Kay had no idea what time it was, when she went to her closet and pulled out a raincoat. The windshield wipers made an irritating sound as Kay drove across town. The swish-swish of the rubber-bladed wipers grated on already raw nerves.
Kay wheeled into the only space in front of the elegant Park Lane Towers, parked and jumped out of the car. Rain brushed her face as she ran up the steps to the opulent lobby. Kay put a charming smile on her face when the uniformed doorman saw her, and she pointed upward, then shrugged slender shoulders as though she’d lost her key.
The man nodded knowingly and threw open the heavy glass door. Kay rushed inside, relieved. If she’d had to ring the buzzer of Sullivan’s apartment, she was not at all sure he’d have let her in the front door. “So sorry,” Kay said to the doorman, “I was sure my key was in my handbag.” She hurried to the elevator before he could answer.
Kay stood, drenched, shaking and wondering what had possessed her. She was on the nineteenth floor, just outside the door of Sullivan’s penthouse apartment. She gulped for air, squared her shoulders and knocked decisively.
“Yeah, it’s open,” came the irascible male voice.
Kay cringed and thought of fleeing. Cold hand on the shiny brass knob, she turned, pushed in the heavy door and stepped inside. Slowly she closed it behind her.
It was dark in the big room. Only one light burned and it was an elbow lamp casting its concentrated circular disk of illumination on the glass-topped table where it rested. A half-full bottle of Scotch sat beneath the lamp. A glass of the amber liquid sat beside the bottle. A dark hand slowly moved from the darkness to curl its fingers around the glass.
A faceless voice from the shadows said coldly, “Is there something you need?”
“Yes,” Kay said resolutely, and shrugged out of her wet raincoat and hung it on a brass coat tree. She turned, pulled nervously at the bottom of her blue sweater, descended the three steps leading into the big pine-paneled room and walked toward the light.
Sullivan remained where he was, saying nothing, lifting the Scotch to his lips. He lounged lazily in a leather easy chair. One long leg was hooked over the chair’s arm, the other stretched in front of him, resting on a matching leather ottoman. He wore no shoes, no shirt.
Kay stood above him, straining to see. “Can I offer you a drink?” came the faceless voice. “There’s ice in the…”
“I don’t want a drink, Sullivan.” Kay warily took a seat on the big soft ottoman beside his bare foot. “And I wish that you wouldn’t drink, either.”
Sullivan leaned slowly up into the light. His hair was disheveled and his beard was beginning to grow. He looked menacing. Possessively clasping the bottle of Scotch, he warned, “If you’ve any foolish ideas about being some kind of junior Carrie Nation with breaking bottles of liquor in mind, forget it. This is the only bottle I have and I plan to drink it.”
“It’s not like you to drink, Sullivan.”
“How the hell do you know what’s like me?”
Kay looked into his angry dark eyes. Their gazes held for a minute; then Sullivan leaned back into the darkness once again. “You never used to drink, Sul.”
“My name is Sullivan. Stop calling me Sul.” He lifted the glass to his lips.
“I’m sorry, Sullivan. You didn’t used to drink.”
“I didn’t used to do a lot of things, Kay. People change, or didn’t you know?”
“Yes, they do. But, still, I—”
“This is the first time I’ve had more than one or two social drinks in over ten years, so if you’re worried I’ve a drinking problem, kindly forget it.”
“I wasn’t, Sul—Sullivan, I know you never were a drinker. That’s not why I—”
“Then what? Tell me, Kay. What is it? What are you doing here?”
Kay rose and swept around the big room turning on lamps. “I cannot talk to someone I can’t see,” she told a blinking, frowning Sullivan. She
Kay wheeled into the only space in front of the elegant Park Lane Towers, parked and jumped out of the car. Rain brushed her face as she ran up the steps to the opulent lobby. Kay put a charming smile on her face when the uniformed doorman saw her, and she pointed upward, then shrugged slender shoulders as though she’d lost her key.
The man nodded knowingly and threw open the heavy glass door. Kay rushed inside, relieved. If she’d had to ring the buzzer of Sullivan’s apartment, she was not at all sure he’d have let her in the front door. “So sorry,” Kay said to the doorman, “I was sure my key was in my handbag.” She hurried to the elevator before he could answer.
Kay stood, drenched, shaking and wondering what had possessed her. She was on the nineteenth floor, just outside the door of Sullivan’s penthouse apartment. She gulped for air, squared her shoulders and knocked decisively.
“Yeah, it’s open,” came the irascible male voice.
Kay cringed and thought of fleeing. Cold hand on the shiny brass knob, she turned, pushed in the heavy door and stepped inside. Slowly she closed it behind her.
It was dark in the big room. Only one light burned and it was an elbow lamp casting its concentrated circular disk of illumination on the glass-topped table where it rested. A half-full bottle of Scotch sat beneath the lamp. A glass of the amber liquid sat beside the bottle. A dark hand slowly moved from the darkness to curl its fingers around the glass.
A faceless voice from the shadows said coldly, “Is there something you need?”
“Yes,” Kay said resolutely, and shrugged out of her wet raincoat and hung it on a brass coat tree. She turned, pulled nervously at the bottom of her blue sweater, descended the three steps leading into the big pine-paneled room and walked toward the light.
Sullivan remained where he was, saying nothing, lifting the Scotch to his lips. He lounged lazily in a leather easy chair. One long leg was hooked over the chair’s arm, the other stretched in front of him, resting on a matching leather ottoman. He wore no shoes, no shirt.
Kay stood above him, straining to see. “Can I offer you a drink?” came the faceless voice. “There’s ice in the…”
“I don’t want a drink, Sullivan.” Kay warily took a seat on the big soft ottoman beside his bare foot. “And I wish that you wouldn’t drink, either.”
Sullivan leaned slowly up into the light. His hair was disheveled and his beard was beginning to grow. He looked menacing. Possessively clasping the bottle of Scotch, he warned, “If you’ve any foolish ideas about being some kind of junior Carrie Nation with breaking bottles of liquor in mind, forget it. This is the only bottle I have and I plan to drink it.”
“It’s not like you to drink, Sullivan.”
“How the hell do you know what’s like me?”
Kay looked into his angry dark eyes. Their gazes held for a minute; then Sullivan leaned back into the darkness once again. “You never used to drink, Sul.”
“My name is Sullivan. Stop calling me Sul.” He lifted the glass to his lips.
“I’m sorry, Sullivan. You didn’t used to drink.”
“I didn’t used to do a lot of things, Kay. People change, or didn’t you know?”
“Yes, they do. But, still, I—”
“This is the first time I’ve had more than one or two social drinks in over ten years, so if you’re worried I’ve a drinking problem, kindly forget it.”
“I wasn’t, Sul—Sullivan, I know you never were a drinker. That’s not why I—”
“Then what? Tell me, Kay. What is it? What are you doing here?”
Kay rose and swept around the big room turning on lamps. “I cannot talk to someone I can’t see,” she told a blinking, frowning Sullivan. She
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