CHAPTER 11It was after four when Kintyre entered Margery’s apartment. She had neglected its housekeeping, and the air was acrid with smoke.
Slacks and sweater emphasized her figure. He had almost forgotten how good it was. When she sprang from the couch and into his arms he found himself kissing her without really having intended to.
“Oh, God, Bob,” she whispered. “You came. Hold me close, kiss me again, I need it.”
Her nails dug into his flesh, painfully, and her lips were tense against his. And yet it was but little a s****l passion, he realized; she was altogether forlorn.
“Rough?” he asked. He freed one arm and rumpled the short coppery hair.
“Reporters,” she said. “Waiting at the door when I came home today. Like flies around a corpse.”
The phone rang. She left it alone; the bel
