Gossip (Desire Never Dies)

by Clara Grace Walker

  By the time she reached him, she’d untied the top of her halter top, so it hung around her waist, exposing her breasts to him. Still wearing her high-cut, hip-hugging white shorts, she straddled his lap. “See anything you like, lover boy?”

  He grinned. “Oh my.”

  His flesh beat hard and hot against her thighs. She loved having sex with a man for the first time. Everything was still so full of promise and possibility. He could still be Mr. Right. And she could still be the woman of his dreams.

  Rex’s fondling of her breasts turned into suckling, his tongue tracing circles around her nipples, first one and then the other. Warmth and wetness rushed to her thighs. She stood, just long enough to step out of her shorts. Then, instead of sitting back down on his lap, she stretched out on his carpeted office floor. “Okay, stud. Let’s see what else you can do.”

  The sex lasted all of a disappointing minute. She barely had time to get used to the feel of him inside her before he grunted and collapsed back down, smiling. He hadn’t even worked up a sweat. Maybe it really was his first time. “God, you are good.” She lied to him. “You may be one of the best I’ve ever had.”

  “Is that right?” He sounded pleased.

  “That’s right.” For someone with an education, he sure was stupid. She pointed at the carpeted floor beneath her. “I think you’d better get me something to clean up with before I make a mess on your rug.”

  “Huh? Oh yeah. Right. I’ll go get you something.”

  She was starting to think she had just taken his virginity. All the better for her. That meant he’d be gone longer, trying to figure out what she needed to clean up with. As soon as he left the room, she sprung into action. Rex’s filing cabinets were well-organized. Outside labels told of their contents, arranged by date and alphabetical order.

  Pulling open the filing cabinet marked Torres-Zuckerman, she scanned folder labels, looking for Tyler-Beck. Not there. She checked the folder labels again; thumbing through them one at a time, just to be sure she hadn’t missed it. It definitely wasn’t there. She started to panic. Peter would be so pissed if she came back without that report. She looked around the room again, her gaze falling on the cabinet marked A-Cortez.

  Duh! She pounded her forehead with the bottom of her palm. Of course. It was probably filed under Beck. Opening the cabinet, she quickly located the autopsy report of Janelle Tyler-Beck, hanging in the middle of the row. Pulling it from the file folder, she laid it on Rex’s desk and opened it, wondering briefly if she should remove the staple holding the pages together, and then deciding not to. In her purse, she carried a slim digital camera, about the size of her cell phone. She’d suggested using her cell phone, but Peter had insisted she use the camera, explaining the quality of the photos would turn out better, and that obvious cell phone photos would detract from the story’s credibility. He was very interested in maintaining the story’s credibility.

  She worked quickly, but still carefully, capturing three photos of each page, then checking to make sure the photos were clear. Once she was sure she had everything she needed, she stuck the folder back where she’d found it. Rex came back into the room less than a minute later. He found her in exactly the same spot he’d left her in, only sitting up instead of on her back.

  She grinned sheepishly at him. “Sorry. I was getting rug burn on my backside. I think I messed your carpet up after all.”

  He handed her the damp cloth. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure it will wash up.”

  “Thanks.” She cleaned herself, dressed and grabbed her purse. “Well, I’ve got an appointment to get to, lover boy. Call me, okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll call you.”

  He both looked and sounded confused. She paid him no mind and scurried out of his office, laughing as she wondered how long it would take him to realize she hadn’t given him her phone number.

  Her job was clear. Get the pictures. Give them to Peter. And make sure lover boy could never track her down. After all, Peter was paying her.

  Chapter 13

  Rod thought about Darla while he made margaritas. She was small. Thin, petite; not really the buxom type he usually went for. She was also pretty. Really pretty. And one of the heirs to Peter Arnold’s sizable fortune. He’d run into her at Peter’s office two days ago, the day after Nick’s story about her fight with Mindy LePage appeared in The Tattletale. She’d come from her father’s office with red, puffy eyes. Obviously upset. He’d calmed her down by inviting her out to dinner. And dinner had been the extent of it.

  They’d gone out again last night and she’d finally gotten into bed with him. Obviously not as footloose and fancy free as the media made her out to be, which puzzled him. How could a girl who’d had three sex tapes leaked to the internet before her twenty-first birthday make a guy wait until the second date before putting out? Darla Arnold was an enigma. One he found really, really sexy. Possibly the perfect woman.

  “You coming, Rod?” She called from outside. “I’m getting thirsty out here.”

  He shut off the blender and poured their drinks into two salt-rimmed glasses. Next he switched on the outdoor stereo system, choosing some upbeat music for atmosphere. Take On Me by Aha. “On my way, babe.”

  Outside, the sun shone cool and bright in a cloudless sky. Darla, lying naked on a lounge chair, already had out the sunscreen, slathering it over her smooth, blemish-free skin. Rod set their drinks down on the table and took the tube of lotion from her hands. “You’re supposed to let me do this,” he said. “Can’t have you thinking I’m not a gentleman, can I?”

  She smiled. “I would never think that about you, Rod. You’re the best.”

  Confusing at it was, she seemed to really like him. He winked at her. “That’s right, babe, and don’t you ever forget it.”

  “Not likely to.” She rolled over. “Can you get my back for me?”

  “Not a problem.” He smoothed the cream over her back and shoulders, moving his hands down over her backside and along the lengths of her slender legs. She felt fantastic. “I don’t know,” he said. “Putting this sunscreen on you is giving me a hard on. I may have to do you right here in this lounge chair.”

  She rolled back over, frowning at him. “No way. You never know where the paparazzi are hiding out, and I don’t need any more sex tapes showing up on the internet. Peter will go ballistic if that happens again.”

  He found it odd the way she referred to her father by his first name. “You don’t have to worry about any paparazzi hiding out around here,” he said. “You see the walls and bushes I have surrounding this place? I like my privacy every bit as much as you do.”

  She glanced around at the walls and bushes, but continued frowning. “I don’t care. I’m not taking any chances. Peter got so mad the last time a sex tape showed up on the internet, he threatened to cut off my allowance.”

  He playfully patted her blonde curls. “That was harsh of him, wasn’t it?”

  She sat up in the chair, pulling her knees up to her chin. “You don’t know the half of it. Peter’s a dick.”

  Rod laughed. “You’d have a hard time convincing most of the people who know him of that.”

  “Most people don’t really know him.”

  He nodded, taking a seat in the lounge chair beside her. “For what it’s worth, babe, I believe you. No matter how friendly your dad’s always been to me, I’ve always had the feeling I shouldn’t really trust him.”

  She relaxed back into the chair. “That’s one of the reasons I like you,” she said. “Peter doesn’t fool you one bit.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Rod grabbed the glass closest to him and swallowed some of the margarita, getting brain freeze in the process. “Why don’t you want Peter to know we’re dating?”

  “I just don’t.”

  He’d asked the question a dozen times already, and her refusal to give him a satisfactory answer bothered him; not in a way that pissed him off. He didn’t think she was trying to make him mad. It just bother
ed him; like there was something really wrong she wasn’t telling him. And that bothered him, too. Why the hell did he even care?

  He shouldn’t, he reminded himself. Caring didn’t get a guy anything but a broken heart and a bruised ego. Just like Anna. Just like Tracy. He needed to remember the lessons he’d learned from them and get his emotions back in check. He went back to staring at Darla’s beautiful, naked body. That’s what it was about. Enjoying himself. Enjoying the moment. Not taking anything too seriously.

  “You ready to go inside?” he asked.

  “No.” She pulled out a joint from her beach bag and lit it up. “Peter’s been on my case about a favor he wants me to do for him, and I feel like getting stoned first.”

  Thoughts of sex fled immediately. “For crying out loud, Darla, put that thing out.”

  She continued smoking. “Why? And since when did you get to be such a party pooper?”

  “Since the stuff is illegal. And not good for you.”

  “So? What do you care anyway?”

  He got up and yanked the joint away from her, stubbing it out on the cement. “I care.”

  Christ, had he really just said that?

  Darla looked over at him smiling, not seeming the least bit angry. “Thanks, Rod. You really are the best.”

  “Damn it.” He swore under his breath. This situation was getting out of control. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to end up doing more than liking her.

  Chapter 14

  Rod’s beach house sat back from the road, surrounded by bushes and a brick wall on three sides. A barred gate sealed off the driveway from the road, with an access panel and intercom on the driver’s side. Jamie had made note of the details on the two drive-bys they’d made before parking Danny’s truck. Now she went over them in her mind as they made their way to the house on foot, dressed as though out for a jog. A late October chill tinged the air, made colder by the breeze blowing off the ocean, and she was glad she’d worn her yoga pants instead of the running shorts she’d nearly put on.

  “Guy manages to live pretty well for someone who’s been disbarred and makes his living selling cheap porn films.”

  Jamie shrugged off her co-worker’s comment. “I’ll bet there’s even more money in cheap porn films than being a scum-sucking lawyer.”

  Danny shook his head, clearly not convinced. “Not unless he’s bankrolling them.”

  “He probably is.”

  They slowed their pace as they reached the section of jogging path that ran past the former scum-sucking lawyer’s house, checked to make sure the coast was clear, and ducked into the shrubbery alongside it, creeping toward the ocean side of the house.

  “I hope my truck’s going to be okay at that condo development we left it parked at.”

  “Relax, Danny. It’ll be fine. No one’s going to steal that old rust heap.”

  “I’m not worried about someone stealing it. I’m worried about someone thinking it doesn’t belong there and having it towed.”

  “You could have brought your van.”

  He shook his head. “Nah. Maria needs it to run the kids around today.”

  “You fit all five of those kids into just one van?”

  “Mostly. Yeah.”

  She giggled, but Danny put a finger over his mouth, silencing her.

  Jamie nodded, hearing voices filtered through the chords of some eighties song she couldn’t quite name. Unmistakably, one voice belonged to Rod Skinner. Loud, cocky and arrogant. The other voice was female.

  “You think he’s got his video equipment going?” Jamie whispered.

  Danny nodded. “I don’t think the guy knows how to screw without filming it. Can you climb up on top of that wall?”

  “I think so. Give me a boost.”

  Danny cupped his hands together, allowing her to put one foot on them and use them as a step. She grabbed the smooth edge of the wall and pulled herself up, then quietly scooted another three or four feet, until she had passed the back corner wall of his house.

  Arborvitae bushes planted along the inside perimeter of the wall obscured most of her view, but also kept her hidden. About five or six feet directly in front of her, Rod and his guest could be seen through gaps in the foliage. Jamie recognized the small, slim blonde lounging naked by the pool with him. Her saucer-shaped dark eyes, smooth skin and messy curls had graced the cover of The Tattletale three days ago. Darla Arnold. Daughter of Peter. Interesting.

  Jamie pulled her small digital Nikon from a fanny pack she wore around her waist. She’d chosen this camera because it was small and easily stowed away. And also because she was betting she could get close enough to anyone she might want to photograph not to need the spy lens. After adjusting the zoom, she began snapping pictures. Her subjects drank what appeared to be frozen Margaritas in salt-rimmed glasses. A partially-smoked joint lay on the ground between them. The smell was potent enough she could smell it even where she sat hunched on the wall. She snapped pictures of the partially-smoked joint, too. Nick was going to love this.

  The music, playing through outside speakers on the patio, made it difficult for her to hear exactly what they were saying. Still, she pulled an audio device Danny had given her from her pack and turned it on. With any luck, Danny would be able to filter out the background noise later and pick up the threads of their conversation.

  This part of her job could be either incredibly exciting or incredibly dull, depending on what was going on. While she strained to memorize the layout of Rod’s yard and make out what they were saying, time sped by. It wasn’t until she felt cramping in her legs she had any sensation of its passing.

  Glancing at her watch, she saw nearly half an hour had gone by. Aside from the small chance she might actually pull some audible dialogue from her recording device, there didn’t seem to be much point in continuing to sit there. Finally, she packed the camera and voice recorder back into her fanny pack and slowly inched her way down the wall ledge. She’d nearly made it back to Danny when she heard Rod and Darla get up and go inside the house. She jumped down from the wall. “My legs are killing me.”

  “Get anything useful?” Danny asked.

  “Yeah. Rod’s screwing Darla Arnold.”

  Her colleague snorted. “Who isn’t? Except for me, of course. And Nick. That girl gets around more than a stray cat in heat.”

  “Good one, Danny. But don’t you find it interesting Peter Arnold’s the first one on the scene at Janelle’s murder, then you get a call saying Rod’s involved somehow, and now we find out Rod and Peter’s daughter are playing footsie?”

  “Yeah. I see what you mean. A little more than just coincidence you think?”

  She shrugged. “Never can tell.”

  “We’ll know if we follow them both around long enough.”

  Leave it to Danny to suggest tailing them. He never came out of reporter mode. “Sounds like fun. I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more than watch a couple of sex fiends bed hop.”

  He winked. “Just think, if you follow Rod around, you get to watch him make movies, too.”

  “That settles it. You follow Rod. I’ll take Darla.”

  “I don’t think so, James.” That was his nickname for her. “I think you’ll have better luck charming Rod if he spots his tail.”

  “So don’t get spotted.”

  “Fine. Neither one of us wants to tail Rod. We’ll settle it the old-fashioned way.” He pulled a quarter from his pocket. “Heads or tails?”

  “Tails.”

  He flipped the coin. “Heads.”

  “Damn.”

  “Sorry, James. Better not play the lottery today.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. I think. And, James…”

  “What?”

  “Try not to get caught or you may have to flirt with the guy.”

  “I get caught; I’m just going to knock the guy out.”

  He laughed. “You probably would.”

  “I guarantee I would.”
/>   “Hey.” Danny cocked his head toward the street side of the house. “You hear that?”

  She nodded. “Someone’s leaving.”

  Moving in a crouched position, they made their way to the front of the house, just in time to see Darla behind the wheel of her Maserati convertible, starting down the driveway.

  “Shit.” Danny swore. “I got to get to the truck. You stay here and keep an eye on lover boy.”

  “Great. My dream job.”

  Danny took off, moving quickly for a man in his late forties. Too late, she realized with Danny gone in the truck, she had no way of following Rod if he left. She pulled out her cell phone, thinking to call Nick, but then stopped. If Rod did leave, she would have the perfect opportunity to search his house. All she had to do was get inside and hide there. When he finally did leave, she would already be inside, despite any alarm systems he might turn on.

  She hoisted herself back on top of the wall and jumped down to the other side, maintaining the cover of the arborvitaes. Different sounds floated back to her as she stood there, trying to figure out how to sneak into his house. Traffic driving by. A dog barking one or two houses over. Music from inside Rod’s house. An old tune by Loverboy. Working for the Weekend. She imagined Rod dancing around to the song inside his house playing air guitar and nearly laughed. The vision, however, was short-lived, and not enough to calm her nerves. Right now, her heart pounded so loudly it overpowered every other noise she heard.

  Breaking and entering. That’s what she was doing. Or maybe just entering, since she hadn’t actually broken anything. Either way, it was illegal. Claiming she was just a reporter doing her job wasn’t going to help her one darn bit if she got caught.

  All for Nick. The things a woman would do when she let her sympathy take over. No, she instantly corrected. This was strictly for her job. She was not letting her emotions take over. Of course, she wasn’t going to do Nick or her career any favors if she didn’t get inside Rod’s house. Crouching down, she crawled out from under cover of the bushes and made her way toward the back door, darting from the patio table to the lounge chairs, taking cover behind each object as best she could. Her breath came fast now, in shallow pants, and she paused for a moment to listen for any telltale sounds of footsteps coming toward her. She heard only those sounds she had heard before. The traffic. The dog. The music. The hard pounding of her heart.