by Stephen Frey
Her eyes focused on the tiny tattoo high on her hip. It was an etching of a colorful butterfly, its yellow and orange wings no more than an inch across. She’d gotten it near the end of her second year at Duke, at her future husband’s urging and despite her own reluctance. He had taken her to a tiny parlor in downtown Durham one Saturday himself, trying to convince her to have the tattoo etched in a more prominent spot on her body as they’d driven from his apartment. On her shoulder, he kept saying, so he could see it when they went swimming or when she wore something strapless. But she had refused. Ultimately, she was glad she had kept the butterfly in a spot that even a skimpy bathing suit could hide.
Angela ran her finger slowly across the butterfly’s wings. Despite everything that had happened, despite all the emotional pain she’d endured because of him, she didn’t regret getting it because it reminded her of those times with him that had been good. So good. The best she’d ever known.
She turned back around so she was facing the mirror. She might be thirty-one, but by sticking religiously to a demanding exercise regimen and a healthy diet, she’d kept herself looking pretty darned good. She leaned forward again and grimaced at the faint stretch marks on her lower belly. They were small, almost invisible, unless you knew they were there. But they were there, all right. And they were impossible to get rid of. She shook her head and moved toward the shower. Pregnancy had left an indelible scar.
The man on the other side of the bathroom’s two-way mirror eased back in his chair and let out a long, slow breath as Angela Day disappeared into the shower. The pictures of her he’d been provided with a few hours ago hadn’t done her justice. She was even prettier with nothing left to the imagination, her body only inches from his eyes. He ran his hands through his hair, still picturing the butterfly tattoo. One way or another, he would get what he wanted.
CHAPTER TWO
As promised, the view from the small dining area off the great room was spectacular. Less than a hundred yards from where Angela sat, a deep gorge fell away from the lodge, and in the distance she could see soaring peaks iced by a fresh layer of pristine snow. She shielded her eyes as the early afternoon sun momentarily broke through the storm’s lingering clouds and a brilliant glare burst upon the landscape.
“Let me fix that, Ms. Day.” The same woman who had taken Angela’s breakfast order a few minutes ago closed the blinds over the window beside the table.
“Thank you.”
“More coffee?”
“Please.”
Angela watched as the woman freshened her cup with more of the delicious Brazilian blend, thinking about how easily she could get used to this life. After her midnight shower she’d slipped between the flannel sheets and fallen asleep right away. Next thing she’d known, it was nine o’clock in the morning. She’d tried to get up but the sheets had seemed to pull her back onto the comfortable mattress, and she’d fallen asleep again. Just before eleven she’d been able to get her feet to the floor, take another shower, and dress for her three o’clock appointment with Jake Lawrence. Now it was almost one, and the anticipation of meeting one of the world’s wealthiest men was intensifying.
When the woman was gone, an elderly black man shuffled into the dining room carrying a tray ladened with plates. After setting the tray down on a highboy along one wall, he moved to the table and picked up the white linen napkin folded before her, preparing to place it in her lap.
“You don’t need to do that.” Angela caught his hand. “Let me have it.”
“I really don’t mind.”
“No,” she said firmly, slipping the linen from his fingers.
“As you wish.” He moved back to the highboy and returned a moment later with a plate of blueberry pancakes and a small pitcher of maple syrup. His second trip from the highboy brought scrambled eggs and bacon, and the third a bowl of fresh fruit and a basket of warm biscuits. “Would you like anything else?” he asked with a wide grin.
“No, thank you. God, I’ll explode if I make it through even half of all this.”
The man picked up Angela’s fork and handed it to her.
She shook her head. “Please don’t—”
“I’m not bitter, Ms. Day,” he said. “So don’t you feel guilty. It doesn’t do anybody any good.”
Angela looked up. “What do you mean?”
“If I were white, would you have allowed me to put the napkin in your lap?”
She hesitated. “No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly. “Well, don’t hesitate to ring me if you need anything,” he instructed, tapping a small bell on a far corner of the table as he headed back toward the kitchen.
“Hey, sleepyhead.”
Angela looked up to see John Tucker standing in the doorway of the great room, pulling off dusty leather work gloves. She rolled her eyes, embarrassed by the forkful of blueberry pancakes she’d just put in her mouth and the strip of bacon she was holding.
“How in the world do you keep that slim figure of yours eating pancakes and bacon?” he wanted to know, sitting in the chair opposite hers and shaking his head as he surveyed the food. “Taking Mr. Lawrence up on his generosity, I see.”
“This is a rare treat for me, I assure you.” She’d been right last night in the SUV. Tucker did have friendly eyes. And in the light of day she could see a hint of mischief in them as well. “I usually start the day with half a bowl of oatmeal and two egg whites but, given all of the luxury around me, I decided to make an exception.”
“I’ll bet you don’t eat your first meal of the day at one in the afternoon very often either.” Tucker dropped his gloves and his grimy tan ten-gallon down on the white tablecloth. “I heard they were about to send someone up to your room to wake you.”
“Someone?” Angela asked coyly.
She’d thought about Tucker while getting dressed this morning, hoping this might happen. He would never grace the cover ofGQ magazine, but he was attractive in a rugged way. He had wavy, dirty blond hair that fell to the bottom of the wool collar of the leather jacket he’d been wearing last night. His eyes were large and brown, and his face was broad and ruddy beneath a three-day growth of stubble—a hint of gray rippling through the whiskers on his chin. He was a big man, too. Six three, she guessed, with wide shoulders and thick-fingered hands. He appeared to be in his midthirties, but she wasn’t sure. Maybe he was older if he’d been Jake Lawrence’s employee for twenty years.
Tucker had a natural swagger about him she liked, too. He’d ambled into the room with one hand in the back pocket of his jeans, pulled the chair out with the toe of his muddy boot, and sat down like he owned the place. It was a swagger that told her he was confident he could handle whatever came his way. A swagger she was drawn to, as she had been drawn to another man’s once before.
“Yeah, someone,” he repeated with a slight smile.
“Not you?”
“Nope.”
“Sure, cowboy,” she said quietly so the help wouldn’t hear, slowly raising one long, thin eyebrow at him. “I bet you wouldn’t mind finding out what I wear to bed.” It was a forward thing for her to say, but she already felt very comfortable with him, as if they’d known each other for a long time. She prided herself on being a quick and accurate judge of character, and he seemed honest and sincere. A man who wore his heart on his sleeve. “Come on. Tell me the truth.”
He tried to hold back, but then chuckled and looked down. “No, I’m sure I wouldn’t. But I’m not allowed upstairs without an escort.”
“I thought youran this place.”
“I run the ranch, but not the lodge. The lodge manager is very careful about all that. Particularly with female guests.”
“Oh,” she said, thinking back on how the maid had appeared last night and accompanied her to the room with the male attendant.
Tucker dug into the basket of biscuits, grabbed one, and polished off half of it in a single bite. “So, how’d you sleep?”
he asked through the mouthful.
“Like a baby. It’s been a while since I slept eleven hours in one night. Usually I get six or seven. But it was as if someone had glued my eyelids shut.”
“Happens to people all the time when they visit from back east. It’s the elevation,” he explained, shoving the rest of the biscuit into his mouth. “And all that wine you drank on the plane.”
“I didn’t drink that much. And, anyway, how would you know?”
“I have my sources.”
“Well, it was the flight attendant’s fault. He kept refilling my glass and thank God he did, because if he hadn’t, I might not have survived the landing. It felt like I was on the space shuttle and we were re-entering the earth’s atmosphere.” She watched Tucker rummage through the bacon. “Do you treat everything as tenderly as you do your food?”
“Most of the time,” he answered, finding a large, particularly crisp piece. He smiled suggestively. “But I can get rough when I need to.”
“I’ll bet.” Something caught her eye and Angela leaned across the table to get a better look. “How’d you get that?” she asked, touching a long scar on the back of his wrist.
“I was wrassling a stray steer a few years ago,” Tucker explained, holding up his hand. “I’ve got this thing by the neck and all of a sudden he turns and gores me.”
“Jesus,” Angela whispered.
Tucker chuckled. “I was the lucky one.”
“What do you mean?”
“Cow killed the horse.”
Angela shook her head as she reached for the fruit, filling a small bowl with wedges of fresh melon. “So what are you doing here? Why aren’t you out roping steers?”
“Well, I—”
“Couldn’t wait to see me again?” she interrupted. “Even if you couldn’t come upstairs to wake me.”
Tucker slowly wiped biscuit crumbs from his mustache with the back of his hand. “That’s a nice dress you’ve got on, Ms. Day,” he said, avoiding her question. “Verychic. I’m sure Mr. Lawrence would approve.”
“Thank you,” she said, impressed that he’d noticed. He didn’t seem like the type who would. “I bought it especially for the trip.”
“It’s nice, all right,” he continued, “but you’re gonna have to change.”
“Why?”
“Your meeting with Mr. Lawrence is at the ranch’s upper cabin, and there’s only one way up to it other than by helicopter, which we don’t have.”
“How’s that?”
“Horseback. And that dress would make the ride mighty uncomfortable, maybe even dangerous.”
“I’m not getting on a horse,” she said flatly. “No way.”
Tucker shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if you don’t, you won’t be meeting Mr. Lawrence.”
An hour later, Tucker hauled himself up into a Western saddle strapped to the back of a huge black stallion, then leaned down and held out his hand. “Put your left foot in the stirrup and take my arm,” he ordered. “And swing your right leg over the horse’s ass on the way up.”
“Lord,” Angela murmured, careful to avoid the butt end of a rifle protruding from a saddle holster. Then she was behind Tucker and they were moving ahead when he dug his heels into the animal’s flanks. Instinctively, she grabbed his wide shoulders. “This is no fun,” she called nervously, swaying from side to side.
“What’s your problem?” he asked with a smile, guiding the animal away from the lodge and out over an open field of pristine snow.
“I’ve never been on a horse before,” she admitted, resting her face on his broad back. Again she became aware of that soothing leather smell. “It seems higher when you’re up here than it does from the ground.”
He laughed loudly. “You’ll be all right. Just make sure you throw yourself clear if we go down.”
She moaned.
“I’m only kidding. We’ll be fine.”
“Hey!” she yelled.
“What?”
Angela pointed at two men near one corner of the lodge who had just pulled up in snowmobiles. “I thought you said there was only one way to get around without a helicopter.”
“Snowmobiles wouldn’t do us any good.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll see.”
Soon the open field stretching away from the lodge was behind them and the horse was climbing a trail that twisted through the thick pine forest covering the mountain. The trail grew steadily steeper and the trees sparser until they broke into the open. Then the trail quickly turned into a narrow, rocky path that seemed barely etched into the side of a vertical wall.
The view from the private dining room had been nothing compared to this. To her left Angela could reach out and touch the rock face soaring above them—it made her dizzy when she looked up. To her right, the mountain fell five hundred feet straight down to the bottom of a canyon. Her heart rose into her throat once when the horse stumbled going over a large stone, but Tucker skillfully brought the stallion back under control. Now she understood why a snowmobile wasn’t an option. It wouldn’t have been able to negotiate this stretch of the trip.
As they moved ahead she watched her breath rise in front of her. She was glad Tucker had ordered her back up to her room to change into the clothes a maid had scrounged up for her at the last minute—jeans, a wool sweater, a ski jacket, warm socks, and insulated boots. The sky had turned overcast again, and it was windy and much colder up here.
“So whatdo you wear to bed?” Tucker called over his shoulder when the path widened and became less treacherous.
She’d been lost in thought, enjoying the view despite the danger. It was as if they were on top of the world. “Depends,” she answered, playfully tilting his ten-gallon forward.
“On what?” he asked, pushing the brim back up.
“I’ll let you figure that out.”
Tucker sighed, then laughed. “You’re killing me, Angela.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Where did you fly in from?” he asked.
“Richmond, Virginia.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
“No. I grew up in North Carolina, near Asheville. That’s in the western part of the state.”
“How’d you end up in Richmond?”
The series of events that had led her to Virginia flashed through her mind. “A man,” she answered curtly.
“I’m not one to muck around where I’m not wanted, but it doesn’t sound like this guy ended up being your knight in shining armor.”
“No, he didn’t, and I like your rule about not mucking around where you aren’t wanted.” She hesitated. One reason she’d hoped to see Tucker again was to have the opportunity to ask him this question. “Why were you so skeptical last night about my meeting with Mr. Lawrence being legit?”
“What are you talking about?” he asked innocently.
“Come on, John. I heard that sarcastic comment you muttered under your breath when we were driving from the airport to the ranch. You thought I didn’t, but I did.”
He didn’t answer for a moment. “Look, Mr. Lawrence is one of the world’s most eligible bachelors, and he likes the company of attractive young women. I’m not violating any deep dark secrets here. I’ve made this trip to the cabin before with a woman behind me.”
Angela’s pulse quickened and her cheeks began to burn. Though he had provided few details, her boss in Richmond had promised that this meeting was on the up-and-up, and that it could prove to be a tremendous opportunity for the bank and for her personally. “I assure you that’s not what’s going on here,” she said stiffly. Ahead Angela saw that the mountain was flattening out into a high meadow ringed by rock ledges. At the far end of the meadow was a small cabin, and beside it a helicopter, blades still slowly rotating. “I’m not that kind of woman, and I resent your assuming that I am.”
“Then I sincerely apologize.”
Angela noticed several men milling around the front of the cabin. Most of them carried rifles
slung over their shoulders, barrels pointing to the sky. “Apology tentatively accepted.”
Tucker pulled back on the reins. They were still fifty yards from the cabin, but one of the men was trudging through the snow toward them. “Be careful, Angela,” Tucker warned, his tone turning serious. “Jake Lawrence is a powerful man. He’s used to getting his way.”
“I can handle myself.”
“You’re late, John,” the man called out in a heavy British accent.
“It’s wonderful to see you, too, Billy boy,” Tucker replied. “This guy’s a real prick,” he muttered over his shoulder.
“Ms. Day, I’m William Colby,” the man announced as he neared them, looking past Tucker. “Please get down from the horse. We’re behind schedule.”
Colby had closely set eyes, and a wide, hooked nose that seemed out of place on his thin face. He was completely bald. Unlike the other men milling about the cabin, he wasn’t wearing a blue knit ski cap—or shouldering a gun.
“He’s Secret Service via Scotland Yard,” Tucker whispered. “Very British, very stuffy, and very—”
“Very efficient,” Colby finished, his aristocratic accent knifing through the cold air. “I’m very good at what I do, Ms. Day, which is why I run global security for Mr. Lawrence and Mr. Tucker runs a ranch.”
“Confident chap, wouldn’t you say?” Tucker grunted, helping Angela slide down from the horse.
She nodded subtly at Tucker from the ground. But, despite his slight build, there was an unmistakable aura of competence about Colby. A sense of purpose.
“Please take ten paces toward the cabin, Ms. Day,” Colby ordered, signaling to one of his men.
“There’s no need for all of that,” Tucker assured Colby, swinging his right leg over the horse and dropping down into the snow. “She’s clean. I checked.”
“Stop right there, Ms. Day,” Colby demanded as Angela completed her tenth pace.
