On Broken Wings (46 page)

Hans nodded. "Sounds good, Boss. When do we start?"

Tiny rose again and reached for his jacket. "Tomorrow morning. For now, we get the hell out of this highly vulnerable position. How're you fixed for cash?"

Hans dug into his jeans pocket and pulled out a large roll.

Tiny grinned. "Then we go somewhere where there's food, booze, and a few distractions. Preferably the kind with slits between their legs."

"Show me the way, Boss."

====

Chapter
41

Christine toyed with the remnants of her veal Marsala. It had been as delicious as Rolf had promised, but she wasn't hungry enough to finish it, and was unwilling to ask the waiter to box such a small amount. It wasn't the only thing she was toying with.

Rolf sat across from her, stirring his fork through the puddle of sauce from his stuffed shells. His posture was relaxed, and his expression, as always, was pleasant and friendly.

This makes three times this week.

"Gonna let me pick up the check tonight, Rolf?"

"Not a chance."

"This has to be costing you a fortune." She'd never been to Grucci's Gardens before, but she knew a beautiful Continental restaurant like this wouldn't be cheap. The surroundings were opulent, the food was fabulous, and the waiters practically cut your bites and wiped your mouth for you.

"It's my pleasure, Chris. Paying for it leaves me feeling less guilty, okay?"

"What have you got to feel guilty about?"

He shrugged. "Taking you away from your other pursuits. Friends. Boomer. Time spent with me is time you don't have for them."

Ah, my other pursuits. Learning how to take down a million-man army with a jackknife and a sprig of mistletoe. And my copious friends. There is Boomer, though. And Malcolm, though he seems happy enough to be left alone with Louis's books.

"I'm here by choice, Rolf." She studied his face. "Will you accept my word that you're good enough company to be worth my time?"

He stirred the puddle of sauce again. "I believe the technical term for that is 'damnation with faint praise.' "

"Knock it off!" Several other patrons glanced over to their table. In a lower voice she said, "You're very good company, and you ought to know it. I'm here with you. I'm not bored. I'm never bored when we're together. How much more convincing do you need?"

And how much longer will it be before you ask me to come up and see your etchings, or however it's done these days?

The memory of Louis and the pain of his loss was still strong within her. Likely it always would be. But he had wanted her to live and be well. He would not have wanted her to turn ascetic when he was gone. And she had decided she wanted Rolf.

She could not imagine ever feeling for Rolf the same all-consuming ache of desire she had always felt for Louis. She had yearned to merge with Louis, to make from the two of them a single soul. Rolf was a good man, intelligent, decent, even handsome in a frail way that invited mothering, but not one to stir a passion like that.

Rolf was always attentive and faultlessly courteous. He would do anything she had a mind to do, or nothing if she preferred that. He was comfortable with both activity and stillness, with both conversation and silence, as long as she was with him. He was good company.

Yet his reserve, after six months' acquaintance, was still unbroken. They had gone out to dinner perhaps twenty times, had seen half a dozen movies together, and he had yet to touch her hand.

He never talked about himself. He had let slip enough for her to learn that he had been married once, and that his wife had left him. She had nosed around among their coworkers, as subtly as she could, and had learned a little more. Apparently Anna Svenson had taken their children and fled their home without leaving a forwarding address. No one professed to know why.

He asked no personal questions. The closest he'd ever come was, "What did you think of the movie?" Their conversations were always about work, or their coworkers, or the bizarre gyrations of Onteora Aviation's management. Tonight's conversation had run down some time ago, but it didn't seem to have made him uncomfortable.

Louis and Malcolm would have told you to judge from the evidence. He seems to want only to be near you. In the absence of evidence to the contrary, perhaps you should adopt that premise.

Are you taking on romantic counseling as a sideline, Nag? I can read the cards when they're face-up in front of me. That's not the problem.

I know, Christine. The problem is the itch between your legs. You want it scratched. You've decided you want him to scratch it. But a man is not a scratching post. Think about how badly it went with Louis at first, when you feel yourself losing patience.

Shock arrowed through her. Her blood rose in fury.

You bodiless cocksucker. You meddlesome, supercilious, pseudo-moralistic
prick
. I know right from wrong! I learned it from a lot better teacher than you!

"Chris, are you okay?" Rolf had half-risen from his seat and was leaning over the table toward her. She pulled her attention out of her interior world and returned it to him.

"Hm? Yeah, Rolf, everything's just super. Why?"

He resumed his seat. "Jesus, you could have fooled me. Your eyes glazed over, and then you turned this amazing shade of red. I thought you might be having some kind of fit."

Yeah, some kind of fit, all right. You'd have been a little surprised at your role in it, though.

She grinned. "I did feel a little lightheaded there for a moment, but it's passed. Probably the wine. I've never been much of a drinker." She probed the recesses of her consciousness for traces of the Nag, and found none. Perhaps her spike of anger had put him outside for the night. She could hope, anyway.

He nodded and said no more. When the waiter brought the check a few minutes later, he laid a credit card on it without speaking.

As she drove him back to the plant, he said, "You have a performance review Monday, you know."

"What?" She kept her attention on the road, which the hard winter not yet completely behind them had rendered treacherous. Onteora County's customary inadequate road lighting amplified the hazards. "What's that?"

"Dick Orloff is going to ask you into his office, and the two of you are going to talk about how you've been doing, and where you're headed. It's nothing to worry about. Everybody around here practically worships you." He paused. "Especially me, and I wrote most of your review myself."

There was a long silence.

"Nothing to be worried about, then," she said.

His hesitation triggered her alarms.

"Not for you, no." There was a slight emphasis on
you
.

She swung her Chrysler into the OA parking lot, flashed her badge at the guard, and pulled up next to Svenson's battered old Ford.

"Rolf, what's up? Don't make me have to fish it out of you."

He shrugged. "It's no big deal. Dick will want to discuss your possibilities with you. Take you up on a high mountain and offer you all the kingdoms of the world. He'd probably agree to clean your house every day if you'd bind yourself to the company with a long-term contract." His casual air vanished. "Don't do it, Chris. Keep your options open."

Good policy in any strategic situation.

"I think I would have known to do that, Rolf. And thanks for being concerned for me. But what's got you worried? You didn't make a big production out of this review thing just to give me seven words of common-sense advice."

"Eight words."

"Seven. You get no points for telling me my name."

She stared at him, willed him to speak. His features were invisible in the darkness. Only the gray-blond fringe of hair above his ear caught any of the meager ambient light.

"Just keep your options open, Chris. Don't commit to anything too quickly. Orloff is a good guy, but his interests aren't identical to yours. Whatever he might offer you, take it home to chew on before you give him an answer. If he says there isn't time for that, then I'd advise you to say no."

"Regardless of the offer?"

"Regardless. An offer that leaves you no time to think is a trap nine times out of ten. The tenth time, it usually isn't as juicy as it was puffed up to be." He turned toward her, features still swathed in darkness. "Chris, you're the best there is. The absolute best. No one anywhere can touch you, take my word for it. You don't have to commit yourself to anything. The world will make a place for you no matter what."

The dry, managerial tone failed to hide the current of passion that thrummed beneath the words. She started to reach for him, before recalling the exchange with the Nag only a few minutes past.

"Rolf, I...thank you. I appreciate it."
More than you know.
"And I'll act on it, you can count on that."

He nodded and opened the car door. "I was sure you would."

***

Malcolm looked up from his book as Christine stepped through the front door and into the living room. Boomer rose from his bed in the corner and came to greet her.

"Was he good?"

Malcolm shrugged. "Isn't he always? How was dinner?"

"First rate. What is it tonight?" She gestured at his book.

"Lombrosian Cephalometrics and Crimes of Conspiracy."

"Huh?"

"An Italian sociologist named Cesare Lombroso had a theory about a correlation between skull shapes and the propensity toward a life of crime."

"Oh. Interesting?"

He shrugged. "Only as a study in how easy it is to see things that aren't there, if that's what you want to see."

She grinned and headed up the stairs to her bedroom, with Boomer trailing her by inches. She removed her suit and inspected it for further wearability, decided it would pass for another day, and hung it in her closet.

It's been a month since I last talked to Helen. How long since I last saw her?

She made a mental note to call her friend in the morning, donned a baggy fleece sweat suit, and descended to the kitchen, with Boomer once again in her wake.

After months of struggle against what seemed insuperable obstacles, Malcolm had broken the barrier that the mighty Louis Redmond had never been able to surmount: he had taught Christine how to make acceptable coffee. Now that she had the trick of it, she seldom wanted to drink anything else. She found it odd that others considered coffee a beverage for after a meal, but not for before or during one.

Once the pot was up, she settled at the kitchen table to wait for it to drip, and tried to sift through the revelations and emanations from Rolf. Boomer curled against the base of the table, settled his head onto his forepaws and closed his eyes.

It could be just that he's a natural worrier. He doesn't think much of his leadership skills, but they're there, and the need to see into the future is a really big ingredient in the mix.

Or it could be that he fears for me personally, which would be sweet. I don't think I should tell him how little need there is to worry about me. It might put him out of reach.

Or it could be that he fears for himself.

The taste of that last possibility was unpleasant. The coffee pot emitted its terminal gurgle; she rose, poured herself a cup, and returned to her chair.

He's never been short on appreciation. He sings my praises to everyone who asks. Maybe he's worried that I might leave his team for fresh new vistas? Or that I'm about to catapult over his head?

It was more plausible than she liked to think. What reason did Rolf Svenson have to believe that his new engineer would bind herself to him?

I turned down that little prick Arkham. That should be something.

At length she decided it was a topic to be brooded over earlier in the day. She drained her cup and wandered out to the living room. Malcolm was marking his place in his book and rising from the sofa. "Shall we spar tomorrow?"

She grinned. "Sure, why not? And war games on Sunday?"

"As usual. You know, I'm running out of material for you."

"Come on, Malcolm, tell me something I can believe."

"I'm serious." He rose. "You've covered the ground so much faster than I expected that I have only one area left. After that, your only reason for having me here will be the pleasure of my company."

"Malcolm, you know you can stay here as long as you like."

He shook his head. "As long as
you
like. This is your house, not mine."

"Well, yes, but why would I retract my invitation? Are you planning to start throwing wild parties without inviting me?"

He chuckled. "No, not at the moment. Let it rest. I'll see you in the morning." Seconds later he had closed the door of his bedroom behind him.

How many women have two Mystery Men in their lives?