The Unknown Beloved(53)

“Dani,” Malone said again, and she blinked, coming awake slowly. The mellow glow of the small lamp lit her hair like a halo around her face, and when she finally looked up at him, still half asleep, still hazy, he felt a pang of reluctant affection. God, she was pretty.

“Dani . . . why are you in my room?”

She frowned and blinked again, and then she sat up suddenly, spooking her cat. Charlie shot beneath the bed, but Dani ignored him.

She stood with a cry and threw her arms around Malone’s waist.

“I will scold you later. Right now I’m too grateful you are all right to be angry,” she moaned.

Her curls tickled his chin, and her words were muffled against his shirt. He froze, not certain what he should do with his arms. He laid his palms carefully against her narrow back, hoping she would release him before he grew too attached to her nearness.

“Where have you been?” she chided. “I called Eliot Ness and told him you were missing. I’ve been sick with worry. Sick. I thought something terrible had happened to you.”

“You called Eliot Ness?” The anger that had abated in the face of her cherubic slumbering now returned. “And why in the world would you think that?”

She pulled back enough to stare up into his face. He could see himself mirrored in blue and brown. This close, her eyes were even more fascinating than before, but he was too irritated to enjoy them.

“Why? Because you’re hunting the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run,” she said, clearly flabbergasted by his very logical question. “You left your car. You didn’t say a word to me about where you were going or how long you’d be gone. You’ve been gone for four days, Michael. Four days. Why in heaven’s name didn’t you say something?”

“Because it never occurred to me to do so.” And how had she known to call Eliot?

She gasped, outraged, but did not step away from the loose circle of his arms. They were arguing within inches of each other, their voices pitched low.

“It never occurred to you?” she cried.

“No. I knew you wouldn’t need me at the morgue. I suppose it would have been polite to tell Margaret I would not need dinner, but extras always get eaten, don’t they? You were with a customer when I left. I let you do your job, and I went to do mine. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” she repeated, her voice high and her eyes wide.

“Yes. And you called Eliot?” he repeated.

“He was nice. He made me feel much better . . . but even still, he didn’t know where you were either. I got the feeling he had some ideas but wasn’t willing to tell me. And he didn’t call me back like he said he would. I was going to go to city hall tomorrow and demand an audience with him.”

Malone shook his head, trying to decide which part of that he should respond to first. “How did you know I was working with Eliot Ness? I see you went through my things and searched my drawers, not to mention making yourself at home on my bed. Is that how you knew? And have I told you I’m not crazy about cat hair? Because I’m not.”

“You’re angry?” Dani asked, incredulous.

“Yes, I’m angry. I expected a certain amount of privacy when I rented this room.”

“You’re angry?” Dani repeated, louder. “I have been in agony for days. I’ve hardly slept. I sewed a sleeve closed yesterday and hemmed a pair of trousers for a boy with twelve-inch legs. Sadly, they are far too short for him because he doesn’t have twelve-inch legs. I am angry with you, Michael Malone.” Each word was punctuated.

“And I was angry first,” she added, “so you are going to have to wait your turn, or even better, try some introspection and ask yourself why you have any cause to be angry at me for caring about you.” Her mouth trembled, and she gripped his undershirt like she wanted to rip it in two.

“You’ve got my shirt in your hands,” he snapped. “So where have I been? What have I been doing? Why do I need to tell you? You know everything already.” He peeled her hands from his clothes, caught between his extreme annoyance and his terrifying adoration. It was an odd, prickling sensation, like walking barefoot on the sand. It had been there from the day he walked into the shop, and it grew worse by the second. His shirt freed from her grasp, he clutched her shoulders, intending to put some space between them.

“I don’t know everything!” she cried. “It doesn’t work that way. And right now . . . I only feel you.” She crossed her hands over her heart like he had hurt her feelings, like she was trying not to touch him. But she held his gaze, defiant, and she was still too close.

He was weary, frustrated, and out of his depth. Instead of shaking her, he kissed her, his lips hard and his eyes open, trying to assert a dominance he didn’t feel. Better to demonstrate the disappointment he would be to her—in every aspect—than to let her think they were friends.

But her lips weren’t hard or angry or mean.

She was soft and warm. Real and eager.

He gasped, and her sweetness filled his lungs and flowered on his tongue. He closed his eyes and chased the flavor, wanting more of it, and his will dissolved in a hunger-induced fog.

Sweet Mary, Mother of God.

His hands slid from her shoulders to her back, pulling her up and into his body. He was a starving man given a loaf of bread and told to eat his fill.