Protect Me, Love Read online

  Delia shut her mouth and swallowed the sob that threatened to rise from her throat. She was only barely conscious of the dryness of that swallow as she forced herself to think once more. She stared at the handwriting on the card and tried to remember her father’s penmanship, but her mind moved slowly still. She seemed to recall his handwriting being close to a scrawl, like the writing on the card. It had been so long since she’d seen anything written by him. Besides, she’d made a point of putting the details of her former life as far from her present thinking as she could push them. Now she found that retrieving those details was difficult. Still, one unforgettable truth remained. Her father had pledged never to reveal her secret nickname, and he never had. She was certain of it. Or maybe she only wanted to be certain of it because that would mean the most impossible of Christmas miracles had come to pass and her father was still alive.

  Delia’s thoughts, so sluggish only an instant ago, began to race. The helicopter crash that had supposedly taken her father’s life had been a devastating one. The chopper had plowed into the side of a mountain and exploded during a snowstorm. By the time the rescue party got to the wreckage, there were few remains left to investigate. The police said there were two bodies, one of a man and the other of a woman, but Delia had never seen either of them. Some identifiable personal effects had been recovered, but the bodies were too completely destroyed to leave even dental evidence of identity behind. Delia had assumed, along with everybody else, that the two people who died in the crash were her father and stepmother. Could that assumption have been wrong?

  Delia believed what the police had said about nobody being able to survive such a devastating crash. But what if her father hadn’t been on that helicopter in the first place? What if somebody else had been with Cassandra? But why would that be the case, and why wouldn’t he have gotten in touch with somebody since then? Especially, why hadn’t he been in touch with her? They were so close. Delia pressed the Christmas card to her breast and held it there while tears formed in her eyes. She’d missed her father terribly in the years between his death and her escape from Colorado. She’d tried not to think about him after that, but he came into her mind anyway, particularly at this time of year. He’d loved the holiday season. He was the one who’d taught her to love it, as well.

  Delia began walking slowly toward the elevator, her feet placing themselves automatically one in front of the other without her being aware of the movement. What if, by some miracle, her father hadn’t been on that helicopter? What if he’d survived and gone into hiding for some reason? What if he had finally not been able to resist getting in touch with her any longer? It would be just like him to do so with a Christmas card. Maybe he knew something about whoever was trying to get to her now, and he wanted to warn her. But where was he? Delia stopped just short of the elevator bank and looked down at the envelope she was still holding. There was no return address, and in her haste to get at the card she had torn through the corner where the postmark would be. She pieced the ragged edges together again.

  There was no postmark. She squinted at the envelope to make sure that was true. The corner was blank and empty—no postmark, no stamp. That meant the card might have been hand delivered to the mail service office. She could go back and ask if they remembered who’d brought it. Delia understood how unlikely that was at this hectic time of the year when deliveries of packages and cards and letters were arriving one after another, but she could ask all the same. Delia examined the rest of the envelope—front, back, inside—but found no further clues to its origin. She looked at the card again, read the printed greeting carefully through but found no clues there, either, only the standard good wishes. She turned the card over and stopped dead still again. There was more handwriting on the back, in the same scrawl as inside.

  “Come to South Street Seaport tonight,” the scrawl instructed. “I will meet you at the end of Pearl Street under the FDR Drive at 8:00 p.m.”

  Delia read the message through several times. She probably should have gone back to the mail service office then and asked if anybody remembered this card, but she was sure they wouldn’t. Besides, the part of her most closely governed by her heart wanted to believe the card came from her father and that he’d be waiting for her tonight by the East River as it said. She might have been afraid the mail service people would tell her otherwise. Whatever the reason, she didn’t turn around and retrace her steps down the eleventh floor hallway. She hurried forward to the elevators instead, already calculating how she would give Nick the slip so she could go to the Seaport on her own. Maybe that wasn’t a wise or sensible thing to do, but she wasn’t thinking wisely right now. She was thinking as Topsy, and Topsy was only a child—a child with a very special and private relationship with her father, too private a relationship to share, even with Nick.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The snow had begun at around noon, while they were still at the Waldorf—large, fluffy clumps of flakes tumbling lazily down. By the time Delia exited the Lincoln Building, that picturesque snowfall was blowing itself into a blizzard. She stepped back into the shelter of the entrance long enough to pull her watch cap from her pocket. She shoved the hat down onto her head and poked her hair up underneath it. She kept hold of the precious card all the time she was doing that, even though having something else in her hand made the process of covering her head much more difficult. It occurred to her then that the snow might smear the handwritten message, which was even more precious to her than the card. Reluctantly, she opened her coat and slid the card carefully into the inside pocket. One of the reasons she wore a man’s style overcoat like this one was because of that special inside pocket for stashing things away. She ducked her head as she emerged from the doorway onto Madison Avenue. The wind hit her with a barrage of icy snow that stung her cheeks like flying needles. She tucked her chin into her neck and pulled up her collar as she hurried toward Forty-first Street where Nick was waiting with the cab.

  At least, he was supposed to be waiting there. Delia rounded the corner to find the cab gone and Nick with it. She tried not to be too obvious about scanning the street. By now, she’d forced herself back to her usual sensible self, attentive once again to remaining inconspicuous. Granted, it was hard to believe anybody would be lurking at ambush for her in weather like this, but sore experience had taught her she was wise to be cautious in all circumstances—even a storm packing what felt like gale force winds. If not for those precautions, she would have begun to shout Nick’s name right here and now.

  They’d left the Waldorf at going on three o’clock. She told Nick that her traveler’s club gave her late checkout privileges. Actually, while he was in the bathroom, she’d called the desk and paid for the extra time. It was after three now, but the heavy snow and hovering clouds had turned the sky dark as dusk. Still, it was too early for the street lamps to be on, which added to the gloom. Delia gave the street one more sweeping glance. She couldn’t hang around here much longer. She was too easy a target standing in one place like this. Besides, if she stayed here on this corner she was bound to be buried beneath a snowdrift before long.

  What could have happened to Nick? Maybe they hadn’t evaded notice leaving the Waldorf after all. Maybe whoever attacked her in the stairway last night was after them again today. He could have crept up on Nick as he waited in the cab. Fearful images darted one after the other through Delia’s thoughts. The last thing she wanted in all the world was for Nick to be hurt, especially on her account. Until that moment, she hadn’t considered the danger he could be in because he was protecting her. Before last night and their lovemaking, he’d been the bodyguard and she’d been the client. Exposing himself to danger on her behalf was his job. Now all of that had changed, and she could only think of how much she wanted him to be safe. That was why, when she heard his voice behind her, she spun around and all but jumped into his arms.

  “Delia” was what he’d said before she made that impulsive leap.

  NICK HAD WAIT
ED in the cab as long as he could. He’d have preferred to be with Delia, but she’d insisted on going into the Lincoln Building alone. What could be so damned private about a stop at her answering service anyway? He understood that she’d spent years being secretive. Keeping herself and the details of her life under wraps was second nature to her by now. Still, her suspiciousness, however ingrained it might be, wasn’t making his job any easier.

  On the other hand, maybe a few minutes on his own wasn’t a bad idea. After all, he’d had the second biggest shock of his life only a couple of hours ago. The first biggest was five years past and delivered by the same woman. Nick looked out the cab window at the fast-swirling snow. Weather like this reminded him of Colorado. Before today, he’d have stopped himself from making that connection. Suddenly, Colorado, the Lesters and Rebecca were no longer off limits to his memory. That was something of a shock in itself.

  Pieces had been popping into place in his head ever since Delia told him who she really was—like why PEI had never hired him to do a job for them before. She couldn’t take the chance he’d recognize her. Nick was amazed by how much she had changed. He was essentially the same guy he’d always been. Meanwhile, Rebecca had made herself into almost a whole new woman. He figured women in general were better at that kind of thing than men. Still, he found it pretty amazing. His mind was lost in that wonder, swirling like the snowfall, when the cabdriver’s voice interrupted the reverie.

  “Hey, buddy. I can’t sit here no longer. I got a cop on my tail.”

  Sure enough. Nick looked out the window to find a blue and white police car with the officer in the window motioning for the cabbie to move on.

  “Maybe they wanna bring a snowplow through,” said the cabdriver. “So, if your lady ain’t comin’ down the street right this minute, I gotta take off. You can come with me and we’ll circle the block, but I can’t guarantee how long that’ll take.”

  Nick had rolled down the street-side window. The snow blew so hard into his face that he’d had to squint to see. He’d strained to make out the figures coming around the corner from Madison Avenue. Delia wasn’t among them.

  “That’s okay,” he said, counting out money for the fare. “I’ll get out and wait here.”

  “Sorry, buddy,” the driver said as Nick handed over the bills. “I hate to leave ya out in the cold like this, but when the boys in blue give a guy the word, he’s smart to take it.”

  “No problem,” Nick said, climbing out of the cab. He hoped he was right about that as he trudged through the snow to the curb, all the time watching for Delia to return.

  The wind was sharp and frigid. Nick shoved his hands deep into his pockets. His fingers folded around the grip of the Beretta he’d stuck in his right pocket for fast accessibility. His own gun was still in the back of his waistband as usual. He was glad he had on gloves. The cold steel of the Beretta wouldn’t feel very good to the touch right now.

  Somebody was coming around the corner from Madison Avenue, hunched over against the snow and wind. Nick strained to make out the figure, then shrugged so hard that snow shook off his arms. It wasn’t Delia, just a man in a cap and a long coat, not the right size to be the guy from the Waldorf, either. Nick looked back toward the corner again.

  He’d moved into the shadow of the doorway so he wouldn’t be conspicuous from the street. His wristwatch read almost 4:00 p.m., but the sky was already dark as evening from the storm. Darkness came early at this time of year, anyway. The guy in the wool cap and long coat had come up even with Nick’s hideaway in the shadows. The guy stopped and looked around. Even through the blizzard and gloom, Nick recognized the profile that was becoming more and more dear to his heart.

  “Delia,” he called out.

  In an instant she was in his arms and he was whispering words that were stolen by the wind almost before they could be spoken.

  “LET’S GO to my hotel,” Nick said. “We can hole up there while we figure out what to do next.”

  “All right?”

  Delia knew she had to find some way to get away from him before she went to the Seaport. At least his hotel was closer to that destination than where they were now. Unfortunately, there were no free cabs to be found, either around the Lincoln Building or down Forty-first or Forty-second streets.

  “Nick, why don’t we take the subway?” They’d walked all the way to Lexington Avenue by then. “That would be much faster. See what I mean?” She pointed to the snarl of aboveground traffic.

  The sidewalks were overflowing with people leaving work early because of the storm. They swarmed to ward Grand Central Station, many of them huddled beneath umbrellas distorted into ungainly shapes by the wind. Delia and Nick had to be careful where they walked to keep from being mowed down.

  “A cab is safer,” he shouted against the wind before running out into the street for the half-dozenth time in a vain attempt to flag down a taxi.

  Delia grabbed his arm and tugged him toward the crosswalk at Lexington Avenue.

  “I’ll get the next one that comes along,” he protested.

  Delia paid no attention and tugged on. Finally he relented and followed her, probably because they were attracting attention, with her out in front laboring to pull him across the street like a reindeer hauling Santa’s sleigh. She kept her grip on his arm and hurried toward the side entrance to Grand Central. Otherwise they might have been separated by the relentless advance of the crowd. She could see Nick glancing furtively this way and that, no doubt on the lookout for the man who was after her. She thought about telling Nick that long experience with making herself anonymous in this city had taught her well the art of getting lost in the crowd.

  “I don’t like this at all,” Nick said while keeping up his frenzied surveillance.

  Delia didn’t answer. She conceded only to the rapid pace he insisted upon, until speedy progress proved impossible along the congested underground walkway to the downtown platform for the R-line train. They simply had to let themselves be carried along by the momentum of the mass and concentrate on keeping hold of each other as they went. Delia remembered being panicked by situations like this when she’d first come to New York City. Ordinarily, she still didn’t care for the feeling of being controlled by the movements of the crowd. Right now, however, with Nick’s arm linked firmly through hers, Delia was at ease with letting herself be swept along.

  Part of that ease could be credited to the fact that she’d figured out what she was going to do to get away from him later on and keep her appointment on the waterfront. The timing of that plan was one reason she’d insisted they take the subway. Usually, the trip on the R-train from Grand Central to Prince Street in Soho would take twenty minutes tops. Unfortunately that timetable didn’t take into account an extra-hectic rush hour and waiting for a second train because the first was too jammed to force their way into. Delia could tell how crazy this situation was making Nick. He might as well have had his head on a swivel the way he was trying to keep watch in every direction at once. As for attracting attention, under any other circumstances, his behavior would definitely have made them the object of considerable curiosity. But this was Manhattan at rush hour in the middle of a blizzard. Everybody around them was intent upon getting home, and vigilance was required for them to accomplish that under these conditions. Nick would have to do something a lot more bizarre than swivel his head around to attract much notice here.

  Delia wasn’t really concerned about that anyway. She had her plan and her timetable to make her more worried by the minute. When they finally made it to Prince Street and piled out of the train and up the stairs to street level, her watch told her it was past five o’clock.

  “We’ll stop at the deli for sandwiches,” Nick said.

  Delia had to bite her lip to keep from crying out in protest. They hadn’t eaten since their room service breakfast at the Waldorf late that morning. She had to concede that Nick might be hungry again by now.

  “Okay,” she said.

&n
bsp; “We’ll order them to go.”

  Delia nodded. At least, that was a relief. On the other hand, the line at the deli counter was long. Working Manhattanites might just be the world’s leading devourers of takeout cuisine. On a night like this, when the effort simply to make it home used up even more stamina than usual, lots of New Yorkers had little desire to cook supper. Delia understood that reality, but understanding didn’t make her patient. She was about ready to fidget out of her skin by the time they finally got their sandwich order filled and had pushed through the crowd out of the shop.

  They made their way along narrow streets that were almost as congested as the deli had been. Sometimes traversing this city was more hassle than just about anyone could bear. This was one of those times for Delia. Meanwhile, Nick kept up his head-swiveling routine all the way—out of the train, at the deli, along the street. Delia didn’t bother to tell him how futile she believed that exercise to be. She definitely didn’t mention how far her current concentration on her own particular quest had carried her from sharing Nick’s obsession with her safety. She was going to meet the person who sent her the Christmas card invitation, no matter how much danger that journey might place her in, and she had to get there on time.

  Delia was very relieved to find that Nick’s hotel was only a block and a half from the subway stop and even closer to the deli. The Hotel Tivoli might not be in the same league as the Waldorf in the estimation of travel guide writers, but Delia was as happy to arrive there as if it had been the Taj Mahal. On any other occasion, she would have paused to take in the small, quaint lobby with its warm touches of old, deep-grained mahogany and cozily worn Oriental carpet. Tonight, however, she had an agenda to keep moving. She didn’t even take time to register the way her obvious hurrying of Nick toward the elevator brought a quizzical expression to the desk clerk’s face.