Hot Legs

by Susan Johnson

  That tone of voice—crisp and commanding. She didn’t argue.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THEY TOOK A CAB FROM THE HOUSEBOAT TO the museum ramp, where they rescued Cassie’s car rather than bother Joe on the weekend. From there they drove to Cassie’s house so she could change from her Friday clothes—not that she’d needed many clothes that weekend—a circumstance of much personal satisfaction to them both.

  After rummaging through her closet, Cassie decided on a cropped black twill jacket, Ksubi jeans, and bright yellow wedge sandals for the birthday party, while Bobby wore his usual uniform of khaki shorts and a T-shirt.

  She drove because Bobby’s long legs didn’t fit comfortably on the driver’s side of her small Ford Focus. Taking a short detour to Creative Kid’s Stuff, they chose a gift for Flora—a small baby doll with a suitcase full of clothes. The store specialized in educational toys, but both Cassie and Bobby agreed that they’d preferred toy toys when they were young and went with the doll.

  As they approached Sarah’s house on the tree-lined street, Bobby slumped lower in the seat—or marginally lower. His side of the car was maxed out for leg room. “Why the hell are we doing this?” he muttered.

  Cassie smiled. “I don’t know about you, but I know why I’m doing this.”

  He scowled. “Cute.”

  “And face it, Arthur expects compliance.”

  “Not from me.”

  “Then why are you here?” she asked, when she should have never, never, never been so stupid. When she should have pretended his ex-wife didn’t exist. When she should have turned around and driven away at his first equivocal question and worried about Arthur later.

  “Pull over. Give me a minute.”

  Great, now he was going to do the nostalgia playback, mentally running through all the glorious times he’d shared with Claire and get all sentimental, and she was going to be driving home alone because she didn’t have sense enough to keep her mouth shut. Damn. It was a crying shame. However temporary his presence in her life, the amazing sex was going to be damned hard to give up.

  He was staring straight ahead, his gaze unblinking, his broad-shouldered, powerful body filling that side of the car. Five seconds passed, ten, and another ten, then he inhaled, glanced at her, and smiled tightly. “Let’s go.”

  A rush of questions filled her mind: What was he thinking? Was he thinking of Claire? Of course he was thinking of Claire. Could he have been contemplating something about Arthur instead—yeah, right—get real. God—how should she act when they went inside? What was expected of her? Look, she was just assisting in his detective work, she answered herself. Nothing was expected of her but gopher work.

  Fine. Good. She just had to walk inside, find some quiet corner to hide in, and wait until the great Bobby Serre was ready to leave.

  It didn’t matter if he had an ex-wife who looked like some goddamned supermodel. It didn’t matter if he was carrying a ten-foot-high torch for her. It didn’t even matter that Arthur and his two, and maybe three, wives were going to all be under the same roof. Just pretend everything is normal. Pretend you’re onstage in some weird off-Broadway play with totally dysfunctional characters in the cast, and once the shipwreck of a play is over, you can get back in your car and drive away.

  Hopefully not alone.

  For sure, hopefully, not with Arthur—her sudden scary flip of mind so frightening she momentarily questioned her sanity. Arthur—ugh! Even if she could afford a therapist, she would never, ever mention so aberrant a thought. Something must have short-circuited in her brain for a second. Lack of sleep this weekend. That was it. An explanation she could live with. Relax.

  Okay, so the play is over, she’s back in her car, and when she looks over, Bobby Serre is smiling at her.

  Like that.

  “Jeez, you do daydream. I’m going to tell your sister she’s right.”

  They were parked alongside the curb by some miracle of subconscious reflexes like when you talked on your cell phone all the way home and had absolutely no memory of having driven twenty miles in rush-hour traffic.

  “I’m not daydreaming. I’m concentrating on parking.”

  “Then you might want to move up,” he murmured. “There’s a tree blocking my door.”

  That’s what came from blatant lying. You had a real good chance of being caught. “Sorry, I was busy checking the traffic on the street,” she said, lying again because, on a day like today, or at least at a time like this when she was facing various possible disasters, lying was the only option to telling the truth and looking completely insane.

  Because she certainly couldn’t mention that his ex-wife was giving her hives when there wasn’t a reason in the world why she should care or he should care that she cared, when their relationship was essentially carnal and sure to be shortlived.

  “Are you going to move up, or will you be going in alone?”

  “Sorry.” She couldn’t even think of a suitable lie this time, and silently putting the car in gear, eased forward enough so the passenger door opened.

  He got out quickly, she noticed, as if afraid she might keep him prisoner against his will. Or so her paranoia surmised. The rational part of her brain, functioning less well in these stressful circumstances, suggested she get out of the car and deal with the what-ifs and uncertainties at some later date. Preferably when she had all her faculties operating once again.

  Opening the back door, Bobby took out the present and gave her a searching glance. “Ready?”

  She nodded much like a convict about to ascend the scaffold might, stiffly, with a big lump in her throat, and really cold feet.

  He held out his hand, which eased the constriction in her throat, and his sudden smile did much to warm her heart and feet. Walking over, she took his hand.

  He grinned. “What say—into the jaws of hell?”

  “Your marriage must have been as good as mine.”

  “Don’t forget the certainty of Arthur’s inquisition.”

  “I’m only giving name, rank, and serial number. Actually, I’m planning on hiding until you’re ready to leave.”

  His mouth quirked. “Coward.”

  “Uh-uh. Prudent. I’m guessing I don’t have a lot of friends in there.”

  * * *

  IF NOT PRESCIENT, Cassie was capable of shrewd deductive reasoning. Sure enough, the moment they walked in the house and Sarah accepted their gift, Claire glided over as though she were a human hovercraft and took Bobby away. Ducking under Arthur’s beady radar, Cassie made her getaway to the bathroom farthest from the party activities.

  “Come say hello to Arthur,” Claire said, taking Bobby’s hand and drawing him toward the study. “Jessica is hiding from Arthur’s exes.”

  “One big happy family, I see.”

  “If you only knew, darling.” She smiled up at him. “The dynamics remind me of that Christmas in Bath when Georgie and his new wife and ex-wife were celebrating the holidays in residence at his little restored vicarage.”

  “Don’t remind me.” The tension had been something fierce, although everyone tried to be polite for the sake of the children.

  “Ah, there you are,” Claire called out as they entered the study lined with bookshelves displaying Sarah’s collection of first editions and Daum glass.

  “Have you ever seen so many little useless objects?” Jessica said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Such clutter.”

  “It’s certainly not my style,” Claire smoothly replied. “Have you met Bobby Serre?”

  “I’ve certainly heard a lot about him,” Arthur’s youngish wife murmured, smiling up at Bobby. “How nice to finally meet you. Arthur tells me you’re going to save the museum from ruin.”

  “Nothing so dramatic,” he replied, thinking Arthur had outdone himself with Jessica’s engagement diamond. It was blinding. “The Rubens will turn up. And Arthur will be back in business soon.”

  “Didn’t I tell you? You see that assurance.” Arthur smiled at hi
s wife and then turned to Bobby. “I told the trustees you were on the job, my boy, and all will be well.”

  “These usually work out one way or another,” Bobby blandly said.

  “Because Bobby is the best,” Claire cooed, leaning into his arm. “He always has been.”

  “You two seem to be getting along,” Arthur slyly said.

  “Don’t we look good together?” Claire flirtatiously purred.

  “A matched pair without a doubt.” Arthur’s gaze narrowed. “And you certainly have things in common.”

  “I suppose we have one or two things,” Claire playfully noted. “Do you remember that little villa along the Bosporus and that summer in St. Petersburg when we walked along the Neva every night and the sun never set?”

  “I remember,” Bobby said, besieged by memories, the feel and scent of Claire familiar.

  “Have you been in St. Petersburg during their white nights?” Claire asked Jessica. “It’s quite spectacular.”

  “We were there last June. Arthur was a dear and bought me some wonderful furs.”

  “You can’t beat their prices,” Arthur acknowledged. “Sable at half price. You can’t pass that up.”

  “Arthur, dear,” Jessica said, pointing at her Rolex. “Gwen’s expecting us. It’s one of those affairs you can’t get out of,” she explained.

  “We have a charity event.” Arthur half smiled. “Is it birds or tennis?”

  “The arboretum. They need so many things,” Jessica murmured.

  As though anyone believed the arboretum couldn’t wait a few hours.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you,” Bobby said, smiling at Arthur’s newest wife, a younger facsimile of his exes. Although this one might have been a couple inches taller.

  “If you’ll excuse us,” Arthur murmured, “we’ll say good-bye to the birthday girl and be on our way.”

  “The new wife lasted a full twenty minutes,” Claire said under her breath as their companions moved away.

  “Arthur has his hands full.” It was an observation only; Arthur could take care of himself.

  “He likes new toys.”

  “I understand. What I don’t understand is why he can’t tell the difference between a toy and a wife?”

  “The children, I suppose.”

  “You’re right. But Jessica now. He could have waited.”

  “Maybe he’s in love.”

  Bobby shot her a dubious look. “You jest.”

  “It happens. For instance, as I recall, you were rather amorous at one time. Remember how you couldn’t wait that time in Paris and we made use of that janitor’s closet at the Louvre?”

  He could have said that wasn’t precisely love, but smiled politely instead and said, “I remember.”

  “And the Medici Gallery in Florence. You were one randy young stud. I don’t think we made it through more than one gallery when—” she glanced up as a caterer entered the study with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Get out!” she snapped. “Can’t you see we’re talking?”

  The sharp-as-a-blade tone reminded him of other times when he’d heard that barbed edge. Of the hundreds of times he’d heard it. Claire could never treat a chambermaid or a waitress or waiter with courtesy.

  “Darling, you have to come to New York and stay with me,” she said, switching to a soft, cajoling tone. “We’ll have such fun. Remember how much fun we used to have in bed?” She tightened her hold on his arm. “Come. I insist.”

  He shook his head. “I’m working.”

  “Pooh. How long can it take to find a painting in this quaint little town?”

  He shrugged. “Hard to tell.”

  “Promise you’ll come as soon as you’re done then.” Her tone was sultry and low, her breast rubbing against his arm.

  “I can’t.”

  She made a little moue. “Of course you can.”

  “Jorge is waiting for me after this. He has a job in Bulgaria.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “That trashy little man. I’m surprised you still do business with him.”

  “He’s a friend,” Bobby said cooly.

  “Don’t get all touchy and sulky, darling,” she murmured, moving around to face him so her body was brushing up against him. “If you like Jorge, I like Jorge. Just tell me when you can come and see me.”

  “I’ll let you know.” He thought of Cassie, who didn’t play games like this, who said what she meant with refreshing candor, who was hiding out somewhere waiting for Arthur to leave. “Look, I have to find Cassandra. She’s secreted away somewhere waiting for Arthur to leave.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Claire casually said, not about to give up on the man she’d come so far to see. “She seems sweet—with a Midwestern kind of naturalness. I’m always reminded of rosy-cheeked farm girls when I’m in town.”

  Bobby gave her a faintly incredulous look. Cassie was about as far from a farm girl as the Venus de Milo.

  “What? You don’t agree?”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “What does matter is if she’s been helpful to you. Has she?” Claire watched his face closely.

  “Yes. She knows the museum,” Bobby neutrally replied, surveying the rooms on either side as they moved down the hall.

  “Married, single?”

  “Divorced.”

  “Ah.”

  “Meaning?” He slanted a look at her and didn’t like what he saw.

  “I imagine she’s being helpful in more ways than one, then.”

  “Look, Claire, just leave her alone. She’s a nice kid.” Cassie wasn’t in the great room where they were handing out birthday cake. He’d check out the bedrooms.

  “I can see that. Don’t worry about me, darling. I’m nice to everyone.”

  “I don’t really need an escort,” he pointedly said.

  “You needn’t be rude. I haven’t seen you in years.”

  “Fine. But mind your manners.”

  “Of course, darling. If you like this woman I’ll be nice as can be to her.”

  “Jesus. Give me a break.”

  One bedroom, two, three, and four. Nothing. Which left the bathrooms. He decided to check the farthest one first, Claire keeping up a pointless conversation about their old friends as they moved through the house.

  * * *

  CASSIE HAD STAYED in the bathroom so long, she’d memorized all the prescriptions in the medicine cabinet, read the two magazines that rested on the edge of the tub, and counted the tiles by twos and threes, perfecting her memory of the three sequences that had become rusty over the years.

  “Cassie, are you in there?”

  It was Bobby’s voice. Relief washed over her. “Is it safe?” she cried.

  “It’s safe. Arthur’s gone. Come out.”

  What he failed to say was that he wasn’t alone, and when she opened the door and saw him standing there with Claire clinging to his arm, she almost screamed.

  It was the shock, really . . . that was all.

  And she managed to stifle her scream—sort of.

  If he could have, he would have shaken off Claire, who had suddenly grabbed him as the bathroom door began to open. “The coast is clear,” he said. “Come have some birthday cake, and we’ll say good-bye.”

  The coast didn’t look real clear to her. From where she was standing, the coast looked way the hell too full.

  Of ex-wives for one thing.

  And smiley ex-wife’s faces for another.

  She was screwed.

  But Cassie composed her tumultuous, unfriendly thoughts, put a smile on her face—although it couldn’t compare to the genuine one before her—and said, “Great. Cake. I can hardly wait.”

  * * *

  SHE HAD NO choice. She had to follow the happy couple back into the great room where cake was being dispensed by the caterer. She had to keep her fake smile in place while sitting on the Provencal print couch eating the pink cake with pink frosting and drinking her pink champagne. She had to keep smiling even when
Bobby disappeared, pulled outside by some male guest who was talking loudly about a putting green and she found herself alone in a room full of strangers. Sarah and Paige were outside with the children, overseeing the hired clown who was doing magic tricks for the benefit of the under-fives. Perfect, she thought. This is the way I want to spend my Sunday afternoon. She couldn’t even get her flute refilled because the waiters had disappeared.

  The only very small consolation was the pink cake, which was very good. In her current disgruntled mood, she didn’t even care if it was three thousand calories. She required a lift to her spirits even if it was only a sugar rush. Please, God, get me out of here, she thought, or if that’s not possible, have a waiter bring me more champagne.

  She was willing to be flexible with the almighty.

  But instead of the hand of God or a waiter, Claire appeared so suddenly, Cassie considered some divine intervention of the satanic kind might have been at play.

  She’d looked down at her plate for only a second, and when she’d looked up, Claire stood smiling at her.

  It wasn’t the same smiley smile she’d previously seen.

  It was one of those little, nasty smiles with an edge and the potential for violence behind it.

  “You look out of place,” Claire said, looking stylish in black pin-striped slacks, a white blouse, and a fortune in bulky gold jewelry. “Feel free to leave. I’ll take care of Bobby.”

  For a moment Cassie was speechless. Claire’s rudeness was as unsubtle as a hammer blow.

  “I’m sure Bobby appreciates your taking notes for him or whatever you do,” Claire snidely added. “But now that I’m in town, I’ll take over.”

  Take over? As in the new drug dealer in the neighborhood? Or as in second-string quarterback? “I’m not sure there’s anything to take over,” Cassie said, offering Claire a bland look. “If he has any questions about the museum or the collection, I’m there to help. You wouldn’t be very useful in that capacity.”

  Claire quickly glanced around and then sat down beside Cassie and murmured, “Listen, darling—” the designation so chill it could have cooled the Sahara for a year. “I know Bobby better than anyone, and he’s not asking you any questions about the museum. We both know what’s going on, so spare me the fabrications. I suggest you leave—now.”