The Dispensable Wife (The MisFit Book 5)

by AB Plum

  Snapping my fingers under his nose, I shake my head. “No way. That jerk doesn’t know the meaning of compassion. He’ll rear-end you and take off.”

  “Got a better idea?”

  “Not off the top of my head.”

  “We’ll wait till we turn onto the Stanford campus.”

  I shake my head. “Won’t work. Michael will connect the dots. Why would I go to Stanford except to see Ari?”

  “On Junípero Serra then. My bumper’s extra heavy. Even if he’s traveling thirty-five, I’ll be crawling.”

  Another head shake. Harder. “Still too close to Stanford.”

  Testosterone explodes in his long, exaggerated sigh. “All right. Just before the entrance to 280. With any luck, he won’t be able to see if you go North or South.”

  “I still don’t like it. What if he’s driving too fast? What if you get hurt? What if—”

  “What if the sky falls, Chicken Little?” His grin takes the sting out of his reply.

  “It will fall on you.” And on me, later, probably tonight with Michael indignant with righteous anger. “Jed and Michael will figure out you and I colluded. We will pay.”

  “Not if we both take off. I’ll hang around until you pick up your kids at school. Tell that genius professor you can’t wait. You have to leave today. By the time hubby deduces what’s going down, you and I will be gone.”

  My brain is so hot, I can’t think. His soothing, logical tone should calm me, but it doesn’t. Too many things can go wrong. Choking on the beginning of an anxiety attack, I nod.

  “You remember my cell number?”

  I rattle off the number. Will I remember it if I need it? “I’ll only call in an emergency.”

  “Okay, but do it. This can work.”

  Unsure if he’s trying to convince me or himself, I whisper, “Thank you.”

  *****

  “Mind if I ask where you’re goin’, Miz Romanov?” Jed steps out of his car and stands in front of the electronic eye that controls the gate.

  “Why would I mind, Jed? I love being spied on.” Ice crackles in my voice, but my face burns as if he accused me of a lewd act.

  “I don’t think your husband would like you goin’ off on your own in this weath—”

  Patrick’s headlights blink in my rearview mirror.

  Face damp from the fog, Jed smirks. “I guess you’re not goin’ off on your own.”

  “Patrick volunteered to follow me to 280.”

  “Is that all he volunteered to do?”

  Taking offense, as I suspect he intended, I snap, “Get away from the gate.”

  He reaches inside his car and retrieves a cell phone. “I should call your husband first.”

  “You should open the gate first.” I slam open my door and hit his hip.

  He yelps, falls across the hood of his car, then tumbles on the ground face first. His phone flies over the SUV, dropping near my left front tire.

  Oops. I pull my door shut as the gate swings open—slower than I’ve ever seen. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Jed scramble to his feet.

  “Dammit, Miz Romanov. You shouldn’ta done that.” He staggers toward me, but I ease down on the accelerator, rolling forward enough to smash his cell phone.

  My insides quake, but I refuse to obsess about Michael’s reaction. Let him rage. Let him rant. I’ll be long gone. Why not leave him a memory? One he’ll use as evidence of my insanity.

  Before I can chicken out, I crank down my window, stick my arm out, and shoot my middle finger at Jed. Since he may have missed the gesture because of the fog, I shove my finger skyward three times.

  “Up yours. Up yours. Up yours,” I chant.

  Let him think I’m crazy. Truthfully, I feel giddy and immature and happily surprised by my action. The mouse has roared. Watch out, all fat cats. Head thrown back, giggling like a schoolgirl, I roll through the gate.

  Patrick, riding my tail, flashes his headlights on high three times, then flips them to low.

  Michael doesn’t stand a chance. Three times seal the magic—if you believe in fairytales and folklore.

  And maybe—just maybe—I do believe.

  After all, a prince is following me.

  Chapter 67

  HE

  At least half the board members raise question after question about the stalemate with Moreau. The other half—the silent ones—sit on the fence, but their tight faces and clenched jaws and lips that belong on cadavers scream their thoughts. I field all objections by reminding them I am still CEO. They can vote to remove me, but a change in top management at this juncture will send shockwaves across the Atlantic and rock Paris with the force of a tsunami.

  Free-flowing wine and champagne soothe egos and nerves. A few malcontents grumble, but by one-thirty, the mutiny ends with a whimper instead of with a bang. When my attempts to shepherd the herd out of the conference room fail, I excuse myself and escape to the one place no one can track me—my private washroom. Still, I lock the door.

  A glance in the mirror reassures me I show no signs of strain. I am, after all, a master juggler. The more balls in the air, the more I enjoy the game. Hands steady, I remove the disposable cell. It literally vibrated every fifteen minutes during lunch. Boris, less familiar with Dimitri’s communication style, fails to understand that no answer means I am not interruptible.

  At least he knows enough to avoid leaving voicemail.

  I return his call. Naturally, he does not pick up. Is he in bed? Where the hell does he live? Dimitri has told me, but the factoid has momentarily slipped my mind.

  “Dammit.” I reread his one text message. “Expect KGB visit.”

  Meaning what, dammit? How much am I paying this clown? Why doesn’t he answer when I call?

  The .357 gives me a comforting sense of control. I pat the weapon, emerge from the washroom, and stuff the phone in my pocket. Gloom from the fog has crept into every corner of my office. Not even the Monet brings any lightness into the space I normally love.

  Ever since Tracy pranced in here, something has changed—become contaminated.

  Refusing to allow my imagination to spiral out of control, I summon Regan. Her executive summary is more concise—and more clipped than normal and handed to me abruptly.

  Too bad I don’t have the time or the inclination to ask why. One of the balls in the air today is not Regan’s feelings. On the contrary, an extraordinary AA would be attuned to my restlessness—my need for privacy, my need for loyalty, my need for respect.

  Is the whole world becoming like AnnaSophia?

  The need to get out of the stultifying office and deal with the traitor in my own home becomes overpowering. Dammit, I should never have permitted AnnaSophia to visit her father. And why the hell hasn’t she called? Crumpling the executive summary into a ball, I toss it into the wastebasket and dismiss an astonished Regan.

  The door closes behind her, but I can’t force myself to remain seated behind my desk and stare at the Monet. Not when the Veneno waits.

  The disposable phone rings as the elevator descends. In no mood to appear eager or anxious, I let it ring until the elevator door opens.

  Before I can speak, a gravelly voice on the other end says, “Dimitri on way to airport. Arrives tomorrow at noon, San Francisco.”

  “What happened?”

  “He call you from Arlanda.”

  “How long?” Arlanda is Stockholm’s busiest airport with ground traffic that can stall passengers for hours.

  “One hour maybe.”

  “Are you in contact with him?”

  “He say no.”

  His abominable syntax irritates me, but I manage to say as coolly as I can, “Call if anything changes.”

  The custom-made seat in the Veneno fits my body perfectly, and the rawness in my throat disappears. My God, this machine is a work of art and an engineering marvel. For a second, I sit there and feel the day’s problems fade. Definitely, once I finalize the acquisition, I’ll put the children in
boarding school and head to Abu Dhabi.

  Until then, a surprise trip to Carmel may suffice.

  Assuming AnnaSophia actually went to Carmel.

  I start the Veneno and back out—tromping the brakes as soon as I see Jed Wilson standing in my path.

  He comes around to my window, motions me to roll it down and inclines his head, forcing me to crane my neck to see him.

  “Your wife,” he says, “has gone rogue.”

  Chapter 68

  SHE

  The fog has emptied the garage near the Cantor Museum, always mobbed on warm days with visitors to the Rodin Sculpture Garden. I find a spot next to the entrance. The walk to Gilman Hall takes less than fifteen minutes. Students and I pass each other under the dripping eucalyptus trees like ghosts. Muffled voices and an occasional bike light add to the eerie phosphorescence. A shiver trips across my neck.

  Part of me expects Jed to jump out of the shadows and carry me off to his car.

  Bring it on, Jed. I still haven’t recovered from my attack on him. My euphoria feels wrong, but guilt neither flutters in my stomach nor bangs in my head.

  At Ari’s office, I get a surprise. The door is closed, and no light except from the atrium comes through the glass panel. I check my watch. Eleven o’clock. Dammit, I should’ve called. Academics are notorious for their on-going meetings. The hallway is deserted, so I can hang around for a few minutes. What if his meeting started at eleven? In half an hour, I’d have time to go to my yoga locker and get the five thousand dollars stashed there, plus my disposable cell phone. I’ll need both in a safe house.

  Or, worst case scenario, on the run.

  In case I’m wrong about the meeting, I stop by the department secretary’s desk. A gray-haired woman gives me a ready smile and an offer of help. If she only could . . .

  “Professor Hoffman. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “Next week.”

  My stomach rolls, and I’m sure I’m going to be sick again.

  The secretary goes on as if I’m fine. “He and his wife went to Philadelphia to deliver a paper they co-authored to the AMA. His TA’s teaching his class until he returns. Can he help?”

  I shake my head and mumble something short and unintelligible, I’m sure. She opens her mouth, but I’m already moving away, jogging toward the front door, tears blinding me.

  Outside, I keep walking, head down, no sense of direction, no coherent thoughts. No, dammit, no. Gone? When? Phila—how, how?

  Fear and terror override logic and reason. My legs tremble. I stop and scan my immediate location. The Stanford campus is huge—and confusing for visitors. In full daylight, I know how to get back and forth from Gilman Hall to Cantor Museum. Disoriented by the fog, the buildings nothing but shadows, I search for east-campus landmarks—the dorms, the elementary school, the Knight Management Center, Hoover Tower.

  Nothing is familiar. It’s as if the Main Quad has faded into the mist.

  Muffled footsteps approach from behind. I freeze. Michael . . .

  The footsteps stop. Hyper-alert I strain to hear something—feet shuffling or heavy breathing.

  Blood roars in my ears, magnifies the silence, intensifies the unseen menace.

  Legs stiff, I take a step. Stop. Listen. Moisture dampens my icy face.

  Of course, it’s not Michael, I reason. No way it’s Michael. He thinks I’m in Carmel.

  Not anymore. Jed must’ve told him.

  No matter what Jed told him, he can’t know I came to campus. If he made such a deduction, he’d go straight to Ari’s office. He can’t find me. He can’t find me.

  The footsteps resume, then my name punches through the silence. “AnnaSophia? Where are you?”

  Chapter 69

  HE

  “Your wife’s gone rogue,” Jed repeats as if I’m suddenly deaf.

  “Watch your stupid mouth.” I shift into PARK and admire the Veneno’s silky purr.

  “She tried to run over me,” Jed whines. “Broke a damn rib.

  For the first time, I see he’s protecting his ribs with one arm above his belly button. “You’re an ex-cop. You’re supposed to remain rational in emergencies. Start over. From the beginning.”

  “Can I sit down? This cement makes my back and legs hurt.”

  “Are you bleeding?”

  He stares. “Not now.”

  “The seats in this car sit four inches above the ground. Slide into the passenger seat, and you’ll have to fall on your face to get back on your feet.” I aim the remote at the Benz and the doors click. “Get in. Before you faint. Do you sleep in a coffin during the day?”

  Goddammit. Why is good help so damned hard to find? I re-park the Veneno, lock it, and get in the Benz.

  Jed’s lolling in the passenger seat, head back, eyes closed. When he turns and focuses on me, his pupils are smaller than pinpoints.

  “What the hell are you taking?”

  “Vicodin. Got it from a friend.”

  “And you’re driving?” I smack the steering wheel. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Besides a broken rib?” The space between us shrinks even though he remains pressed against the door. “One Vicodin has no effect on my driving.”

  “An original thought?” I snipe. “Or something you picked it up from a junkie you arrested.”

  “If you’d answer your damn cell phone, I wouldn’t have to track you down.” Contempt edges his tone.

  “Watch your tone. I pay you enough to receive nothing but respect.”

  “You pay me plenty—but not enough to take your bullshit. Do you want to know what happened with your wifey, or you want me to get back in my car and go pack up my things?”

  The temptation to whip out the .357 twitches in my fingertips. We stare at each other—two wild animals standing over fresh kill. He took early retirement for a reason, and the thrust of his chin and the mockery in his unfocused eyes reflect his refusal to play well with others.

  “What happened?” He’s soon to be my ex-security chief, but for the moment I need information only he can provide.

  He relates the incident like a cop reporting to a superior, concluding, “By the time I got in my car, she had too much of a head start. Patrick played guard dog—making sure I couldn’t pass him to follow her. I don’t know which direction she went on 280.”

  “Where’s Patrick?” My fury goes so deep I can utter only two words.

  Jed starts to shrug, catches himself, says, “No idea. All I know for sure is he didn’t return to Belle Haven. I gave orders to shoot him if he shows up.”

  “Idiot.”

  “If he shows up, he’s trespassing.”

  “If he shows up and one of your men shoots him and he dies, you will be charged with pre-meditated murder. Rescind that order. Right now.”

  His face turns a nasty purple—whether from the pain of reaching for his cell phone or from my don’t-mess-with-me tone, I don’t care.

  He punches a key but never takes his piggy eyes off me. Bottom lip curled, he growls into the mouthpiece, “Pass the word. No fireworks. None. Got that?”

  Listening to his cryptic message, I grind my teeth. Would a jury use his words as intent to do bodily harm? Certainly, a jury would find me innocent.

  “Satisfied?” Jed asks.

  Without warning, I punch him in the ribs with my fist. He yelps and doubles over, trying not to breathe. Or puke. Or pass out.

  “Now I’m satisfied. Speak to me in that tone again and you will dislike the consequences even more.” As much as I want to kill him at that moment, I hold onto my temper.

  Ordering him to give me the porn pictures right now would be a disaster. Better to wait and take them later tonight.

  “I suggest,” I say in a thick, tight voice, “you go back to your place. Fix yourself a drink. Watch a good video. Naked women are a natural restorative.”

  Chapter 70

  SHE

  “Patrick?” Dizzy with relief, I start walking the opposite dire
ction toward a fuzzy circle of light coming my way.

  “Can you see the flashlight?”

  “Yes. I’m moving toward it. Are you okay? Did Jed follow you? How’d you find me?” I see the light more clearly, but I still can’t see Patrick.

  “You’ve got questions, I have answers.” He waves a white handkerchief.

  My heels clack on the damp sidewalk as I run toward him like a heroine out of a romance novel. I stop when I can see his face, white and strained above the flashlight. His forehead sports a large-sized goose egg.

  “Are you all right?” I repeat.

  “If you mean this,” he points at his forehead, “it hurts worse than it looks.”

  “What?”

  “Kidding. Just kidding. I whacked it when I bounced off a curb. Jed was in hot pursuit.” He lowers the flashlight so that it’s shining on our feet.

  “How in the world did you lose him?” I fist my hands against examining his forehead.

  “Years of drivin’ back roads in the Delta paid off.”

  Behind us the sound of muffled giggles float as if in a vacuum. A young male voice says, “Lost. Not in space. In fog.”

  A girlish voice replies, “I, on the other hand, know exactly where we are.”

  Their laughter hits me with an embarrassing sadness. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so freely. Have my children ever laughed with such joy?

  “I’m lost too,” I say to Patrick.

  “If you’ve got some idea of where you parked, I can—”

  Taking his flashlight, I shine it up into the sky. “I don’t just mean I don’t know how to get to the SUV.”

  “Okay.” His voice carries the sweet, gentle inflection of a parent calming a child in the middle of a nightmare.

  That gentleness threatens to undo me. I stare up at the sky and speak in a monotone. “Ari Hoffman’s out of town.”

  When I don’t say anything else, he clears his throat, leaving unspoken, How long?