By Blood Written by Steven Womack

three hours earlier. She felt herself reddening again.
    Damn , she thought, this man can make you blush.
    “I’ve got to go,” he said. “But I’ll call you tonight.”
    She smiled. “I’ll be here. Trying to recover …”
    “It’ll be an early evening for me, too.” With his index finger under her chin, he pulled her face toward him and then kissed her, full and long. His mouth tasted fresh, clean, and she was briefly embarrassed that she hadn’t had the chance to brush her teeth.
    He stood up. “Bye, you.”
    “Bye, Michael. Be careful.”
    She drifted there a few moments as he turned off the bathroom light, plunging the room into darkness. Then she heard footsteps on the metal staircase and the front door opening, then closing again as he left.
    Taylor fought off sleep long enough to get up, put on her robe, and walk downstairs to the front door to lock the dead-bolts. Then she walked into her kitchen and thirstily drank half a small carton of orange juice. When she got back upstairs to bed, she flicked on the table lamp next to her bed.
    The sheets were tangled, bunched, the bottom sheet pulled completely off the mattress.
    “It was a good fight, Ma,” she whispered. “But I think I won.”
    And as she crawled back into bed, reset the alarm clock, and turned off the lamp, she lay there in the dark a few moments staring at the ceiling.
    “Good heavens,” she muttered. “What have I gotten myself into?”
     
    CHAPTER 8 ?
    Friday evening, Las Vegas
    His head still buzzed as Michael Schiftmann snapped the plastic cable tie that had been looped through the latch on his hotel minibar and pulled out a tiny, airline-size bottle of Dewar’s. He unscrewed the cap, poured the contents over a tumbler filled with ice, and took the first sip.
    That first sip always burned, but it was a good burn to Michael, for it signified the end of another long day. Five days into the second phase of his book tour and he was already starting to have trouble remembering where he was.
    Let’s see , he thought. Monday, Manhattan; Tuesday, Boston and Minneapolis; Wednesday, Detroit; Thursday, Denver; Friday, Las Vegas.
    And tomorrow, he left for two days in San Francisco, then on to what felt more like a whistle-stop tour down the coast to L.A. and San Diego. He raised the glass to his lips, downed the rest in one gulp, then grabbed a second bottle from the bar. He crossed the room, sat down on the bed, and picked up the hotel phone. He dialed 9, waited for a second dial tone, then punched in ten numbers from memory.
    The phone rang four times—Michael knew the machine would pick up on the next ring—when a rushed feminine voice answered. “Hello.”
    “Hey you,” Michael said, raising the glass to his lips and taking a small sip.
    “Hey you right back,” Taylor said. “I was hoping you’d call. How are you?”
    “Tired. I just finished the signing at Gambling on Murder,” he said.
    “Great. How’d it go?”
    Michael pressed his head deeper into the pillow and sipped again from the drink. “Fine, just fine. About seventy-five, I’d say.”
    “Michael,” Taylor said, her voice rising. “That’s wonderful! Do you have any idea how big a crowd that is in Las Vegas?”
    “I would’ve thought with this being one of the most famous mystery bookstores in the world, I’d have had bigger.”
    “Stop it,” she scolded. “I’ve been in Gambling on Murder.
    You can’t fit any more people than that in the whole store. In fact, my guess is you’re lucky the fire marshal didn’t show up.”
    Michael smiled. “You always make me feel better.”
    “I’m your agent; it’s part of my job. How’d the interviews go?”
    “That lady on the public radio station did an okay job. She at least had read one of the books. But I did that noontime talk show, with that—oh hell, what’s his name? God, I met him seven hours ago and can’t remember his name.”
    “That’s life on the road for you,” Taylor