“Indeed.”
Anne’s voice was sharp and her grip on the magazine had tightened. Edison noted both reactions with satisfaction. She knew what was coming. He said with deliberation, “I’d like to have a piece of her beautiful, rich ass.”
Anne looked at him with revulsion and pain in her face. Her voice was steady, however, almost dispassionate, when she spoke. “I’m sure you would, since you seem to have that ambition toward most women. I have to say, however, that I think it’s doubtful Riva Staulet will allow you the pleasure.”
“Oh, you think so?”
Anne nodded a judicious assent. “She appeared to me to be a woman of taste.”
He grunted. It was a hit. It would cost her. He put down his glass and moved toward her. “And what about you?”
She tossed the magazine aside and got to her feet, heading toward the bedroom. “I,” she said distinctly, “am not in the mood for games.”
“Too bad. I am.”
He moved swiftly to cut her off, catching her shoulder and spinning her around to face him. He jerked the belt at her waist free and snatched the robe from her shoulders. She was naked under it as he knew she would be. His prim and proper wife had a sensuous streak that sometimes amazed him. Not that she ever got off on sex; it was just that she had ways that made it seem she should have been good at it.
She pushed at him, and he grabbed her wrist, pulling her against him. He put his hand on her buttock, squeezing, pumping the hard lump at his groin against her.
“Leave me alone,” she cried. “You stink of sweat!”
“And you like it, don’t you?” He released her wrist and sank his fingers into her hair, then covered her mouth with his, pointing his tongue and pushing it deep. He moved his other hand over her backside, spanning the crevice. She went rigid.
He laughed deep in his chest, then backed her into the bedroom, continuing until he fell with her across the bed. Stripping off his clothes, he rolled over onto her and dragged her into position. He pushed into her and felt her accommodate him to prevent her own discomfort. He surged back and forth in frenzied effort, while in his mind he was back in his Chevy and the woman under him was tight and hot little Rebecca. He groaned in disappointment as well as in pleasure when he came too soon. He wished it could have lasted longer, not for Anne’s sake but for his own.
Anne Gallant lay unmoving for long moments after her husband had finished and flopped away from her. She felt numb, her legs leaden weights hanging over the edge of the bed. At the same time, her brain was on fire and tears ached in her throat.
She refused to cry. Moving carefully, as if her body were too taut and full for true balance, she got up from the bed and made her way into the bathroom. She leaned for a moment against the vanity table, staring at herself in the mirror. Her face looked swollen and there were circles under her eyes. Her breasts were sore and the lower part of her body seemed engorged. Sickness rose inside her but she swallowed it down.
She had been used. She knew it and despised herself for permitting it. It was always that way, would always be that way. She had learned to remedy the physical problems; she knew how to find her own release, and she would, in a moment, while she bathed again. She just wished that it wasn’t necessary.
She was frigid. The reason wasn’t hard to find. She had read enough to know the cause was lack of stimulation, to understand that it wasn’t her fault. Probably. Yet there had been a few times when Edison had tried to help her. The trouble was, she had known he was trying for his own pleasure instead of hers or else to prove something to himself. She had also known that his impatience could surface at any moment, and most likely would surface long before she was ready.
The trouble was, it made her feel less than a woman not to be able to come with her husband. The trouble was, it hurt to be used without that ultimate benefit.
She had asked herself a million times over why she stayed with Edison. The truth was, she had been in love with him since they were children in dance class together. Their courtship had had the approval of both his parents and her own; their marriage had been accepted as a given, planned by the older people, if not arranged. When they were first married, his masterful ways in the bedroom had been rather exciting, though she had felt there must be something more. Later, when she had discovered what was missing, she had thought it was male ignorance at fault and had sought, delicately, to rectify matters. It hadn’t worked. Edison had resented any attempt to improve his technique. He had failed to see anything wrong with it since he claimed to have satisfied other women with it, and he himself was more than satisfied.
It had been years before she could bring herself to recognize that the problem was he cared for no one’s feelings except his own, that he had closed off all consideration for others, that he loved no one so much as himself. By then he had been deeply involved in politics, and her leaving would have been a severe blow to his career. Men who could not manage their marriages were at a disadvantage when their ability to manage a political office was called into question. That fact had become a weapon to use to modify his public behavior toward her. It was still a factor in the silent warfare she carried on against him. He did not always have things his own way. He paid, insofar as she could manage, for every slight, every bruise. When all else failed, she spent his money on things that gave her the pleasure he did not, would not, give her.
Still, there were times, such as now, when she could hardly bear to stay.
But where else could she go? She had a liberal arts degree, but no real job training. Worse than that, she had no ambition. She had never wanted a career, never wanted anything except to be a wife and a mother. She enjoyed volunteer work with her charities, particularly those having to do with children or the preservation of old historic homes and landmarks—that much she had in common with Riva Staulet. In addition, she was vain enough to think she had some talent as a political hostess. None of these things seemed likely to produce the money for the life-style in which she had always been maintained.
That was it. She hated the thought of reducing her standard of living. There were certain things she had been used to all her life: a comfortable and even luxurious home, household help, good food, the company of the best people. And she didn’t think she would be any good at doing without them. If that made her a snob, well, then, she was a snob. The only problem was that she sometimes suspected it made her a fool.
There were also times when she wondered, furtively, what it would be like to make love to another man. Often, when Edison flew himself in his plane, she daydreamed about what it would be like if he should crash. She chose what she would wear to the funeral, how she would act, what she would say, where and how she would live afterward. And she played with the idea of being free to find someone else, another man, when a decent length of time had passed.
Sometimes at boring luncheons she amused herself by imagining having a torrid relationship with the speaker or some other nice-looking man on the dais. Other times, she would mentally undress them. She found herself, in the past few years, watching the backsides of football players or staring at the crotches of men in bathing suits. She felt so frustrated and depraved at times that she had an almost uncontrollable urge to walk down the street with her blouse unbuttoned or to pick up the phone and dial some strange man and say—she didn’t know what she wanted to say. Such impulses troubled and humiliated her, but they were only in her mind. And there they would stay.
She hoped they would stay there.
Riva did not like the cellular phone in her limousine. She had agreed to it mainly because she had wanted to be instantly available during the time when Cosmo had been so ill, but also because Erin had suggested it, and it seemed to Riva that she would be falling behind the times in her niece’s eyes if she didn’t have one. But having it in place meant she was subject to interruption even while riding in her car and that she hated.
The early-morning trip into New Orleans was one of Riva’s favorite times for get
ting things done. She had a built-in lap desk fitted with a small, voice-activated dictaphone, a notebook of camel leather with pocket divisions and a slim gold pen clipped inside, a miniature printing calculator, and a gold-topped stapler. With this portable office, she could get through as much work in the hour of travel time as she could accomplish in an entire morning once she arrived at the Staulet Building. The difference was the constant demands on her time and attention at the office.
When Noel had first come home and begun to take his father’s place, she had felt obligated to suggest that he ride into the city with her each morning, though she had hedged the invitation about with all sorts of possible reasons why he might find it inconvenient. His refusal had relieved her beyond measure. She could think of nothing less conducive to work than having him sitting silent and disapproving beside her. Cosmo’s presence had never bothered her. He had read his Wall Street Journal, Barron’s, and Forbes in companionable silence. Actually, she thought it had amused him to see the way she made her time count.
The shrilling of the phone, intruding on her concentration, always startled her, just as it did this morning. She looked up to watch her driver George, who was married to Bonne Vie’s cook Liz, hold the stretch Lincoln steady at seventy miles an hour with one hand, turn down the Mozart tape that was playing, then reach to answer the summons.
“It’s Miss Margaret,” he said, passing the receiver back.
The voice of Riva’s sister came loud and harsh into Riva’s ear. “I don’t know why I have to go through a half-dozen people every time I want to talk to you. I guess it adds to your sense of self-importance to have someone else answer every phone you own.”
“What it adds to is my time and privacy, Margaret. How are you?”
“I’m well enough, for someone who has been having heart palpitations since I saw the paper this morning! It’s a nightmare coming true. You must have been out of your mind!”
“Possibly,” Riva answered with irony. “What are you talking about?”
“That horrible picture, that’s what! Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it?”
“No, I haven’t,” Riva began, then stopped.
She knew with abrupt, bitter certainty which picture Margaret was talking about. It was in the nature of things that the shot of her and Erin with Edison and his wife and son taken by that young photographer would be splashed over half the newspapers in the state. If she had wanted it publicized, it would, of course, have disappeared into some dead file somewhere and never been seen again.
“How could you allow it, Riva?” her sister demanded. “You, of all people? It’s disgusting. It makes me sick to my stomach. Something has to be done!”
“I’m doing my best, Margaret.”
“Well, it apparently isn’t good enough! If you can’t fix things, I’ll have to come down there and take care of it myself.”
“By all means. How?”
“I don’t know! Can’t you talk to Edison, make him see reason?”
“That’s what I was trying to do when that picture was taken. He wasn’t particularly cooperative.”
“If worse comes to worst, you can always tell him—”
“No,” Riva said, her voice hard.
“Don’t bite my head off. You know you can’t just let this thing go on!”
“I have no intention of it. I’m supposed to see Edison at lunch today. We’ll come to an understanding or else.”
“Oh, really, Riva, this is no time to be trying to throw your weight around. You’re going about it all wrong, I just know it. Remember, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”
“Thank you very much for those words of wisdom. Unfortunately, honey is likely to attract rats, too.”
“What do you mean?” Margaret’s voice was sharp.
“I mean, Edison hasn’t changed. His help may have a price.”
“What can you possibly do for him? Oh, I suppose you mean a campaign contribution.”
“I believe he has a more personal service in mind.”
Her sister’s scandalized breath was perfectly audible. “You’re not suggesting that he wants to go to bed with you after all these years. You must be imagining things!”
“Thank you, dear. How good you are for my ego.”
“Your ego has nothing to do with it. This is a serious matter.”
“I, more than anyone else,” Riva said with quiet emphasis, “am aware of that.”
“Yes, well, I suppose you are,” came the grudging answer. “But I’m so worried I can’t think straight. Whatever it is Edison wants—a contribution, support, introductions to your high-powered friends, whatever—you’ll just have to give it to him. That’s all there is to it.”
Margaret didn’t know what she was saying. Riva had to assume that that was it, anyway. Her sister really wasn’t rational where Erin was concerned. “I have no intention of giving Edison anything; he’s had enough from me. His worry should be what I can take from him.”
“Dearest heavenly Father, Riva! You’ll ruin everything. Edison won’t stand still for being threatened.”
“We’ll see.”
“Oh, my heart! I can feel it beating a mile a minute. I can’t stand this, Riva, I can’t. To think things should turn out this way. I can’t believe it’s happening.”
“Go take your medicine and lie down,” Riva said, her voice soothing. Margaret was certain she had their mother’s weak heart, though all the doctors could find were nervous palpitations. “Everything will be fine.”
“I hope you’re right, oh, I hope you’re right. But you’ll call me after your lunch with Edison, won’t you? I can’t stand not knowing what’s going on.”
“Yes, I’ll call you. Don’t worry.”
After a few more reassurances, Margaret hung up. Riva handed the receiver back to George, then sat back on the seat, watching the flow of interstate traffic around the limousine and the passing buildings without seeing them. It would be nice, she thought, if she could reassure herself.
FIVE
THE FIRST THING RIVA DID WHEN SHE reached the Staulet Building was to have her secretary call for a reservation at Commander’s, as the city’s premier restaurant was affectionately known.
She wished for the thousandth time that she had never agreed to the meeting with Edison. She should not have entered into any discussion with him on Saturday but only told him what she wanted and left him to do it or accept the consequences. That had been her plan, and it disturbed her to have it changed. However, there was no point in fretting over what could not be helped at this moment. She pushed all thought of it from her mind, concentrating on the problems at hand.
Staulet Corporation was an old company. It had had its beginnings just before the Civil War when Cosmo’s great grandfather had loaned money to a friend who was a cotton broker. The man had been a poor manager, and Staulet, though he came from a line of Creole aristocrats who scorned trade as a demeaning occupation, had taken an interest in the brokerage in order to protect his investment. He had discovered that he liked buying and selling, particularly when it came to parcels of land. It was he who had built Bonne Vie and also the folly in the middle of the pond. Though he had given his share of gold to the Confederate lost cause, being an astute man he had also shipped a considerable amount to England just before the blockade closed around the South. That money had enabled him and his son to prosper during Reconstruction, adding more land to their holdings.
By the time his grandson, Cosmo’s father, had come of age, the company had owned vast amounts of acreage in sugarcane and rice. It had also acquired enormous holdings of Louisiana swampland, much to the amusement of its competitors. It was this Staulet who had conceived a passion for travel by ship and also for commercial shipping, the last due mostly to his interest in bringing home the treasures he had collected in the Orient. He had sold his ships when the airlines began to cut into his profits, but by then he had amassed the collection of Chinese porcelain he donated to the state m
useum on his death. Among his other acquisitions were the fine jade collection that was a feature of the Staulet Building’s ground-floor entrance area and the great bronze Buddha that graced the folly at Bonne Vie.
It was Cosmo, however, who in the early fifties began to dabble in oil leases, turning the swamp muck the corporation had held so long into liquid gold.
Oil had played such an important part in Cosmo’s fortunes that it had been hard for him to accept that it could decline. Riva was the one who had convinced him that the flush times of the oil embargo could not last, that he was dangerously overextended in that area. She took no credit for projecting the decline that followed, nor for recognizing that microprocessors were going to fuel the surge that would carry them upward to the next level of prosperity. She had discovered this last from listening to Noel. But by then, Cosmo had been in no mood to see or hear his son, much less heed his advice. Her contribution was that she had encouraged Cosmo to allow Noel to go ahead in France with the development of this technology and actively supported the use of the Asian connections Noel had made that allowed the electronic components to be built so cheaply. In this at least she could feel she had held father and son together instead of driving them apart. It helped.
The morning went by much too fast. It seemed to Riva that she had just gotten started when her secretary tapped on the door and put her head inside to tell her the limousine was waiting downstairs to take her to the restaurant.
Riva closed the file she had been working on and capped her pen. Putting both aside, she took her purse from the bottom drawer of her mahogany desk and checked her makeup. She was just standing up, brushing the paper residue, an inescapable part of paperwork, from the skirt of her coral suit, when the door opened once more.
It was Noel who stepped inside. He paused when he saw her standing, then closed the door behind him and walked into the room.
“On your way to lunch with Gallant?”
“As it happens, yes.”
“I don’t suppose you need reinforcements?”
Crimes of Passion Page 111
