by Sandra Brown
At this hour there was virtually no traffic on the streets. Dean slowed for a yellow light and came to a full stop as the song ended.
“It’s a steamy night in the hill country. Thank you for spending your time with me here on 101.3.”
The smoky female voice reverberated through the interior of the car. The sound waves pressed against his chest and belly. Her voice was perfectly modulated by eight speakers that had been strategically placed by German engineers. The superior sound environment made her seem closer than if she’d been sitting in the passenger seat beside him.
“I’m going to leave you tonight with a trio of my favorites. I hope you’re listening to them with someone you love. Hold each other close.”
Dean gripped the steering wheel and rested his forehead on the back of his hands while the Fab Four yearned for yesterday.
• • •
As soon as Judge Baird Kemp retrieved his car from the Four Seasons Hotel parking valet and got in, he wrestled loose his necktie and shrugged off his jacket. “God, I’m glad that’s over.”
“You’re the one who insisted we attend.” Marian Kemp slipped off her Bruno Magli sling-backs and pulled off the diamond clip earrings, wincing as blood circulation was painfully restored to her numb earlobes. “But did you have to include us in the after party?”
“Well, it looked good for us to be among the last to leave. Very influential people were in that group.”
Being a typical awards dinner, the event had run insufferably long. Following it, a cocktail party had been held in a hospitality suite, and the judge never passed up an opportunity to campaign for his reelection, even informally. For the remainder of their drive home, the Kemps discussed others who had been in attendance, or, as the judge derisively referred to them, “the good, the bad, and the ugly.”
When they arrived home, he headed for his den, where Marian saw to it that the bar was kept well stocked with his favorite brands. “I’m going to have a nightcap. Should I pour two?”
“No thank you, dear. I’m going up.”
“Cool the bedroom down. This heat is unbearable.”
Marian climbed the curved staircase that had recently been featured in a home-design magazine. For the photo, she’d worn a designer ball gown and her canary-diamond necklace. The portrait had turned out quite well, if she did say so herself. The judge had been pleased with the accompanying article, which had praised her for making their home into the showplace it was.
The upstairs hallway was dark, but she was relieved to see light beneath the door of Janey’s room. Even though it was summer vacation, the judge had imposed a curfew on their seventeen-year-old. Last night, she had flouted the curfew and hadn’t come in until almost dawn. It was obvious that she’d been drinking, and, unless Marian was mistaken, the stench that clung to her clothing was that of marijuana. Worse, she’d driven herself home in that condition.
“I’ve bailed you out for the last time,” the judge had bellowed. “If you get another DWI, you’re on your own, young lady. I won’t pull a single string. I’ll let it go straight on your record.”
Janey had replied with a bored, “So fucking what?”
The scene had grown so loud and vituperative that Marian feared the neighbors might overhear despite the acre of manicured greenbelt between their property and the next. The quarrel had ended with Janey stomping into her room and slamming the door, then locking it behind her. She hadn’t spoken to either of them all day.
But apparently the judge’s most recent threat had made an impression. Janey was at home, and by her standards, it was early. Marian paused outside Janey’s door and raised her fist, about to knock. But through the door she could hear the voice of that woman deejay Janey listened to when she was in one of her mellow moods. She was a welcome change from the obnoxious deejays on the acid rock and rap stations.
Janey tended to throw a tantrum whenever she felt her privacy was being violated. Her mother was disinclined to disturb this tenuous peace, so, without knocking, she lowered her hand and continued down the hallway to the master suite.
• • •
Toni Armstrong awoke with a start.
She lay unmoving, listening for a noise that might have awakened her. Had one of the children called out for her? Was Brad snoring?
No, the house was silent except for the low whir of the air-conditioning vents in the ceiling. A sound hadn’t awakened her. Not even the soughing of her husband’s breath. Because the pillow beside hers was undisturbed.
Toni got up and pulled on a lightweight robe. She glanced at the clock: 1:42. And Brad still hadn’t come home.
Before going downstairs, she checked the children’s rooms. Although the girls got tucked into their separate beds each night, they invariably wound up sleeping together in one. Only sixteen months apart, they were often mistaken for twins. They looked virtually identical now, their sturdy little bodies curled up together, tousled heads sharing the pillow. Toni pulled a sheet up over them, then took a moment to admire their innocent beauty before tiptoeing from the room.
Toy spaceships and action figures littered the floor of her son’s bedroom. She carefully avoided stepping on them as she made her way to the bed. He slept on his stomach, legs splayed, one arm hanging down the side of the bed.
She took the opportunity to stroke his cheek. He’d reached the age where her demonstrations of affection made him grimace and squirm away. As the firstborn, he thought he had to act the little man.
But thinking of him becoming a man filled her with a desperation that was close to panic.
As she descended the staircase, several of the treads creaked, but Toni liked a house with the quirks and imperfections that gave it character. They had been lucky to acquire this house. It was in a good neighborhood with an elementary school nearby. The price had been reduced by owners anxious to sell. Parts of it had needed attention, but she had volunteered to make most of the repairs herself in order to fit the purchase into their budget.
Working on the house had kept her busy while Brad was getting settled into his new practice. She’d taken the time and effort to do necessary repairs before finishing with the cosmetic work. Her patience and diligence had paid off. The house wasn’t only prettier in appearance, but sound from the inside out. Its flaws hadn’t been glossed over with a fresh coat of paint without first being fixed.
Unfortunately, not everything was as easily fixable as houses.
As she had feared, all the rooms downstairs were dark and empty. In the kitchen, she turned on the radio to ward off the ominous pressure of the silence. She poured herself a glass of milk she didn’t want and forced herself to sip it calmly.
Maybe she was doing her husband a disservice. He might very well be attending a seminar on taxes and financial planning. He had announced over dinner that he would be out for most of the evening.
“Remember, hon,” he’d said when she expressed her surprise, “I told you about it earlier this week.”
“No you didn’t.”
“I’m sorry. I thought I did. I intended to. Pass the potato salad, please. It’s great, by the way. What’s that spice?”
“Dill. This is the first I’ve heard of a seminar tonight, Brad.”
“The partners recommended it. What they learned at the last one saved them a bundle in taxes.”
“Then maybe I should go, too. I could stand to learn more about all that.”
“Good idea. We’ll watch for the next one. You’re required to enroll in advance.”
He’d told her the time and location of the seminar, told her not to wait up for him because there was an informal discussion session following the formal presentation and he didn’t know how long it would last. He had kissed her and the kids before he left. He walked to his car with a gait that was awfully jaunty for someone going to a seminar on taxes and financial planning.
Toni finished her glass of milk.
She called her husband’s cell phone for the third time, and as wit
h the previous two calls, got his voice mail. She didn’t leave a message. She thought about calling the auditorium where the seminar had taken place, but that would be a waste of time. No one would be there at this hour.
After seeing Brad off tonight, she had cleaned up the dinner dishes and given the children their baths. Once they were in bed, she had tried to go into Brad’s den, but discovered that the door to it was locked. To her shame, she’d torn through the house like a woman crazed, looking for a hairpin, a nail file, something with which she could pick the lock.
She had resorted to a screwdriver, probably damaging the lock irreparably, but not caring. To her chagrin, there had been nothing in the room to validate her frenzy or her suspicion. A newspaper ad for the seminar was lying on his desk. He’d made a notation about the seminar on his personal calendar. Obviously he had been planning to attend.
But he was also very good at creating plausible smoke screens.
She had sat down at the desk and stared into his blank computer screen. She even fingered the power button on the tower, tempted to turn it on and engage in some exploration that only thieves, spies, and suspicious wives would engage in.
She hadn’t touched this computer since he had bought one exclusively for her. When she saw the labeled boxes he’d carried in and placed on the kitchen table, she had exclaimed, “You bought another computer?”
“It’s time you had your own. Merry Christmas!”
“This is June.”
“So I’m early. Or late.” He shrugged in his disarming way. “Now that you have your own, when you want to exchange email with your folks, or do some Internet shopping, or whatever, you won’t have to work around me.”
“I use your computer during the day when you’re at the clinic.”
“That’s my point. Now you can go online anytime.”
And so can you.
Apparently he had read her thought because he’d said, “It’s not what you’re thinking, Toni.” Here he had propped his hands on his hips, looking defensive. “I was browsing in the computer store this morning. I see this bright pink number that’s small, compact, and can do just about everything, and I think, ‘Feminine and efficient. Just like my darling wife.’ So I bought it for you on impulse. I thought you’d be pleased. Obviously I was wrong.”
“I am pleased,” she said, instantly contrite. “It was a very thoughtful gesture, Brad. Thank you.” She looked askance at the boxes. “Did you say pink?”
Then they’d laughed. He’d enfolded her in a bear hug. He’d smelled like sunshine, soap, and wholesomeness. His body had felt comfortable, familiar, and good against hers. Her fears had been assuaged.
But only temporarily. Recently they had resurfaced.
She hadn’t booted up his computer tonight. She’d been too afraid of what she might find. If a password had been required for access, her suspicions would have been confirmed, and she hadn’t wanted that. God, no, she hadn’t.
So she had done her best to restore the busted doorknob, then had gone to bed and eventually to sleep, in the hope that Brad would awaken her soon, brimming with knowledge about financial stratagems for families in their income bracket. It had been a desperate hope.
“I’ve certainly enjoyed your company tonight,” the sexy voice on the radio was saying. “This is your host for classic love songs, Paris Gibson.”
No seminar lasted until two o’clock in the morning. No therapy-group meeting lasted until the wee hours either. That had been Brad’s excuse last week when he had stayed out most of the night.
His explanation had been that one of the men in his group was having a difficult time coping. “After the meeting, he asked me to go get a beer with him, said he needed an understanding shoulder to cry on. This dude has a real problem, Toni. Whew! You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff he told me. I’m talking sick. Anyhow, I knew you would understand. You know what it’s like.”
She knew all too well. The lying. The denials. The time unaccounted for. Locked doors. She knew what it was like, all right. It was like this.
chapter 2
This was creeping her out. Like, really creeping her out.
He’d been gone for a while now, and she didn’t know when he would be coming back. She didn’t like this scene and wanted to leave.
But her hands were tied. Literally. And so were her feet. The worst of it, though, was the metallic-tasting tape he had secured over her mouth.
Four—maybe five—times in the past several weeks, she had come here with him. On those occasions they had left drained of energy and feeling mighty good. The expression “screwed their brains out” sprang to mind.
But he had never suggested bondage or anything kinky. Well . . . nothing too kinky. This was a first and, frankly, she could do without it.
One of the things that had first attracted her to him was that he seemed sophisticated. He had been a definite standout in the migratory crowd comprised mostly of high school and college students looking for drink, dope, and casual sex. Sure, now and then you had your pathetic old geezer lurking in the bushes wagging his weenie at anybody unfortunate enough to glance his way. But this guy was nothing like that. He was way cool.
Apparently he had thought she was a standout, too. She and her friend Melissa had become aware of him watching them with single-minded interest.
“He might be a cop,” Melissa speculated. “You know, working undercover.”
Melissa had been on a real downer that night because she had to leave for Europe the following day with her parents, and she couldn’t imagine anything more miserable. She was trying like hell to get glassy-eyed stoned, but nothing had taken effect yet. Her outlook on everything had been sour.
“A cop driving that car? I don’t think so. Besides, his shoes are too good to be a cop’s.”
It wasn’t merely that he had looked at her. Guys always looked at her. It was the manner in which he had looked at her that had been such a major turn-on. He’d been leaning against the hood of his car, ankles crossed, arms casually folded over his midriff, perfectly still and, despite his intensity, seemingly relaxed.
He didn’t gawk at her chest or legs—consistently the objects of gawking—but looked straight into her eyes. Like he knew her instantly. Not just recognized her, or knew her by name, but knew her, knew everything there was to know about her that was important.
“Do you think he’s cute?”
“I guess,” Melissa replied, self-pity making her indifferent.
“Well, I think he is.” She drained her rum and Coke, sucking it through the straw in the provocative way she had perfected by practicing for hours in front of her mirror. Its suggestiveness drove guys crazy and she knew it, and that’s why she did it.
“I’m going for it.” She reached behind her to set the empty plastic cup on the picnic table where she and Melissa had been sitting, then came off it with the sinuous grace of a snake sliding off a rock. She shook back her hair and gave the hem of her tank top a tug while drawing a deep, chest-expanding breath. Like an Olympic athlete, she went through a preparatory routine before each big event.
So it had been she who had made the first move. Leaving Melissa, she had sauntered toward him. When she reached the car, she moved in beside him and leaned back against the hood as he was doing. “You have a bad habit.”
Turning only his head, he smiled down at her. “Only one?”
“That I know of.”
His grin widened. “Then you need to get to know me better.”
With no more invitation than that—because, after all, that was the reason they were there—he took her arm and ushered her around to the passenger side of his car. In spite of the heat, his hand was cool and dry. He politely opened the door and helped her into the leather-upholstered seat. As they drove away, she shot Melissa a triumphant grin, but Melissa was rummaging through her pouch of “mood enhancers” and didn’t see.
He drove carefully, with both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road. He wasn’t gaping
at her and he wasn’t groping and that was certainly a switch. Ordinarily, the minute she got into a guy’s car, he’d start grabbing at her, like he couldn’t believe his good fortune, like she might vaporize if he didn’t touch her, or change her mind if he didn’t hurry up and get on with it.
But this guy seemed a bit detached, and she thought that was kinda cool. He was mature and confident. He didn’t need to gape and grope to assure himself that he was about to get laid.
She asked his name.
Stopping for a traffic light, he turned to look at her. “Is it important?”
She raised her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, the rehearsed one, the one that pushed her breasts up and squeezed them together better than any Wonderbra could have. “I guess not.”
He left his eyes on her breasts for several seconds, then the light changed and he went back to driving. “What’s my bad habit?”
“You stare.”
He laughed. “If you consider that a bad habit, then you really need to get to know me better.”
She had placed her hand on his thigh and in her sultriest voice said, “I look forward to it.”
His place was a major letdown. It was an efficiency apartment in a guest hotel. A tacky red banner strung across the front of the two-story building advertised special monthly rates. It was in a seedy neighborhood that didn’t live up to his car or clothes.
Noticing her disappointment, he’d said, “It’s a dump, but it’s all I could find when I first moved here. I’m looking for something else.” Then he added quietly, “I’ll understand if you want me to take you back.”
“No.” She wasn’t about to let him think she was a stupid, prissy high school girl with no spirit of adventure. “Shabby chic is in.”
The apartment’s main room served as both living area and bedroom. The galley kitchen was barely shoulder width. The bathroom was even smaller than that.
