Exposé: First of the Sally Harrington Mysteries (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 5)

by Laura Van Wormer

  I'm dying to ask what kind of woman he has been spending his time with, but I decide he'll tell me if he wants to.

  "It's nice to know that I'm not too far gone to remember how nice women can be." He smiles slightly, a tinge of color coming to his cheeks. "And attractive. With no secret fangs."

  Oh, my, I think. Vampires, snakes, mad dogs; what kind of woman has secret fangs? I don't know what to say to any of this, so I smile slightly and sip my wine. Our dinner arrives and I comment on how good my spinach ravioli is.

  "Do you know how long it's been since I've seen a woman eat?" he asks. "Not eat-eat, but eat anything but lettuce and car­rots and a cookie? Ugh!" he suddenly cries, vehemently shak­ing his head. "Enough. No more, I promise," he says, opening his hands in a forward motion, as if releasing a bird. He picks up his fork and tastes the ziti he ordered, sautéed with tomato, garlic and black olives. "You think I'm neurotic, right?" he asks me.

  I hesitate a moment and then say, "Well, I think you may be overly bright, overworked and were probably recently, well, overturned—shall we say?—by a person who's not very healthy." When he doesn't say anything but simply stares at me, I add, "And, you know, when you hang out a lot with somebody who's not well, after a while you start thinking like them, particularly if you think you're in love with them. You want to understand them. Gain their trust, their innermost thoughts. So later, when you come up for air and relate to the real world, you feel like you're not well in the head, either, and you're not, because you've been trained to think like the person who's not well, the one you might be in love with." I smile. "Fortunately it doesn't take years of cognitive therapy to re­verse it. You just feel like hell for a while. Like the Incredible Hulk after the change back."

  Spencer places his fork carefully on the edge of his plate and picks up his water glass to drain it. He puts the glass back down and, hand still on it, says, "You are a bright and lovely person."

  "Thank you," I say lightly, resuming my dinner.

  "And you don't sound like anybody who ever worked for Verity before," he continues, leaning forward slightly. "Where did she find you?"

  "In the woods," I remind him.

  He watches me eat a minute and then leans forward again. "How do you know so much? Have you been, like, in therapy for a million years or something?"

  I laugh, covering my mouth with my napkin. Lowering it, I say, "No. I've just been there, where you are. And I have a very cool mother. Who knows everything. She explained it all to me."

  "What was he like, this guy, who made you think like an un­well person?"

  "Not terribly unlike the woman who's in your life, I suspect. “

  "Was," he says.

  "Was in your life," I say, getting the message loud and clear. I am flattered. And nervous. And excited. He is smart, well ed­ucated, very successful, but vulnerable in ways I find refresh­ing. Doug's idea of vulnerability is asking me to give him a massage on his neck and shoulders—and nowhere else. "Any­way— Bill. You asked about Bill."

  "That was his name?"

  I nod. "I met Bill when I was working at Boulevard magazine. He was an aspiring actor—"

  "Oh, brother," Spencer groans in anticipation.

  "Right. And he was working as a waiter. I was still moon­lighting on Saturday nights as a bartender at this same place. And one night Bill came over after we had closed and sat at the bar and rested his chin on his hand, his elbow on the bar, and I remember thinking, This is the best-looking man I've ever seen in all my life. And he was charming, with a smile to die for. And for whatever reason, although we'd worked together for months, that particular night Bill zeroed in on me as if I were the love of his life, that he had suddenly come to his senses and realized that he was wild about me, that he couldn't live without me."

  Spencer is nodding, mesmerized. "What did he look like?"

  "Blond. Blue eyes that were beyond belief. Chiseled features, a la Charlton Heston. Six foot, body hard as a rock—" I think of something else that usually was, too, and I know I am blushing.

  "A real Adonis," Spencer encourages me.

  "Yes." I take a sip of wine. "Next thing I knew, he had moved in with me and I was handling his career, writing releases, pos­ing as an agent with casting directors, all kinds of stuff."

  "Did you bring him to parties? I mean, did Boulevard have parties and stuff like we do?"

  "We got invited to everything. Screenings, cocktail parties, openings, all that stuff, and anything my boss didn't go to, she always passed the invitations on to me. And so, yes, I took Bill to everything."

  "So you tried to advance his career."

  I look down at the table, taking a deep breath. "Yeah." I bring my eyes back up. "How could I have been so stupid? I swear, I thought he loved me,"

  Spencer holds out his hand to me across the table. Instinc­tively I put mine in it before thinking it through. He simply squeezes it and says, "I'm sure he did love you, as much as a person like him was capable of loving someone else."

  I take my hand back. "Thanks," I murmur, embarrassed. I pick up my fork again, but I have no idea why because I now have zero appetite. Thinking about Bill still makes me feel stu­pid, humiliated, ridiculous—and heartbroken. For a while I re­ally thought he was it.

  "Mine was an actress-turned-aspiring-writer," Spencer says. I look at him and immediately feel better, because in an in­stant I realize he has been even stupider than I was with Bill.

  "I thought she would have loved me even if I were a shoe salesman," he says, not laughing but trying to. He sighs. "How did your relationship end?"

  "I found out he was cheating on me, so I threw him out."

  Spencer nods slowly.

  "And then I came back to Connecticut."

  "So you haven't kept in touch?"

  "Heavens no."

  Spencer considers this while signaling to the waiter. With his eyes fixed on the waiter's approach, he says matter-of-factly, "She moved out of my apartment and right into a movie pro­ducer's apartment. I guess she'd rather be an actress after all. I think writing was too much work."

  I hazard a guess. "She was gorgeous."

  "Oh, Sally, you have no idea."

  "But I do."

  We don't talk much after that. We skip coffee and dessert.

  We walk over to the theater and I can't imagine how a woman could use a man like Spencer so casually. But then, as he explained to me, he has very little free time in his life and the ex always resented that fact. Oh, yes, she liked the parties and dinners, but those were not frequent. What was frequent was that he worked his rear end off with administrative junk from nine to five and then read manuscripts and edited from five to nine. She did like the economy of paying no rent while she lived with him, which gave her a lot more money for facials and shoes from Joan & David.

  How long had she stayed?

  Not even a year.

  "She did you a favor by getting out when she did," I say when we reach the theater. "Which means," I add in his ear as we make our way through the lobby, "that she probably loved you to the extent she could love anybody."

  He turns to look back at me over his shoulder. His smile is frozen. He pulls me up next to him and I find myself slinging my arm through his, and that is the way we enter the theater.

  "I don't want to be a fool anymore," he whispers.

  I am not quite sure what has happened to me. One minute I'm Sally Harrington from Castleford, Connecticut, preparing for the interview of a lifetime, and then the next I find myself laughing and feeling carefree and excited by a man I scarcely know. We are an enviable couple: we are good-looking people; we are young and successful and obviously, at least for tonight, on top of the world. After the play, we go backstage to meet the actors. Then we move on to the Algonquin to sip champagne, talk and smile. Soon we are holding hands as we walk up Fifth Avenue, talking and laughing as we look in the windows of all the fabulous stores, the Manhattan dazzle of lights making it all seem unreal.

 
In the Barnes & Noble window Spencer proudly points out the books that are published by Bennett, Fitzallen & Coe. At Tif­fany's we decide the jeweler's windows are losing their touch. At Bergdorf's we raise imaginary glasses in a salute. At FAO Schwartz he tells me how he rocked his rocking horse right out of his room and down the stairs once as a kid, landing him in the hospital with a concussion.

  At the Plaza, we have decaffeinated coffee and pastries. And then we have a brandy. And then we have another. And I real­ize we are getting snockered.

  And then we are walking again, hand in hand, along Central Park South, toward my hotel. When we pass what is the old Ritz, Spencer suddenly turns to me and sweeps me back up against the building and gives me the most wonderfully ro­mantic, passionate kiss. We are in a clinch. And he feels abso­lutely marvelous and all I want is to be there, with him, feeling him hold me, his passion welling up against my hip.

  He pulls back to look at me. And brings his hands up to hold my face. He looks at me as if he is in pain. He kisses me again and holds my face again. "Who are you?" he whispers.

  I can't talk. I lower my head on his shoulder and hang on to him, wondering what has happened, what is happening.

  "I want to make love with you," he whispers in my ear, hoarse.

  I nod into his shoulder. His breathing is ragged. I hear people and cars going by, but I'm never going to move. I am going to stay right here for as long as I can.

  "I want to make love with you," he whispers again, holding me closer, and I feel his erection and it makes me feel weak. "I want every part of you," he says, kissing my hair.

  I feel desperate, but I can't move. I swear to God all I want to do is to wrap my legs around him and do it right here. I just want him in me, here, now. I hold him more tightly, my face still buried in his shoulder, waiting for him to move us, to think of something. He can't wait for me to consent, because I won't give it. We have to just do it.

  He grabs my hand and abruptly pulls me to the hotel lobby. The lights blind me. He releases my hand and strides to the front desk, pulling out his wallet and tossing a credit card onto the counter. I am stunned, standing there, positive everyone in the lobby knows exactly what is happening. And then Spencer is back and he takes my hand firmly and marches me to the el­evator. We don't speak, not even in the elevator; he only holds my hand so tight it almost hurts. The elevator stops, he hesi­tates, wondering which way to the room, and then he pulls me down the hall over the thick carpeting. He slides the card key in and the door swings open and I go inside and he comes in and closes the door.

  We are at each other, kissing, grappling right there, not even turning on the light, and I fall to the floor, pulling him down with me. I go after his belt and he pulls my panty hose down and I swear to God, I cannot believe it, but we just do it right there, like that, with our clothes on. He's desperate to push in­side me and when he does, I go through the roof, clinging to him, and I wrap my legs around him and squeeze, hard, and he pushes and pulls, in and out, in and out, and I'm losing my mind. I grab at the carpet, moaning, rising higher and higher as he shoves and thrusts and pushes and twists and it is so good, so good, so good—

  I shudder and gasp, shudder and gasp again, clenching my thighs, and then I shake, shake like I'm coming apart, and I make an urgent noise because I am shaking apart. And then I collapse and Spencer grabs me more firmly and moans the most guttural, primitive sound, and thrusts two, three more times—freezes—and then roars "Sally!" in my ear and col­lapses, holding on to me, gasping for breath.

  I feel the wet trickling down my thigh. It is hot. Warm. Soon to be cold.

  We say nothing but only lie there, holding each other. We can't say anything, we can't do anything; he stays inside me un­til he starts growing large again, which is not a very long time away.

  And we do it again.

  16

  A vacuum cleaner outside my hotel room door awakens me and for one split second I feel happy, warm and relaxed, and then in the next...

  Oh, my God.

  The guilt and fear twists deep into my stomach and I wonder how I could have done what I did last night. And then crept back here at four in the morning.

  But I know how, because the memory floods warmth through— The guilt comes back and I am frightened. This is not me. This is not admirable behavior. I love and respect Doug.

  What have I done? How could I do it?

  But I remember why I did it— I remember how it felt, how I felt—and I cannot keep thinking like this because in a while I won't regret what I've done in the least, but will only want more of it.

  I glance at the clock. It's after eleven! My interview is at one­-thirty!

  I vault out of bed to survey the papers it seems like I laid out weeks ago on the desk. I call room service for coffee and yogurt and notice the message light is flashing. I dial in for voice-mail messages but there are none, so I call the hotel operator.

  "There is a package for you at the front desk," he says. "Would you like us to send it up?"

  "Sure," I say, wondering what it could be.

  I start skimming my notes and I don't feel quite so panicked about the interview anymore. I know this material on Cassy Cochran pretty well. When the bellhop knocks on the door, I jump up to open it. In his hand is a manila envelope addressed to me. I give him a dollar and close the door. There is no return address, simply my name.

  I sit down on the bed with a funny feeling in my stomach. I open the envelope and slide out a small leather-covered book that has no title on it. I open it. The title page says 1904. Selected Poems of Emily Dickinson.

  I look in the envelope and see a folded piece of paper. I open it and read the bold handwriting.

  Thursday, 7:30 a.m.

  Dear Sally, I am so scared and yet so happy this morning I don't know what to do. I don't know why I'm giving you this small volume, ex­cept maybe because I love it and I want you to have it. You have given me a kind of joy and release I have never felt before. Spencer

  P.S. If you don't want to call me, I'll understand. (Not re­ally, but it sounds like the right thing to say. Please call. I want to see you.)

  There is another knock at the door. It is room service. I direct the waiter to put the tray on the desk, sign the bill after wincing at it (five-fifty for the same plastic container of Dannon's I get at the grocery store? Four twenty-five for a cup of coffee? Eighteen percent gratuity? Sales tax?) and send him away.

  I pick up the telephone.

  "Spencer Hawes's office," an efficient-sounding young woman says.

  "Hi, it's Sally Harrington returning his call."

  "Oh! It's you!" she says, excited. "Spencer said to find him wherever he is if you called. Can you hang on? I think he's over in the art department."

  "Certainly," I say. I can't help but smile. I just wish the fear in my stomach would settle down. After a few minutes, Spencer comes onto the line.

  "You called," he says with awe.

  "How could I not?" My stomach flip-flops as I say it.

  "Oh, God, Sally," he murmurs. "I just don't know what to say except I must see you. Tonight, tomorrow, the next day ­and the next and the next—"

  I laugh, wishing he was not quite so effusive, but I suspect this is the way he is when he's happy.

  "I know," he says. "I know I shouldn't say stuff like that right off the bat, but—I mean—Sally, have you ever? I mean, here I thought I've done just about everything, and yet this morning I feel like I just started living last night."

  "I know," I acknowledge.

  "Can I see you? I'm supposed to go to this thing at the Met­ropolitan, but I can send someone else."

  "I've got to do this interview—"

  "I know, I know, you have to work. Well, how about you get your work done and then we have dinner? I don't want to—I mean, we don't have to—you know. I just want to see you, Sally."

  I know exactly how he feels. And I am shaken by it.

  The West End Broadcasting Center is home
to the Daren­brook Broadcasting System, and it is a very impressive facility. It's not far from my hotel, located on Twelfth Avenue at Fifty­-Sixth Street, all the way over on the Hudson River.

  At one time, I have read, the facility stood all by itself, but now the Riverside Park South project rises around it. Still, the network offices have a commanding view of the river. West End, as the facility is known, is a three-story building constructed in a gigantic U, facing the Hudson, and in the center is a gorgeously landscaped park. One wing of the complex is broadcasting, the opposing wing houses the print and electronic divisions, and the middle is home to the executive suite, a company cafeteria and a day­care center on the ground floor that opens onto the park. The actual DBS studios and newsroom are part of the complex that is built below ground.

  Security is extremely tight. The cab is allowed through the front gates only after the guard has called ahead, and when the cab swings around the circle of the receiving area, a security guard is waiting on the sidewalk to meet me. He hands me a badge, which has a little electronic screen showing my name in digital letters. He watches carefully as I clip it onto the lapel of my blazer. "How does my name appear like that?" I ask him. "Is this a little computer?"

  "It's a receiver," he says. "It's programmed from our central security office."

  "Ah," I say. "This wouldn't happen to be a tracking device as well, would it?"

  "Actually, yes." He smiles. "And I wouldn't take it off, if I were you, to see what happens."

  "Well that sounds ominous," I say, laughing.

  He doesn't respond, which I guess means that his statement was supposed to sound ominous. Of course all I want to do now is take the badge off to see what happens. Given the kid­napping of Jessica Wright last year, however, I suppose it would be like kidding around about a hijacking within earshot of airport security.

  I am taken up in an elevator and when we stop, there is an at­tractive Latin lady waiting for me. She introduces herself as Chi Chi Rodriguez, Cassy Cochran's executive secretary, and she waves security goodbye. As she leads me to Cassy's office, through a hallway where framed portraits of all the DBS stars hang, I ask Chi Chi how long she has worked with Cassy.