"Turn around," he said. "Turn and pick up the mitt you dropped, you clumsy girl. "
Lily barely knew what happened after that. Her heart was pounding so wildly she couldn't think. Her encounters with him had always blurred into one glaring red stream of stimulation from which she emerged gasping and ashamed. She did as he said, of course. She always did as he said.
"No, don't crouch, bend," he told her. "Bend from the waist. Show me the bruises on your buttocks. "
Moments later, she was bent double like a gymnast, and the naked man who'd joined her in the shower was caressing her flared hips and driving deeply into her quaking, madly orgasming body. God, the pleasure he gave her! She knew it was wrong—very wrong—but she couldn't resist the way he took over at moments like this. His power and unyielding control of the situation were her only addictions in life. In that way he was exactly like her father.
When there's a choice between two evils, pick the one you haven't tried. Few proverbs spoke to the dark night of Webb Calderon's soul the way that one did. He was thoroughly versed in the distractions of sin and iniquity, so much so, he wouldn't have bet there were two choices left. But that was before the Featherstones. Their situation offered such an embarrassment of evils, even Webb couldn't seem to make up his mind. It was almost enough watching the very proper family reduced to a circus act by the presence of Jack Culhane.
Almost...
He set down the magnifying glass he'd been using to study an early seventeenth-century drawing by Guercino, pleased that the work appeared to be authentic. The artist's style had a naturalism that conveyed passion, yet nothing was sloppy or uncontrolled. It was all there in the details. Guercino was less a perfectionist than a precisionist, Webb had decided.
Interesting that all of those qualities applied to another artist as well. There were all kinds of craftsmen, and Jack Culhane had impressed Webb with his technical precision, as well as his flair for drama. He'd lived up to his legend as The Magician with that secret passageway business—Webb smiled fleetingly. That had been a nice touch. He'd thought Lake was going to have an aneurysm.
And yet there was another quality in Culhane that intrigued Webb more. Da Vinci had called it virtu spirituale, and the artist had tried to capture its essence in his writings and drawings. "It lives by violence and dies by liberty, " he'd written. "It grows slowly from small beginnings, to terrible and marvelous energy, and by compression of itself, compels all things. " Other names had been attached to this energy—life force, cosmic force, but Webb was convinced the artist had been talking about something dark, the kind of force that drove the men who kept it contained and violent within them, men like Culhane.
Suddenly restless himself, Webb rose from the drafting table where he'd been working all afternoon. Outside in the courtyard, a flock of cliff swallows had forsaken the bluffs for his dogwood trees, and they were fluttering through the leafy branches, chirruping wildly, in a frenzy over something. Their glorious greed for life—for food, territory, sex, or whatever was at risk now—echoed through the silent halls of the Spanish-style hacienda that was his southern California home.
He walked across dark wood and an old Aubusson carpet to the arched entrance of his study and gazed down the sprawling length of the house to the magnificent vista that lay beyond. He'd bought the oceanfront acreage and two-story adobe mansion as much for the tiled elegance of its breezy courtyards as for its view of the Pacific. But the sight of all that misty blue, of vast waters bleeding into an even vaster sky, never failed to hold him for a moment and remind him where he was.
The hacienda clung precariously to the cliffs of Malibu, and it had always struck Webb as ironic that the Big One, whether earthquake or mudslide, would send it—and him— into freefall. Ironic because very little of what he owned held any attachment for him, but he did feel a bond with this house and its profound contrasts. While this floor was sweeping, sunstruck and open to the elements, the level below housed a very unusual collection. Unlike the Featherstone's gallery of old masters, Webb's gallery of antiquities from the Spanish Inquisition boasted an entire camara de tortura.
Webb wasn't into S&M, however. He was into sensation. The crimes of his childhood had robbed him of the ability to feel except in rather extreme circumstances, and the experience of pleasure and pain was nearly the same to him now. He also understood, without modesty or ego, that what set him apart even further from the norm was his preternatural instinct for reading vulnerability in others, his restless and predatory intelligence. He had a sixth sense about people and situations.
Perhaps that was why he found the attraction between Jack Culhane and Gus Featherstone so fascinating. Whether they knew it or not, they were on a collision course. Culhane was a man driven by the darkest of forces, blood justice, and she was a woman as determined to redeem and prove herself as the sun was to rise. Like darkness and light, they could not exist together. They were doomed to extinguish each other.
She had already sensed that at the Featherstone party. He could see it in her eyes as she searched the room, and when finally she'd focused on him, he'd known it would only be a matter of time. She would be coming to see him, coming for the kind of help that only he could give her. And perhaps he would, if she helped him. It depended on how badly she wanted this magazine of hers, this foundation.
Webb returned to his desk and reached for the Tarot cards he kept in a carved teak box. He opened the pack, drew out the deck and began to lay out the sinister artwork, prophecy of a future that was hopelessly mired in the past. Jack Culhane had Da Vinci's force harnessed inside him, the force that drove away in fury whatever stood in the way of its ruin, according to the artist. Webb was virtually certain that he knew which way the virtu spirituale would take Culhane next. He wondered if the cards did.
Chapter 19
"People believe they can buy self-esteem!" Gus Asserted. "I want them to know it's an inside job. ATTITUDE'S manifesto will be freedom. I don't want women to be slaves to fashion. I want our readers to create a look so distinctive, so uniquely them, that no one can tell them they're in or out of fashion. "
Gus's words were filled with passion—there was no doubt she believed in what she was saying. Fortunately, the senior editorial staff of ATTITUDE seemed to have been infected with her brio. Consigned to folding chairs in the huge, unfinished editorial department, they laughed and applauded and razzed her as she paced the sawdust-strewn floor and pitched her concept of the magazine. She had done it before, with each of them individually when she offered them positions on the staff, but never with such conviction. This afternoon she was a preacher in the wilderness, sent to save heathen souls.
Earlier in the week she had leased the twentieth and twenty-first floors of this newly renovated bank building on
Wilshire. She'd assembled the staff for what was supposed to have been a brainstorming session, but so far it had been a one-woman show. In her excitement she'd nearly turned it into an infomercial.
"I'm sorry. " Registering the amused expressions of the small group, she gave her head a slap with the heel of her hand. "I haven't given anyone else a chance to speak, have I?"
"Where'd you train?" Lisa Burns, the art director, wanted to know. "The Ross Perot school of debate?"
Applause broke out, and the young woman, a talented former Elle staffer, acknowledged it with a dip of her head. She then helped herself to the last piece of ham and pineapple pizza from a card table strewn with empty boxes and settled back to munch it, kicking her feet up on the table.
Dirty feet, Gus thought. The soles of her art director's feet were black everywhere that they weren't sprinkled with sawdust! It was exactly the sort of personal style statement Gus wanted for her magazine. Thirty-something and a lovely, sunstreaked blonde, Lisa had dressed unapologetically in Chinese refugee clothing and gone barefoot! Just for fun, Gus had invited her staff to come as who you really are, and she'd been astonished at their responses. She should have worn her boxer shorts instead of de
nim jeans.
The sounds of industrious hammering and drilling came from down the hallway, where a crew was still working on the building's renovations. Gus went to shut the office door, yelling at her people over the noise. "Fire away. I want to know what you think. "
The racket could still be heard as she returned to the session, but she decided to take it as a good omen. Everything was under construction, she realized—the building, her magazine, and in some ways, her life. Maybe it symbolized new beginnings, which, if she were really being optimistic, could mean that Culhane wouldn't kill her with his bare hands when she got home.
ATTITUDE'S editor-in-chief jumped in first. "The way I see it this magazine is about self-discovery and the courage to be what you find. " A forty-five-year-old redhead, Jackie
Sanderson had washed the dye out of her hair and come with gray strands sprinkling her abundant natural curls. She'd also dressed in a silver Lycra catsuit and worn clear plastic slingbacks. Hussy-red toenails were the only touch of color offsetting the quicksilver explosion.
"It's about going boldly where no one has gone before, " she told them, grinning as she stood up to show off her pear-shaped, less-than-perfect figure. "Into your own heart, to find out who lives there. "
"So tell us, Jackie, " the sales director quipped. "Who lives in your heart today? Heidi Fleiss?"
"Yes!" someone agreed, though it wasn't clear with which statement.
Gus agreed, too. "Brava, Jackie! But how do we put that concept in front of the masses? More important, how do we let them know this magazine is for everyone, that we all yearn to stop hiding and be who we really are?"
Gus thought about her stammer, which hadn't evidenced itself yet today. She'd been artfully disguising it for so many years, she wasn't honestly sure she could reveal that much of herself, even to these people, much less the world. But what a relief it would be to be free of the secret!
"We get the message across by the people we choose for our cover, " Lisa announced, chewing on a piece of pineapple. "They should be mavericks who've blazed their own trails, maybe even gone up against the system. How about Heidi Fleiss?"
"Old news, " Sammy Frye, the sales director, shot back, adjusting his Hugo Boss tie. "If we want to pull the Generation X demographics, we've gotta be now. We've got to be tomorrow. "
An aging Generation Xer himself, he'd come dressed in a Brooks Brothers power-lunch suit that brought to mind the movie Wall Street and Gordon Gecko's "greed is good" statement. His only concession to the otherwise funky mood was a ponytail that hung halfway down his back. "And no dead divas, either, like Jackie O. "
"I love Jackie O!" The editor-in-chief folded her arms over her chest and sank down in a mock sulk.
"Only because you were named for her, " someone rifled.
As the group became embroiled in a heated discussion of "hot" cover concepts, Gus's attention was drawn to the one silent figure sitting in the back. Her former fiancé seemed determined to be the wet blanket at this planning session. Rob Emory had arrived late, and he clearly wasn't happy about anything that was going on.
Gus suspected it had more to do with their personal life than the magazine. He hadn't stayed for dinner after the embarrassment with Jack. He'd left the mansion in a huff and with considerable egg on his face for a man who hadn't eaten. Gus knew he felt betrayed, but then so did she. He hadn't told her the truth about the detective. She did have some sympathy for his situation, however. She wouldn't have liked it if some woman had dropped like a bomb into his life the way Jack Culhane had dropped into hers. He must also sense that she was having second thoughts about him and their relationship. But who wouldn't be, under the circumstances? How many relationships could take this kind of strain?
"We are going for a national launch, aren't we?" Lisa Burns wanted to know. "It would be easier to get somebody hot for the cover if we could promise them the launch issue of a national campaign. "
"That's the plan, " Gus assured her. "We're still crunching numbers, so don't put anything in writing. If American Naturals goes for the marketing partnership we've proposed, it's a go. "
A raspy noise drew everyone's attention. It was the sound of Rob's chair scraping across the floor as he stood.
"I'm afraid it's not, Gus. " he said, rising. "Not even with American Naturals. I wish I didn't have to rain on this parade of yours. I know how badly you want a big, splashy launch, but 1 spent the morning with the accountant going over the figures, and it's going to take another infusion of cash. There's no way to do it, otherwise. "
He might as well have told them the parade had been canceled. Gus was astonished that he'd made the announcement without warning her first or giving her time to prepare. Everyone had sobered and she could see the disappointment on their faces, but didn't know how to reassure them at this point. She'd been taken off guard.
"Then we'll get more cash, " she said. "We'll increase our advertising pages. Clairol's new Natural Instincts line would be perfect for ATTITUDES. I'll use my modeling c-contacts. " She'd gotten the word out, but just barely, and now everyone was staring at her expectantly. Perspiration broke out on her forehead and chilled the back of her neck. She couldn't go on. The pounding in her ears was so insistent it could have been the thunder coming from down the hall. But it wasn't. It was her heart.
Rob had cast a pall over this group. She had no idea why, and there didn't seem to be anything she could do to recapture the enthusiasm. But she wasn't going to compromise her dreams, not after having risked everything for them. ATTITUDE would get its national launch, even if she had to beg, borrow, or steal to make it happen.
It rocketed across the floor of the gallery and climbed the wall like black death itself. Jack had already spotted the shadow and taken cover, slipping into the nearest alcove and pressing himself to the wall. He'd known for some time that he was being followed. Now he was waiting for the tail to get overeager and show himself.
It was one in the morning, and Jack had come down to the gallery to have a closer look at Blush, as well as several of the other works in Lake's collection. There were many ways to hide a stolen painting, even in plain view. It was not unusual to stretch one canvas over another or to paint over it with an entirely new picture.
Jack was intimately familiar with the gallery's security. He'd already compromised the multisensor system to get to the Goddard, and Lake hadn't yet taken steps to upgrade the safeguards. Tonight Jack had simply duplicated the high-tech tinkering he'd described to Webb at dinner. But his inspection of the gallery had immediately revealed that someone had beaten him at his own game. Blush was gone.
The alcove wall where the Goddard painting had hung was empty.
That's when Jack had discovered he was being followed.
Now every reflex was primed for action as he waited and listened. He'd been the subject of professional surveillance for days. Someone had been following his van and undoubtedly monitoring his car phone, but several clues told him tonight's surveillance wasn't by a pro any more than the search of his room had been. Whoever was following him had taken care to hide their footsteps but not their breathing. What he'd picked up was someone's hushed and excited respiration. More important, a professional knew how to avoid throwing shadows.
As the seconds ticked by, Jack realized the tail must have been alerted, probably by Jack's disappearance. The odds were that he'd backed off, possibly even left the room. If Jack was going to catch him, he would have to act immediately.
He moved to the end of the alcove wall, ducked down, and made a quick visual search of the gallery proper. Once he was reasonably certain the cavernous room was empty, he crept silently across the hardwood floor toward the doorway. Save the ski mask, he was dressed in the same black overalls and crepe-soled commando boots he'd worn to kidnap Gus. The color absorbed light like a sponge, and the boots were virtually noiseless.
He approached the open doorway, hesitating as something white ghosted through his field of vision. It had resembled a
disembodied scarf or a veil floating down the hallway outside the door. He caught another trace of it, sparkling and wispy white, as iridescent as fancy tissue paper, and then it was gone.
By the time he reached the doorway, the tissue paper had darted toward one of the staircases that arched up to the second-floor bedrooms. But it hadn't gone up the stairway; it had ducked around underneath.
Jack followed cautiously, but couldn't see where the elusive thing had gone. There were only two escape routes beyond the front entrance, a hallway running the breadth of the house that led to the kitchen on the east side and to an exit door in the west wing. The latter would take him to the parking garage, but something told him to try the kitchen first.
A hushed sound, like laughter, spun him around. In the shallow alcove created by the stairway, he spotted his tissue-paper stalker. Lurking in the gloom was a miniature person in a fluffy white tutu with a feathery tail-like object attached to her backside. Fortunately, his senses had always been acutely attuned to the darkness, and now they were telling him that she had the face of a pint-size angel and the moxie of a New York cabbie. She also smelled faintly of bubble gum and bath powder.
"Bridget?"
"I'm not Bridget, " she said in a whispery voice that barely hid her exasperation. "I'm a swan maiden under the enchantment of an evil magician. By day I live as a swan, but at night I'm released to haunt this house. Haven't you ever seen a ghost?"
Her tiny features were perfectly serious, even in the darkness, and her tilted head drew his attention to the curve of her pursed lips. The baby brat, true to form, he thought. How could you not love a kid like this? Her presence also answered several questions, including the mysterious disappearance of Blush. Clearly she hadn't taken the painting, which meant that Lake had probably stashed it somewhere for safekeeping.
"Good try, " Jack said. "I don't believe in ghosts. "
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