by Linda Barlow
She nodded.
“We can leave anytime.”
She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I’m fine. Let’s find Isobelle.”
Isobelle, who was chatting with Justin, a dominant friend of hers who owned a leather shop in the Village, saw Blackthorn coming. She smiled. So he’d come after all.
Then she saw April.
Well, shit. This was an unexpected development.
April was walking close beside him, clutching his arm. But her head was high, and she was looking around with what appeared to be more curiosity than apprehension or distaste. As for Rob Blackthorn, he moved with the same masculine authority and grace that was natural to him, and Isobelle observed that his tall, well-made body was not going unnoticed by the other women present. If he were to declare himself to be the erotic dominant that Isobelle sensed he could very easily be, at least a dozen women right here in this room would be down on their knees in a second.
They made a good couple, she thought. Both were tall, slender, and striking. Her thick auburn hair and fair skin made a lovely contrast to his swarthy good looks, her fragile beauty to his rugged attractiveness. Were they lovers? she wondered. Not yet, perhaps. But it was obvious to her, if not to them, that it was inevitable.
Everything is so easy for her!
She stepped toward them, tapping her riding crop lightly against the palm of her hand. “Welcome to the dungeon,” she said, giving them both a slight bow.
“Hello, Isobelle.”
In your face, April. “Glad you could come,” she said, addressing Blackthorn. She reached out and brushed her red fingernails along the inside of his arm. “I didn’t realize you’d be bringing a date.”
“I’m glad he did,” April said. “Looks like quite a party.”
“And it’s hardly even begun. I hope you’ll stick around for some of the special events. The Kinky Theatre Company is going to be putting on a performance a little later, and Lady Althea is going to be displaying her new slave Carlos, who has presented her with a new Argentinean leather cat direct from the gauchos.”
Blackthorn grinned. “Now that sounds irresistible. Since we don’t want to miss it, we’d better find a quiet room and get on with our less pleasant business right away.”
“A quiet room—that might prove to be a challenge.” Isobelle flicked her crop through the air just a couple of inches from April’s face. She flinched, and Isobelle smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She would have liked to see April a lot more nervous and intimidated. What would it take, she wondered? Separate her from Blackthorn and send Burt and Randy over to harass her a bit. Either one of them was big, broad, and sinister enough, and if she convinced them that April was into a little verbal humiliation from strangers, they were creative enough to carry it off.
But Blackthorn’s arm was around April’s waist, and he didn’t look as if anything was going to pry it loose.
Isobelle led them first into one bedroom, then backed out when they all saw that it was being used. “Sorry,” she said. “The fun’s starting early.”
“I didn’t know people had parties like this anymore,” April said. “I thought this sort of thing went out in the early eighties, with the advent of AIDS.”
“It’s not casual sex,” Isobelle said sharply. “Most of my friends are committed couples. Safe sex is the rule. And D&S scenes don’t necessarily require sexual contact in the usual sense, anyhow.”
Blackthorn and April exchanged a quick, skeptical look. Isobelle gave a short laugh and added, “We may be kinky, but we’re not stupid.”
She found an empty room—a small guest bedroom—and ushered them inside. She shut the door and latched it behind her. There was no place to sit except on the double bed that took up most of the room. The bedspread was rumpled, as if someone else had been using it not long before.
Isobelle sat down on the side of the bed and crossed her legs. As Blackthorn copped a quick look at the creamy expanse of her lower thigh, she grinned at him. “Eat your heart out, Rob.”
“What heart?” he said, grinning. He remained standing. The better to intimidate the witness, Isobelle supposed.
“Somebody broke into April’s place and trashed it a few days ago,” he said without preliminary.
Isobelle shrugged. “I heard. It happens. New York is not a very friendly city.”
” ‘You’re Next, Bitch’ was written on the wall.”
“Sounds as if someone wants you to get out of town, April. Am I going to be handcuffed and read my rights if I confess that I, too, would be glad to see you go?”
“Whoever did it deliberately made it look as if intimidation was the motive,” Blackthorn continued, “but we believe he—or she—actually had something else in mind. The place was searched. Subtly but thoroughly. The perp was looking for something.”
“I think that’s my cue to ask what he was looking for,” Isobelle said. She yawned elaborately. “Consider it asked.”
“We think they may have been searching for Rina’s manuscript,” April said.
“Really,” Isobelle said. She waited a moment then forced herself to say, “What manuscript?”
“Did you know she was writing an autobiography?” Blackthorn asked.
They made a nice tag team, Isobelle thought. But how did they know about the manuscript? “She may have said something about it.”
“May have?”
“All right, I knew. She asked me for information about some things that had happened before she and my father got married.”
“What sort of things?”
“Nothing much. Details about our lives as children, stuff she didn’t know. It was all background, I think. That’s what she said, anyhow. I thought the project was a bit silly, to tell you the truth. Who cared, really? It’s not as if she were a politician or a movie star. What people really wanted to hear from Rina was the secret of sex, success, and happiness. How-to books are much more profitable than reminiscences.”
“Did she show you any of the manuscript?” April asked.
Isobelle shook her head, affecting boredom.
“Was it entirely about Rina’s life or did she plan to expose secrets about some of her clients who were movie stars and politicians?”
So that was what they were wondering about. Isobelle considered. Rina had gathered information, she was sure of that. “Why reveal her secrets? Seems to me they were worth a lot more to her if she kept her mouth shut.”
“Are you suggesting that your stepmother was blackmailing her clients?” Blackthorn asked.
“And that she was killed as a result?” Isobelle finished for him. “It’s occurred to me, yes.” She waved her hand at the room behind them. “She knew about this. I don’t know how she knew, but she did. She confronted me about it one day. Gave me to understand that my erotic lifestyle was bad for the image Power Perspectives was trying to project. She ran through quite a vivid scenario of how I would be likely to feel if a story about my activities made the gossip rags and became the talk of the town.”
“My God—did she ask you for money or something?” April asked.
“No, no, of course not, but she made it clear that she was holding it over my head. An incentive, perhaps, to keep me on my toes at work. It backfired on her, though. I was already working my tail off and she knew it. And the idea of exposure didn’t worry me as much as she expected it would. I told her it might even be good PR. There’s no such thing as bad publicity—that sort of thing.
“So she backed off and never mentioned it again. But I’ve often wondered how somebody else might have responded to the same tactics. Rina liked these little power games. Who knows to what extreme she may have carried them?” She paused and smiled. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Rina had something on everybody.”
“Who else knows about her autobiography?” Rob asked.
Isobelle swiftly considered and rejected several replies before saying, “That’s impossible for me to say. My impr
ession was that she did not discuss it with very many people.”
“Armand?”
Isobelle shrugged. “I suppose so, although I’ve often wondered how close they actually were during recent years. She spent a lot of time, apparently, in that other apartment.”
“Charlie told April that Rina’s editor had called inquiring about the book, so Charlie, obviously, knows.”
“So what?” Isobelle said, still affecting a casualness she did not feel. What the hell was Charlie up to, anyway? Sometimes he was a bloody stupid fool.
Blackthorn continued, in that patient, dogged tone, “And what about Christian, did he know about the manuscript?”
“I’ve no idea. Christian and I rarely talk. But if she asked me things about the past, it’s reasonable that she asked him also.”
“What exactly is the problem between you and Christian?” Blackthorn asked.
“Oh, please. Problems between him and me go back far too many years. Our values are different. We don’t like each other. It would be dishonest to pretend otherwise.”
“Are you aware that your brother told the FBI to focus their investigation of Rina’s death on you?”
Isobelle could feel her cheeks grow hot. “No, but I’m not surprised. He’d love to have me out of the way. He and my father both. A woman is not supposed to be interested in business. Apparently it indicates a sad lack of feminine decorum. I’ve been the bane of their existence ever since I announced that I intended to have a career in the family business at the age of fifteen.”
She paused, then added, “My brother resented Rina and, even more so, me. We were a slap in the face to his antiquated ideals of male domination. And as long as you’re investigating the family, you might want to ask him where he was the night his wife so conveniently ran her car off the road and died.”
Isobelle watched with some satisfaction as Blackthorn and April exchanged a glance. “I expect Rina knew all the details,” she added. “As I said, she had something on everybody. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve really got to get back to my party.”
As she left them, she hoped that they were as startled about her final revelation as she had been about several of theirs.
“What was that all about?” Charlie asked. He didn’t like the tight, weary expression on Isobelle’s face.
“More questions, more theories. Mr. Blackthorn is exploring every possible angle. I just gave him another one to think about.”
“And what was that?”
She frowned. “They’re looking for a manuscript of Rina’s that appears to be missing. Apparently they believe it contains something important.”
“The autobiography,” he said, his face expressionless.
“They say you told April that Rina’s editor had called to ask about the manuscript.” She paused. “You didn’t mention that to me.”
“I didn’t think it was important.”
“Rina had led me to believe that no one knew about her autobiography. Certainly no outsiders in the publishing industry. She was highly secretive about it.”
Charlie shrugged.
“What was this editor’s name?” she asked.
“I don’t remember. Actually, when I went to call her back, I couldn’t find where I had written her number.”
“Was she with CLM or some other company?”
Charlie shook his head. “I didn’t ask.”
“Did you know about the autobiography? Before her death, I mean?”
Charlie tried to gauge exactly what she was getting at. She seemed unusually anxious. “Your stepmother and I got along pretty well, but she didn’t confide in me. The only writing projects of hers that I was interested in were those that directly had to do with the marketing of the Power Perspectives program and seminars.” He waited a moment then added, “What are you worried about? What does this missing manuscript have to do with us?”
Isobelle waved a hand impatiently. “Never mind. Let’s get back to the party.”
Whenever she was evasive, he felt uneasy. “Look, I’m sorry if I—”
“Just drop it, Charlie. I really don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
He reached out and touched her throat. “The necklace looks lovely on you.”
“Indeed it does. And I thank you for it.”
She was under a lot of stress, he knew. It was necessary to make allowances. So many obstacles constantly springing up between her and her own view of success—first her father and his chauvinistic view of the world, then Rina, who had encouraged her at the same time that she’d held her back. And now April, who was not only proving to be far more effective at her job than anybody had anticipated, but who had also, it appeared, been appointed by Blackthorn to be his junior detective.
“I wish there were something I could do to bring a genuine smile to your face,” he said.
“Don’t worry about me,” Isobelle said tightly. “I’ll be fine.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Outside it was thundering and the air was thick with that edgy feeling generated by a summer storm. A fine drizzle was beginning to fall. To April it felt refreshing, after the heat and the tension in Isobelle’s loft.
“I don’t see any cabs,” she said.
“Saturday night, and raining—they’re hard to come by. Let’s walk down to the avenue—we’ll pick one up there. D’you mind walking?”
“No, not at all. The drizzle feels good, actually.”
He reached out and took her hand. April was acutely aware of the pressure of his fingers on hers as they walked west, towards Seventh Avenue. For several moments the silence between them was unbroken, but for the click of her heels on the sidewalk. There was a cool breeze and a bit of a haze, and the light from the streetlights was hazy and dim.
“Do you believe what Isobelle said about her brother?” she asked.
“I’m not sure what to believe. I’m having a lot of trouble sorting out the truth from the lies.”
“She and Christian obviously don’t get along. She might be trying to throw suspicion on him.”
“Yeah, I know. She strikes me as a woman who’s become bitter over the years. Probably from working so hard and never getting much credit for her accomplishments. It’s her father’s fault. Everybody I’ve interviewed agrees that he’s always put his son first, even though he and Christian have never had a particularly warm or cordial relationship. Male chauvinism at its worst.”
“I don’t mean to sound harsh, but that doesn’t excuse her behavior.”
“No, you’re right. But her brother’s just as bad. He’s been making every effort to cast suspicion on her. You can be damn sure that I’ll be checking out every detail of his wife’s fatal accident.”
They walked in silence for several moments. April’s mind was awhirl. She didn’t like Isobelle, but it was hard to imagine her planning a murder, hiring a contract killer, giving the go-ahead. Christian, collector of beautiful art objects, seemed more the type. She could well imagine him weighing the options, calculating the risks, laying out the plans. “I don’t care what happens to Christian, but I’m worried about Kate. She’s a terrific kid. But her mother’s dead, her father’s difficult, and if there’s any chance he had something to do with that accident—”
“I know. It’s a nasty thought. Sorry, kid, but your daddy’s a killer. He’s going to prison and you’re going into a foster home.”
“Oh, Rob, no!”
“What else are they going to do with her? Send her to live with Isobelle? Can you see her inviting her teenage friends over for pizza parties in the dungeon?”
“Oh, God, what a family.”
The rain came down a bit harder.
“I live near here,” Rob said. “Well, in the Village.” He gave her a wry smile and said, “Maybe not that near, actually. A few blocks south, a couple more west. But I could offer you a cup of coffee or something. Unless—”
April hesitated, but only for a moment. Why not, dammit? There was so much to talk about
, and, well, did she really want to be sensible?
“Okay. That would be fine.”
The pressure from his fingers grew slightly stronger. “Good. Wait, there’s a cab coming. Got his light on as well.” He stepped into the street to flag the taxi down and they climbed inside. Rob gave an address on Christopher Street and they were both silent, as if wondering what—if anything—they had just agreed to.
His apartment was on the top floor of one of the old, narrow townhouses in Greenwich Village. It was small, but cozy. The living room had a fireplace, and he lit a fire there to warm them from the effects of the drizzle.
April sat on one end of the brown leather sofa facing the hearth and watched the flames engulf the kindling and lick at the logs. She couldn’t get out of her head the image of a lovely blonde-headed woman kneeling at the feet of her tall partner in the tight leather pants. Her wrists had been secured behind her back in leather cuffs, but in spite the restraints, there was an expression on her face that seemed to proclaim her freedom.
April envied that woman. In order to do something like that—to allow herself to be so helpless and vulnerable—she would have to trust her partner completely. How could she be so open? How could she have such faith in a partner’s essential goodwill? For her it would be a minidrama filled with emotional peril.
On the other hand, she reminded herself that she was here in a strange apartment, alone with a man she didn’t know very well, a man who had hounded and harassed her, wrestled her to the floor in Anaheim, and chased her through Central Park.
Did she trust Rob Blackthorn? No, why should she?
So why had she accepted his invitation?
She glanced over at him. He was sitting on the sofa, also, but he’d left a space between them. He was lounging back, his hands folded behind his head, his long legs outstretched. Through his tight trousers, she could see the smooth contours of the muscles in his thighs.
Oh, God, she thought. She was here because she wanted him. It was as simple as that.
