And adding to the appeal, the cases were so very French.
After listening to my endless burbling over how lovely they were, how special, how I wished and wanted and if only—Nico had arrived home from one of his trips to the States, greeting me with an indulgent smile as he presented me with a beautifully wrapped package. I could recall the thrill I’d experienced lifting the lid on the small box. So elegant—so unique. Something not everyone could have.
To see so many of them gathered in one place was unnerving. Verging on obscene. They sat there, pristine and polished, as if never handled, until removing the cap from one exposed the ravaged remains of a once-vibrant lipstick. The same dramatic red she’d worn the other day. The same shade as what was smeared across the walls. Slowly, I removed the caps from several more cases—all the same color—ground down to waxy nubs.
So immersed had I been in the mystery of the cases, that it only gradually dawned that the echo of Jack’s voice had faded into an overwhelming silence. The tiny hairs on my arm prickled as gooseflesh rose along my skin.
“Jack?”
I began following the same path I’d seen him take, poking my head into the various open doors leading from the room. “Jack?”
“In here.”
Not terribly loud, but spoken into the eerie silence, it was as effective as a shout. And despite the flat monotone, or perhaps because of it, it was clear to me there was something very wrong.
I pushed open the door at the far end of the room—the one behind which Ava had disappeared that first day, revealing a dazzling bedroom suite. Nearly two walls of spotless glass, overlooking that spectacular view, while in the center of the expansive space sat the perfectly made bed, sumptuously dressed in white and silver. Mirrored dressers played host to portraits of Ava—covers from Look and Photoplay that should have been vibrant with color, rendered instead in varying shades of black and white—polished silver frames artfully positioned on the immaculate surfaces. Even the closet, its mirrored doors folded open, revealed perfectly organized and aligned contents, the clothing in varying shades of white and ivory and silver hanging on identical white satin-padded hangers, the distances between them even and uniform. It was overwhelmingly sparkling and beautiful and very, very wrong. In this organic home perched above the wildness of the sea the almost militaristic uniformity hit a discordant note.
A shiver of unease skittered down my spine as I followed the trail of footsteps left in the deep plush of the white carpet, uncertain of what I would find as I crossed the threshold into the adjoining bathroom. Would it be more of the chaos that had initially greeted us or more of the sterile surroundings?
It was neither and both.
Another stunning white and silver room, the vanity and walls as immaculate and meticulously arranged as in the bedroom.
“Dios mío …”
I crouched beside Jack, reaching for one of the dozens of photographs scattered about.
Ava. Wearing a mink coat and nothing else, cavorting in the surf, a long flash of leg, the generous curve of a breast revealed as she coyly glanced over a shoulder. The photo shoot she’d boasted of to Jack. Wild and free and unbound by any social conventions. Or so she’d claimed.
Those stunning, full-color photographs were strewn across the white floor like so much oversized confetti. Scrawled with the same words as on the walls, some of them so thickly scribbled over it was impossible to decipher what the image below was, slashes of red bleeding onto the marble where she’d lost control. More disturbing than those, even, were the ones that had been cut, sliced almost through in places, ravaging her face and body with angry slashes.
A sheet of heavy cream stationary stood out among the photographs with a single, elegantly scripted line.
Here are a set of proofs darling—you are, as always, a goddess. –D
Jack slumped heavily against the side of the tub, toppling several more of the silver lipstick cases she’d left lining its edge.
I sat beside him, moving another photograph—the mink spread on the sand like a luxurious blanket, Ava, lying face down, one leg swinging idly in the air, a lurid red slut written down her bare back and across her buttocks—out of the way. “What’s going on?”
“More of the same. Except she’s getting worse.”
“What? What do you mean?” And where had she gone? Because it was abundantly clear she wasn’t here. Not because she’d yet to appear, but because something in Jack’s face, in the weariness evident in his tone and the curve of his neck as he looked back down at the ruined photos, spoke of a knowledge he’d rather not have.
“Jack, where is she?”
“Vegas. At least, that’s where she’ll have gone first. And here we fucking go again.” He rose, toeing the pictures aside as he extended a hand to help me up. “Come on, let’s go. I can make arrangements for you to catch a flight home before I leave.”
“Don’t be an idiot.” I grasped his hand and allowed him to pull me to my feet. “Do you really think I would leave now? Leave you to deal with this by yourself?”
“I’m used to it.”
Again, weariness dominated his voice, dulled the light in his eyes, reinforcing that sensation I’d tried to fight earlier this morning. That I’d finally had to give in to. That inescapable sensation of wanting…
I wanted to help. Knew that Jack Roemer, a man who wanted for nothing, needed something I could give.
“Jack, please.”
“God!” The response was as unexpected as the sharp bark of laughter as he sank to the edge of the tub. He sent the remaining lipstick cases clattering across the floor with an angry swipe before he thrust both hands into his hair, cradling his forehead in his palms. “God,” he repeated, so softly I more felt the word than actually heard it.
I crouched down in front of him. “What?”
His hands dropped away as he looked up. “You need to go home.”
Studying his face as intently as he was studying mine, I chose my words carefully. “Earlier … when you told me to leave, you said it was so I could be free.” I held up a hand. “I know you meant of my obligations to my family. But Jack, you can’t ask me to leave this behind and pretend it doesn’t exist. I know it would be easier—for both of us—if I could. But I can’t. Not knowing what I know.”
“And what, exactly, do you know?” His voice was dull and flat.
“That whatever this is, you’ve done it alone for a very long time.”
A gut instinct guess, but the right one, judging by the spark of recognition—faint, yet undeniably there—that lit those faun’s eyes. “Please—” I stood and extended a hand. “Let me help you.”
Staring at it as if mesmerized, he murmured, “You say please. And she never has.”
“I’m not her.”
“I know.” Slowly, he took my hand and stood. “I know.”
Twenty
“Why Las Vegas?”
“Because that’s where she always goes first.” He spared me a glance as he shifted and accelerated past a ponderous farm truck loaded with crates of chickens, the Jaguar’s powerful engine overwhelming their outraged squawking. My back molded itself to the leather seat at the sudden change in speed, my breath catching at the alien landscape unfurling before us as we broke free of the truck’s shadow. A seemingly endless sweep interrupted only by patches of scrub or the occasional gnarled tree and washed in shades of gold and brown, this desert struck me with the same sense of unease as the urban jungle of New York. Extraordinary, beautiful in its own unique way, but not particularly comfortable and more than a little bit foreboding. Echoing my feelings since our hurried departure from Malibu. Other than heading toward Las Vegas, I had no idea what we were doing and Jack wasn’t exactly being forthcoming. There was only the one question I wanted answered—I simply wanted to know why? Of course, there were infinite variations. Why Vegas? Why did she behave so erratically? Why was it not only condoned, but apparently encouraged? And why did Jack feel so compelled to come t
o her rescue, because that’s exactly what this was. A mission to come to her rescue—one he’d so obviously done many times before.
What was I missing?
Two questions, then.
In a matter of moments, the snorting, backfiring truck was reduced to a dot in the sideview mirror, leaving us alone on the highway with only the growl of the car’s engine and the rush of the wind as accompaniment. Both more than adequate excuses for avoiding further conversation which I expected Jack to take advantage of. But he surprised me, sending another sidelong glance my direction, accompanied by a soft, resigned laugh.
“The wheels in that head of yours—they’re going fast and furious.”
“I—” I ground my teeth as I looked away, aggravated at the continued transparency I couldn’t seem to help around him, and resolutely focused my attention on the scenery.
“So fascinating to see your mind work—I wonder if maybe that’s why I don’t offer everything up right off the bat.”
“I suspect it’s more that you’re not accustomed to being held accountable to anyone else.”
“Not true. Although I understand how you might think that.”
“Really?” I crossed my arms, aware that I no doubt looked—and sounded—like a petulant girl. “When was the last time anyone held you accountable? For anything?”
“Well, unless it was a liquor-soaked hallucination, I seem to recall you doing a fairly admirable job of doing just that. Telling me how much I was going to regret my actions.” With the road a straight, unbroken ribbon ahead of us, he was able to turn and face me, head on, one questioning eyebrow raised.
“So you remember?”
“Bits and pieces are dribbling back.” He returned his attention to the road, one hand casually propped on the spokes of the steering wheel. “Not enough to let you—or me—off the hook, however.”
Sighing, I turned to stare out the window. Once again he’d seen right through me. Seen the momentary hope, imagining I wouldn’t have to fulfill my end of our agreement and tell him what he’d said. Because I just wanted to forget. Wanted to push not simply Jack’s words, but all of it—the boys, the money, the discovery that my secrets hadn’t been quite so secret—as much to the back of my mind as possible. I had no illusions I’d ever be able to completely forget. But perhaps with time and distance, the humiliation and pain might at least fade to something manageable—the type of specter that only crept up on the occasional dark night. I could be satisfied with that.
“You’ve been holding me accountable almost since the moment we met.”
I turned to study his profile, tried to see past the deepening twilight and the shadows it cast across the proud, set lines of his face—revealing no sign that he’d spoken. Clearly, I’d imagined those words. After all, I was exhausted. And if I’d slept more than three hours out of the previous twenty-four, that would be a generous estimation. I rubbed my eyes with the tips of thumb and forefinger, blinked them rapidly, trying to wash away the grittiness. But each blink felt heavier and slower, the dark behind my lids so seductive, drawing me further in. Tempting me with promises of calm and a sweet, all-encompassing warmth.
“Natalia, wake up. We’re here.”
“¿Qué—?” I blinked again, squinting against the brilliant glare piercing the dark. Who’d turned on the lights? I hated being shocked awake—needed to ease into consciousness. Nico knew that. “No. Dejame.” I buried my head in my pillow.
“We’re in Vegas, sweetheart.” The low voice rumbled across my skin, ruffled the hair along my forehead. “You need to wake up.”
Vegas? My eyes snapped open, taking in the stubbled underside of jaw, inhaled the distinctive male scents of deodorant overlaid with a hint of clean sweat, my sleep-fogged brain finally recognizing that my comfortable pillow was in fact, Jack’s shoulder.
“Oh … I—”
I struggled to sit up, feeling as if I was slogging through molasses, slowly realizing it was at least in part because of the weight of Jack’s arm across my shoulders.
His hand gently squeezed my upper arm. “It’s all right. You just fell asleep for a while. You needed it.”
“Yes, but—” My skin rippled with gooseflesh as I experienced more of the odd heightened awareness unique to those first moments of wakefulness—cotton, smooth and warm beneath my palm, the drag of his hand across my shoulders and the skin of my neck as his hold relaxed and I was able to straighten. “It had to have been uncomfortable.”
“It was fine.” A surprising grin chased the shadows from his face. “Do you know you talk in your sleep?”
I pretended nonchalance, smoothing stray wisps of hair away from my face, trying to tuck them into place. “Yes.” Nico used to tease me, saying he’d one day unearth all my secrets. Knowing it for a joke. We both knew I had no secrets—not from him.
“Relax—you didn’t say anything incriminating. I don’t think.” Rolling his shoulders, he stretched, straightening his arms against the steering wheel. “It was mostly Spanish.”
Once again the lines between my two worlds blurred, becoming ever more indistinguishable between what had once been real from that which had been fashioned from a few key details and sheer imagination. Strangely fitting that we were headed into the heart of a place touted as the ultimate fantasyland, rising improbably from barren desert and spawning grandiose dreams. Where even the names—Riviera, Flamingo, Sands, Stardust—inspired images of vibrant, exotic locales. Where visitors could pretend to be anything—could be anyone. All it required was a favorable pull, a lucky roll, or a practiced bluff.
An illusion that could shatter just as quickly.
Jack glanced over. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I hugged my elbows, trying to contain the tremors that shook my body, grateful that for once, he didn’t seem to be noticing—wasn’t looking straight through me. I wasn’t up to explaining something I couldn’t even comprehend beyond the refrains of who are you, really? and what are you doing here? Hearing endless variations on why? with its multitudes of meaning. As if the questions weren’t ones I’d asked myself a thousand times already.
At the northernmost end of the Strip, just past the Sahara with its gaudy Arabian Nights-styled porte-cochère, Jack made a turn into a long circular driveway, its entrance simply marked by a pair of towering palms constructed completely from glass and white lights. The moment we rolled to a stop in front of the large, sprawling white building, a uniformed valet opened my door, offering a hand.
“Welcome to The Royal Palms, will you be staying with us or visiting the casino?”
“Not sure yet.” Jack had already rounded the front of the car, cutting in front of the valet to help me himself. A supporting hand cupped my elbow as I subtly stretched, working out the kinks.
“Oh, Mr. Roemer, of course—we’ve been expecting you. Mr. Campisi will be alerted to your arrival and meet you in the penthouse shortly.”
Jack nodded and handed the bellman who’d greeted us a couple of folded bills. Drawing my hand through his arm, he led us through the heavy iron and glass doors and into yet another new world—one that resonated with a shocking echo. The men, all sleek, pomaded hair and snowy dinner jackets, the women on their arms clad in lamé cocktail dresses and richly beaded gowns, capped by furs and jewels and elaborate lacquered updos. Exuding the air of exotic, privileged creatures as they strolled past vibrant hibiscus and bougainvillea, breathed in the heavy, jasmine-scented air while a sultry bossa nova wafted from hidden speakers. As if drawn by some unseen force, I drifted away from Jack, running a fingertip along a glossy leaf, a scrolled railing—taking the ambience in with a distant eye, such as one might observe an artistic masterpiece.
So surprising, this lush and elegant setting, defying both the arid desert and garish nightlife beyond its boundaries. So familiar.
Even with no intent of ever returning, the memories had lived within me. A whisper of the girl I’d been shadowing my movements among the concrete and metal and
cold angles of New York, entreating me to remember home. To hold it close. Dancing with Jack on the dreamy, moonlit patio of the Beverly Hills Hotel had come close, draping itself around me with a melancholy sweetness, but this—
So close. As close to perfect as it could be, really, recapturing the tropical surroundings of my youth. And yet—
Completely, utterly alien.
It no longer fit.
Moreover, I no longer wanted it to fit.
“How unexpected,” I said softly. And frightening.
“I know.”
I understood Jack meant the unexpected quiet opulence surrounding us. Remarkably prescient though he might be where I was concerned, there was no way he could possibly know the magnitude of the thoughts tumbling one after another in my head. With one final glance over my shoulder, I allowed him to lead us into a gleaming mirrored elevator with tiny inset lights, reflecting like so many brilliant stars.
“Dante wanted to create something unique, even by Vegas standards. To be … more.” He nodded at the elevator operator, another man who obviously recognized him.
“What, beyond being Ava’s ex-husband, does he have to do with all of this, Jack?” I replied in a quiet undertone as the operator removed a small brass key from his pocket and inserted it beside one of the three buttons marked PH. They’d been divorced for over five years, as I recalled from Ava’s biographical information, but Dante was the first person Jack had called when she’d failed to show up in Beverly Hills and now, Vegas had been the first—the only—destination considered after she’d disappeared. Why?
“Just a few minutes more. I promise.”
I looked away, but no matter where my gaze landed, I couldn’t escape the doubts roiling through my mind, the mirrors lining the elevator car clearly reflecting the tension holding my shoulders rigid. Yet, those same mirrors just as clearly exposed hope. It flickered amidst the shadows cast by the soft gold light wavering across my face as my reflection appeared to sway toward him.
You want to trust him, the reflection seemed to say. He’s sworn he keeps his promises.
Between Here and Gone Page 22
