The Man For Maggie

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 a fearsome cast to his features that intimidated felons and scared the crap out of journos. It was a skill Max hadn’t mastered, one that needed cultivating, seeing that Babcox still took up space beside him.

“Why bother with the ringmaster when I can get it from the horse’s mouth? Doesn’t it worry you that women can’t sleep at night without wondering who’s going to be next?”

Max glowered at him and swallowed a curse as he heard the waitress set the coffee down on the counter behind him. The nerve of this guy! Hell, it was his embroidering of the facts that kept women awake at night. “Take it up with Henare.”

“Who’s the babe? Any connection with the case?”

Damn! Max didn’t want this jerk sniffing around Maggie. “Give me a break, mate, I do have a private life.” Maggie’d be sure to clam up if she caught on to Babcox’s line of work.

“Can’t say as I blame you. Wouldn’t mind a piece of that myself.”

Max stiffened and his hands fisted as he fought back the urge to plant them in Babcox’s filthy mouth. His nostrils flared with loathing as he sucked in a breath and held it.

With a nod of his head he drew Babcox’s attention to a poster advertising MacBeth. “If it’s more bloody murder you’re after, try backstage. You’ll learn more there than you’ll get out of me.”

“Yeah, real funny, Sergeant. But at least they know who did it.” The reporter put a couple of paces between himself and Max, then added, “Never let it be said I couldn’t take a hint. I’ll be seeing you, Strachan.”

“Not if I can help it. Listen good, Babcox, keep out of my face or I’ll get you banned from media releases.”

Max set Maggie’s coffee down in front of her. “Here you are. I hope it’s not cold. I got held up. Did you want something to eat with it? I didn’t think to ask if you were hungry.”

“No problem, coffee’s fine. Who was your friend?”

“Friend’s the wrong word for a lowlife you wouldn’t wanna be caught dead near,” answered Max, and realized his mistake as he saw Maggie’s expression tighten. He took the tub chair beside her, keeping his back to the window so he could see the whole room. He didn’t trust that guy one inch. “Anyway, he’s gone and the air’s fresher for it.”

“I suppose in your line of work you meet more people you dislike than not.”

“That just about sums it up.”

Maggie didn’t reply; instead she tore open three of the small packs of sugar and tipped them one after the other into her coffee. Caffeine was what she needed but a little sweetness wouldn’t go amiss.

“Maggie Kovacs! It is you.”

Suddenly Maggie found herself smothered in a soft, pillowy chest and a designer fragrance.

“I could hardly believe my eyes, it’s been so long.”

Once she’d been released and could breathe again, Maggie recognized Carla Dunsmuir. “Carla, how are—?”

“Oh, my dear! I’m so pleased to see that at last you’ve come out to play. And is this the man who’s rescued you? Your father would be so pleased.” Ever flamboyant, Carla gushed over both of them in warm, scented waves, eyes flashing and hands keeping time with her mouth.

The direction of Carla’s thoughts was all too obvious. She rushed on, not waiting for introductions. All Maggie could do was let her run her course. Nothing and no one ever stopped Carla once she’d hit her stride.

“I haven’t seen you since Frank’s funeral. So sad, so sad, but it’s thanks to him that I’m here today.” She smiled gently. “You know what they say about ill winds.”

“I do?” What was the woman talking about? Here because of Frank? Maggie needed help keeping up with her. She needed coffee.

Max stood with his hand on the chair next to him. “Care to join us?” he asked, hoping like hell the woman would say no, yet interested in spite of himself in what she had to say on the subject of Maggie’s father.

“No, thanks. I’m just passing through. That’s what I meant, Maggie. I needed something to do. I was lonely without Frank—you know what I mean. You must miss him more than me. Such a beautiful man.”

For a moment Carla’s face crumpled and Maggie braced herself, but thankfully she carried on with her explanation.

“So I ended up getting involved with the opera company and now I’m on the board. We’re doing a short season of Turandot,” she said, as if she personally would appear on-stage. “It starts tonight with a gala opening,” Carla chiruped, her hands fluttering and chest quivering in excitement. “So much to do, so little time.”

“I’m happy for you. Very happy.” Maggie felt positive Max must have realized by now that Carla had been her father’s lover.

“Such a tragedy.” Carla looked over at Max, sighing gustily. “I’m sure Maggie’s told you all about it.” Max nodded, but still she carried on. “So unexpected, too. I mean, these things always are, but it’s just that Frank was always so careful, checking everything before we took off. I often went with him, you know, but not that day. He refused to take me….” Carla trailed off, then looked at Maggie apologetically. “You mustn’t think he didn’t believe in you—I’m certain he did. It was just that being the sort of man he was, he wouldn’t let it rule his life.”

Max reached under the table and took the hand he knew Maggie had clenched in her lap. He undid her fingers and wrapped his own around them, rubbing the back of her hand against his thigh. Blasted woman! Why wouldn’t she leave? Would nothing go his way this morning?

“Anyway, Frank saved my life, but I never understood how it happened. I mean the plane was only six hours past its last fifty-hour check.” Carla looked at the jeweled watch circling her plump wrist. “Heavens, I must run!” She leaned forward and planted a kiss in the air near Maggie’s cheek. “Look after yourself, dear, and remember,” she said with a wink, “don’t let life grind you down!”

“Phew! I’m exhausted. How about you?” Max asked as he watched Carla’s departing figure disappear into the auditorium.

Maggie felt drained, which wasn’t unusual after a meeting with the woman. She shook her head. “It’s all right, I’m used to her.” She laughed out loud at a joke she’d thought long dead. “I never understood her and my father. I mean, their personalities were so different it was like combining candy floss with a lit match, yet I’m sure he loved her. In fact, I always thought he would marry her one day, but they never even got engaged.”

“They say opposites attract. Look at us.” Max dropped the statement into the conversation, reminding her their relationship wasn’t all-business. Truth be known, he’d rather it was pleasure that had brought them to this stage, where Maggie was easy with him holding her hand, and trusting enough to let him warm it against his thigh. He looked at the lush redness of her mouth and wondered how long he would have to wait to taste it again.

But anytime now he would have to get back to the folded paper, and the drawing burning a hole in his pocket.

“At least my father and Carla had some common ground, like opera, flying and wine.” There were questions in Maggie’s eyes, thousands of them floating around in the dark brown depths.

Max didn’t know the answers. He wished he did. All he could do was work his way through them and pray for a miracle. For one clue to jump up and hit him in the eye.

“I like wine, but as for the rest…” Max shrugged. “…I can’t tell Turandot from a tarot card. But tell me, what really did happen to your father?”

“I believe he was murdered!”

Chapter 4

Maggie blinked. Max hadn’t disappeared, which surprised her as much as the words she’d uttered. I believe he was murdered. She’d hardly dared think it before, never mind give breath to such an outrageous idea. A few moments with Carla, a woman as irrepressible and gregarious as she was generous, and suddenly Maggie had deviated from her rules. Rules that kept her safe from people like Gorman.

Now Max really would think she was nuts.

And maybe he wouldn’t be far from wrong. She probably came from a whole line of nutcases. Look at her father. A rational man would have at least taken some heed or precautions after she’d warned him. The surprise, in what was rapidly becoming a day of them, was that he had listened, and saved Carla from certain death, if not himself. Dumb! Maggie would never understand men.

“There was no mention of murder in the notes, from either you or anyone else who was—”

“Notes!” She gasped at this revelation, “You checked up on me?”

“Did you expect anything less? I’m a cop, Maggie. I take no one at face value, even with a face as beautiful as yours.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? That you think I have a beautiful face? A shop window dummy is beautiful, but there’s nothing inside.” She quivered with anger and stared at the frothy latté in her cup. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to listen. Gorman had done it again.

Courage don’t fail me now!

She set her cup into the saucer with a clatter and searched blindly for her purse. “Sorry I wasted your time. But don’t worry, I’m out of here. Me and my beautiful face.” She lashed out at him in her disappointment. She’d expected the moon and been handed a false coin.

Hurt tears distorted an image of the woman from her dream. I tried. I really did try!

Max’s fingers circled her wrist as she pushed up from her seat. “Maggie, don’t go! Stay. Please.” His voice exerted the same light pressure as his hand. “Take it from me, nothing in Gorman’s notes made me think any less of you.”

“What does it matter?” She shook off his hand and slung her purse over her shoulder, determined to leave.

“What do you want from me? Blood?” Max blocked her way and the world shrank to the width of his massive chest and shoulders.

She fixed her gaze on his chin. Any higher and his blue eyes might be her undoing. True blue as they say, she couldn’t bear to see them lie. Teeth clenched, she muttered, “That would do for starters, then you might try relying on your own judgment instead of that mouth of Gorman’s!”

Blast! Forcing her eyes wide hadn’t held back the liquid frustration in them. Now a tear hit her cheek, and to cap it off, she probably had a drip at her nose. Typical—it never rained but it poured. Maggie dug in her pocket and drew out a tissue.

Drowning was too good for him, unless he could do it in that tear. That’s all it took: a little salt water and he felt like a jerk. The rest of the coffee bar patrons probably thought so, too. Max and Maggie had drawn a small audience, and the waitress seemed ready to get on the phone and call the cops. She’d scream police brutality if he showed her his badge.

Maggie’s tears gouged a scar inside him deeper than the bullet had done when it seared his forehead. “Hey. Why don’t you sit down, blow your nose and tell me about Frank?” He swiftly scanned the coffee bar. “People think we’re fighting.” The brusque heartiness of his words didn’t have the desired effect.

Discomfort was written all over Max, and a newer, more tender emotion crushed her resolve. This huge man handled the worst the criminal element threw at him, but a crying woman cut him off at the knees.

“They’d be right then, wouldn’t they?” Her question spilled out, wrapped in a mixture of sobs and pent-up laughter. Then Max’s arm came around her shoulders, and the feel of him, firm and strong, holding her, stole the rest of her resolution.

“C’mon, honey, let’s go outside where we can find some fresh air and privacy.” Quickly! Before he pulled her into his arms and kissed her senseless. Wouldn’t that give everyone something to stare at?

Wide steps flowed onto Aotea Square, and at their base he steered Maggie toward a convenient alcove. A curve designed for elegance would keep them private and would shelter them from the wind. He’d sweated it out back there, thought that Maggie would turn and run. But she’d capitulated, and he didn’t know who was happier—the cop or the man. His baser, more selfish, hormone-driven instincts howled at the thought of losing something they’d decided was theirs by right.

Maggie.

Base, because even while he offered comfort, dried her eyes and soothed her with gentling sweeps of his hands, those same hands wanted to rip open her coat and push her against the wall. He wanted her to feel his pain. Pain that wouldn’t subside until he’d had her, until he’d felt her hot wet flesh surround his needy hardness and welcome his seed—and still it wouldn’t be enough. He’d want her, again and again and again….

Who was he kidding? He needed her. Needed her to make him feel alive.

Whatever it took!

But the cop had his own agenda. The kind that pricked up its ears at the mere mention of murder. However implausible.

Max felt her breasts swell and subside against his chest as a sigh travelled through her. He restrained himself from increasing the contact. From gluing them together from breast to thigh. “Feeling better now?” he asked, pushing his Maggie-moistened handkerchief back in his pocket.

With another sigh, she murmured, “You must…think…I’m nuts.”

“Not really. Slightly kooky maybe.” That was better; he’d raised a smile big enough to play havoc with his good intentions. Much as he lusted after the feel of Maggie in his arms, it was time to get back to business. “Listen, Gorman never wrote that you’d warned Frank not to fly, and there was no mention of dreams in his report. Nothing. He saved all that—” Max bit back the word garbage. “He saved it to humiliate you in the media. I’d never treat you that way.” His finger tilted her chin toward him. “Look at me, Maggie. Know this. Anything you say to me is completely off the record. I’m no more crazy about journos than you are.”

Maggie didn’t answer. Instead, she stared at him and through him, as if she could see forever. A worm of apprehension crawled up his spine. His hands dove for his pockets and his feet wouldn’t stop fidgeting. He had an urge to shut his eyes and hide his thoughts of Maggie, way back in his mind. It showed that his natural skepticism could only stand so much. What the situation wanted was lightening, before the tension between them snapped like cheap elastic and he was the one who got stung. With a couple of quick swipes of his finger across his chest, he said, “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Bad move!

What he hadn’t said—might never say—had screwed him up.

“That was pretty facile even for a cop.” Maggie shrugged inside her coat as if she might shed him like water. No such luck. She’d started this and her impulse might have washed out any credibility she had left.

Reluctantly, she laid her thoughts out in front of him. “Five months before my father died, another Creighton aircraft, the same model as his, crashed in the Pacific somewhere near Hawaii. The accident report on that plane said it had been caused by a fuel leak in the engine. The sensors malfunctioned, so the fire extinguishers didn’t come on.

“As soon as the report came out, Dad had his plane checked from nose to tail. Knowing my father, I’d bet that engine was clean enough to eat off.” Max frowned down at her, but she insisted, “Dad wasn’t stupid, just stubborn. He didn’t take risks.” Max had to believe her, even though all she had to go on was intuition. She had to convince him.

“I was wondering about what Carla said. How it was only six hours past a fifty-hour check. Is that the one she meant?”

“Yeah, it would have been more only we’d had a lot of building done at the vineyard and then Dad took a holiday in Australia.”

“From the account I read this morning, your father’s plane went up in flames. Am I right?”

“The scenarios were identical, though the air-accident inspectors tried to make out that the fuel line fractured near the intake. Yet the engineer swore the fuel line was new and the extinguishers should have controlled the fire, from the amount of leakage there was. I believed him. He wouldn’t have short-changed my father—not a valuable customer like him. If he’d been shoddy in his work, Frank Kovacs…” she tilted her chin at Max as she said her father’s name “…wouldn’t have kept going back. Dad expected the best and he usually got it. That’s why he laughed when I told him about the dream, the warning. He didn’t need it. All the angles had already been covered and he thought nothing could go wrong. Now I find he wasn’t as confident as he made out, otherwise he would have taken Carla with him.”