The Perfect Affair

by Lutishia Lovely

  “That . . . pretty much describes it.”

  “Was it only the one time?”

  “Dinner with just the two of us? Yes. But we’ve, you know, shared small talk at other conferences.”

  “You’ve seen her in other cities besides LA and D.C.?”

  “For the past few weeks, she’s been at every conference. But that’s not unusual. There are several reporters I know on a first name basis.”

  “Yes, but did you take them to dinner?”

  “That wasn’t wise. I see that now.”

  “This doesn’t make sense.” Sherri’s eyes narrowed as she pondered what she’d just learned. “Women don’t just fall in love after sharing a single meal. You had to have flirted, hinted, done something . . .”

  “Damn.” Randall ran a weary hand over his face. “We went to a play in New York.” Sherri gave him the kind of look where no words were needed. “She told me that Phillip had planned to join her in Manhattan but had to cancel at the last minute. She had an extra ticket to a play, one where another associate, a young man named Evan, was to join us as well.

  “She arrived alone. I asked about Evan and after texting him, she said he couldn’t make it.” Sherri snorted. “And the PSI visit. Because of the cover story on me that she was writing for Science Today, I’d thought her seeing the offices was a good idea.”

  “I bet she did too.”

  “Sherri, I swear to you on my life. I did nothing to make her think I was interested.”

  “You never flirted, never teased, never looked at her with those baby-boy eyes?” Randall shifted uncomfortably. “Of course you did.”

  She let out a huff and then, taking in the true devastation on her husband’s face, softened her voice. “What did you say when she told you she loved you?”

  “Basically, that she was crazy. I assured her that not only had absolutely nothing happened between her and I, but also that you and our children were here, in Vegas! Then I told her to get out of the room before I called security. Before opening the door, baby, I didn’t look to see who was out there. I assumed it was you!” He rested his forehead against his fingers, all appetite gone. “I sure hope she got the message and stays the hell out of my life.”

  “That would be the best thing,” Sherri said, calmly picking up her menu and beginning to read. “But don’t count on it.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Randall groped for his phone, eyes still closed, and silenced it once again. “I’m sorry, baby,” he grumbled.

  “Was that her again?” Sherri asked, her voice filled with sleep.

  “Yeah.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Five thirty.”

  “Why don’t you just turn off your phone?”

  “Can’t. There are too many important calls from overseas I’d potentially miss.”

  Five minutes later the phone rang again. A frustrated Randall threw back the covers and got out of bed. “Might as well start the day,” he grumbled, “since it looks like my chance for peaceful sleep is over.”

  “I still think I should answer the phone. I have a few things to say to Ms. Jacqueline, trust and believe.”

  “I know you do, Sherri, and you have every right to want to confront her. But you should have seen her. She acted . . . off. I don’t know how else to say it. Let me handle this, baby, talk to her when we get back home—”

  “Talk to her? Seriously? Oh, hell no!”

  “I’ve got to try to get her to see reason. Obviously there’s been a big misunderstanding. But one thing I’ve learned in my time with the media: You don’t want to piss off someone with a pen. Just one meeting, Sherri. I’ll apologize for anything I did to give her a wrong impression and try to . . . calm things down.”

  Sherri nodded but didn’t respond.

  “I’m going to take a shower.”

  “Okay.” She smiled, watching Randall’s still firm, toned ass as he walked around the corner and into the bathroom. As soon as she heard the water running, however, her whole mood changed. He’d asked her not to, but she’d made him no promises. She reached across the bed, grabbed his phone from the nightstand, and scrolled the screen for missed calls.Without hesitation, she redialed the number.

  “Good morning, handsome,” Jacqueline purred into her ear. “About time you called back.”

  “Jacqueline.” Sherri’s voice was as cold as an Alaskan winter. “This is Sherri, Randall’s wife. You know, the one who you feel he should divorce?” Silence. “He told me about your little declaration of love when you stopped by our suite yesterday. So let me tell you this. There is already one Mrs. Atwater, and there will not be another. You got that? I can appreciate your being interested in someone as handsome, intelligent, and successful as my husband. You’re not the first sorry skirt to go chasing after him and you won’t be the last. But when it comes to wives . . . I’m it. Do you understand? Hello? Hello?!” She looked down and saw that the call had disconnected. “Conniving whore,” she hissed under her breath. “Hanging up was your best bet.”

  Sherri got out of bed and walked over to her purse. She retrieved her phone, recorded Jacqueline’s number into her contacts, and placed Randall’s phone back on the nightstand. It would have been foolish for her to return to bed; there was enough adrenaline pumping through her right now to run a mile. So that’s what she decided to do. She pulled out some workout gear and headed for the hotel’s exercise room. Before leaving, however, she texted Renee.

  THE YOU KNOW WHAT HAS HIT THE FAN. I’LL CALL YOU LATER.

  Jacqueline sat, deceptively calm and still. Outwardly she barely moved, but inwardly her mind was racing.

  It had been twenty-four hours since she had endured Sherri’s cocky takedown in Las Vegas, and she was still seeing red. When she got off the phone, she’d smashed a vase to smithereens and worn a new groove into the hardwood floor, then she’d turned on her computer and began doing a variety of searches: Randall Atwater address; Sherri Atwater address; Atwaters Alexandria Virginia; Atwaters Virginia; Dr. Atwater address; and on and on. Finally, she pulled up the PSI website, and within minutes—using the techniques Marco had shown her—had cracked the security code and gained full access.This did little good. There was no hidden data on where the Atwaters resided. Knowing that staying in Sin City was futile, she’d quickly checked out of the hotel and boarded a plane.

  Now she sat brooding in a rental car, in the parking lot of the office building where PSI was located. She’d dressed casually, jeans and a simple navy blue tee, her hair and part of her face hidden behind dark glasses and a baseball cap. She sat there, waiting, observing the comings and goings, waiting until a glimpse of genius came to her, until she had a plan.

  She sat there for two hours, waiting for she knew not what. Finally, she saw a perky blonde cutting across the lawn heading to the parking lot, deep in conversation with a handsome brown-haired gentleman dressed in a polo shirt and jeans. Jacqueline immediately recognized her as Randall’s executive assistant, the one who sat directly outside his office whom she had been introduced to when she’d toured the place. On her way to lunch, no doubt, Jacqueline thought as she continued to watch her. If you’re going to make a move, Jacqueline, you need to do it now.

  With a half-baked plan and nerves of steel, Jacqueline casually exited her car. She’d purposely parked in the back of the parking lot, next to a row of service vehicles. Keeping her head down, she made her way to the building’s front door and, attaching herself to a group of businessmen, stepped inside the building after one had used his card to gain access. She headed directly for the elevators and, instead of stepping in with the same group of men, opted to wait for the next one, hopefully empty. A car arrived and opened. She hurried inside. Pushing the button to the top floor, she still had no idea how she was going to get past the receptionist, past the occupied offices with doors often open, and into Randall’s office. She just knew that it was going to happen. One way or another. She pushed the button to close the door. Just bef
ore it shut, someone entered. Dammit! Pulling out her phone, she busied herself with the illusion of texting, so that keeping her head down would not look suspicious.

  “Jacqueline?”

  Her heart stopped at the mention of her name. She slowly raised her head. “Evan?” Her face broke into a friendly smile. “Oh my goodness. I haven’t seen you since the conference in New York. I thought you lived in LA.”

  “I do.”

  “What are you doing on this side of the country?”

  “I’m doing a six-month internship with Dan Cole, one of Dr. Atwater’s colleagues.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. After a brief meeting with Dr. Atwater in New York, he suggested I send my resume. I did. Dan called me, just last week. What about you? Do you work in this building?” As he said it, Jacqueline noted him taking in her attire.

  “Oh no,” she said, offering up a flirty laugh. “I’m off today, but came over to pick up some information from Dr. Atwater. It’s for the article I’m doing on him.”

  Evan frowned. “I thought he was at a conference in Vegas.”

  “He is,” Jacqueline quickly countered. “I’m getting this from his secretary.”

  The small talk continued as they reached the impressive embossed doors to Randall’s company. The receptionist looked up, and upon seeing Evan pulling out his key card, took no note of the woman beside him. They entered, passed the lobby, and started down the hallway.

  “It was nice seeing you, Evan. I’m in a hurry though, so let me run. Enjoy your time in D.C.”

  “Hey, maybe we can . . .”

  Whatever he said or was going to say, Jacqueline didn’t hear. She was on a mission, and Evan’s purpose had been served.

  Two days later, Blair looked up from her cell phone as the doorbell rang. “Hold on, Kirk,” she said to her boyfriend. “Somebody’s at the door.” She reached the door and looked through the peephole. Seeing a casually dressed, plain-looking woman wearing thick glasses, she opened the door.

  “Yes, may I help you?”

  “Hello, Blair. Housecleaning,” the woman said in a heavily accented voice.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I with housecleaning service. I’m here to clean house.” Blair looked beyond the woman to the street, searching for the regular housecleaner’s black Honda Accord. “Where’s Lucia?”

  “Sick,” the woman said, keeping her eyes downcast. “The company sent me to work for her.” The woman held up a bucket filled with cleaning supplies. Propped up next to the front door were a broom and a mop. “I do a good job.”

  “Why did you bring all that? Didn’t the company tell you that the supplies are kept here?”

  “I like to use my own. Special cleaning.” Jacqueline had no intention of leaving anything bearing her fingerprints behind.

  The woman smiled, and Blair noted that her teeth were badly stained. Taking in her scruffy clothing and battered tennis shoes caused a wave of sympathy to wash over the young, caring adult. She smiled back sincerely. “Sure. Come on in.”

  Blair stood aside so the woman could enter. “What’s your name?”

  “Ruth.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ruth. I’m Blair.”

  The housecleaning employee stopped just inside the foyer. Her eyes darted from one place to the other, before settling on the floor. “This beautiful home,” she said.

  “Yes, it is.” Sensing the woman’s discomfort, Blair tried for small talk. “You have a lovely accent, Ruth. Where are you from?”

  “The islands.”

  “Oh! I love the Caribbean. I’ve been there several times. Which one?”

  Instead of looking at her directly, the woman stared just beyond Blair’s shoulder. “Where you travel?”

  “Let’s see.” Blair began counting on her hands. “Jamaica, Grand Cayman, Puerto Rico—those all on one cruise—and then the Bahamas, Barbados, and Aruba.”

  “I’m from Belize,” Ruth quickly responded.

  Blaire frowned. “Isn’t Belize in Central America?”

  Ruth shrugged. “All island to me.” She looked at her watch. “This big house. Best get started.”

  “Sure, I’m sorry. Did they tell you what to clean?” The woman shook her head. “No problem. I’ll show you around.”

  Ten minutes later, the two ladies stood in the Atwaters’ master suite. “I think I’ll start here,” Ruth said, reaching for the furniture polish. “Thank you.”

  She turned her back, a clear sign of dismissal. Blair left the room.

  Jacqueline counted to ten and then pulled out the pouch from where it had been hidden beneath her bulky clothes. It contained a lock pick kit, several motion-activated mini-cams equipped with night-vision lenses and high-frequency recorders, GPS trackers, and an item that would serve as Jacqueline’s calling card. Thanks to her visit to Randall’s office, and with the help of a code-breaking recovery stick, she’d also been able to capture the totality of what was on his office computer, information that had been blocked by his company’s elaborate computer security system. Contained in that information were both the household and family itineraries. This document, along with conversations she’d heard courtesy of the disc recorders on their phones, apprised Jacqueline of the family’s movements and schedule, including that of their cleaning personnel. After today there would be nothing inside the Atwater home that she couldn’t see, and little she couldn’t hear. She hadn’t lied to Blair. This was a big house. She needed to be thorough. And work fast.

  After donning thick, latex gloves she stripped the bed, emptied the hampers, scrubbed the master bath until it sparkled, and dusted until not one speck remained. Methodically, she “cleaned” every room in the house, testing equipment as she went. She took the trash out through the garage and left a tracking “gift” beneath each of their cars.

  Four hours later, and she was done. She quickly gathered up her supplies and placed them by the door. Then she went back upstairs and walked into the master suite one final time. She’d almost forgotten to leave her calling card. Taking one last look around, she headed for the foyer. The job was done. It was time to go.

  Halfway down the stairs, Jacqueline heard voices. Her heart almost stopped beating inside her chest. She held her breath, straining to hear the voices and what was being said.

  “So your practice got canceled?”

  Oh, Blair’s voice. What a gullible girl. She let out a shaky breath.

  “Yes, but Coach said that we . . .”

  Jacqueline didn’t wait to hear the rest, just hoped that Blair and the little rug rat she guessed was Randall’s son were somewhere out of sight of the front door. She’d get her stuff, run the hell out the door, and hope no one saw her between there and the block or so to the rental car, parked beyond the community gates. Blair would know she was gone when a search failed to find her. Good-bye wasn’t necessary for folks you’d never see again.

  It crept closer, the fire. Slowly, surely, flames licking her ankles and taunting her hem. She stepped back.

  “Help me!”

  She stepped forward. “I’m coming to get you. Hold out your hand!”

  Another step. Stainless steel scissors, gripped, dripping blood.

  Two more steps. And then a scream. But that’s not what stopped her, what kept her planted where she stood.What paralyzed her was the odor that rushed toward her on the waves of the wind: smells of boiling beer, feigned ignorance, gin-soaked blankets, and acrid, burning flesh. Or was the repulsive stench that of once raw chicken, covered in sweat?

  Jacqueline awoke to the sound of her rapidly beating heart.

  CHAPTER 34

  “Good afternoon!” Randall entered his office with a new kind of pep in his step, offering the company receptionist a hearty smile. The Jacqueline fiasco notwithstanding, the trip to Las Vegas had been a good one, providing a breath of fresh air to his marriage, which he and Sherri both realized had been long overdue. After the conference, they’d stayed two extra days, most of them
in bed. By the time he returned to Virginia, thoughts of Jacqueline were few and far between, and that time he’d mysteriously fallen asleep in his office was a distant memory.

  Randall greeted his executive assistant, then walked into his office singing a tune. Firing up his laptop, he quickly scrolled through the day’s e-mails and checked Outlook for appointments and messages. Seeing that there was nothing urgent, he called his number-two man. “Dan, it’s Randall. I’m in the office. You got a minute?”

  Within minutes his good friend came through the door. A study in contradictions, this sixty-something brainiac from Bern, Switzerland had curly black hair, looked not a day over forty, and had already retired from two careers. After losing his wife to breast cancer, he’d taken Randall up on a jokingly delivered offer to “come over to America and do something great.” With his expertise on the brain and Randall’s skill in the lab, it looked as though these two close friends were poised to do just that.

  “Good afternoon, good Doctor,” Dan said, his soothing voice laced with the merest of accents. “How did you find the city of sin?”

  “Full of temptation.” Dan’s brow rose. “Fortunately they all came courtesy of my wife.”

  “Ha! So Sherri joined you? Smart girl.” Dan looked around before lowering his voice. “How are the plans coming for . . .” He let the sentence hang in the air.

  “Moving forward, Doc. Thanks for asking.” Randall glanced at someone passing by and changed the subject. “How did it go while I was out? Did I miss anything interesting?”

  “No, not really. Except there was one interesting article that landed on my desk: a report written by a Nigerian doctor about a plant native to Africa, grown and only available in a five-square-mile area. Evan uncovered it and sent me a copy. There’s probably one in your mail as well.”

  Randall went back to his e-mails and put Evan’s name in the search engine. The article that Dan spoke of appeared at the top. He starred it. “I’ll be sure to read it later. Thanks.” He leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Anything else?”