Indigo Sky

by Ingis, Gail

  She drew a sharp breath. “What do you mean?”

  Rork didn’t want to face her, run the risk of seeing her tears. But he did. Their eyes connected. “I’m talking about Hank.”

  “I know you are, but what are you accusing him of?” Her voice shook.

  “He doesn’t honor your marriage vows. So why should you?”

  “Hank might not, but I do. He may not deserve my loyalty, but I pledged it to him. I will not break that vow.” Her words rang with conviction.

  Rork’s shoulders sagged. He wanted to convince her he was more worthy. Instead, he took a deep breath. “It won’t happen again.” He opened the door and stepped into the dark hall. If she wants to find Hank with Sissy, so be it. He strode away.

  Hank stared at Sissy through a hasheesh and alcohol-induced haze. He blinked rapidly to clear the vision of red hair and redder lips that seemed magnified.

  Her hand came up to stroke his face.

  He squeaked and stumbled back onto a barstool, hands up to ward off the threat. “What’re you doing, woman?” Panic gripped him. The walls closed in, the roof came down like an iron claw, and lamps flickered with satanic tongues. “I have to get out.”

  “God, Hank, what’s the matter with you?” She tossed her hair and pouted. “Too much of your so-called substance?”

  “Don’t you start on me,” he growled. “I need to write—got an idea.” He staggered from the bar.

  Sissy hurried after him and grabbed his arm. “Better come to my suite, Hank. That prissy wife of yours is sure to throw a tantrum.”

  Nodding, he allowed her to lead him to her suite. He wove his way unsteadily into the sitting room and flopped onto a chaise longue, holding his head. He pulled a velvet box from his pocket and tipped a few grains into his palm and threw them on his tongue. “Whiskey—I need a drink,” he mumbled.

  Sissy filled a tumbler with a generous jigger of whiskey and handed it to him. Giggling, she sat on his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I feel neglected. You haven’t made love to me for days.” She turned and straddled his lap. Her mouth tensed at his lack of response. “What’s wrong with you? I’ll arouse you.” She slipped off his lap and knelt, fumbling with his fly.

  “Stop!” He thrust her away and sent her tumbling onto her back. Jerking to his feet, he threw the glass across the room. “What is it with you damn women? You bitch, keep your miserly mouth off me.” He ranged the room, plucking at his disheveled hair, eyes darting about. The curtains moved, and he screamed. “What the hell was that?”

  Sissy ran to him and threw her arms around him. “Lordy, must you take that remedy? It gives you daytime nightmares. The window is open, that’s all.”

  “Get away from me!” His arms flailed, and he struck her temple. His signet ring glanced off, leaving a bloody streak.

  She cried out, fell to the ground, and scrambled away from him. “Hank, stop!”

  Sweat beaded his face, and he trembled uncontrollably as he staggered to a writing desk and ripped open a drawer. “Paper, I need paper—need to write.” He clutched his chest to still his racing heart. Shaking uncontrollably, he poured another whiskey and took a vial from his pocket. He tipped a few grains into the amber liquid, swallowed it in one gulp, and sagged to a chair. He dropped his head onto the writing desk. Slowly, calm washed through him. He breathed a sigh of relief and drew a pen from his pocket. He ran one finger reverently over the carved bone handle and touched the metal nib.

  Sissy stood slowly. “Are you feeling better now?”

  He nodded and dipped his pen into a bottle of ink. Pressing his palm to the paper, he sighed again. The paper was warm, comforting beneath his hand. He wrote rapidly, the brilliant hallucinations of his mind flowing from the tip in a flowery script.

  Sissy stood behind him, pressing her pelvis against him and massaging his shoulders.

  Oblivious to her overtures, Hank pulled out a second sheet and wrote with frenetic haste. Sissy’s exotic perfume invaded his heightened sense. He stopped, pen poised. A drop of ink fell and spread on the paper. Other urges needed gratification. Slamming the pen down and spattering ink across the paper, he jumped up and pulled Sissy roughly into his arms. “Now—I need you now!”

  She giggled as he dragged her to the chaise longue, tearing at her dress to gain access to her voluptuous curves.

  As quickly as his lust ignited, it disappeared, and his fury erupted. With a growl, he struck Sissy across the face.

  With a yelp, she brought a hand up to her reddened cheek.

  “You bitch, you’re responsible for my lack. This-this failure to-to perform.” A cry from across the room brought his head around. He tried to focus through a veil of anger and substance. “Leila?”

  Sissy giggled and pulled his head back to face her. “Let the prissy bitch watch. Maybe she’ll learn something.”

  Uncontrolled rage erupted. He jumped up and thrust Sissy aside roughly.

  She squealed, landing on the floor in a flurry of crimson silk and lace.

  Hank fumbled with his fly. The buttons finally united, he turned to reprimand Leila, but he stopped, trapped in the innocence of her wide eyes.

  Leila pressed a fist to her middle. Her other hand fluttered to her chest, and her mouth opened and shut. “I came to find out if Sissy knew where you were. I-I went to the bar and couldn’t find you. I was worried that you might have gone out for a walk and been set upon by rioters or-or something.” Her stricken eyes went to Sissy then back to him. “How could you, Hank? How could you betray me? How could you defile our marriage?” A sob caught in her throat.

  Sissy scrambled to her feet and burst into peals of laughter. “You stupid bitch, what makes you think Hank would want an ineffectual milksop like you?”

  The veins in his head fit to burst. He brought his arm up, slamming the back of his hand across her cheek. Her head snapped to one side. He shoved at her chest and sent her plummeting to the floor again. “Shut up. Shut the hell up, Sissy!”

  With a sob, Leila spun in a flurry of Chantilly lace, the peignoir swirling around her legs as she sought escape.

  “Leila, wait. I can explain!” He stumbled after her, stomach cramping and heart pounding. His world spun, and his legs refused to move cohesively. He reached their suite and tore the door open.

  Leila stood with her back to him, head bowed and shoulders jerking as she sobbed.

  He approached slowly, shaking his head to clear the buzzing in his ears. “I’m sorry, but I can explain.”

  “How could you, Hank?”

  Again, fury invaded his brain. “What do you expect? You’re bloody frigid to the extreme. You aren’t even a damn wife!”

  She turned, and the truth in her eyes mocked him.

  Somewhere in his soul, a glimmer of humanity and reason remained. The fault lay with him. “Stop looking at me like that.”

  “Mr. Millburn was right. Sissy is your mistress. I won’t tolerate that.”

  A chill of betrayal settled on him. “Millburn said that?”

  “I refused to believe him, but now I realize it’s the truth. I’ve been a naïve fool.”

  “That sneaky son of a bitch!” Hank slammed his fist on the table, shattering the legs with the force. Hands clenched, he advanced on her, emotion clogging his throat and pain shooting through his temples. “So, has he had the pleasure of taking your precious maidenhead?”

  “How dare you!” Her hand shot up, and her palm connected with his cheek.

  He lifted his lip in a sneer. “Hit a nerve, have I? Traitorous bitch.” He lifted his arm. “I’ll kill you.” A large hand clamped around his wrist, holding it in a vise grip. Just then, Rork’s deep voice burned into his brain, fanning the flames of his wrath.

  “Enough, Hank!”

  He turned, still in the iro
n grip. “You bastard, you violated my wife!”

  Rork’s eyes glittered. “I’ve done nothing of the sort. You need to calm down and go to bed.”

  Cramps beset Hank’s gut, and he wanted to vomit. “You betrayed me!”

  “You betrayed yourself.” He lifted Hank by his lapels and hustled him into the bedchamber, throwing him onto the tester bed. “Sleep it off.” Spinning on his heel, he strode out.

  Hank shot up and raced after him. The door to the suite slammed shut, and Hank swung his head, glaring at Leila. “Your lover is too much of a coward to stand and fight.”

  “I want a divorce,” she said quietly.

  He gaped and gulped. Her father hadn’t yet released all of her finances. Could the old bastard legally withhold the money if she insists on divorce? “You want what?”

  “You heard me,” she said in a voice somewhere outside herself.

  He stared at her. Indifference and determination supplanted the tender love he was accustomed to seeing. This can’t be happening. He ran his tongue over parched lips. “I won’t give you a divorce.”

  She squared her shoulders and stared into his empty eyes. “Why ever not? You don’t love me. Besides, I’ve had enough of your philandering and drinking—not to mention all the remedies.”

  “Those were prescribed for the pain and this incessant cough I suffer.” He had to stop her from filing for divorce. “Please, Leila, I don’t want to lose you.”

  She sagged into a chair and waved her hand at him, her eyes half closed. “Go back to your mistress.”

  Hank pressed his palms against his temples. His head throbbed. “I’m going to kill Millburn!”

  Her eyes flew open. “Don’t do anything stupid, Hank. And he has nothing to do with my decision. I decided weeks ago that I no longer want to be married to you.”

  “I need to sleep.” He turned and stumbled to the bedchamber. His last thought before passing out was that Millburn would pay for his treachery.

  Chapter 13

  Leila leaned on the wall and stared at the door through tear-filled eyes, one hand pressed to her lips, the other to her stomach. Huge sobs wracked her chest. She cried like a child who was lost in the woods. And that was how she felt. Lost. Alone. And terrified. Hank’s snores emanated from the bedchamber. The events of the evening replayed in her head. Bile rose in her throat. The image of Sissy’s legs wrapped around Hank were burned into her mind. He betrayed me in the vilest way. But I kissed Rork. A door opened and closed down the hall, snapping Leila out of her stupor. Her stomach churned.

  Footsteps echoed in the passage.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She was light-headed with anticipation. She counted the steps, matching her breaths to the heavy tread drawing closer. She could still smell Rork on her skin—a combination of earthy pine, cigar smoke, and something undeniably male that sent shivers between her thighs.

  Hank always reeked of alcohol and the sickly sweet odor of hasheesh. She closed her eyes. How many times has he come to me tainted with the perfume of the women he’s dallied with? How many times have I ignored the truth? But I have honor. I told Rork I have honor. But that honor dissolved the moment his lips touched mine. She wanted to wrap her arms around Rork, press her body to his. The passion coursing through her veins was foreign, but so intoxicating.

  The footsteps stopped. If it is Rork, what will I do? Dear God, I don’t have the strength to refuse him again. A wild part of her yearned for the heat that penetrated her body with one brush of his hand. She knew she wouldn’t be able to refuse him. Wide eyed, she stared at the door and held her breath. Seconds ticked by, and Leila waited, a gasp trapped in her throat, her heart squeezed in a vise. She was tempted to open the door. Instead, she waited; she listened.

  Nothing.

  The footsteps retreated.

  She slid down the wall in a crumpled heap. Alone. So alone.

  Late afternoon, Hank woke from a troubled sleep and looked around. He drooped his head, as though it were too heavy to hold up. He held his stomach and groaned. “God, I feel like crap, and I’m still in my suit.” Trying to remember what had happened the night before, he struggled through a quagmire of images and slipped from the bed. “I need a drink.” He stumbled through to an empty sitting room and poured a tumbler of whiskey, tipped a few grains into the amber liquid, and swallowed the contents in one gulp. He shivered. “I’ll soon feel better.”

  Sagging into an armchair, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Damn, Leila caught me with Sissy.” Throwing back his head, he glared at dancing prisms of light from the gas-lit chandelier. “Rork. It’s that bastard’s fault. He poisoned Leila’s mind. If she divorces me, that miserable father of hers will certainly withhold the money.”

  He slammed his fist on the arm of the chair and lurched to his feet. He walked with uneven steps to the bedchamber, rummaged around in his valise, and withdrew a pistol. “I’ll kill Rork, that traitorous son of a bitch!”

  Hank stumbled to Rork’s suite, but he wasn’t there. He then made his way to the smoking room and the bar, but neither yielded results, rendering Hank more foul-tempered than ever. “Where is the bastard?” he grumbled. “Bet he’s with my damn wife.” He left to search the street. Leila’s threat to divorce him rattled around in his confused brain. He had to make her forget divorce or he’d lose the money from her father.

  He saw Rork in the distance walking on Broadway. Hank picked up the pace and reached his enemy, gasping for air. He grabbed Rork’s shoulder from behind. “Got you.”

  Rork turned, his own pistol drawn. His eyes narrowed in the fading light. “Hank, what are you doing? I could have killed you.” He shook the gun in Hank’s face. “Don’t ever do that again.” He slipped the weapon into his pocket. “What ails you, man?”

  “Like you don’t know,” Hank snarled. “You betrayed me and turned my wife against me. Now she wants a damn divorce.”

  “Let’s talk.”

  “I don’t fraternize with my enemies.”

  “What is with you, Hank? Be realistic. You play around and expect your wife to ignore it. It doesn’t work like that.”

  Hank buckled, coughing uncontrollably. He recovered and glared at Rork. “You’re responsible.”

  “Responsible for what?”

  “For Leila wanting a divorce. You had no damn right interfering in our marriage.”

  Rork brushed dust off his lightweight coat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Revulsion welled up in Hank’s soul, and he laughed bitterly. “You want her for yourself. I’m not blind, nor am I a fool. I’ve seen the way you moon after her, watch her.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Leila isn’t stupid. You blatantly flirt with other women and speak to Leila like she’s dirt.”

  “Leila was happy before you showed up.”

  “You can’t seriously believe she wasn’t aware of your philandering. And she sure as hell wasn’t happy. Did you forget how obnoxious you were at the Mountain House? Why couldn’t you give her a minute to talk? You demean and insult her in front of anyone and everyone. Not to mention the alcohol and substance you consume.”

  “My medication is none of your business.”

  Rork sighed and shook his head. “Are you stupid? Your alcohol and hasheesh habits are the root of your problem.”

  “Crap. And my wife’s happiness or the way I deal with her is not your goddamn business. Why the hell did you have to complicate things? Leila was fine before you.”

  “You’re delusional if you believe that. And you’re a fool, Hank. Only a moron wouldn’t realize his wife is frustrated and miserable.”

  “Leila frustrated? What the hell are you talking about?” God, did she confide in this bastard—tell him our marriage isn’t consummated?

  �
�She has no idea how to cope with what you do, and it frustrates her. Your flaunting Sissy in her face and not giving a damn how she feels is the ultimate insult. You’ve mistreated her over and over.”

  Hank stared at the sun sinking behind buildings and the dark cumulus clouds. How dare this nobody take me, the great Hank Dempsey, to task? He blew out his cheeks and rolled his eyes. He had to tilt his head up to look at Rork, and that enraged him even more. Drawing himself up to his full height, he stood inches from Rork. “I treat her just fine. She has everything she ever wanted.”

  “You forget she’s even your wife. You’re blinded by your own desires, a blustering idiot with no concept of how to value that wonderful woman.”

  Hank stared at the angry, sneering face before him. All reason fled, and blood pounded in his head. He pulled the pistol from his pocket and stepped back, firing blindly.

  Rork groaned and crumpled. He struggled briefly but then lay still. Blood bloomed on his white shirt and spread.

  A woman screamed, and people ran down the street, away from the scene.

  Hank couldn’t breathe. He dropped the pistol, clutched his chest, and dropped to his knees. His heart was pounding erratically. Oh, God. What now? He glanced up at people surrounding them.

  “Has someone fetched an ambulance . . . the police?” whispered a bystander.

  “Yes,” said another.

  Head hanging, Hank covered his ears to drown out the clanging bells of the ambulance. He glanced at the unconscious Rork. He was right. I am a blustering idiot. What was I thinking? I better get the hell out of here. A dull ache throbbed in his head, an ache he knew would soon turn to blinding pain.