"Here, share my coat, it's big enough for both of us."
Soft fur brushed his stubbled face as her arm crossed his shoulder and pulled him tight to her side. For a moment he relaxed into the blessed warmth. Then, the fog surrounding his mind suddenly evaporated and he jerked away.
"Wait . . . a . . . minute. Just wait a goddamn minute." He staggered upward then looked down at the woman seated at his feet. "Who the hell are you, Lady?"
She sighed and rose with fluid grace. "Do you have to use such foul language? English certainly has more words than fuck and hell and goddamn and—how do you say it—somfbitch." Her voice mimicked his own. "My name doesn't matter. Not yet. I have a proposition for you. Do you care to hear it?" She moved closer. The cold metal of the stair rail held him in place.
"Maybe, maybe not," he said warily while sniffing her fragrance. Uh-huh, he thought. That's JeTu or my name's not George. His eyes narrowed. If she spends five hundred on a measly quarter ounce of perfume, maybe she'd like to donate a few shillings to a worthy cause like poor old broke George here. His mouth salivated at the thought of a new bottle—full and memory quenching. He wiped the spittle from his lips with the back of his hand. "What's in it for me?"
"More than you could understand right now." She shook with mirth. "Oh, much more. Much more indeed." The laughter stopped abruptly. Her body pressed close against him and her hand slipped between his legs. "Are you interested?" Her perfume eddied.
His sudden surge of ardor startled him. He hadn't felt like this since before Cathy . . . He choked back the thought.
The woman's hand caressed and squeezed.
Jeezus Christ. She wanted to fuck. His mind filled with desire, his body trembled, and his breathing grew rapid, but between his legs nothing was happening. He squeezed his eyes closed as if he could force an erection. Still nothing. He tried to jerk himself away from the prodding fingers. She pressed tighter.
"I can fix that. If you'll let me," she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. "I can make it hard again." Her hands pulled his hips to hers. Half turning, she raised her leg and wrapped it tight around his thigh. Her fingers deftly unzipped his trousers, and placed his limp penis where he most wanted it to be. As if in a dream, he realized that she wore nothing beneath her dress—she was hot and moist. Still in the dream, he felt the thrusting movements of her body touching him, moving back, touching him again.
"Let me fix it for you. Let me fix it." Her mouth, hot and ravenous, found his.
Oh, God. A woman like this wanting a loser like him and he couldn't. Oh, jeezus. He was standing stiff and hard. Harder than he could ever remember being before. His own hips thrust forward. He felt her body shudder when he penetrated. Heard her gasp of pleasure.
The leg snaked away.
"No," he cried out, reaching for the silken voiced woman. But she had slipped away, a shadow among shadows.
"You think about it, George."
When did he tell her his name? Shaking his head with bewilderment, he drew his body straight. It didn't matter. For the first time in a long time, he was ready. She was damn well going to get what she came for. He lurched forward, his eyes searching the fog.
"I'm not just some bum out here, you know. Ever hear of Kayman Media Specialists?" His voice cracked.
She didn't answer.
"Sure you have. Everybody who's anybody knows that name. Well, guess what? I'm the Kayman part." His finger jabbed against his chest. "In the flesh."
Still no answer.
George felt the anger begin to stir deep in the pit of his stomach. His penis folded. Somfbitch! "Forget it, lady. George Kayman doesn't need your fuckin' handouts." Jamming his flaccid member back into his trousers, he yanked up the zipper.
"Of course you don't," she soothed, once more stepping close. "But it's Christmas, George Kayman, a time to give and a time to receive. You think about what I can do for you," she whispered as she once more disappeared into the fog. Her voice floated out of the dense mists. "I'll be here tomorrow night. If you're sober, we'll talk."
He didn't hear her leave but he knew she was gone. Thinking about what she could do, he slumped against the cold steps, trembling with the hot fire of need. I'll be here, he thought. You have something I want and I sure as hell have something you want. But it's going to cost you, Miss Rich Bitch. George Kayman doesn't come free.
As he scooted back into the corner of the ell, his hand touched soft fur. Gasping, he pulled her coat around him and breathed in the sweet aroma of her perfume. The same perfume Cathy wore when she sped away into the night and got herself killed.
"Such a long time ago," he murmured to himself. "Why is it still so fresh in my memory?" A part of his mind snickered in the dark. Three years isn't long enough to forget, Georgie boy. Not nearly long enough. Winter-gray eyes sparkling with tears danced across his vision. He forced the image from his mind only to have another take its place—a racing-green Jaguar speeding out of sight. He could hear his voice screaming at the vanishing tail lights.
You'll be back.
But she didn't come back, he thought, huddled in the warmth of the stranger's coat. From a directionless somewhere, another siren screeched its mad warning; George held his ears against the sound.
"She would've come home," he muttered. "I know she would've."
Skid marks, jagged metal, and burning flesh assailed his senses.
How was he to know that some wino, pumped up on Pandora Blue, would come careening down Duboce Avenue, intent on destroying the paranoid demon he saw in his mind. How was George Kayman to know that his wife's automobile would become that fiend?
"It wasn't my fault," he whimpered. "It wasn't my fault."
Reaching between his legs for the fifth of whiskey usually propped there, he searched for the comfort of oblivion, then remembered he had thrown the bottle away because it was empty. With a deep groan of despair, he leaned back against the cold wall, pulled the soft fur tight around his thin frame, and closed his eyes. Surrounded by the fragrance of JeTu, his body twitched as old memories ebbed and flowed.
At last, he slept.
Until a hand roughly jostled him awake.
"Wake up George Kayman. I promised I'd be back and here I am. It seemed prudent that I not give you time to find another bottle somewhere and disappear."
"Get the sh—"
"Ah, ah, ah. I don't want to listen to that today. First thing you're going to do is take a bath and brush your teeth. I don't talk business with bums. Not even if their name is George Kayman."
Stung, George flung the fur coat off his body. "Who the hell do you think you are—coming off so high and mighty?"
She reached down, picked up the coat, and draped it over her arm. "Bianca Raborman."
"Well, Bianca Raborman, you can go straight to . . . " His voice trailed to silence as he stared up at the handsome face. An image flicked: a stunning woman and a young girl. He struggled to his feet. "Raborman. Of the Connecticut Rabormans? Tobacco?"
"You recognize the name, I see. At least your mind isn't completely pickled."
He tried to smooth his hair. "I met a Lydia Raborman in Washington a few years back. A beautiful woman. Relative of yours?"
Her mouth puckered. "My mother."
"Then Sefura must be your sister. An impressive young lady. How is she?"
"You've met Sefura?" Her glance was sharp.
"Uh-huh. Three or four times. In my father-in-law's office. Maybe you know him—Doctor Frederick Lamont?"
"Lydia was always dragging Sefura with her to some doctor's office. That name means nothing to me."
"Uh, no, of course not. I just thought, her being your mother, you'd know who she visited."
"I don't have time to stand here chatting. Come along." She turned and strode briskly down a wooded path.
George followed without protest. He could hardly believe a chance encounter had brought Bianca Raborman into his life. What if he hadn't slept at the gazebo last night? Sometimes he didn't. She w
ould have met someone else and he would have never had the opportunity of a lifetime. He paused and tried to tuck his shirt into his trousers, acutely aware of the missing buttons. Ahead, he could see the great arch that signaled the main entrance to the park. She had nearly reached the walkway. George began to jog. If she turned the corner, he might lose her and lose this last chance he'd been given. She turned the corner and he broke into a run.
When he stepped through the arch, she was standing beside the open door of a taxicab, impatiently tapping her foot. Like a chastised boy, he clambered into the cab and leaned against the far door.
"Fairmont Arms," she said, then settled back and closed her eyes as if to say don't bother me.
The cab pulled into the flow of traffic and thirty minutes later George stood inside a steaming shower stall. Not until the water turned cool did he emerge. On one side of the sink, he found a toothbrush, cleaning gel, razor, and two deodorants—a spray and a solid; on the other side, a hairbrush, comb, styling spray, and dryer. She'd thought of everything. Picking up the razor, he stared at the face in the mirror with its bloodshot eyes, chapped lips, straggly beard, and even more straggly hair. He looked around half expecting to find a stranger standing beside him. Once more, he gazed into the mirror.
"What happened to George Kayman?" he whispered. "Where did he go?" Refusing to meet the reflected stare, he lathered his face and began to shave.
"Do you need anything?" Bianca called through the closed door.
"No, it's all here."
"I'll be downstairs in the restaurant. When you're dressed, join me."
His heart sank. Oh, sure, he thought. Like they're going to let me anywhere near that restaurant.
As if she'd read his mind, she said, "I've taken the liberty of buying you some things that are a little more appropriate to wear. You'll find them on the bed."
"What if they don't fit?"
"They will."
"Miss Raborman?"
"Don't say thank you. If you accept my business proposition, I will expect you to reimburse me the expense."
"About this proposal. What is it you want me to do?" He waited for an answer. Silence. "Miss Raborman?" Cracking open the bathroom door, he poked his head out into the room. It was empty, but on the bed, neat and orderly, were the clothes. On the floor, smooth and shiny, were a pair of leather shoes. Even from this oblique view, he knew they were Italian leather. That was all he'd ever worn when . . . when . . . Shoving the chaotic thoughts from his mind, he returned to the task of removing facial hair.
In the mirrored walls of the elevator, George studied his reflection. His face was gaunt and his skin off color, but he could see the old George lurking beneath the surface. For the first time in more months than he cared to remember, he felt like a man again. Whatever Bianca Raborman wanted from him, he would seriously consider giving it to her. Hell, he would give it to her. For a fee, of course. She'd sign a contract, too. He'd make sure of that. He envisioned himself sitting in a plush office, facing Ambassador Yago, and pointing out that if the Kayman agency was good enough to snag a Raborman contract, it was certainly good enough to handle any Transnational promotional needs.
His shoulders drew back and he absently scratched his groin. Remembering Bianca's moist ardor of the night before, a warm flush of desire flowed through his abdomen and between his thighs, but not so much as a hint of an erection occurred. Damn. Now, if he could just find a way to solve this issue before Bianca came through with the other promise she'd made. He stopped himself. Where the hell was his thinking? Let her fix it, she'd said—and by God, she had. If she could do it once, she could do it again.
His step was jaunty as he entered the restaurant. It felt good to be on the high road again. In fact, this called for a drink in celebration.
He wondered if he dared risk ordering a martini for breakfast.
Chapter 21
Ellery
Four days after Christmas, sunshine and unseasonable warmth chased the cold and wet eastward. Weathermen promised that the balmy spell would be the norm for at least another week.
Thank God for big favors, Ellery thought as she removed the pearl embroidered veil from Vickie's head. Weddings should be filled with sunshine and happiness, not dreary wet weather.
"That's it, child," she said, patting her daughter's shoulder. She placed the veil carefully on the bald headed mannequin standing in the center of the room. Tears welled. She sniffed them back. "Look at me," she said ruefully. "Your wedding's still three days away and I'm already sniffling." Sitting on the edge of the bed, she gazed at her daughter as if drinking in every feature.
Vickie sat and hugged her mother close, her own eyes dewy with moisture. "I'll bring an extra box of tissues, Mama. I promise. We'll probably both need them."
"Oh, you." Eyes brimmed again. "On second thought, bring two extras. Okay?"
The young woman nodded. She rested her cheek against the top of her mother's head and slowly began to rock.
The older woman smiled at the tune her daughter hummed. Wasn't it only yesterday that she, too, had rocked and sung the lullaby? Wasn't it? She squeezed her eyes tight and swayed with the gentle motion of the love that enfolded her.
Ellery brushed her hand along the side of her head to smooth a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She glanced at her watch. Four thirty in the afternoon and the final rehearsal was completed. She had time to take a short nap.
Dane and Ned waved good-bye as they headed from the church to attend an antique show at the museum. Matthew, John, and Victoria piled into Vickie's old Renault Lectrolev and headed for home. Climbing into Margaret's car, Ellery slumped in the front seat beside her sister while Patrick dozed in the rear.
"Home?" Margaret said.
Eyes closed, Ellery nodded. "It's been a long week, Maggie, and I've played hooky from the Foundation as long as I can. I must check in tomorrow. If nothing else, to make sure everything's still standing."
"A couple more days won't hurt. You look tired. A little rest would do you good."
"No, there are some things I need to do before Pope Munoz gets in. Besides, I want to make certain everyone is prepared for his visit. Once he arrives, there won't be time to think about what we should have had ready." Her hand massaged her chest. "I'll lie down for a while this afternoon."
"Are you all right, Ellery?" Alarm tinged her sister's voice. "Other than just tired, I mean."
"I'm fine. Why?"
"You're rubbing your chest again. That's the third time today."
Ellery dropped her hand to her lap and opened her eyes. She pulled the ride bar over her legs, fastening it securely. "I get a little muscle twinge now and then when I overdo it. Nothing to worry about." She pointed a finger toward the windshield. "Can we go home now?"
Her sister persisted. "I don't think I could stand it if anything happened to you, El. If it's something else, we—you need to get it fixed."
"Maggie—" Ellery sighed. "I told you, there's nothing wrong. It's just a muscle twinge." She looked into her sister's worried eyes. "I know what you're thinking. If it will set your fears at rest, my heart checked out fine on my last physical. I'm as healthy as Vickie, just not as energetic anymore." She looked down at her lap. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen a doctor; she'd always been in excellent health and taking the time off never seemed necessary. She didn't like lying to her sister, but she was too tired to argue with her.
"I still think—"
"I need rest. You're right. So, are you going to take me home so I can, or are we going to sit here arguing?"
"I'm going to take you home." Maggie tapped the ignition pad. The car purred to life and drifted away from the curb on a cushion of air. "But I'm not finished with this."
Ellery grinned. "I know."
Minutes later, Maggie dropped her off in front of the beach house. Waving, Ellery watched the automobile turn the corner before entering the house. After the Pope's inspection, she'd talk to Doctor Kafka. Maybe then she woul
dn't feel so guilty about telling her sister a fib.
Inside, the house was cool and silent. My offspring must have stopped off for a sandwich, she thought as she wandered toward the French doors. Pulling the lace door covering aside, she raised her face to the golden warmth of a descending sun. Three figures moving at the water's edge caught her eye. Opening the doors, she stepped onto the rear deck.
"I should have known," she murmured to herself. "They'd rather dance the Chi than eat." Strolling across the deck, she leaned against the rail to watch Matthew, John, and Vickie as they moved with fluid grace on the beach below.
In the glow of the setting sun, their shadows thrust long, purple caricatures across the pink sand. Ellery, entranced, watched the shadows twine, separate, spiral into one, and separate again in a dance somehow distinct from the living bodies that created them. As she contemplated the shifting patterns, the shadows seemed to form a single drop of vibrating color that suddenly burst into rippling rings tinged gold by the setting sun.
Startled, Ellery's gaze flew to her children. They stood deathly still, arms upraised, palms touching palms. Their contact broke and they circled round, their bodies swaying. A graceful swoop down and up again to stillness, palms to palms. Shadow rings rippled. The sun glow faded and the shadows melded into gathering grayness. Her children bowed low to each other then turned toward the house and walked slowly across the sand.
Ellery grasped the deck rail to stop her trembling. "What is it?" she whispered. "What have I watched?" As she turned to enter the house, Vickie called out.
"Mother, don't go. Not yet. We have to tell you something."
Ellery hesitated, then sank into a lounge chair and hugged her arms tight against her body. The wind gusted cold around the house. Thickening fog crept along the beach, deadening the sound of rhythmic waves slapping against the sand. "So much for balmy days," she muttered. "I should have put on my sweater."
Her children stood before her, their faces rapt with a strange joy. Ellery waited.
As one, they knelt beside her and laid their hands upon her knees. John and Vickie looked at Matthew. His hands fingered through his hair as he cleared his throat.
Shadows in the House With Twelve Rooms Page 16
