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Pandora adjusted the second heater. “Why?”
“Don’t be any more foolish than necessary. Someone could steal it.”
“Someone?” Straightening, Pandora smiled at him. “There aren’t many someones around. I don’t think Charles and Sweeney are a problem, but maybe I should worry about you.”
He cursed her and dropped the diamond back. “They’re your little bag of tricks, cousin, but if I had several thousand dollars sitting around that could slip into a pocket, I’d be more careful.”
Though under most circumstances she fully agreed, Pandora merely picked up her jacket. After all, they weren’t in Manhattan but miles away from anyone or anything. If she locked everything up, she’d just have to unlock it again every time she wanted to work. “Just one of the differences between you and me, Michael. I suppose it’s because you write about so many dirty deeds.”
“I also write about human nature.” He picked up the sketch of the emerald necklace she had drawn. It had the sense of scale that would have pleased an architect and the flare and flow that would appeal to an artist. “If you’re so into making bangles and baubles, why aren’t you wearing any?”
“They get in the way when I’m working. If you write about human nature, how come the bad guy gets caught every week?”
“Because I’m writing for people, and people need heroes.”
Pandora opened her mouth to argue, then found she agreed with the essence of the statement. “Hmm,” was all she said as she turned out the lights and went out ahead of him.
“At least lock the door,” Michael told her.
“I haven’t a key.”
“Then we’ll get one.”
“We don’t need one.”
He shut the door with a snap. “You do.”
Pandora only shrugged ass he started across the lawn. “Michael, have I mentioned that you’ve been more crabby than usual?”
He pulled a piece of hard candy out of his pocket and popped it into his mouth. “Quit smoking.”
The candy was lemon. She caught just a whiff. “So I noticed. How long?”
He scowled at some leaves that skimmed across the lawn. They were brown and dry and seemed to have a life of their own. “Couple weeks. I’m going crazy.”
She laughed sympathetically before she tucked her arm into his. “You’ll live, darling. The first month’s the toughest.”
Now he scowled at her. “How would you know? You never smoked.”
“The first month of anything’s the toughest. You just have to keep your mind occupied. Exercise. We’ll jog after lunch.”
“We?”
“And we can play canasta after dinner.”
He gave a quick snort but brushed the hair back from her cheek. “You’ll cheat.”
“See, your mind’s already occupied.” With a laugh, she turned her face up to his. He looked a bit surly, but on him, oddly, it was attractive. Placid, good-natured good looks had always bored her. “It won’t hurt you to give up one of your vices, Michael. You have so many.”
“I like my vices,” he grumbled, then turned his head to look down at her. She was giving him her easy, friendly smile, one she sent his way rarely. It always made him forget just how much trouble she caused him. It made him forget he wasn’t attracted to dramatically bohemian women with wild red hair and sharp bones. “A woman who looks like you should have several of her own.”
Her mouth was solemn, her eyes wicked. “I’m much too busy. Vices take up a great deal of time.”
“When Pandora opened the box, vices popped out.”
She stopped at the back stoop. “Among other miseries. I suppose that’s why I’m careful about opening boxes.”
Michael ran a finger down her cheek. It was the sort of gesture he realized could easily become a habit. She was right, his mind was occupied. “You have to lift off the lid sooner or later.”
She didn’t move back, though she’d felt the little tingle of tension, of attraction, of need. Pandora didn’t believe in moving back, but in plowing through. “Some things are better off locked up.”
He nodded. He didn’t want to release what was in their private box any more than she did. “Some locks aren’t as strong as they need to be.”
They were standing close, the wind whistling lightly between them. Pandora felt the sun on her back and the chill on her face. If she took a step nearer, there’d be heat. That she’d never doubted and had always avoided. He’d use whatever was available to him, she reminded herself. At the moment, it just happened to be her. She let her breath come calmly and easily before she reached for the doorknob.
“We’d better not keep Sweeney waiting.”
Chapter Three
The streets are almost deserted. A car turns a corner and disappears. It’s drizzling. Neon flashes off puddles. It’s garish rather than festive. There’s a gray, miserable feel to this part of the city. Alleyways, cheap clubs, dented cars. The small, neatly dressed blonde walks quickly. She’s nervous, out of her element, but not lost. Close-up on the envelope in her hands. It’s damp from the rain. Her fingers open and close on it. Tires squeal off screen and she jolts. The blue lights of the club blink off and on in her face as she stands outside. Hesitates. Shifts the envelope from hand to hand. She goes in. Slow pan of the street. Three shots and freeze.
Three knocks sounded at the door of Michael’s office. Before he could answer, Pandora swirled in. “Happy anniversary, darling.”
Michael looked up from his typewriter. He’d been up most of the night working the story line out in his mind. It was nine in the morning, and he’d only had one cup of coffee to prime him for the day. Coffee and cigarettes together were too precious a memory. The scene that had just jelled in his mind dissolved.
“What the hell are you talking about?” He reached his hand into a bowl of peanuts and discovered he’d already eaten all but two.
“Two full weeks without any broken bones.” Pandora swooped over to him, clucked her tongue at the disorder, then chose the arm of a chair. It was virtually the only free space. She brushed at the dust on the edge of the table beside her and left a smear. “And they said it wouldn’t last.”
She looked fresh with her wild mane of red pulled back from her face, comfortable in sweater and slacks that were too big for her. Michael felt like he’d just crawled out of a cave. His sweatshirt had ripped at the shoulder seam two years before, but he still favored it. A few weeks before, he’d helped paint a friend’s apartment. The paint smears on his jeans showed her preference for baby pink. His eyes felt as though he’d slept facedown in the sand.
Pandora smiled at him like some bright, enthusiastic kindergarten teacher. She had a fresh, clean, almost woodsy scent. “We have a rule about respecting the other’s work space,” he reminded her.
“Oh, don’t be cranky.” It was said with the same positive smile. “Besides, you never gave me any schedule. From what I’ve noticed in the past couple of weeks, this is early for you.”
“I’m just starting the treatment for a new episode.”
“Really?” Pandora walked over and leaned over his shoulder. “Hmm,” she said, though she wondered who had shot whom. “Well, I don’t suppose that’ll take long.”
“Why don’t you go play with your beads?”
“Now you’re being rude when I came up here to invite you to go with me into town.” After brushing off the sleeve of her sweater, she sat on the edge of the desk. She didn’t know exactly why she was so determined to be friendly. Maybe it was because the emerald necklace was nearly finished and was exceeding even her standards. Maybe it was because in the past two weeks she’d found a certain enjoyment in Michael’s company. Mild enjoyment, Pandora reminded herself. Nothing to shout about.
Suspicious, Michael narrowed his eyes. “What for?”
“I’m going in for some supplies Sweeney needs.” She found the turtle shell that was his lampshade intriguing, and ran her fingers over it. “I thought you might like to get out for a while.”
He would. It had been two weeks since he’d seen anything but the house and grounds. He glanced back at the page in his typewriter. “How long will you be?”
“Oh, two, three hours I suppose.” She moved her shoulders. “It’s an hour’s round trip to begin with.”
He was tempted. Free time and a change of scene. But the half-blank sheet remained in his typewriter. “Can’t. I have to get this fleshed out.”
“All right.” Pandora rose from the desk a bit surprised by the degree of disappointment she felt. Silly, she thought. She loved to drive alone with the radio blaring. “Don’t strain your fingers.”
He started to growl something at her back, then because his bowl of nuts was empty, thought better of it. “Pandora, how about picking me up a couple pounds of pistachios?”
As she stopped at the door, she lifted a brow. “Pistachios?”
“Real ones. No red dye.” He ran a hand over the bristle on his chin and wished for a pack of cigarettes. One cigarette. One long deep drag.
She glanced at the empty bowl and nearly smiled. The way he was nibbling, he’d lose that lean, rangy look quickly. “I suppose I could.”
“And a copy of the New York Times.”
Her brow rose. “Would you like to make me a list?”
“Be a sport, will you? Next time Sweeney needs supplies, I’ll go in.”
She thought about it a moment. “Very well then, nuts and news.”
“And some pencils,” he called out.
She slammed the door smartly.
Nearly two hours passed before Michael decided he deserved another cup of coffee. The story line was bumping along just as he’d planned, full of twists and turns. The fans of Logan’s Run expected the gritty with occasional bursts of color and magic. That’s just the way it was panning out.
Critics of the medium aside, Michael enjoyed writing for the small screen. He liked knowing his stories would reach literally millions of people every week and that for an hour, they could involve themselves with the character he had created.
The truth was, Michael liked Logan—the reluctant but steady heroism, the humor and the flaws. He’d made Logan human and fallible and reluctant because Michael had always imagined the best heroes were just that.
The ratings and the mail proved he was on target. His writing for Logan had won him critical acclaim and awards, just as the one-act play he’d written had won him critical acclaim and awards. But the play had reached a few thousand at best, the bulk of whom had been New Yorkers. Logan’s Run reached the family of four in Des Moines, the steelworkers in Chicago and the college crowd in Boston. Every week.
He didn’t see television as the vast wasteland but as the magic box. Michael figured everyone was entitled to a bit of magic.
Michael switched off the typewriter so that the humming died. For a moment he sat in silence. He’d known he could work at the Folley. He’d done so before, but never long-term. What he hadn’t known was that he’d work so well, so quickly or be so content. The truth was, he’d never expected to get along half so well with Pandora. Not that it was any picnic, Michael mused, absently running the stub of a pencil between his fingers.
They fought, certainly, but at least they weren’t taking chunks out of each other. Or not very big ones. All in all he enjoyed the evenings when they played cards if for no other reason than the challenge of trying to catch her cheating. So far he hadn’t.
Also true was the odd attraction he felt for her. That hadn’t been in the script. So far he’d been able to ignore, control or smother it. But there were times… There were times, Michael thought as he rose and stretched, when he’d like to close her smart-tongued mouth in a more satisfactory way. Just to see what it’d be like, he told himself. Curiosity about people was part of his makeup. He’d be interested to see how Pandora would react if he hauled her against him and kissed her until she went limp.
He let out a quick laugh as he wandered to the window. Limp? Pandora? Women like her never went soft. He might satisfy his curiosity, but he’d get a fist in the gut for his trouble. Even that might be worth it….
She wasn’t unmoved. He’d been sure of that since the first day they’d walked back together from her workshop. He’d seen it in her face, heard it, however briefly in her voice. They’d both been circling around it for two weeks. Or twenty years, Michael speculated.
He’d never felt about another woman exactly the way he felt about Pandora McVie. Uncomfortable, challenged, infuriated. The truth was that he was almost always at ease around women. He liked them—their femininity, their peculiar strengths and weaknesses, their style. Perhaps that was the reason for his success in relationships, though he’d carefully kept them short-term.
If he romanced a woman, it was because he was interested in her, not simply in the end result. True enough he was interested in Pandora, but he’d never considered romancing her. It surprised him that he’d caught himself once or twice considering seducing her.
Seducing, of course, was an entirely different matter than romancing. But all in all, he didn’t know if attempting a casual seduction of Pandora would be worth the risk.
If he offered her a candlelight dinner or a walk in the moonlight—or a mad night of passion—she’d come back with a sarcastic remark. Which would, inevitably, trigger some caustic rebuttal from him. The merry-go-round would begin again.
In any case, it wasn’t romance he wanted with Pandora. It was simply curiosity. In certain instances, it was best to remember what had happened to the intrepid cat. But as he thought of her, his gaze was drawn toward her workshop.
They weren’t so very different really, Michael mused. Pandora could insist from dawn to dusk that they had nothing in common, but Jolley had been closer to the mark. They were both quick-tempered, opinionated and passionately protective of their professions. He closed himself up for hours at a time with a typewriter. She closed herself up with tools and torches. The end result of both of their work was entertainment. And after all, that was…
His thoughts broke off as he saw the shed door open. Odd, he hadn’t thought she was back yet. His rooms were on the opposite end of the house from the garage, so he wouldn’t have heard her car, but he thought she’d drop off what she’d picked up for him.
He started to shrug and turn away when he saw the figure emerge from the shed. It was bundled deep in a coat and hat, but he knew immediately it wasn’t Pandora. She moved fluidly, unselfconsciously. This person walked with speed and wariness. Wariness, he thought again, that was evident in the way the head swiveled back and forth before the door was closed again. Without stopping to think, Michael dashed out of the room and down the stairs.
He nearly rammed into Charles at the bottom. “Pandora back?” he demanded.
“No, sir.” Relieved that he hadn’t been plowed down, Charles rested a hand on the rail. “She said she might stay in town and do some shopping. We shouldn’t worry if—”
But Michael was already halfway down the hall.
With a sigh for the agility he hadn’t had in thirty years, Charles creaked his way into the drawing room to lay a fire.
The wind hit Michael the moment he stepped outside, reminding him he hadn’t stopped for a coat. As he began to race toward the shed, his face chilled and his muscles warmed. There was no one in sight on the grounds. Not surprising, he mused as he slowed his pace just a bit. The woods were close at the edge, and there were a half a dozen easy paths through them.
Some kid poking around? he wondered. Pandora would be lucky if he hadn’t pocketed half her pretty stones. It would serve her right.
But he changed his mind the minute he stood in the doorway of her workshop.
Boxes were turned over so that gems and stones and beads were scattered everywhere. Balls of string and twine had been unraveled and twisted and knotted from wall to wall. He had to push some out of his way to step inside. What was usually almost pristine in its order was utter chaos. Gold and silver wire had been bent and snapped, tools lay where they’d been carelessly tossed to the floor.
Michael bent down and picked up an emerald. It glinted sharp and green in his palm. If it had been a thief, he decided, it had been a clumsy and shortsighted one.
“Oh, God!” Pandora dropped her purse with a thud and stared.
When Michael turned, he saw her standing in the doorway, ice pale and rigid. He swore, wishing he’d had a moment to prepare her. “Take it easy,” he began as he reached for her arm.
She shoved him aside forcibly and fought her way into the shed. Beads rolled and bounced at her feet. For a moment there was pure shock, disbelief. Then came a white wall of fury. “How could you?” When she turned back to him she was no longer pale. Her color was vivid, her eyes as sharp as the emerald he still held.
Because he was off guard, she nearly landed the first blow. The air whistled by his face as her fist passed. He caught her arms before she tried again. “Just a minute,” he began, but she threw herself bodily into him and knocked them both against the wall. Whatever had been left on the shelves shuddered or fell off. It took several moments, and a few bruises on both ends, before he managed to pin her arms back and hold her still.
“Stop it.” He pressed her back until she glared up at him, dry-eyed and furious. “You’ve a right to be upset, but putting a hole in me won’t accomplish anything.”
“I knew you could be low,” she said between her teeth. “But I’d never have believed you could do something so filthy.”
“Believe whatever the hell you want,” he began, but he felt her body shudder as she fought for control. “Pandora,” and his voice softened. “I didn’t do this. Look at me,” he demanded with a little shake. “Why would I?”
Because she wanted to cry, her voice, her eyes were hard. “You tell me.”
Patience wasn’t one of his strong points, but he tried again. “Pandora, listen to me. Try for common sense a minute and just listen. I got here a few minutes before you. I saw someone coming out of the shed from my window and came down. When I got here, this is what I found.”
She was going to disgrace herself. She felt the tears backing up and hated them. It was better to hate him. “Let go of me.”
