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Maggie Without a Clue
By Kasey Michaels KENSINGTON BOOKS
Copyright © 2004 Kathryn A. Seidick
All right reserved. ISBN: 1-57566-884-X
Chapter One
Maggie sat hunched at her computer desk in the living room, staring at the screen. She'd been staring at the screen for five minutes, wishing the words displayed on it to change, reassemble themselves in a more pleasing manner, but it wasn't working. They were still there, damning her.
"Amazon.com? Again? Really, Maggie, self-flagellation is so unbecoming," Saint Just said, leaning over her shoulder to press a Post-it note on the edge of the computer. "There. Does this help?"
Maggie took off her computer glasses, threw them to the desktop, and grabbed the note. " 'The trade of critic, in literature, music, and the drama, is the most degraded of all trades.' Mark Twain."
"You seem to enjoy him," Saint Just said when she turned her chair to glare up at him. "I've become a bit of a devotee myself. A pity he wrote after the Regency. I would dearly love to quote the fellow in our books."
Maggie crumpled the note and threw it into the garbage can. "Mark Twain didn't have to put up with these damn reader reviews."
"Maggie. Dear Maggie. There are, at last count, seventy-three reviews posted there on our most recent opus. A star-red review from Publishers Weekly, a quite flattering review from Booklist, and Kirkus was its usual damning-with-faint-praise self. Add to that sixty-seven unremittingly marvelous remarks from readers."
"And three one-star rips," Maggie said, reaching for her nicotine inhaler. "They drive me nuts. I can't answer them, I can't do a thing about them. Why in hell would a Web site that wants to sell books show reviews that say a book is the worst piece of drivel they've ever read? And this one," she said, turning her chair to the screen once more. "See this one? It gives away the murderer, for crying out loud."
"That would be the reader from Iowa? The reference was oblique at best. I wouldn't say she spilled all the gravy. Mostly, she complained that if you knew anything at all, you'd know that English gentlemen of the Regency era did not swear or take the Lord's name in vain."
"Yeah, right. We invented all that in the last fifty years or so. I can hear Wellington now." She dropped into a British accent. "'Please, my dear fellows, if the spirit so moves you and I'm not interrupting your tea break, might you redirect that lovely cannon over there, as I do believe the Frenchies are advancing up the hill at us in a rather sprightly manner.'"
"God's teeth, woman, if I might further depress the hopes of our Iowa reader with some mild swearing, would you please stop obsessing? And your accent is atrocious."
Maggie wasn't listening. "And this one. This guy said he figured out the murderer halfway through the book. That's not good, Alex. That's really not good."
Saint Just leaned closer. "And does it also say that he most likely peeked at the ending before he began to read?"
"You can't know he did that."
"You can't know he did not do that. You can't know if he's just another frustrated-what are we not supposed to call such people? Oh, yes, another frustrated wannabe. That's it. Can't do, so he attempts to rip apart those that can. Anyone with a computer and a modem-and an axe to grind-can submit a review on these things. Now, are we quite done with this morning's descent into the pits of self-pity?"
"No, we're not. This last one's the worst. She says you and Leticia weren't together enough. You know what that means, don't you, Alex? It means there wasn't enough sex for her. The 'together' enough bit is a tip-off. So's 'I wish there had been more emotion.' And 'It was a little light on the romance.' There's a dozen ways they say it, but they all mean the same thing. Didn't feel the romantic tension, the characters didn't connect enough, on and on. They're all buzz words. What they mean is there wasn't enough nooky for them. Not enough hot, sweaty, jungle sex. Why don't they just say it? Why don't they just say, Hey, lady, put them in bed on page three and keep them there? Better yet, have them do it in public. On horseback."
"Well, my dear, speaking as the hero in question, may I say it's not-minus the horse-an entirely unpalatable idea."
"If I wrote soft porn, no. I'm writing mysteries, damn it. I'm writing about people, not positions. I'm writing characters, not fifty ways to screw your lover. Can't they just get subscriptions to Playgirl and stop pretending they're looking for anything more than a cheap thrill?"
Maggie sank against the back of the chair, inhaled deeply, and blew the air out on a sigh, her bravado gone, to be replaced by her usual insecurity. "Maybe they're right, Alex. Maybe the books need more sex."
"Do I get a vote?" Saint Just asked, waggling his eyebrows.
"No, you don't. And maybe you shouldn't say 'Christ on a crutch' anymore."
"I shouldn't?"
"No, maybe you shouldn't. Or 'God's teeth.'"
"Perhaps, just perhaps, I should be all things to all people. Has anyone ever succeeded in that sort of lofty endeavor?"
"Only until after they win on election day. Whoops, can't talk like that, either. Democrats and Republicans. Saint Just's Whigs and Tories. You name it. You saw the e-mails I got. There are people out there who'd like me lined up against a wall and shot for treason and heresy, just because I uttered one little opinion on free speech at the WAR conference and that reporter ran with it."
"Ah," Saint Just murmured. "We Are Romance. The mind still boggles over that unfortunate name."
"Yeah, yeah. Back to me, okay? I'm in pain here." Maggie clicked the mouse over the SIGN OFF menu. "I'm nuts, aren't I? Bernie says I'm nuts. Hell, Bernie said if I ever talk to another reporter she's having me shot."
"Never be afraid to speak your mind, Maggie. You simply tend to worry overmuch about everyone else's opinion," Saint Just said, holding out a hand to her as she rose from her chair. "It's a failing you mercifully did not pass along to me. Simply stop obsessing."
Maggie pushed a hand through her recently clipped and streaked hair. "I am not obsessing. I do not obsess. Really. I'm not obsessing." She flung herself inelegantly on one couch as Saint Just gracefully lowered himself onto the facing couch. "Okay, okay, stop grinning at me. I'm obsessing. Just a little. Why do I even read these reviews?"
"Again, dear love, you're insecure. You are, in fact, the greatest mass of insecurities I have ever encountered, and I have resided with Sterling. Oh, wait, you know that. You created him."
Maggie looked at her nicotine inhaler, then at the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. Would she really sell her soul to the Devil for a cigarette? Good thing that so far all her imagination had managed to dredge up was Alex and Sterling. If she could summon a guy with horns and hooves and a tail, she'd be in some serious trouble. "Poor Sterling. I think I gave him all my more vulnerable traits."
"Yes, and gifted me with everything you wish yourself to be, and could be if you'd only believe in your own considerable worth. Now, having said that, you might notice that I am holding a key in my hand."
Maggie felt her stomach do a small flip. Was this it? Was this really the big day? Was she ready for the big day? "Mrs. Goldblum's key?"
"Until recently, yes. But, as of this morning, all mine. Mrs. Goldblum wasn't to leave for another few weeks, but her sister took a tumble on the shuffleboard court or some such place and fractured her hip, as she informed me last evening. Mrs. Goldblum rushed off at first light, leaving us full access. In quite a dither to be gone, poor woman. We'll be transferring the remainder of our belongings as soon as Socks arrives. What will you do without us, Maggie?"
She tipped up her chin (the better not to see the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table). So this was it. Mrs. Goldblum had (verbally-she put nothing in writing) subleased her apartment to Alex and Sterling while she left for a lengthy, open-ended stay with her sister in Boca Raton. "You're moving across the hall. I think I can manage."
Saint Just crossed one long leg over the other. He was the picture of sophisticated elegance, even in modern-day clothing, although in her mind's eye, he was the perfect hero when dressed, by her, in Regency costume.
She'd made him perfect, at least her idea of perfect. The man every woman drools for, to be honest. Handsome, with Val Kilmer's sensuous lips. Physically long and lean and muscular, like Clint Eastwood in those old spaghetti westerns women still sighed over on cable. Eyes blue, Paul Newman in Hud blue. Tanned skin, smile lines, a tumble of ebony hair. The voice of a young Sean Connery as James Bond-that Scottish burr mixed with an English accent that had been melting feminine knees for decades. Peter O'Toole's aristocratic nose. To die for; that was the Viscount Saint Just.
She'd made him self-confident, which she was not. She'd made him witty, which she could only be on paper, and so seldom in public-having lived her life as one of those people who wake at two in the morning to say, "That's what I should have said when she made that crack about my hips!"
She'd made him brave, to cover her own fears, made him independent of his parents because she was still fighting to saw through a cast iron umbilical. She'd made him daring, witty, cuttingly sarcastic, deliciously sophisticated.
The perfect hero-perfect Regency hero, that is.
And then she'd given him a few flaws, because a totally perfect person would be nothing more than a stereotype; plastic, unbelievable. The sort of flaws that would make him more real, and yet weren't really flaws in Regency England, where the gentlemen ruled and the ladies poured tea. She'd made him arrogant. A tad selfish. A bit domineering.
A know-it-all.
Which had been all well and good, as long as he stayed between the pages of her books, solving crimes and bedding the ladies. Having the perfect hero live in her apartment? That had proved problematic.
Maggie knew she could leap into this man's arms and yell, "Take me, you gorgeous man, you!" If she were that sort of girl, which she wasn't. If she didn't worry that he might one day poof out of her life as unexpectedly as he'd poofed into it. If she was the chase 'em down and tackle 'em type, which she most definitely wasn't.
Although, right now, at this very moment, he was looking pretty damn good ...
"Maggie? Maggie, please be so kind as to at least pretend you're paying attention."
"What? Oh, sorry, Alex. What were you saying?"
"I was saying, I think Sterling and I should celebrate our first evening in our new home by escorting you to dinner. I've already taken the liberty of making reservations at Bellini's, as a matter of fact. For eight o'clock. Unless you'd rather remain here all day and night, punishing yourself with other people's opinions?"
"I'm not going to read any more reviews, all right? Ever. Because you're right. They don't help me, do they?"
"Not unless you can be convinced to allow me another romantic tryst per book, no, I would say they aid none of us."
"Okay, okay, give it a rest, you made your point. I really have to write today. What time is it now?"
Saint Just looked at the small clock on the table beside the couch. "It's already gone ten. Sterling was up and about early, for his daily constitutional in the park. He should return soon, with shining eyes and dreadfully blue lips. Why?"
"Because I want to call Bernie. Or hadn't you thought about inviting her?"
"The reservation is for four people, yes, allowing you a guest of your own choosing. Bernice would also have been my choice."
"Ten, huh? I'll wake her up if I call now. You know how she is on Friday nights."
"Drunk and Disorderly, I believe was the charge last month. There's a lot to admire about our dearest Bernice. And one recent development in her life to lament. That would be her ever-increasing affection for the grape."
Maggie leaned over the arm of the couch and snagged the portable phone. She hit the speed dial button and punched 1, for Bernie. "She doesn't have it easy, Alex. Kirk left behind a mess when he was killed, and she's still reorganizing. Damn, I got her machine. She never checks her machine. I'll call again later. In the meantime, what can I help you carry across the hall?"
Saint Just blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Carry. Across the hall. Your things?"
"Me?" He pressed both hands to his chest in mock dismay.
"Oh, cut it out. Of course, you. What? You were going to hire movers for some clothes and a few boxes?"
There was a knock at the door, and Saint Just rose to answer it. "Ah, Snake, Killer. And you, the most estimable Socks. Just in time, in the nick of time, actually. The boxes are stacked in the bedroom on the left, directly down that hall. Yes, there you go. Have a care with the clothing in the closet, if you please."
Maggie watched as Snake (unfortunately christened Vernon), Killer (handsome in a downtrodden, Byronic sort of way), and Socks headed for the hallway. "You hired all three of them, didn't you? No, wait, scratch that. They volunteered."
"Absolutely. Vernon and George no longer labor on Saturdays now that they've been elevated to management in our small enterprise." "Your street corner orators. I still can't believe you turn a profit."
"Minimal, I agree, but an opportunity is an opportunity, and it pleases me to have found a legitimate device for George and Vernon to pad their pockets. I should think you'd be proud of me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I do believe I will adjourn to my new apartment, to direct the placement of my belongings."
"Yeah, yeah, you do that," Maggie said, waving him away as the phone rang. "Hello?"
"Maggie? Maggie!"
"Bernie? I just called you to-"
"Maggie! Ohmigod, Maggie! I was sleeping! The phone rang! I had to pee, so I-he's dead, Maggie. Sweet Jesus, Buddy's dead!"
Maggie closed her eyes, hugging the phone close to herself. Oh, yeah. Her friend had tied on a big one last night. "Bernie, calm down. Buddy's dead. Yes, he is. He's been dead for a long time, honey. What were you doing last night?"
"What? He's dead, Maggie! It's terrible!"
Maggie was already on her feet, heading across the hall to motion to Saint Just. "Bernie, I want you to calm down," she said, raising her eyebrows to Saint Just, who followed her back into her apartment and took the second portable phone she handed him.
"Keep her talking," Saint Just said, then lifted the phone to his ear.
Maggie did her best, even as her hands shook, because this one was bad, very bad. "Do you want to talk about Buddy, Bernie?"
Had Bernie gotten some bad drugs? She only snorted a little cocaine a couple of times a year, for dietary purposes, Bernie promised, but the woman also drank like a fish. In these past weeks? Like a whale. Maggie felt tears stinging her eyes; why couldn't she do something to help Bernie?
Saint Just was moving his hand in a circular motion, urging her to keep talking.
"Bernie, honey, Buddy went out on his boat seven years ago and he never came back. He's dead. We know that. You know that. A couple more weeks and it's officially official. He's dead. What happened, honey? Did you have a bad night? Bernie? Stop crying, honey. Talk to me."
"I ... I don't know. I don't know. I don't remember. I-damn it, Maggie, he's dead! I woke up, and there was this blood. All over. Blood. And ... and there he was. God, look at all this blood! I'm blood all over! Help me, Maggie. What do I do?"
"Bernice," Saint Just said and Maggie looked to him in relief. He sounded so calm. "Bernice, darling, this is Alex. Now, you're at home?"
"Alex, thank God! He's in my bed. Alex! Buddy's dead in my bed!"
"Call nine-one-one," Maggie suggested, earning herself a frown from Saint Just. "No. Stupid idea. Scratch that, Bernie. Don't call nine-one-one. Alex?"
"Bernice," Saint Just said soothingly, even as he took the phone from Maggie and hit the Off button. "Maggie and I will be with you in ten minutes. In the meantime, exactly where are you?"
"In ... in the living room. The blood, Alex. It ... please come! Maggie, I need Maggie."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Maggie Without a Clue by Kasey Michaels Copyright © 2004 by Kathryn A. Seidick. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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