by Kyra Davis
The door swings open and Travis stands before me, looking as cool and menacing as he’s ever been in his life.
“Hello, Mr. Gable!” I say, flashing him my sweetest, most guileless smile. “Is this a bad time?”
chapter five
* * *
Minutes later we’re both in the living room. The cognac Travis had apparently made himself while I was sneaking out is now sitting on the coffee table, neglected. Travis is sitting on the black leather sofa, staring at me without even a hint of warmth.
“Bell Dantès.” Travis says the name like he’s referring to a particularly dangerous and contagious virus. “I believe I told you I didn’t need you to come in today.”
“I . . . I know,” I say, my hands clasped in front of me like a little girl ready to confess her misdeeds to a teacher. “I was actually here earlier. I did a little work for Jessica. I’m afraid I left something in her office.”
“My wife called you in?” He reaches for his drink, takes a leisurely sip. I think of Lander with his champagne flute filled with Cristal. There is something very sexy about the way Lander drinks. But the way Travis cradles his glass, it’s just . . . intimidating.
“She didn’t call,” I admit. “I came of my own volition.”
Travis doesn’t say anything for a moment and then takes his glass to his lips one more time before asking, “Are you here to confess?”
My pulse goes into overdrive but I work to keep my face impassive. “Confess what, Mr. Gable?”
“That you’re the one who called Lander and asked him to come and help Jessica when you thought she might overdose, even though I told you to leave her be.”
“No! Of course not! Mrs. Gable called him. They both said as much when Lander showed up.”
“Lander’s a con man,” Travis says dispassionately. “And Jessica was simply parroting him. She was so out of it she would have said anything. But the truth is that my brother has never been on my wife’s drunk dial list.”
“It wasn’t me, Mr. Gable.”
“I don’t need you, Bell. You can continue to fuck my brother if you please him but I have no use for you.”
“Mr. Gable, the only reason I’m still seeing Lander is because you asked me to!”
“You’ve fallen for him.”
“No!” I shake my head vigorously. Outside the windows the sky has turned an icy blue that almost matches Travis’s eyes; it’s as if his menace has spread all over the city.
“Your protestations are sweet, but meaningless. Go. Be Lander’s girlfriend du jour, ask him to pay you for services rendered because you won’t be getting another paycheck from me.”
“You said you were going to give me a chance to prove my loyalty.”
“When the hell did I say . . .” And then his voice fades off. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen Travis look surprised before, but as he begins to grasp what I’m referring to, his eyes widen slightly, his head tilts almost imperceptibly to the side. “What exactly are you suggesting, Bell?”
“You know,” I say quietly, holding his gaze.
“Yes, I think I do. Still, I’d like to be sure we’re on the same page.”
I think about my purse in the office, I think about the envelope inside. “You asked me to sleep with you. You said that if I did it would prove that I wasn’t loyal to Lander.”
“I said you needed to sleep with someone,” Travis corrects. “I certainly don’t want to be accused of pressuring you to sleep with a man or woman who doesn’t appeal to you. As long as it’s not Lander the choice is yours.”
I step forward, stand before him as he looks up at me. I actually like standing over Travis like this; it makes me feel powerful. Of course I’d like him lower still, on his knees, uselessly begging for a reprieve from the punishment I hope to heap upon him.
Or I could simply have his head on the chopping block while I wield the sword in my hand.
I think of that sword as I reach down and stroke his cheek, feeling the prickly hairs that have just begun to fight their way back after the morning’s shave.
“I’ve made my choice,” I say quietly. “I choose you.”
He grabs my hand and pulls it away from him. “Don’t be too tender. This won’t be a labor of love, you’ll simply be making a point.”
“It’s more than a point,” I counter. “I’ll be proving myself to you. I want to work for you, Mr. Gable. Lander thinks he’s fooling me. He’s trying to act like I mean something to him, but I know he also plans to toss me aside soon enough. That’s what men like him do. But you? You’ve always been very straight about what you want and what you don’t.”
“Of course. I don’t care enough about you to lie,” Travis says dismissively. And yet I notice that he still hasn’t let go of my hand.
“But you care about what I can do for you,” I reply. “You know that I’m smart and resourceful. You know that if there is one person who can find out Lander’s secrets, it’s me. You know I can help you with the business you like to do in the shadows of HGVB, away from the prying eyes of regulators and inspectors. I don’t know exactly what kind of business that is,” I add when I see Travis’s eyes darken, “but you like that too. You like that I don’t ask too many questions. You,” I say, slowly lowering myself onto his lap, “like my moral ambivalence.”
He allows me to pull away my hand so I can slide my arms around his neck as I continue to stare into his eyes. “I can do so much for you,” I say again. “Professionally . . . and in other ways too. You won’t love me, you don’t even have to like me. But trust me, Mr. Gable, you want me on your side.”
The smile forms slowly, stretching across his face at a sinister pace.
Travis never looks more evil than when he smiles. “On your knees, Bell.”
A cold chill runs through me and yet I return his grin. “Your wife will be home soon.”
“No matter. She can watch if she likes. Or she can just wait until we’re done. She doesn’t get a say in my activities.” Before I can react he slides his hand between my legs and finds my panties. I jump, still sensitive from my recent lovemaking. “My, my, you must be sincere because you’re already wet. It would seem now is the perfect time for us to consummate our business deal.”
“But if Jessica tells Lander I slept with you,” I say, gently but firmly pulling his hand away, “I won’t be able to get information out of him. I’ll be of little use to you then. For this to work, we have to keep this a secret.”
He pauses, but only for a moment. “Jessica is very good at keeping secrets. It’s one of her few talents.”
“Your children will be home soon too.”
Travis doesn’t respond to this. His eyes move away from me as he considers the situation.
“In four days Lander will be taking me to the fund-raising dinner for Sam Highkin. I’ll sit with him, let him whisper compliments in my ear, but when it’s all over I’ll claim that there’s some work I need to do in order to wrap up the event. It’ll be my duty as a personal assistant.”
“And how will you perform your duty?”
I raise my eyebrows. “I’ll follow your instructions. The dinner is just a stone’s throw away from both The Peninsula and The St. Regis. They’re both lovely hotels.”
“So they are.” He runs his hand up and down my leg. I work hard not to flinch. “And then after I’m done with you, I’ll send you off to Lander,” he says with a laugh. “So you can service him for me. Let him think he’s the only one. Just keep lowering his guard.”
“Whatever you like, Mr. Gable,” I say. I keep thinking about the sword, I think about my objective, I think about anything and everything other than his hands. “I work for you,” I whisper.
As the words leave my lips I hear a key in the door.
I bring my lips to his ear. “Soon,” I whisper, and scrape my teeth against his lobe before sliding off his lap. I move quickly to a spot by the window, doing everything I can to look innocent as Jessica walks in.
&nb
sp; “Oh, Travis . . . I thought you would be home later.” She looks from me to him, and despite her words earlier she flushes with humiliation as she asks, “Am I interrupting something?”
Travis raises his eyebrows but I quickly shake my head. “No, no, I was just leaving. I left something in your office and I’ll be on my way.”
I rush out before anyone can stop me, feeling more grateful to Jessica than I ever thought possible. Of course, even as I grab my handbag from the office I realize that there’s still the problem of the stepladder under the bed. But there’s simply no way of moving it now.
I go to the door and throw it open to find the nanny, Kamila, reaching for the door as two children stand by her side.
Travis and Jessica’s three-year-old daughter, Mercedes, peers up into my face. “I know you!” she says brightly before skipping past me, followed by her much more sullen seven-year-old brother, Braden.
“How are you, Bell?” Kamila asks with a friendly smile.
“Okay,” I say, and then thinking about the series of close calls I’ve just had I say it with more emphasis. “I’m okay.”
Kamila laughs, undoubtedly thinking I’m simply happy to have survived another day working for the Gables.
“See you later, Kamila,” I say as I swiftly move around her, striding toward the elevator and pressing the button over and over again until it opens.
When I get to the ground floor I shoot out of the building as if it’s on fire. Walk, don’t run, to the emergency exit—but do walk fast. I try to steady my breathing as I move down the street, but as I turn the corner a hand reaches out and grabs me.
Of course it’s Lander, glaring down at me. “We’re a team,” his says, his voice cool and calm, a perfect contradiction to the frustration and anger that is reflected in his eyes. “You don’t get to make decisions about putting yourself at risk without my input.”
“Oh I beg to differ,” I say, yanking my arm away. “I’ll work with you to bring down the bastards in your family, but you don’t get to tell me what risks I can or cannot take.”
“You say that as if your safety isn’t my business,” Lander counters. “It is.”
“Really? And why is that?” I want the words to come out as a challenge, but even to my ears they sound weak, like a plea.
Because I know exactly what I want him to say. I want him to say, It’s my business because I love you.
I want him to say those words. I want him to cleanse me with them, washing away the memory of Travis’s touch. And maybe if he can say it, I can say it too. I love you. God, I haven’t heard those words since my mother died . . . before then, really. In the last few years that I visited her she had stopped being so expressive of her feelings. I had thought she was guilty, and although she wanted to be understanding I know a part of her hated me for that.
I made the one person in my life who loved me, hate me.
So please, Lander, tell me you love me. Tell me I’m worthy of that. Tell me there’s more to my life than revenge.
Lander looks down at me, the anger and frustration subsiding and being replaced by something else, something I can’t quite identify. “Because we’re a team, Adoncia,” he says. “Team members look out for each other. They take responsibility for each other. It’s the only way to win.”
I squeeze my eyes closed. Travis and Jessica have been bombarding me with insults and indignities for a good portion of the day, but nothing they’ve said or done has hurt as much as what my lover has just said to me now.
When my eyes open again I stare out at the taxis that are weaving through traffic. At the pretzel stand across the street, at anything and everything except Lander.
“We’ll win,” I say quietly. “As far as we know victory might literally be in your pocket.” I reach forward and pat the pocket containing the flash drive. “But we’re going to have to play the game until we seal the deal. And to that end I’m going to need some information. Tell me everything you can about Cathy Earnest Lind.”
chapter six
* * *
Twenty minutes later I’m taking a cab to Cathy Lind’s home in Park Slope, a highly gentrified neighborhood in Brooklyn. Lander is going back to his place to sort through whatever information is on the USB drive. He didn’t have that much of interest to tell me about Cathy. Lander was away at college for most of the time Travis was with her. But he does remember meeting her a couple of times and apparently Travis was very different when he was with her. Maybe not better exactly. It was more that he was too focused on Cathy to bother tormenting the other people around him. Anything that can distract Travis from tormenting is worthy of attention.
Of course all of this might be moot if whatever is on the drive is particularly incriminating. That’s what I’m hoping for, praying for. And considering how well Travis hid that thing it’s certainly possible. It’s a minor miracle that I spotted it at all. I probably wouldn’t have if everything else in that penthouse hadn’t been so immaculate and perfectly crafted. A washer in a door just didn’t make sense in that environment. Still, I have to hand it to Travis for creativity.
As for the safe, well, we didn’t find it, but I’m still not convinced it was all that important to begin with.
And then there are these keys. I pull them out and hold them up to the diminishing light. Lander and I haven’t even really talked about these. Maybe whatever’s on the USB stick will tell us what secrets they can open.
I find a safe spot in my purse for the keys and tuck them away before fixing my eyes on the traffic-filled street that stretches before me. In many respects, it feels like things are starting to go our way.
Which makes me worry about that stalking predator named Disappointment. That beast has gotten its claws into my heart one too many times and I’ve yet to build up an immunity to the pain.
By the time I get to Park Slope the horizon is streaked with shades of orange and purple and the icy blue sky has turned into a dusky gray. If I’m lucky Cathy’s husband won’t be home yet. But if he is, I’ll deal with it.
It’s not hard to find Cathy’s place. Her block is lined with brownstones that mask their steep real estate listing prices with a distinct middle-class sensibility. The cars parked here are mostly shiny new hatchbacks and the clean sidewalks provide safe passage for the women pushing their seven-hundred-dollar strollers toward home. But the women are moms, not nannies. The people who live in Park Slope don’t consider themselves to be elitists. They raise their own children and cook their own wild-caught salmon and quinoa.
It’s hard to imagine Travis being obsessed with a woman who lives here.
Of course, Cathy doesn’t live in one of the town houses. She lives on the top floor of the historic building on the corner. Constructed of brownstone and brick with copper and terracotta flourishes, it’s both elegant and approachable. I climb the steps and walk into the building’s first floor, or what the locals would call “the parlor floor,” and find a desk staffed with employees who can help me.
“Bellona Dantès?” the woman at the desk asks, repeating the name I’ve given her before calling up to Mrs. Lind. “Am I pronouncing that right?”
“Perfectly,” I say, all sugar and spice. “But I’m just the acting courier. I’m here to deliver an invitation to a dinner at which senatorial hopeful Sam Highkin will be speaking and laying out his plans and aspirations for New York.”
The woman nods and makes the call. “Mrs. Lind? Yes, I have a woman here who would like to hand deliver an invitation for a dinner featuring . . .” She pauses and looks down at her notes. “Featuring Sam Highkin . . . He’s running for the Senate? Right. Then shall I have her leave the invitation with me?”
“Tell her the dinner is being hosted by Mr. Travis Gable,” I say in a stage whisper.
“Wait,” the woman says into the phone, “the courier also wants me to inform you that the dinner will be hosted by Travis Gable. I’ll have the invitation here at the desk until . . . What? Oh, very well. Yes, right away
.”
The woman at the desk hangs up the phone, looking puzzled. “She asked that you be sent right up.”
She leads me to the elevator and uses her key that allows the elevator to go to the residential floors before leaving me to my task.
My heart’s beating a little too fast as the elevator lifts me to the fourth floor. I don’t fully know what to expect. I don’t know how I’ll be received. All I know is that I have to convince her to come to that dinner.
When the doors open I’m faced with a woman wearing a sleeveless, hooded top with a large white rose appliqué on the front paired with a short, white A-line skirt. It’s a hip, casual outfit that probably cost her upward of fifteen hundred dollars. Her dark hair, now much longer than the bob she had worn during her younger years, is loosely pulled back into an upward twist, giving her a windswept look that is both sexy and sweet.
But her still posture speaks of nothing but trepidation. Her eyes are a little too wide and she’s not smiling. “Travis sent you?” she says in what is little above a whisper.
“Mr. Gable would like you to attend,” I say as I hand her the invitation. When she doesn’t move I say, in a softer tone, “He’d like to see you.”
Her lower lip begins to tremble. Catching herself, she looks away, putting her hand to her cheek. “Please,” she says, “come in.”
She leads me through what is truly a magnificent flat. It’s a ballroom converted into a forty-two-hundred-square-foot, five-bedroom apartment. The windows are trimmed with stained glass through which the encroaching night slips in and gives everything a smoky glow. It’s bigger than Travis’s place, but is still probably about an eighth of the price. Regardless of how much they gentrify Brooklyn, the prices and the prestige will never reach the heights of Manhattan real estate.
She leads me into a ridiculously spacious kitchen with mahogany cabinetry and gestures toward a bar chair by the island as she opens the freezer and takes out a bottle of Grey Goose.
