Spirit and Dust - By Rosemary Clement-Moore Page 0,74
catching the glints of truth beneath his surface calm, but this time I couldn’t make out his feelings. Amusement, warmth, regret. Those were enough to make me blush.
“Besides,” I said, flustered and determined to break the tension, “my idealism isn’t that secret. I drive a Prius.”
He shuddered. “I can’t believe I let a girl who drives a Prius kiss me.”
Awkward. Pause.
“I just did it to steal your phone.”
“I know.”
Damn. I mean, I knew he knew I had it, but damn. “I’m a lousy pickpocket.”
He laughed, looking sheepish. “Actually, this time I didn’t notice until you went to the restroom.”
Kiss distraction achieved. That was progress, I guess. And nice of him to admit it. That was progress, too, though I wasn’t sure what kind.
“Do we have a plan for Chicago?” I asked, changing the subject. Again.
“Find a place to crash.” He rubbed a hand over his face, wincing when he hit a cut on his cheek. “But now that I don’t have to protect my secret identity, I’ve got an idea.”
“Is it stately Wayne Manor?” I asked. “I always figured you for more of a Batman guy than a Superman one.”
“More like a penthouse,” he said as he gathered the greasy remains of our microwave pizza. “But there is a butler, and he’s a very good cook.”
“Carson, darling boy, come and give your aunt Gwenda a hug.”
He did, and his aunt air-kissed both his cheeks, the sleeves of her hostess gown fluttering but the cocktail in her hand absolutely steady.
I wasn’t sure what to expect when the taxi from Union Station had dropped us off at a skyscraper of condos near Chicago’s Magnificent Mile. The doorman had eyed us askance, since it was after eleven and we were looking rough, to say the least. But Carson had a quick word with him, showed him his ID—maybe even his real one—and after a phone call, the doorman sent us up to the twenty-third floor.
“Isn’t your dad going to know we’re here?” I’d asked in the elevator. He’d told me Maguire owned the penthouse, keeping his sister there and out of his hair. Also, I would bet the feds kept tabs on all Maguire’s properties, even on a day when his son wasn’t on the run from the law.
“Maybe,” said Carson. “But by now, if he really wants to know where we are, he does. I’ve been careful but not that careful.” He’d shrugged as the elevator pinged for our floor. “Besides, Gwenda won’t tell him. She’s sort of like Switzerland that way.”
Aunt Gwenda was older than her brother, midsixties or a well-preserved seventy. Maybe she’d had work done, or maybe she had really great bone structure. Her zygomatic arches were sculpted just like Carson’s.
“You look wonderful, Gwenda,” he said. “Are we interrupting a party?”
“This old thing?” She gestured to her hostess ensemble. The butler—yes, a real butler—had shown us to the kitchen, but a murmur of conversation came from deeper in the apartment.
“It’s just a few friends, darling,” she added, with a sip of her cocktail. “You must think this is awful with Alexis missing, but it’s been scheduled forever and Devlin said to behave as normally as possible.”
“I understand,” said Carson, all smoothly sociable, not a bit stony. “Speaking of all that …”
Gwenda held up a hand like he hadn’t already trailed off. “I don’t want to know. And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you’re here. Including my brother.”
“Thanks.” He flashed her a handsome-devil grin and got an indulgent-aunt smile in return. The guy was scary adaptable. With perfect manners, he stepped back to introduce us. “Aunt Gwenda, this is Daisy. We need a place to stay for the night.”
“You poor darling!” she exclaimed, as though she hadn’t taken my measure as soon as she’d come into the kitchen. “We must get you into a hot bath as soon as possible.”
I put on my company manners, too. I do have them. “That sounds wonderful, Miss Maguire.”
She hooked her free arm through mine. “You must call me Aunt Gwenda. We shall get you all fixed up, my dear. Are you hungry? Will canapés do, or shall Matthew whip up an omelet?”
“Yes, please,” I said, in a daze of yes-yes-please-feed-me.
When I glanced at Carson he was looking very smug. Not that this made us even.
Well, maybe it made up for the pizza.
Matthew was the butler. He was young and handsome and, as promised, a great cook. He fed us while the party wrapped up down the hall, then Carson called first dibs