14 - J. T. Ellison [103]
To be honest, Baldwin would have much rather tossed Taylor on the FBI plane and gotten her home as quickly as possible, but there were too many loose ends to wrap up.
He glanced at Taylor; she sat in the back of the unmarked car silently, staring off into the night as they crossed the bridge over the East River.
Baldwin was pleased the W could accommodate him. There was no sense in doing anything less. It wasn’t every day that he got to spend a romantic evening in New York with his bride-to-be. And he enjoyed that he could pull off something to comfort her. He hoped it would comfort her. Jesus, now that he had her back, he didn’t ever want to let her out of his sight again.
The city was dressed and lit in its Christmas finery, but the weather had turned. Snow was coming, flakes were beginning to compete for space, drifting down carelessly. The sky was dark between the skyscrapers, deep and dirty. Off-white clouds drifted through the murk. Fog crept between the buildings; it felt alive, evil and oppressive. Gotham City, living up to its reputation.
Despite the gloomy night, the line into Whiskey Blue was down the block. Patrons of the Waldorf-Astoria across the street shook their heads at the trendy grouping of nightlife fashionistas. Heads turned when Taylor and Baldwin got out of the unmarked car, but as soon as it was established that they weren’t anyone famous, the group quickly went back to their own worlds.
They shook hands with Eldridge, thanked him for the hospitality and made plans to meet for breakfast in the morning. The marbled lobby was warm, the discreet fountain separating the space from the restaurant trickled serenely, and Taylor left Baldwin’s side to stand in front of it, head cocked as she watched the water flow.
The desk clerk was icily polite, fingers snapping on the keyboard, a room key generated. He asked if there were any special requests, Baldwin declined. No sense advertising who they were to the clerk. They were just another couple who’d had too much to drink in the city and didn’t want to make the long drive back to suburbia.
He was worried about Taylor. He’d seen the look in her eyes before, a certain detachment, a faraway gaze that indicated she was looking inside herself for answers.
He’d listened to her talk about the kidnapping ordeal back at the precinct. He cringed when she described the man who had isolated her, threatened her with ultimatums. He felt the anger and fever that consumed her when she explained about breaking the guard’s neck and making her getaway. He knew how she felt about it—that she wasn’t so upset about taking a life as she was at being forced into that corner. Taylor was a tough woman; she knew the risks of her profession well. Murder, mayhem, all were within her reach. She would have been a good operative—able to compartmentalize her emotions, do what was necessary to get the job done and move forward without regret.
But the hand-to-hand combat, mortal combat, was another beast entirely.
The key was in his hand now, and he led her to the elevators, distinctly aware that she was restraining herself. He figured the minute that door was shut, a scream would erupt, some sort of loosening of the emotions that tightened her face.
She stayed silent, watchful, guarded.
The elevator’s muted ding alerted him that they’d reached their floor. He beckoned to Taylor, motioning her out of the elevator and into the hallway. He counted down the numbered doors—1515, 1509, 1507, this was their room. He inserted the key into the locking mechanism, the light flickered green and the