Free Mistress of Justice by Jeffery Deaver Page A

shook her head and he looked toward the men’s room. “Excusez-moi.”
    After he disappeared, Taylor motioned the bartender over to her and said, “You working last Saturday night?”
    He normally didn’t get questions like this. He polished glasses. But finally he said, “Yeah.”
    “Was Thom in here from one to three or so on Sunday morning?”
    “I don’t remember.”
    She slid two twenties toward him furtively. He blinked. This only happened in movies and the man seemed to be considering how his favorite actor would handle it. The bills disappeared into tight black jeans. “No. He left around one—without a girl. That
never
happens. If he’s by himself usually he closes the place. He’s even slept here a couple times.”
    When Sebastian returned he took Taylor’s purse and slipped it around her—over one shoulder and under the other arm, the way paranoid tourists do. “Come on. I’m wound, I’m flying like a bird. I gotta dance.…”
    “But—”
    He pulled her onto the small floor. After fifteen minutes, her hair was down, streaming in thick, sweaty tangles. Her toes were on fire, her calves ached. Sebastian kept jerking away in time to the reggae beat, eyes closed, lost in the catharsis of the motion and music and the coke. Taylor collapsed on his shoulder. “Enough.”
    “I thought you were a skier.”
    “Exhausted.” She was gasping.
    His brow arched and the surprise in his eyes was genuine. “But we haven’t eaten yet.”
    Taylor said, “It’s one A.M . I’ve been up for nearly twenty-four hours.”
    “Time for penne!”
    “But—”
    “Come on. One plate of darling little squigglies of pasta in alfredo sauce with cilantro and basil, one teeny endive salad, one bottle of Mersault.”
    Taylor was weakening.
    “Belgium
endive! …” Then he lowered his head. “Okay.”Sebastian the negotiator was now speaking. “How’s this for a deal? We have dinner and you can tell me about the Pine Breath Inn in Vermont or wherever the hell it is you ski and we’ll call it a night. Or I can take you home now and you’ll have to fight off my frontal assault at your door. Few women have been able to resist.”
    “Thom—”
    “I take no prisoners.”
    She lowered her head on his shoulder then straightened up, smiling. “Does this place have spaghetti and meat balls with thick red sauce, à la Ragú?”
    “I’ll never be able to show my face there again. But if you want it I’ll force the chef to make it.”
    She sighed, took his arm and together they made their way toward the door.

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    The alarm clock wailed like a smoke detector.
    Taylor Lockwood opened one eye. Was this the worst headache of her life? she wondered.
    She lay still for five minutes while the votes rolled in. Yes, no?
    Sitting up decided the contest—a clear victory for the pain. She slammed her palm down on the alarm then scooted gingerly to the edge of the bed. She still wore her panty hose and bra; the elastic bands had cut deep purple lines into her skin and she was momentarily concerned that she’d have permanent discolorations.
    Oh, man, I feel lousy.…
    Taylor’s one-bedroom apartment was small and dark. It was located in the Fifth Avenue Hotel, a dark, Gothic building distinguished only by the prestige of the street it was located on and its reputation for being the place that New York’s Judge Crater was supposedly on his way to when he disappeared seventy years before—still an open case on the NYPD books.
    Her parents had offered to send her whatever furnitureshe wanted from their eight-bedroom house in Chevy Chase or from one of their summer homes but Taylor had wanted this apartment to be exclusively hers. It was furnished post-collegiate—Conran’s, Crate & Barrel, Pottery Barn. A lot of fake stone, Formica, black and white plastic. A huge pillow sofa. Canvas chairs that, looked at straight on, seemed to be grinning. A number of interesting pieces from the Twenty-sixth Street flea market