by Judith Gould
"I'll pass the word along," Santo said.
"You do that," Arielle replied, a bit more vinegar in her voice. "And while you're at it, tell him that they told me he hasn't sent back the signed divorce papers yet."
"I don't know about that," Santo said.
"I just bet you don't," she snapped. Then she sighed loudly again, as if suddenly realizing that she must take a different tack. Being demanding and unpleasant was getting her nowhere with Santo, and certainly wouldn't with Wyn, that she well knew. Thus, the hint of the helpless, little-girl plea that crept into her voice.
"Oh, Santo, please," she said rather sweetly. "You've got to help me. You're the only person who can. I don't know what I'm going to do. First the monthly support check's late, and now I find out he hasn't signed the divorce papers yet."
"I'll see what I can do," Santo said.
"Yes, please, Santo," she begged. "You know they won't release the final settlement check until he's signed everything, and I really need it. I mean, Christ, until the measly support check comes"—a sob that might arguably have been genuine caught in her throat— "it's all I can do to eat!"
Wyn almost laughed aloud when he heard this, but restrained himself. He knew that she was fairly certain he was listening, but he wanted to keep her guessing. If nothing else, it compounded her misery, and that gave him no end of pleasure.
"I'm sick and tired of the whole mess," Arielle went on. "I just want it over with, and I thought he did, too. It's time we both got on with our lives, you know? Even all the therapists say so. This isn't doing either one of us any good."
"I hear what you're saying," Santo said. He looked over at Wyn again and saw a twisted smile on his lips. He's really enjoying this, Santo thought. Sick fucker. He cleared his voice. "I'll do what I can, Arielle."
"Please do, Santo," she whined. "I mean, I always thought we were friends, you and me, and I really need your help." Her voice choked up again.
Was it real? Wyn wondered with amusement. Or had her acting abilities improved?
"Oh, Jesus!" she managed to cry. "If you only knew! They started to turn off the electricity today. It's that bad."
"I told you, Arielle," he said, "I'll do what I can. I promise you that."
"Well. . . thanks, Santo," she whimpered girlishly. "Talk to you later. Ciao."
They heard her hang up, and Santo reached over and turned off the speaker. The room was once again silent but for the collective breathing of the dogs. It was momentary, however.
"Of all the women I had back in those days," Wyn said ruefully, "I had to go and pick Arielle. What a joke." He began to laugh. It was a laugh that began somewhere deep down within him, gradually swelling up and out, filling the room with a roar. It was an evil sound, this laugh, and Santo turned and stared at his boss as did the wolfhounds.
He looks like a man possessed, Santo thought, almost mesmerized by Wyn's gleeful laugh. Possessed by a demon straight from hell. Sometimes lately, he'd begun to think that Wyn really had gone off the deep end.
Santo stared out through the French doors toward the swimming pool in the distance. He didn't want to be a witness to a scene that was, to his mind, sick, even perverse. It made him feel somehow unclean and stirred something deep down inside him, something frightening and inexplicable in his own nature that he'd yet to face.
When Wyn had at last exhausted his well of laughter, he got to his feet and padded over to a big Sicilian rococo gilt console. On its marble top were dozens of bottles—liquor, wine, seltzer, tonic, mixers, soda, and mineral water—a sterling ice bucket, and crystal glasses of every kind. He picked up a large crystal glass, plopped a few ice cubes in with tongs, and poured himself a glass of mineral water. He took a slice of lime from an ornate silver bowl and squeezed it into the drink, then tossed it in. Taking a crisp linen cocktail napkin from the stack that was replenished daily by Gerda, his Austrian housekeeper and cook, he nestled the glass in it, then turned to look at Santo. He took a sip of his water, staring at the giant's back across the room.
"You don't like it, do you, Santo?"
"Like what?" Santo said without turning around.
"This divorce business," Wyn said. "Making sure the monthly support checks are late and all that."
"It's none of my business."
"Then make it your business," Wyn said. "Tell me what you think."
Santo turned around and looked over at his boss. He could hardly make out Wyn's face at all beneath the cap. "Well, if I were you," he said, "number one, I'd send her monthly support check out. I could overnight it, you know. Number two," he went on, "I think you ought to go ahead and sign the papers and get this whole thing over with. You're spending a fortune on the lawyers as it is, and there's no advantage in dragging it out any longer."
"Oh, yes, there is," Wyn said with merriment.
"What?"
"It makes the bitch that much more miserable," Wyn said.
Santo sighed and rolled his eyes. "Well . . . yes," he agreed. "But—"
"Shut up, Santo," Wyn said. He took a long, leisurely swallow of the mineral water. "I'll sign the papers when I get good and ready. She's just in a hurry because she wants the settlement check."
He walked over to the table beside the wing chair and picked up the unlit cigarette from the ashtray, then stuck it in his mouth. "And she's in a hurry for the settlement check not only because she's a greedy little bitch but because she wants to tie the knot with that South American dude with the big equipment."
Santo sat down in the chair behind Wyn's desk. "Are you just pissed off and trying to punish her because she's found somebody she wants to marry?" he asked.
Wyn looked at him. "Maybe." He nodded. "That and a lot of other things."
"I still think you ought to let it go," Santo said. "It'd be the best thing for both of you. Get the whole thing over with. Besides, you know she's going to marry him no matter what."
"Maybe," Wyn agreed. "But I want to watch them squirm a little while longer." He smiled widely, a smile that even Santo could see from across the room. "It'll be interesting to see if her stud decides to stick around or vamoose for richer territory."
"Maybe they're really in love," Santo suggested.
"Aw, Jesus, Santo," Wyn said with exasperation. "They're both like sharks on the prowl, seeing what they can finagle out of each other. Sometimes I think you're as stupid as you are ugly. Love!" He barked a laugh. "Sex and money make the world go around," he said, pointing a finger at Santo. "Love's got nothing to do with it, my friend. And don't you forget it."
Santo stared at him, then cleared his throat. "I'm not ugly."
"Yeah, well, I didn't mean that," Wyn said. "What I meant was . . . menacing. You look menacing."
Santo smiled. "Menacing," he said, as if tasting the word on his tongue. "I like that. Yeah, I can deal with that. Menacing."
"I would hope so," Wyn said. "It's one of the reasons you work for me." He got to his feet and stretched. "What time is it?"
Santo looked at the gold Rolex on his wrist, a gift from Wyn. "About ten."
"It's time," Wyn said.
Santo nodded. "I'll be right back." He rose to his feet and strode in a ripple of muscles out of the library.
Wyn walked over to one of the French doors and stood gazing out at the pool, thoughts of Arielle swirling in his head. Paddy, one of the wolfhounds, bounded off the couch and edged up to his side, nuzzling him. Wyn idly stroked the massive dog's head.
"She may be a beauty, Paddy," he said thoughtfully, "but she's also a bitch. And she's got it coming to her . . . anything I dish out. She's got it coming to her."
Santo returned to the library. In one hand he gripped a black leather bag that he placed on the desk. He opened it and extracted a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a paper packet containing a cotton swab. Setting them aside, he delved back into the bag and withdrew a glass, rubber-topped medicine bottle and a still- packaged disposable syringe and needle.
From the French doors, W
yn turned and watched as Santo tore the wrapper off the syringe, then inserted the needle in the rubber-topped glass container. The syringe filled with a colorless fluid. When Santo was finished, he looked over at Wyn.
Wyn walked to the desk, loosened his sweatpants, and pulled down his jockstrap. He put both hands on the desk and bent over, exposing his bare buttocks to the air. He jerked involuntarily as the cold alcohol hit his ass, then gradually relaxed. He didn't tense up when he felt a prick of pain as the needle plunged in. He waited a moment, the breath caught in his throat, and there it was. That almost instantaneous—he was always amazed that it only took mere seconds—feeling that washed over him as the drug's powerful effect began to work on his body.
As he straightened up, he could feel himself already begin to drift. He bent down and pulled up his jockstrap and sweatpants. Then he turned around, his eyes blinking slowly as they swept the magnificence of the mahogany-paneled library. Santo came to his side, and a faint smile touched Wyn's lips.
He began walking, slowly and deliberately, toward the spiral stairs that led up to the balcony, which ran around three walls of the library. When he reached the balcony, he went through a hidden jib door built into the balcony bookcases, and on down a hallway to his bedroom. Santo was right behind him, shadowing his every step, following him to the bedroom, to make certain he got there.
Even before they reached the darkness of his inner sanctum, Wyn felt himself begin to float, detaching from this place as if he were a balloon let loose to drift in the sky. Floating above it all up to a better place, a place with no pain, a place with no harsh realities. Floating, floating.
Chapter Five
Teddy de Mornay was comfortably sprawled in the office desk chair at Apple Hill Farm, his feet propped up on the desk. There was a glint of mischief in his eyes as he hung up the telephone, and he smiled widely when Lydia Parsons, his part-time secretary, click-clacked into the office on zebra-print stiletto heels.
"Hey, Lydia," he said. "How are you this morning?"
Lydia Parsons, her hair dyed a flaming red and set in huge swirls that looked as if they'd been fixed in place with cement, returned his smile, revealing big, yellowing teeth. "I'm fine, Teddy," she said. Her eyes narrowed as she looked down at his feet on the desk. "I see you've been out riding this morning."
"Yep," he replied, knocking his cowboy boots together.
"What's the big occasion?" she asked, knowing he despised horses.
"Oh, you know Val," he replied. "She claims old Kaiser doesn't get enough exercise and says I ought to ride him more."
"Aha," Lydia exclaimed. "So you're trying to impress your honey, doing all these things you hate to do."
"Huh," Teddy grunted noncommitally, although trying to please Valerie was exactly what he'd been doing. He'd gotten up early this morning, put on worn cowboy boots and old Levi's, and taken a short ride up into the hills. It had been beautiful, and he'd hated every single minute of it.
"Bet you two had fun this weekend," Lydia said with a lewd wink.
"That, too."
"Good," she said. "Because you've got a busy week ahead of you."
"What's up?" he asked.
She walked over to her desk and picked up a clipboard. "Let's see," she began. "Today we've got the pool cleaners. No big deal. The nursery guys are coming to do some general garden maintenance and see about that big maple that was struck by lightning. Then the painter's supposed to be here to do an estimate on painting the guest house, but that's Sammy Burke—" she looked over at him meaningfully—"so you never know if the son of a bitch will show up. He might be on a bender."
Teddy laughed.
She looked down at the clipboard again. "Then there's a stack of paperwork to sign, a bunch of checks to get out, some money transfers to take care of . . ."
"Never mind," Teddy said testily. He reached over and unceremoniously jerked the clipboard out of her hands, failing to notice the bright purple nail polish with little gold stars she'd had applied at the mall beauty parlor over the weekend.
Lydia stared at him, one hand on a hip, as he perused the clipboard briefly, then tossed it on the desk.
"Damn," he said. "There's a lot to do. And I've got to have dinner with Mrs. de la Rochelle to boot."
"Well. . . ," Lydia said, brushing imaginary lint off of her leopard-print blouse, "there's nothing here that I can't handle by myself, Teddy. Except for signing some of the paperwork. You could do that later or tomorrow. You don't have to stick around."
Teddy looked off into the distance, then back up at Lydia, really seeing her for the first time this morning. She looks like a circus clown, he thought uncharitably. All that makeup: blue eyeshadow, red, red rouge, purplish lipstick. Big red hair. And those clothes! Leopard blouse with tiger skirt. Lots of cheap costume jewelry. Zebra-print stiletto heels with little leopard bows. She's sixty going on sixteen.
He kept his thoughts to himself, however, because Lydia Parsons was an ace secretary, a great organizer, knew everybody in the area, and was fearless. She could get almost anything she wanted out of anybody. Plus, she was utterly devoted to him, and, he was certain, would hop into the old sack with him at a moment's notice. Not that he wanted her. God, no.
"Do you think you could hold down the fort for the next couple of hours?" he asked at last. "Just till after lunch, say?"
Lydia laughed good-naturedly, bending over his desk, exposing a couple of inches of cleavage. "Sure," she said. "It's done." She eyed him fondly—and conspiratorially. "You never could keep that thing in your pants, could you, Teddy?"
He shrugged. "Why should I?"
"Never was a truer word spoken," she countered with a cackle.
He got to his feet, leaned down, and planted a noisy kiss on Lydia's cheek. "You're an angel from heaven," he said, tapping her on her ample butt.
"And you're the devil from hell," she retorted. "But I love you anyway."
"See you in a bit," he said, already heading out to his car.
"Yeah," she said. "See you." She watched through the window as he hopped into his silver Jaguar convertible and fired it up. The top was down, and as he drove off, his blond hair was tossed about in the wind.
Jeez, she thought, he is a vision. I wouldn't mind a little of that myself. But she knew better than to pursue it because she and Teddy had a good thing going as it was. Strictly business. And sometimes, Lydia had decided wisely, that was the best way to keep things. Besides, she thought, a smile of wicked pleasure on her purple lips, I've got Randy, and he's more than enough for one woman to handle. Twenty-three years old and just full of energy!
Teddy's Jaguar spewed gravel as he pulled out of the drive and onto the highway. It was only five or six miles down the road to the little clapboard cottage that Tiffani Grant leased from him—at a greatly reduced rent—but he was in a hurry to get there. Monday was her day off work, and he didn't spend many Mondays in the country.
When he'd called her after his horseback ride, she'd picked up after several rings, sleep still in her voice. He could just see her, still in bed, bleached blond hair disheveled, a sexy nightie or, better yet, nothing at all on, a sheet draped over those big breasts, curled up in a big warm bed waiting for him. Teddy could feel a rise in his pants just thinking about it, and stepped on the gas.
When he neared the dirt road that led to the old cottage, he began to brake, then made the right turn off the highway and sped the hundred feet or so to the house, the car leaving a dust cloud in its wake. Circling around in the back to park, he drove across the lawn and pulled in close to the house where his car wouldn't be visible from the highway. Even though he owned the property, he didn't want anybody to see his car parked there for too long a time.
No need to give any of the old biddies around here an excuse to talk, he thought. They all think I'm a perfect gentleman with real class. One of the few city people who treats the locals with the respect they deserve. He laughed aloud. If they only knew! He loved fooling them, and he lov
ed the sneaking around. That was part of the fun for him, because he had a real taste for the illicit. In fact, he had never really enjoyed sex much unless it involved some kind of subterfuge.
He hopped out of the car and bounded up the wooden steps to the back door, knocking on it a couple of times with his knuckles. When she didn't respond immediately, he tried the knob. Damn! he thought. It's locked. But before he could dash around to the front, he could hear Tiffani hurrying through the kitchen, headed to the door.
After fumbling with locks, she opened the door a crack and looked up at him. "Teddy," she said, smiling lasciviously.
He pushed his way in, then turned around and pulled her to him. She had a big pink towel wrapped around her voluptuous body, and her long, bleach- streaked hair was still wet from the shower.
"Hey, Tiff," he said, his hands already on her buttocks, pushing her hard against him. His mouth was on her neck then, kissing and licking and nibbling.
"Wait, Teddy," she said, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. "Just a minute."
He lifted his head and looked at her. "What is it, babe?" he said.
She smiled again, then slammed the door shut behind her and jerked off the towel. It fell to the floor in a heap.
Teddy stared at her body, his eyes sweeping her up and down, widening at the sight of her large creamy breasts with their raspberry nipples, lingering momentarily on her firm creamy thighs, fixing themselves hungrily on the completely shaved honeypot that lay between them. He groaned aloud, then threw himself against her, his hands everywhere at once.
Tiffani giggled gleefully and struggled against him. "Come on, Teddy," she gasped. "Not here. Let's go into the bedroom."
He followed her across the kitchen's worn linoleum, through the little dining room and living room, and down a hallway to one of the two bedrooms, getting out of his polo shirt as they went. In the bedroom, he quickly pulled off his cowboy boots and tossed them on the floor, then loosened his belt and took off his jeans, throwing them on top of the boots.
