly, tossing the sign into the back seat, “it was easier than finding a parking spot.”
“Not above the law are you, Detective? While it may not be as serious a crime as some, illegal parking is still . . .” I mimicked the tone he took as our last meeting and he laughed, a nice honest sound.
“Okay, okay, let's drop it. To be perfectly truthful, I did start out on police business. It seemed a good idea to verify your identity, so I did some checking before I came up to your office.”
“Did I check out satisfactorily?” I inquired, trying to establish a casual tone.
“Most definitely,” he asserted. “You are Deirdre Griffin genius designer: hardworking, successful, ambitious and extremely wealthy.” He maneuvered his car carefully into the early evening traffic, then gave me a shrewd glance. “And there may have been a few more adjectives used that I left out.”
“I assume they were not all complimentary. Who provided you with this wealth of information?”
He glanced at me briefly, then gave a small shrug. “The usual sorts of informants: doormen, security guards, landlords and, uh, the editors of several fashion publications.”
“Who, no doubt, were more than happy to supply you with all the details of my criminal activities. So, with what shall I be charged?” I felt secure in the knowledge that none of the mentioned persons could have anything incriminating to say about me.
“Other than asking an exorbitant amount for your clothes, and getting it—nothing, I'm happy to report.” His voice lost all traces of humor. “Still I find it interesting that very little of your private life is known to anyone.”
“Why should it be known?” I could hear the anger creeping into my voice. “It is private, after all.”
“Don't get me wrong, I didn't mean to offend you. It's just that . . .” He hesitated for a second, considering his words. “You seem to live your life like a phantom, touching no one, leaving no impact on those around you. You hardly seem real.”
“I'm real enough,” I murmured, thinking myself a fool for accepting this date. He was too perceptive, too keen and I felt as if I was walking along a steep cliff merely by being with him. I glanced at him as he concentrated grimly on his driving. We sat in an uneasy silence;
I
turned my attention to the lights of the city flowing past the window.
I barely noticed when we stopped at the curb, until he reached over and gently touched my arm. “Deirdre,” he said softly, pausing again to collect his thoughts. “I'm sorry. Don't be mad.” He turned to look at me, his face seemed expressionless in the dark car. “I guess I just find it hard to believe that someone like you, with everything going for you—looks, talent, wealth—hasn't ever been married or pursued a serious relationship. It doesn't add up.”
“I was married, once.” My voice sounded small and lost. “He died.” I looked out the window, trying to shake the fear and sadness. “I never talk about it.”
“Oh, God,” he began. “I'm . . .”
“Forget it,” I interrupted. “I'm starving. Let's get that steak you promised. And please don't apologize any more tonight.”
“Fine with me; let's go.” He opened the door and came around to escort me out of the car. We walked down the dimly lit street to the restaurant, his arm comfortingly draped across my shoulders.
 
“Do you really enjoy that bloody mess of a meal?” I jumped guiltily at the question. Mitch was grinning broadly and pointing to my dinner plate. “You could send it back to the kitchen and have it cooked, you know.”

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