Read Online Now or Never by Elizabeth Adler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Adler
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next you’re not. I’d like to know why.”
She shrugged. “I let you tell your story, detective. I listened. I made a decision. That’s the way I do things. Rejection is not sweet, Harry Jordan, I understand that.”
She picked up her purse, still avoiding his eyes. “Nothing personal, of course.” Then she strode past the cracked red vinyl booths, out of the diner, and into the waiting limo.
10
M AL STARED DETERMINEDLY out the rain-streaked windows at the passing scenery, willing herself not to think about it. On the flight back to La Guardia, she read four long articles in the latest
Vanity Fair
, though if you had asked her later, she would have been unable to tell you a thing about them.
The sight of her own front door had never been so welcome. She closed it behind her and leaned against it, her heart thudding as though she had just run five blocks.
Her housekeeper had left the lamps lit and she glanced gratefully around her peaceful home. Kicking off her shoes, she padded through the hallway to her bedroom.
The crisp cotton sheets were already turned down and the enormous French antique bed was puffy with pillows and covered with a soft cashmere throw. She could hardly wait to crawl into it.
She unhooked her gray skirt and stepped out of it, then tugged the sweater over her head and flung it onto the pale-carpeted floor. Her pantyhose and underwear followed in a little trail as she walked to the rose-marble bathroom.
She found a match and lit the lilac-scented candles amid the ferns and greenery surrounding the tub, then turned on the faucets. Leaning on the cool marble sink, she peered at herself in the mirror. She was shocked to find she looked so normal. She still looked like Mallory Malone,star investigative reporter with her own successful prime-time show.
She climbed into the tub and lay back in the soothing warmth of the water, her eyes closed, waiting for the familiar scent of lilacs to transport her back to a memory she still treasured, to the one moment of perfect happiness she could remember. But tonight the magic wasn’t working.
She climbed wearily from the tub and wrapped a fluffy white towel around her. She looked in the mirror again.
Her own eyes stared back at her, dark with panic. She had forgotten to take off her makeup. Quickly, she went through the familiar nightly ritual: cleanser, toner, moisturizer, a little cream under the eyes. She was on automatic pilot.
She brushed her hair, then walked naked to the enormous closet. Still chilled, she put on a gray sweatshirt and a pair of white socks. She turned and stared at herself in the full-length mirror. It was as though the light had gone out inside her. And she was Miss Nobody again.
Her head drooped as she trailed desolately from the bedroom into the kitchen. She put water in the kettle and waited, motionless, for it to come to a boil. She fixed her favorite wild berry tea, but this time she did not even think about the lemon pound cake.
Carrying the mug carefully, she walked back to the bedroom and placed it on the silver tray on the night table, then climbed into bed. She sank thankfully back into the comfort of the white pillows, switched on the TV set, and pressed the mute button.
Headline News
flickered silently onto the screen. She sipped the tea and swallowed two Advil for her lurking headache, watching the world events listlessly.
After a while she turned out the lights. Shivering, she curled up in a fetal position, waiting for sleep to come and blot out her memories.
The comfortable bed seemed to be dragging her down, the soft pillows were stifling her, she was free-falling into a bottomless dark pit ….
With a terrified cry she shot upright. She flung off the covers and slid from the bed, shaking. Her throat was dry and little tremors rippled through her body. “Oh, God,” she whispered, “oh, God, no.”
She had not had the nightmare for a long time—she had thought it had finally gone, buried with all the
She shrugged. “I let you tell your story, detective. I listened. I made a decision. That’s the way I do things. Rejection is not sweet, Harry Jordan, I understand that.”
She picked up her purse, still avoiding his eyes. “Nothing personal, of course.” Then she strode past the cracked red vinyl booths, out of the diner, and into the waiting limo.
10
M AL STARED DETERMINEDLY out the rain-streaked windows at the passing scenery, willing herself not to think about it. On the flight back to La Guardia, she read four long articles in the latest
Vanity Fair
, though if you had asked her later, she would have been unable to tell you a thing about them.
The sight of her own front door had never been so welcome. She closed it behind her and leaned against it, her heart thudding as though she had just run five blocks.
Her housekeeper had left the lamps lit and she glanced gratefully around her peaceful home. Kicking off her shoes, she padded through the hallway to her bedroom.
The crisp cotton sheets were already turned down and the enormous French antique bed was puffy with pillows and covered with a soft cashmere throw. She could hardly wait to crawl into it.
She unhooked her gray skirt and stepped out of it, then tugged the sweater over her head and flung it onto the pale-carpeted floor. Her pantyhose and underwear followed in a little trail as she walked to the rose-marble bathroom.
She found a match and lit the lilac-scented candles amid the ferns and greenery surrounding the tub, then turned on the faucets. Leaning on the cool marble sink, she peered at herself in the mirror. She was shocked to find she looked so normal. She still looked like Mallory Malone,star investigative reporter with her own successful prime-time show.
She climbed into the tub and lay back in the soothing warmth of the water, her eyes closed, waiting for the familiar scent of lilacs to transport her back to a memory she still treasured, to the one moment of perfect happiness she could remember. But tonight the magic wasn’t working.
She climbed wearily from the tub and wrapped a fluffy white towel around her. She looked in the mirror again.
Her own eyes stared back at her, dark with panic. She had forgotten to take off her makeup. Quickly, she went through the familiar nightly ritual: cleanser, toner, moisturizer, a little cream under the eyes. She was on automatic pilot.
She brushed her hair, then walked naked to the enormous closet. Still chilled, she put on a gray sweatshirt and a pair of white socks. She turned and stared at herself in the full-length mirror. It was as though the light had gone out inside her. And she was Miss Nobody again.
Her head drooped as she trailed desolately from the bedroom into the kitchen. She put water in the kettle and waited, motionless, for it to come to a boil. She fixed her favorite wild berry tea, but this time she did not even think about the lemon pound cake.
Carrying the mug carefully, she walked back to the bedroom and placed it on the silver tray on the night table, then climbed into bed. She sank thankfully back into the comfort of the white pillows, switched on the TV set, and pressed the mute button.
Headline News
flickered silently onto the screen. She sipped the tea and swallowed two Advil for her lurking headache, watching the world events listlessly.
After a while she turned out the lights. Shivering, she curled up in a fetal position, waiting for sleep to come and blot out her memories.
The comfortable bed seemed to be dragging her down, the soft pillows were stifling her, she was free-falling into a bottomless dark pit ….
With a terrified cry she shot upright. She flung off the covers and slid from the bed, shaking. Her throat was dry and little tremors rippled through her body. “Oh, God,” she whispered, “oh, God, no.”
She had not had the nightmare for a long time—she had thought it had finally gone, buried with all the
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