A Fashionable Affair Read online

  “Michael!” she cut in, “I promise not to seduce you. Now will you stop making excuses and just come up?”

  She had succeeded in startling him, she saw. Taking his arm, she gave an impatient tug.

  The familiar grin dawned. “Take back that promise and I’ll come.”

  It was her turn to be startled. She decided to ignore his last comment. “Come on,” she repeated, more softly this time, and he walked beside her into the building. They didn’t talk until they were in her apartment.

  “Do you want tea?” she asked him, “or another drink?”

  “Tea please.” He followed her into the kitchen and sat at the table while she got out the tea kettle. “All your Englishness comes out when you make tea,” he remarked idly as he watched the deft movements of her hands.

  “Well, Mother was born in Surrey,” she replied. “And she never has become very American, not even after forty years.”

  He watched as she put cups and saucers on the table. “We both spent the afternoon with a friend of Fred’s, it seems,” he murmured as she sat across from him.

  “Oh?” Her brows lifted. “Who did you see?”

  “A fellow named Bob Hellman. He said you told him I was handling your business affairs. He tried to talk me into turning them over to him. I refused.”

  Patsy looked at him in confusion. “He told you I had given him your name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I didn’t.” The kettle began to whistle and she got up to make the tea.

  “Hellman said he called you,” Michael explained when she was sitting once again.

  She poured the tea. “He did. And I told him someone else was handling my affairs. He asked who it was and I said I wouldn’t tell him.” She put the pot down. “I’ve learned to give out as little information as possible about my private life.”

  He was very still. Patsy looked at him gravely. “The ballgame,” he said at last. “We were all over television together at the ballgame.”

  Patsy cleared her throat. “I have a famous face,” she said.

  He swore without apology. His mouth suddenly looked very hard in the bright kitchen light. He hadn’t touched his tea.

  “Michael,” Patsy croaked from a dry throat, “will you please tell me what’s going on?”

  “Fred Zimmerman was ripping you off, for one thing,” he said brutally. “That trip to Africa, for example. He charged you a lot more than it cost.”

  “But how—”

  “Easy enough. Like all good swindles, he did it on paper. He has receipts for everything. The problem is, the receipts are a work of fiction. He charged you much more for plane fares, hotels, and guides than the airlines, hotels, or guides ever saw. The difference went to Fred—or rather to his numbered bank account in the Cayman Islands.”

  Patsy’s eyes were huge. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure, all right. I spent the whole day checking.” He looked at her. “You’re also paying five hundred dollars a month more for this apartment than it actually costs.”

  Patsy put her hand to her forehead. “I can’t believe all this,” she murmured dazedly.

  “You can believe it all right, sweetheart. And I’ve only just started checking. You were quite a little gold mine for Fred.”

  Patsy stared at her tea. “But he was always so nice to me.”

  “So should I have been if I were in his shoes.”

  Patsy’s head remained bent, the loose ringlets bright golden red against the soft white skin of her neck. “Oh, Fred,” she said with infinite sadness.

  “Oh, Fred, indeed.” Michael’s voice was hard, and his eyes, when she looked up, were impatient and ruthless. “The question now is, Who is Fred’s pal and how did he get my name?”

  Patsy stared at him as if she’d never seen him before. He didn’t look at all like the Michael she knew—or thought she knew. And at the moment he didn’t look like anyone she’d care to tangle with. “I don’t know,” she said in a small voice.

  “Neither do I.” The grimness around his mouth didn’t relax. “But I have a distinctly unpleasant feeling that I’m going to find out shortly.”

  “Your tea will get cold,” she said helplessly. He picked up the cup and drank. His eyes were hooded, unreadable.

  She tried to change the subject. “I’m going to be on the island tomorrow. Ebony Lad has been shipped to Aqueduct from Florida and he’s running his first race. As part owner, I get the pleasure of sending him off.”

  She had his full attention. “Did Fred recommend that horse to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll come with you to the track.”

  “Well, all right.”

  “Why don’t you drive to my house first and we can go to Aqueduct together?”

  “All right,” she repeated.

  “What time?”

  “About noon?”

  He nodded decisively. “Okay. Noon.” He stood up. “Thanks for the tea.”

  Dismissed again, she thought. She stood up as well. “I haven’t been bossed around so much since I was a little kid,” she complained.

  He looked around, really seeing her for the first time since the subject of Bob Hellman had come up. She was standing by the refrigerator, and she gave him a slow and beautiful smile. Her dark-brown eyes were huge, and they held his for a long, silent moment.

  He crossed the kitchen and stood before her. “You don’t need a boss, Red,” he said softly. “You need a keeper.” He put both hands on the refrigerator behind her, imprisoning yet not touching her. His face was very close to hers and she felt every pulse in her body leap with awareness.

  Her lips parted very slightly. “Are you applying for the job?”

  He smiled faintly, and Patsy stopped breathing. “I think I’ve already got it, sweetheart,” he said. He straightened up and moved away from her. “I’ll see you tomorrow at noon.”

  Patsy straightened her own shoulders and glared at him.

  The smile lingered on his mouth. “Remember your promise,” he said.

  “Good night,” she answered coolly. “Please close the front door after you.”

  “And you make sure it’s locked. See you tomorrow.” He was gone. Patsy listened to the sound of the door closing and abruptly sat down. She could not remember ever being so confused by a man in her life.

  Chapter Seven

  Patsy rang Michael’s doorbell at twelve-fifteen the following day, and they set off immediately for Aqueduct in Michael’s car. He did the driving.

  “It’s not a big-stakes race or anything,” Patsy explained as they cruised along the highway. “Earl said it was a warm-up, a race to get him used to the track and give him a bit of a workout against the other horses.”

  “Do you often watch him run?”

  “I go to all his races in New York. He really is a love, Michael. Wait till you see him. He has the most beautiful face.”

  Michael spared her a glance from the road. “When did you acquire this interest in horses?”

  “I’ve always liked horses. I read all the Black Stallion books when I was a kid. But Mother would never hear of my taking riding lessons, so I sort of got interested in other things.”

  “I thought the English were crazy about horses,” he remarked.

  “Mother had a younger sister who was killed by a fall from a horse.” Patsy’s voice was full of compassion. “Every time I mentioned riding, her face would get this frozen, petrified look. I hated to see her upset, so I gave it up.” She rolled down her window a little to let the breeze blow into the car. “Anyway, when Fred mentioned that a racehorse might be a good tax shelter, I remembered all those Black Stallion books and said go ahead.”

  “You said you were part owner?”

  “Yes. I own half, in fact. The other half is owned by another fellow Fred worked for, a guy named Frank Carbone. He seems nice enough.”

  “So did Fred,” he said dryly.

  Patsy sighed. “True.”

  They par
ked the car and went to the barn area of the track where Ebony Lad was stabled with the rest of the horses trained by Earl Hibbard. The trainer was nowhere in sight, but one of the grooms came over to them. “Lad’s looking good, Miss Clark,” he told her. “Would you like me to take him out of his stall for you?”

  Patsy smiled. “Would you, Tim? I’d like Mr. Melville to see him close up.”

  “Sure.” The groom lifted a halter from the door, went into the stall, and buckled it around the horse’s head. He clipped a lead line on the halter and led the horse into the April sun.

  He was a big, strong colt who was just coming into his full growth. He wore a light blanket, but the coat on his neck gleamed pure black in the sun. “Isn’t he marvelous?” Patsy asked proudly. She went to the horse’s head and reached into the pocket of her cord pants for a piece of carrot she had brought. The horse’s ears pricked forward and he nuzzled her, impatient for his treat.

  “He sure is big,” Michael said.

  “Just over seventeen hands,” the groom informed him.

  Patsy had finished feeding Ebony Lad his carrot and was gently stroking his nose. “You’re a big boy, aren’t you, fella?” she crooned gently, and at the sound of her voice, the horse’s ears pricked forward again.

  “Patsy!” said a genial male voice, and a small, stout man with thinning blond hair appeared from around the corner of the barn.

  “Hi, Earl,” Patsy greeted him cheerfully. “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. Michael Melville— Earl Hibbard.”

  The ruddy face of the trainer wore a pleasant expression. He held out his hand. “Glad to meet you.”

  “I’ve just been admiring your horse,” Michael said easily. “He’s very quiet, isn’t he?” Ebony Lad was once again nuzzling Patsy’s pocket.

  “What he is, is greedy,” Patsy said producing another carrot.

  They remained for a few minutes longer, the three of them chatting in the sun, and then Patsy’s eye caught an approaching pair of men. “Here comes Lad’s Daddy,” she remarked to Michael. “Hi, Frank. Are you here to give him a royal sendoff?”

  The man she was addressing was tall, slim, and dark-haired. He gave her a very white-toothed smile. “I’m glad to see you, Patsy. How are you?”

  “Fine.” She glanced around for Michael, who, standing beside Ebony Lad’s head, was hidden from the view of the newcomers. “Frank, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine,” Patsy began, and Michael stepped out from behind the shelter of the horse. Frank and his companion saw him at the same second and their expressions froze. Patsy’s voice faltered momentarily and then went on evenly, “Michael Melville. Michael, this is Frank Carbone.”

  Frank nodded, and so did Michael. Neither man made a motion to shake hands, nor did Frank offer to introduce his friend. It was the friend, Patsy noticed, who was staring hardest at Michael. He did not look friendly.

  “How do you do,” Patsy said graciously to the unfriendly one. “I’m Patsy Clark.”

  The heavy-jowled, well-tanned, mean-looking face turned briefly in her direction. “Yeah,” he grunted. “I know.”

  Patsy allowed her eyes to widen, and she looked at Frank. “Is this gentleman a friend of yours?”

  “A business associate,” he replied.

  “Oh?” Patsy turned to Michael, who appeared to be engaged in a staring contest with the business associate. Michael looked perfectly self-contained and rather frighteningly tough.

  As Patsy watched, the hazel eyes removed themselves from the baleful dark stare of Frank’s friend and focused on her. “Shall we move along to the clubhouse?” he asked her.

  “Yes,” she replied. “We might as well take in some of the races.”

  “Mmm.” He put his hands into his pockets. “I have a feeling that this might be my lucky day.”

  The expression on the business associate’s face hardened from unfriendliness into menace. Michael looked at Patsy, and she fell into step beside him immediately.

  “Whew!” she said as they moved out of earshot of the men. “Who was that?”

  “That, my dear Patsy, was a man I almost put in jail.”

  “In jail!” Patsy echoed in astonishment.

  “Yep. He was engaged in some extremely crooked dealings which I picked up on a tax audit. But he had a very smart lawyer, and friends in high places, I also suspect. He got off on a technicality.” Michael’s black hair was blowing over his forehead in the breeze. “He doesn’t like me.”

  “I’ll say he doesn’t. And why, I want to know, is a crook like that a business associate of Frank’s?”

  “The plot thickens.” He sounded rather pleased. Patsy stared at him. “And at least we know now how Bob Hellman got my name.”

  “You think Bob Hellman’s connected with— what’s the business associate’s name, anyway?”

  “Jack Garfield. And, yes. I think Hellman is connected. They all appear to have been buddies of the sainted Fred.”

  “Oh, dear,” Patsy moaned. “Poor Fred.”

  “Sweetheart,” he said, “I think rather it’s a case of poor Patsy. Do you realize that Fred had control of all your money?”

  “Yes,” Patsy replied rather hollowly. “I’ve been realizing that for the last day or so, Michael.”

  “You stand to lose quite a bundle.”

  “So I’ve gathered.” She linked her arm in his. “We’ll have to try to recoup my fortune at the races.” She looked into his face. “Who do you like in the first?”

  * * * *

  Ebony Lad won his race in impressive style and Patsy succeeded in banishing the thought of Frank and his unpleasant friend from her mind. They stayed for the last race, which Michael won, cashed in his ticket, and claimed their car.

  “Can I buy you dinner before you set off for home?” he asked as they got on the expressway.

  “You certainly can. You can afford to, the way you cleaned up this afternoon.”

  “Mmm. I didn’t do badly at all. I’ll have to try this horse-racing business again.” Someone cut him off and he frowned slightly and hit the brakes. Patsy thought he was absolutely the most imperturbable person she had ever met. “Seafood okay?” he asked.

  She started a little. “What?”

  “I asked if you’d care to eat seafood. For dinner.”

  “Oh, yes. Seafood would be fine.”

  They went to a small, unpretentious restaurant near the beach and had clams, shrimp, and a bottle of white wine. It was about eight o’clock when Michael parked in front of his house. Patsy’s Volvo was in the driveway. They got out of the car, and he gave her a friendly smile. “Got your keys?” he asked.

  Patsy stared at him. “It’s awfully early. You might offer me a drink before you kick me out onto the highway.”

  “Mmm,” he said. “Well, come on in, then.”

  Hardly a gracious invitation, Patsy thought as she followed him down the path. Really, she didn’t know why she was tagging after him like this. Pique, probably, she decided. She wasn’t used to being dumped.

  Michael switched on the living-room lights. “I have ginger ale or Diet Seven-Up,” he said.

  Patsy rested in a club chair. “Do you have Scotch?”

  “Yep. For me, not for you. You’re driving and you already had a few glasses of wine.”

  “Oh, all right,” Patsy grumbled. She took her feet out of her espadrilles and wiggled her stockinged toes comfortably. “Seven-Up then.”

  He went into the kitchen and returned with a tall glass for her and a short one for himself. Then he sat on the sofa. “About these shopping-center shares,” he began.

  Damn the shopping-center shares, Patsy thought crossly. Was accounting all he ever thought about? She sipped her Seven-Up and looked at him speculatively. There was a folder on the coffee table in front of him and he leaned forward to open it.

  “Is that my stuff?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  He turned a paper over and Patsy suddenly got up and went to sit beside him. She
put her drink on the table and bent forward, so that her head was close to his. A silky strand of red hair tickled his cheek. “Show me,” she said softly.

  “Patsy ...” There was an odd note in his voice and she turned to look at him. The green-gold eyes held a distinctly wary expression. She moved a bit closer, her breast brushing against his arm.

  “Yes?” she said, her voice even softer than before.

  His hair had fallen forward over his forehead. “My dark-eyed siren,” he said, eyeing her with the same wariness but now also, she could swear, with amusement. “Are you by any chance trying to seduce me?”

  Her brown eyes widened slightly as the idea registered. She didn’t really know what she was trying to do. She sat back a little as a whirl of thoughts raced through her brain.

  Patsy did not make a habit of seducing men. Her moral standards might not conform to those of her mother, but she could say, with perfect truth, that she had never gone to bed with a man she didn’t love. Her boyfriends had always been long-term, never spur-of-the-moment impulses. So what was she trying to do now?

  The answer came immediately. She was trying to get him to pay some attention to her. Her pride was irked by his indifference, that was all. She suddenly felt ashamed of herself. Good God, she thought, this was Michael. He was practically her brother, for heaven’s sake. “No, I’m not,” she said, and bent forward to give him the kind of kiss he had once given her—light, casual, sisterly.

  He put his hand on her arm and kissed her back, and this time his kiss wasn’t brotherly at all. In seconds Patsy, having completely lost the initiative, found herself leaning back against the sofa cushions with Michael above her. When he finally raised his head, she was trembling.

  “Because if you are,” he added, and the eyes looking down into hers were pure gold, “I’m perfectly willing.”

  “Michael.” It was barely a thread of sound. She had never felt quite like this before; it was as if all the supports had been knocked from beneath her. She could get away now, she thought. She could laugh, make a joke, and everything would go back to the way it had been. Her eyes didn’t move from the serious intensity of his face. There was a deep nocturnal silence in the house, as if they were the only two people in the world. She didn’t say anything more, and he bent his head to kiss her again. Patsy’s arms reached up and encircled his neck. When his mouth finally left hers and moved slowly down her throat, she bent her head back for him. He kissed the hollow of her throat and undid the first button on her blouse.