she could sleep.
It was danger. Beyond the aura of mystery that surrounded him and the animal attraction she felt for him was a sense of adventure, an almost tangible atmosphere of danger. Tangible yes, and she recognized the electricity it produced. It reminded her of the wire-taut tension in (he air the one time she had fallen asleep at the wheel, waking only to find herself hell-bent for the center guardrail, oncoming traffic heavy. She snapped awake, terror howled in her chest . . . and she could feel it.
That’s the way she felt around Peter Octavian. Not that she was afraid of him, though there was an element of that as well. But the air around him, the room as he moved into it, crackled—no, bristled—with danger.
She felt much better, comforted somehow, that she had finally recognized her attraction. Now that she had, she could concentrate on wondering what it would be like to be with him. At last she was relaxed, sleep right around the corner, and like a naughty child, she hoped she would dream of Peter. . . .
Only when the buzzer rang did Meaghan realize she had indeed fallen asleep. She looked at the glowing numbers on the clock at her bedside; twenty-five to three. She’d been asleep for just fifteen minutes, but she felt groggy. The buzzer rang again, reminding her that someone was trying to get her out of bed at 2:30 in the morning. Under normal circumstances it would have spooked her; with Janet missing, it scared the living shit out of her.
Meaghan got up and threw on a robe. She had been sleeping in her night shirt—an old, faded man’s oxford—and had her socks on, and even with the robe, it was chilly as she crossed the apartment. Before she reached the door, her visitor buzzed again, more insistent this time.
“Hello,” she croaked, half-asleep, as she worked the buttons on the intercom.
Nothing.
“Hello?” she said again.
And now she was awake. What was going on? It wasn’t the first time somebody’d buzzed an apartment at random as a prank or simply in error. But it was two-fucking-thirty in the morning and her roommate was missing and presumed dead by anybody who had half a brain.
“Shit!” She raced for the phone. No reason to take chances. Nine-one-one.
And then the knock.
“Jesus,” she whispered, cursing herself for romanticizing danger. The emergency line rang for the second time. “Answer, you bastards,” she cursed under her breath. “That’s what you’re paid for.”
The third ring and the second knock came simultaneously. This time the knock was longer, more urgent, and she imagined the same for the ring. Almost immediately the knocking became a banging.
“Meaghan,” the knocker shouted.
“Police department, you’re being recorded,” the emergency operator finally answered.
It was Peter at the door.
“Sorry,” she said to the cop who had taken his time to answer the phone. “Wrong number.”
Realizing that he would either wake the whole building—if he hadn’t already—or break down the door, Meaghan ran to unlock it and flung it open.
Peter’s eyes, and the eyes of the black man behind him, were wide with surprise and the detective’s mouth was open as he was about to shout again.
“Would you mind keeping it down,” she said, still shaking in fright. “I do have neighbors.”
“Why didn’t you answer?” Peter asked sheepishly as the two men came in.
“I was doing my nails,” she said a bit icily, and then backed off. “I was sleeping when you buzzed. How come you didn’t answer me when I buzzed you in?”
“Some guy was taking his dog for a walk and we just came on up. Not too bright, huh?”
His innocent face and raised eyebrows were too much for her, and she finally relaxed. She was scared, not angry, and now that the fear had gone, she was left with only amusement at the irony of his appearance here, late at night, with only this other tall, dark stranger to protect him from her advances.
Just kidding, she told
It was danger. Beyond the aura of mystery that surrounded him and the animal attraction she felt for him was a sense of adventure, an almost tangible atmosphere of danger. Tangible yes, and she recognized the electricity it produced. It reminded her of the wire-taut tension in (he air the one time she had fallen asleep at the wheel, waking only to find herself hell-bent for the center guardrail, oncoming traffic heavy. She snapped awake, terror howled in her chest . . . and she could feel it.
That’s the way she felt around Peter Octavian. Not that she was afraid of him, though there was an element of that as well. But the air around him, the room as he moved into it, crackled—no, bristled—with danger.
She felt much better, comforted somehow, that she had finally recognized her attraction. Now that she had, she could concentrate on wondering what it would be like to be with him. At last she was relaxed, sleep right around the corner, and like a naughty child, she hoped she would dream of Peter. . . .
Only when the buzzer rang did Meaghan realize she had indeed fallen asleep. She looked at the glowing numbers on the clock at her bedside; twenty-five to three. She’d been asleep for just fifteen minutes, but she felt groggy. The buzzer rang again, reminding her that someone was trying to get her out of bed at 2:30 in the morning. Under normal circumstances it would have spooked her; with Janet missing, it scared the living shit out of her.
Meaghan got up and threw on a robe. She had been sleeping in her night shirt—an old, faded man’s oxford—and had her socks on, and even with the robe, it was chilly as she crossed the apartment. Before she reached the door, her visitor buzzed again, more insistent this time.
“Hello,” she croaked, half-asleep, as she worked the buttons on the intercom.
Nothing.
“Hello?” she said again.
And now she was awake. What was going on? It wasn’t the first time somebody’d buzzed an apartment at random as a prank or simply in error. But it was two-fucking-thirty in the morning and her roommate was missing and presumed dead by anybody who had half a brain.
“Shit!” She raced for the phone. No reason to take chances. Nine-one-one.
And then the knock.
“Jesus,” she whispered, cursing herself for romanticizing danger. The emergency line rang for the second time. “Answer, you bastards,” she cursed under her breath. “That’s what you’re paid for.”
The third ring and the second knock came simultaneously. This time the knock was longer, more urgent, and she imagined the same for the ring. Almost immediately the knocking became a banging.
“Meaghan,” the knocker shouted.
“Police department, you’re being recorded,” the emergency operator finally answered.
It was Peter at the door.
“Sorry,” she said to the cop who had taken his time to answer the phone. “Wrong number.”
Realizing that he would either wake the whole building—if he hadn’t already—or break down the door, Meaghan ran to unlock it and flung it open.
Peter’s eyes, and the eyes of the black man behind him, were wide with surprise and the detective’s mouth was open as he was about to shout again.
“Would you mind keeping it down,” she said, still shaking in fright. “I do have neighbors.”
“Why didn’t you answer?” Peter asked sheepishly as the two men came in.
“I was doing my nails,” she said a bit icily, and then backed off. “I was sleeping when you buzzed. How come you didn’t answer me when I buzzed you in?”
“Some guy was taking his dog for a walk and we just came on up. Not too bright, huh?”
His innocent face and raised eyebrows were too much for her, and she finally relaxed. She was scared, not angry, and now that the fear had gone, she was left with only amusement at the irony of his appearance here, late at night, with only this other tall, dark stranger to protect him from her advances.
Just kidding, she told
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