Heather Graham - Night Of The Blackbird

“You can call me any time, day or night. You know that.”

“Thanks,” she said, her voice soft.

There were lots of women in the world. He’d known his share. But the tenor of her voice slipped into him. There were others, yes. But none quite like her. He pictured her. Moira was a beauty, with her true deep red hair and blue-green eyes. Tall, elegant, with a natural sophistication and the ability to dirty her hands and nails, laugh at any obstacle and get involved with the most absurd situations. When he’d answered the ad for an associate producer and locations manager for KW Productions, he’d known her from seeing her on the air, having studied what tapes he could find before applying for the job. She was good on tape. She was even better in person. He hadn’t been ready for the excitement she could create or the emotion she could invoke. He wished she were there right now. Amazing what the sound of her voice could do to a man.

“I should have called you—could have called you—hours ago,” she went on, then halted suddenly. “You haven’t heard from Josh already, have you?”

“No.”

He heard her sigh. “Yeah, he would make me do this one myself. And it’s so late because I’ve been trying to get up the nerve to call you.”

He was about to assure her that she never needed nerve to call him when she rushed on.

“I know how much work you’ve already done—”

“You are the boss, you know.”

“Not really. Josh and I have always made decisions together, and since you’ve been with us, well, you’ve just been the perfect addition to the show…. Oh, Lord, Michael, I’m so sorry to be doing this, but…we’re making a sudden switch in plans.”

He’d been expecting this; still, he felt every muscle in his body tense. He knew what she was about to say.

“I know that you and Josh have made an incredible effort on the Orlando angle, that acquiring permits to tape has been a bitch…but we’re switching locations for Saint Patrick’s Day. I’m so sorry. I know—”

“Family pressure, eh?” he asked quietly.

“My father has to go in for tests next week. Nothing serious, Mum assures me, but I’m willing to bet he’s still working the pub himself until all hours of the night. Anyway, she made it sound as if I were punching the Easter Bunny or something, and I…I caved in.”

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “I’ve already looked into the Boston situation.”

“What?”

“Josh and I both kind of expected this,” he said.

She was silent.

“Moira, it’s all right. Hey, I’m going to love meeting your family. I’ll get to feel important, right? The man in your life, someone who means everything in the world to you, right?”

“You’re incredible, you know that?”

“Well, of course, you’d have nothing less, right?” he said.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“You sound so good.”

Her voice was almost like silk.

“I was just thinking the same about you.”

“They’re crazy, you know.”

“Who?”

“My folks.”

“Moira, you’ve hit the right guy here. My family is Irish, too. Okay, we don’t own a pub and no one runs around whistling ‘Danny Boy’ all day, but I can deal with the leprechaun and banshee stories. Don’t be so worried.”

She was still silent. Then she said, “Mine do.”

“What?”

“They run around whistling ‘Danny Boy’ all the time.”

He laughed. “I’ve got nothing against the song. Hey, Josh and I had a wager going, you know.”

“Who bet that I wouldn’t cave in to family pressure?”

“Neither of us. The wager was on the date you’d finally do it.”

“I can’t wait to see you,” she said. Once again, he pictured her. Not the woman on television. The one who should be here with him now. Softly scented, sleek and smooth, hair down and wild, naked as the day she was born. Maybe that was part of her allure. She could be so elegant and almost aloof in public, and so incredibly sensual and volatile in private.

“I don’t think there are any planes at this time of night,” he said regretfully. “Can’t even hop a train. I could rent a car…if you’re really needy.”

“You’re good. Very good.”

“No, what I am is—”

“Never mind,” she said, laughing again. “You know you can’t rent a car in Florida and be here that quickly. And I have to—have to—tie up a few things here tomorrow and then head up right after. That will give us a week before the actual big day. Time so I can see my folks and so we can give the Leisure Channel a really good show.”

“I can be there, if you want.” He wondered if he should tell her that he wasn’t in Florida. Maybe he’d better leave that one for Josh.

He was silent for a moment. Yes, there were other women in the world, he knew that well. The fingers of his free hand tensed and eased, tensed and eased. But none like her.

“Aye, me love, at ye olde pub!” he said, giving her his best Irish accent. “If you insist that we wait that long.”

“You’d really drive all night…?”

“I would.”

“I’d rather have you alive in the future than dead in such an effort,” Moira said firmly. “Boston, night after next, Kelly’s Pub, you’ll meet the folks. I’ll see you there?”

“All right,” he told her. Then, though he had expected it, he found himself dreading the fact that they would all be in Boston together. He, Moira, her family, her past—and the future. “I love you,” he added, and he was surprised by the almost desperate ardor in his voice.

“I love you, too,” she said, and he believed her.

A few moments later, they rang off.

Though it was late and he was still exhausted, Michael found himself rising and getting dressed. He glanced at the clock. Not that late; just after midnight.

He dressed and left the hotel room.

His destination was within easy walking distance. Boston was a good city in that respect. Narrow, winding streets in the old section and even in the newer areas. There was little distance here between the colonial and the modern. He liked Boston. Great seafood. A sense of history.

He walked quickly and came to the street he had checked out earlier that day. There, in the middle of the block, beneath a soft yellow streetlight, was the sign.

Kelly’s Pub.

He stood there, staring at it.

And damning the days to come.

The doors were still open, though it looked quiet within. Weeknight. He thought about sauntering in, quietly ordering a draft, sitting in a corner, taking a look.

No.

At twelve-thirty, he turned and walked away.

Twelve forty-five.

From the shadows cast by the long buildings, another man watched Michael McLean leave the premises. He hadn’t really seen his face, had never known the man previously, but even so, he was fully aware of who he was.

Dan O’Hara watched the man thoughtfully until he had disappeared. He had avoided the streetlight on the opposite side of the block and therefore had hardly been even a dark silhouette in the night.

He leaned against the old building. With the street clear, he lit a cigarette, slowly allowing the smoke to filter out of his lungs. Bad habit. He needed to quit, he thought idly. So that was Michael. He didn’t have enough basis for any rational judgments, but by virtue of instinct, he disliked the guy. But then, Moira could be seeing a Nobel Peace Prizewinning certified saint and he would still dislike the guy.

He had to force himself to hold back any conclusions on Michael McLean. He couldn’t even blame the guy for wanting a good look at the pub.

Kelly’s. Dan loved the place himself.

How long had he been gone this time? Too long. Of course, last time he had come back, things had been different. No Moira.