Nightwatcher (3 page)

“Dammit!” Allison looks down at her soaked shoes—and then up again, just in time to see a yellow cab pulling over for the trench-coated, briefcase-carrying man who just strode past her, taxi-hailing arm in the air.

“Hey!” she calls, and he glances back over his shoulder. “I’ve been standing here for twenty minutes!”

More like five, but that’s beside the point. She was here first. That’s her cab.

Okay, in the grand scheme of Manhattan life, maybe that’s not quite how it works.

Maybe it’s more . . .
if you snooze, you lose
.

And I snoozed.

Still . . .

She’s in a fighting mood. The Jacobs show is huge. Everyone who’s anyone in the industry will be there. This is her first year as—well, maybe not a Somebody, but no longer a Nobody.

There’s a seat for her alongside the runway—well, maybe not
right
alongside it, but somewhere—and she has to get to the Pier.
Now
.

She fully expects the businessman to ignore her. But his eyes flick up and down, taking in her long, blond-streaked hair, long legs, and short pink skirt. Yeah—he’s totally checking her out.

She’s used to that reaction from men on the street.

Men anywhere, really. Even back home in Centerfield, when she was scarcely more than a kid—and still a brunette—Allison attracted her share of male attention, most of it unwanted.

But as a grown woman in the big city, she’s learned to use it to her advantage on certain occasions.

Oh hell . . . the truth is, she made the most of it even back in Nebraska. But she doesn’t let herself think about that.

Memories are good for nothin’, Allison. Don’t you ever forget it.

No, Mom. I won’t. I’ll never forget it.

“Where are you headed?” The man reaches back to open the car door, his gaze still fixed on her.

“Pier 54. It’s on the river at—”

“I know where it is. Go ahead. Get in.”

She hesitates only a split second before hurrying over to the cab, quickly folding her umbrella, and slipping past the man—a total stranger, she reminds herself—into the backseat.

A stranger. So? The city is full of strangers. That’s why she moved here, leaving behind a town populated by know-it-all busybodies.

Anyway, it’s not the middle of the night, and the driver is here, and what’s going to happen?

You’re going to make it to the Marc Jacobs show, something you’ve been waiting for all summer.

After the show there’s an after-party to launch Jacobs’s new signature fragrance. It’s the hottest ticket in town tonight, and Allison Taylor is invited.

No way is she going to miss this—or arrive looking like a drowned rat.

She puts her dripping umbrella on the floor as the stranger climbs in after her and closes the door.

“I’m going to Brooklyn—take the Williamsburg Bridge,” he tells the driver, “but first she needs to get off at Thirteenth and West.”

“Wait—that’s
way
out of your way,” Allison protests.

“It’s okay. You’re obviously in a hurry.”

“No, I know, but . . .” Jacobs is notorious for starting late. She can wait for another cab.

“It’s fine.”

“Never mind,” she says, unsettled by this stranger’s willingness to accommodate her. What, she wonders uneasily, does he expect in return? “Listen, I’ll just—”

“No, I mean it. It’s
fine
.” He motions at the cabbie, who shrugs, starts the meter, and inches them out into the downtown traffic.

Alrighty then. Allison faces forward, crossing her arms across her midsection.

She tried to let this guy off the hook. It’s going to take him forever to get to Brooklyn with a West Side detour, but . . .

That’s his problem.

And mine is solved.

Allison leans back, inhaling the fruity cardboard air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror and the faint cigarette scent wafting from her backseat companion. Unlike some reformed smokers, she doesn’t mind it. In fact, she finds the tobacco smell pleasantly nostalgic, sending her back to college bars and rainy, lazy, coffee-drinking afternoons in Pittsburgh.

Sometimes—wrong as it is, weak as it is—she finds herself craving a cigarette, even now.

When she first got to New York three years ago, she quickly went from mooching happy hour butts to a two-pack-a-day habit. Smoking helped mitigate job stress, city stress, love life stress—and kept her thin. In her industry, that’s crucial.

Then her old college roommate Becky came to New York for a job interview and they got together—Becky’s idea, of course. Though they’d been friends in college, Allison had closed that chapter of her life and wasn’t anxious to revisit the past. Nothing against Becky, but for Allison, moving on meant leaving people behind. It was an old trick she’d learned from her childhood friend Tammy, who certainly had the right idea. Life was just easier that way.

As they caught up over drinks, Becky watched Allison light a fresh cigarette from the stub of another, and said, “Wow, I always thought you were too much of a control freak for that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean chain-smoking. Cigarettes can kill you, you know.”

Allison shrugged. “We’re all going to die someday.”

“Maybe, but—”

“
Maybe?
Not
maybe
, Becky! Everyone dies. It’s a fact of life.”

Becky gave her a long look, then shrugged. “Whatever. All I know is that you’re an addict if you smoke like that, Al. And addicts aren’t in control.”

She was right, of course. Jesus. The moment she heard the word
addict
, Allison made up her mind to quit.

But she waited until after Becky had flown home to Pennsylvania. Waited because she hates I-told-you-so’s, and waited because, yes, she likes to be in control. Likes, wants, needs . . . she
needs
to be in control.

Who’d blame her? After all she’s been through in her life . . .

“So . . . I’m Bill.”

She turns to look at the man who commandeered her cab—or vice versa, depending on how one chooses to look at it.

“Allison.”

“Nice to meet you, Allison. What do you do?”

“I’m a style editor at
7th Avenue
magazine. How about you?” she asks, noting that he has green eyes. Nebraska-field green eyes.

“Finance,” he tells her. “I’m an investment banker.”

Ah—forget the field. Those are money green eyes
.

This guy couldn’t be more
not
your type.

Allison has nothing against money, of course—but she’s completely clueless about finance. Then again, she also knows nothing about science, yet she was head-over-heels in love with a biologist for almost a year.

And look how that turned out.

Justin was the one person in New York who got to know the real Allison—at least, as much of herself as she’s ever shared with anyone. She’d dated here and there in college, but those relationships were superficial and physical.

With Justin, she eventually learned to let her guard down a bit. She shared things with him she’d never shared with anyone. Yes, and as soon as she was comfortable with the idea of someone having access to her past, her apartment, her innermost thoughts—
bam
. It was over.

Their June breakup was abysmal. Cheating, lies, accusations . . .

Thank God she’s finally over it. Over it, and moving on.

Just yesterday, while folding dryer-hot clothes in her building’s laundry room, she mentioned to her chatterbox neighbor Kristina that she’s ready to meet someone new.

“Yeah? Good luck with that.” Kristina, an aspiring Broadway actress, shook her mop of dark curly hair. “Do you know that it’s been almost six months since Ray and I broke up? Half a year. I figured I’d have replaced him by now—not to mention all the stuff he took when he moved out. But I’m not having any luck getting a new boyfriend, or a new espresso maker or CD player or—”

“Um,” Allison cut in, “it can’t be
that
hard to get a new CD player, can it?”

“It’s impossible when you’re flat broke. I can’t even afford a new Walkman. I haven’t had music in my apartment for months now, and it’s killing me. Meanwhile,” she went on, clearly following her own unique brand of logic, “I’ve figured out that the only available guys in this city are married.”

“Doesn’t that mean they’re
unavailable
?”

Kristina leveled a look at Allison. “Not necessarily.”

Allison didn’t know what to say to that. For all her eagerly embraced big-city sophistication, the Midwestern farm girl in her occasionally stirs with disapproval.

Anyway, Kristina certainly had a point about the scarcity of eligible men in New York. The fashion industry isn’t exactly crawling with straight guys, and where else—
when
—is Allison supposed to meet someone? She works too hard and late to have much of a weeknight social life, and on summer weekends, the city becomes a ghost town. Pretty much everyone who’s anyone leaves for the Hamptons—which she definitely can’t afford.

Probably because you know nothing about finance and investments, right?

Maybe it’s time to learn. People seem to keep talking about the flat economy, and here she is with no nest egg and very little to show for the fairly decent salary she’s finally making—other than the overflowing contents of the closet in her one-bedroom apartment, which, incidentally, is decorated with a lot of really great furniture.

Then again, is that so wrong? What else in this life—including a beach house share—can possibly guarantee the immediate gratification of an Alexander McQueen dress or Dolce & Gabbana bags?

Not even just
immediate
gratification. Unlike summer, or relationships, a good purse can last forever.

“So you’re coming from work?” Bill asks, and she steals a glance at his left hand. Aha! Ring finger bare. A good sign.

Marital status might not matter to Kristina. It might not matter to a lot of women.

Memories are good for nothin’. . .

Well, it matters to Allison. Single is essential.

“Actually, I was at the BCBG show.” At his blank look, she adds, “Max Azria.” Still blank. “The designer. It’s Fashion Week.”

“Oh.”

He might as well have said,
Whatever
.

“How about you?” she asks, to keep the conversation going. “Coming from work?”

He shakes his head. “My office is downtown. I had a client meeting up here after the market closed.”

“Oh.”
Whatever
.

So much for scintillating small talk.

Whatever . . .

Story of my life.

Allison leans her head back wearily, gazing through the rain-spattered windshield at lower Manhattan’s distant skyline, the twin towers shrouded in misty twilight gloom.

S
tepping off the elevator on the fifth floor after a long, hard day of secretarial temp work, Kristina Haines immediately spots the large box sitting in front of her door.

What on earth . . . ?

Someone left her a gift. Wow.

A gift wrapped in white paper stamped with red hearts, topped by a big red bow.

Hearts. Kristina breaks into a smile. Her downstairs neighbor Mack finally made his move. It’s about time.

She unlocks the door, then holds it open with her foot as she contorts herself to lift the box. It’s heavy—but not too heavy.

The wrapping is clumsily assembled, to say the least. Uneven seams, and too much tape—almost as though a child wrapped it. Or a guy. Most guys probably aren’t very good at wrapping presents.

She wouldn’t know. The only thing her lousy ex-boyfriend ever gave her was an occasional bouquet of flowers from the Korean deli on the corner. Usually only when he guiltily came home late—from God-knows-where—and the flowers were half price and wilted.

Giddy, Kristina puts the gift-wrapped box on the table and tilts it around, checking all six sides for a card, but finds nothing. It must be inside.

She tears off the paper . . .

A CD player?

That’s what the box says.

She smiles. It’s so sweet. She’s mentioned a few times to Mack how much she misses having music in the house.

There’s a shrink-wrapped CD stuck to the top with Scotch tape:
Songs in A Minor
by that new R&B singer Alicia Keys.

Hmm. R&B is not really her style. She’s kind of surprised Mack didn’t give her a collection of show tunes or something—he knows, after all, about her musical theater aspirations.

Maybe he figures she has all the Broadway cast albums—which she pretty much does— and wants to introduce her to something new. He’s really into music—not that he’s ever mentioned this particular artist.

Oh well—maybe she’ll like it. Maybe the songs will have special meaning to her.

To
us
. Me and Mack.

Her heart is pounding. This is the turning point. This means there actually is going to be a
me and Mack
.

She pulls the CD off the package and sets it aside. Still no card, she notes—and the flaps are sealed with thick manufacturing tape, meaning it’s not inside the box, either.

Okay—so he obviously wants to be her secret admirer for the time being. She’ll play along.

Smiling, she opens the silverware drawer and searches for a blade. A butter knife won’t cut it—literally—and of course Kristina, being a vegetarian, doesn’t have steak knives.

She jerks open another drawer. Ah, there—it figures Ray didn’t take the paring knives when he left; he never did any cooking. Not that Kristina does, either.

She grabs a nice big sharp knife from the drawer, idly wondering what Mack’s favorite meal is, whether it involves meat, and whether she can learn to prepare it if it does—or even if it doesn’t. Who knows? Maybe she’ll become a gourmet chef.

Oh, come on. Really? You?

She glances at the whiteboard attached to the kitchenette’s lone patch of wall space. Ray used it to keep himself organized. It was, ironically, one of the few things he left behind when he moved to his new apartment down on Warren Street.