by Janet Dailey
“What about her background? Her childhood?” she asked, tuning out the flight attendant’s instructions on seat belts, exits, flotation cushions, and oxygen masks as the jet lumbered along the taxiway.
“Poor. St. Louis poor. And if you’ve never seen the poor sections of St. Louis, you can’t know what I mean.”
“I suppose not,” Delaney agreed absently.
“She doesn’t talk much about her early years, but I know she was born Irene Jackson—out of wedlock, with a welfare mother who had a succession of live-in boyfriends.” Riley raised his voice to make himself heard above the whine of the jet engines as the plane began its takeoff roll. “You get the feeling there was some abuse there. Physical…maybe sexual, I don’t know. Anyway, she ran away when she was fifteen and hooked up with a rock musician by the name of Jason Cole.”
“She married him, didn’t she?” Delaney frowned.
Riley nodded. “A week after she signed her first recording contract, she legally became Mrs. Rina Cole. Seven months later she had the number-one song on the rock charts.”
“According to this, she’s been married four times.”
“That’s right. And all of her exes have been in the business on one side or the other.”
“No children?” She glanced at Riley for confirmation.
“None. Whether that’s by choice, only she can say. Whenever she’s been asked, she’s always claimed that her career was her baby. I tend to believe that.”
“If she’s like most stage performers, she needs the adulation of an audience.” Frequently the desire to be nurtured was stronger than the desire to nurture.
“She feeds on it,” Riley agreed.
“She rode high for a long time,” Delaney recalled.
“Almost ten years. Then she became a fixture in the Vegas showrooms, singing her old hits to a bunch of conventioneers from Dubuque and Omaha. That’s when that Broadway producer came to her. Saints and Sinners played to standing-room-only crowds from the first night it opened. A year later, she was on her way to Hollywood to make the movie version of it. And she went from fading rock star to rising movie star. A whole host of films came after that. Most of them forgettable, unfortunately.”
“Particularly that fiasco she wrote, produced, directed, and starred in, Hot Rhythms. What was it—three years it took to make it and how many millions of dollars over budget did it end up going?”
Riley was quick to come to the star’s defense. “She wanted control and tried to do too much. I still think that’s when she got hooked on pills.”
“She has a drug problem?” Delaney frowned and quickly skimmed through the material again. “There’s nothing about that in here.”
“Wasn’t there?” He leaned closer to read over her shoulder, the fragrance of his aftershave reaching her, an intoxicating blend of island spices with a hint of musk. “There should be. It was about five years ago—she was living on uppers and downers and dabbling in coke. She checked herself into the Betty Ford clinic and got herself cleaned up. I admit it didn’t make much of a splash at the time, but—”
“Do you think she might be back on drugs?” Delaney wondered.
“You mean because of this shooting thing with Lucas Wayne?” he clarified, then shook his head. “I don’t know. It does read like a Frankie-and-Johnny scenario—he was her man and he done her wrong. A crime of passion.”
“In this case, someone else’s passion.” Delaney thought of the blonde who’d been in bed with Lucas Wayne. “Anyway, that seems too pat. There’s nothing here to suggest—”
“—a history of violence,” Riley offered.
“Yes.”
“There’s a whole string of paparazzi with broken cameras who might disagree with you on that—along with an agent who sported a black eye for about a week, and an ex-husband who refused to file charges after he’d made the mistake of hitting her and wound up with a pair of scissors in his arm.”
“None of that’s in here, Riley.” Delaney protested, irritated that he’d left out such important details.
“I didn’t have time to put everything down. This was a bit of a rushed thing,” he reminded her calmly.
“But information like that should have headed the sheet. What if you’d been in an accident on your way to the airport?”
“If I’d been hurt, you wouldn’t have any of this information. You’d be flying totally blind. But…you’re right. That information should have been at the top of the sheet,” he admitted, and treated her to a crooked grin. “It looks like the pupil is finally instructing the teacher in procedure.”
Her anger dissipated in a rush, leaving a strange awkwardness in its place. “Maybe…it’s because I had a good teacher,” Delaney replied, oddly self-conscious.
Riley cupped a hand to his ear and tipped his head closer. “A little louder please.”
“I said I had a good teacher. The best. But don’t let that go to your head.” She smiled, comfortable with him again.
“That’s what I thought you said.” He smiled back. “Now—what else do you want to know about Rina Cole?”
“What else should I know?” Delaney countered.
“Just the obvious—Lucas Wayne is on his way up; Rina’s on her way down. She’s more to be pitied than feared.”
She nodded in silent agreement. “There’s always something sad about desperation and the things it can drive a person to do, isn’t there?”
“I guess so,” he said, then paused. “I have to be honest, Delaney. In my opinion, we’re flying to New York to guard the barn after the horse has been stolen.”
“You’re probably right, although I don’t think we can fairly assess the situation until we get there. But while we’re being honest, let’s not overlook a few basic facts: one, Lucas Wayne is the hottest name in the country right now; two, this attempt on his life will make the spotlight on him that much brighter; and three, by providing security for him—whether it’s strictly needed or not—Wescott and Associates will be in the backwash of that spotlight. That’s advertising you can’t buy.”
“The company had plenty of free advertising seven months ago when it made all the headlines after the shooting.”
Aware that Riley was watching for her reaction, Delaney avoided eye contact even as images of the incident flashed through her mind. “That isn’t the kind of publicity I want.”
“No one does,” he agreed. “How are you with it?”
“Much better.” She managed a quick smile. “That counselor you recommended helped a lot. I can’t say that I don’t still think about it sometimes, but…” She let the sentence trail off unfinished.
Riley nodded. “I did my share of second-guessing about it, too. But there was no way we could have foreseen that happening and avoided it. We were as well prepared as we could have been.”
“I know.”
“The only mistake you made was not reacting quicker. The man got off two shots before you fired.” Riley remembered well the feelings of fear and raging helplessness when he’d realized that a group of panicking bystanders blocked his field of fire. When he’d heard the second shot, he’d thought Delaney had been hit. He still had nightmares about that.
“I had to make certain I had a clear shot,” Delaney said in her own defense. “Firing too quickly can be as bad as too late.”
“True,” Riley was forced to agree.
“Anyway, the odds are in my favor that I’ll never find myself in a situation like that again. That might not be the case in Europe, maybe, or the Middle East, but here in the States, such occurrences are still very rare, thank heaven.”
“You can’t count on odds,” Riley warned. “If there is a next time, you can’t hesitate.”
“I know.”
A flight attendant pulled a serving cart even with Delaney’s seat, providing a welcome distraction. “What would you like to drink this morning?” She passed each of them a container of orange juice and a plastic-wrapped tray containing two squashed danishes
.
“Coffee.” Delaney lowered her tray table. “Black, please.”
“I’ll take mine with cream and sugar,” Riley said.
The flight attendant filled two polystyrene cups with coffee and handed the first to Delaney and the second to Riley, along with a plastic stirrer, one packet of nondairy creamer, and two packets of sugar.
“Just think”—Riley stirred the creamer and sugar into his coffee—“if we were in first class, we’d be drinking coffee from real cups and eating—”
“—something equally leathery.”
“Ah, but think of the legroom we’d have,” he added on a wistful note.
A point Delaney couldn’t dispute as the man in front of her chose that moment to recline his seat, hitting her knees and nearly hitting her tray. With an effort, she ignored Riley’s chuckle and opened her notebook to jot down a few more things she needed to talk to Glenda about.
Riley watched her, his attention caught by the tightened corners of her lips, the furrow of concentration that pulled her dark eyebrows together, straightening their natural arch. The first time he met her, he’d been struck by the thought that here was a woman who wouldn’t be squeamish about baiting a worm on a hook, and one who saw no contradiction in lazing in a tub filled with fragrant bubbles up to her neck. He’d never found either of those out for a fact yet, much to his regret, but he had learned she drank her whiskey neat and daubed a disturbingly feminine fragrance behind her ears.
During those first years of their association—a friendship of sorts—she’d possessed a freshness and a love of life he’d envied. She’d taken her knocks, had some rough times personally, but she’d rolled with them and kept her balance. Then, six years ago, it had all changed, literally overnight, at exactly the same time her love affair had ended.
Delaney had been ambitious before, but not like this, not with this single-minded devotion to work. Maybe she could fool others into believing she had, but she couldn’t fool him. He had known her too long—worked with her too long. This compulsive drive to succeed didn’t come from ambition or ego the way she claimed. It was more complicated than that, tangled up with the need to prove something—maybe even to make up for the love that had gone wrong.
Most people didn’t see that in her. They only saw the calm that remained with her like a shield. She’d locked herself behind it, and locked her feelings away, too, so they wouldn’t betray her again.
He watched the slight changes of her face, the quickening, the loosening, the small expressions coming and going. She kept at her work, pushing herself. Always pushing herself.
“Take a break, Delaney. You look tired.”
“Really?” she said without looking up. “You don’t suppose it’s because I’ve been up since three o’clock, do you?”
“Not that kind of tired. Edgy tired. You’re working too hard. You need to take a vacation.”
“I did.” She reached for her orange juice. “I spent two weeks in Puerto Vallarta, remember?”
“Delaney. That was nearly three years ago.”
“Was it?”
“It was. So while you’re playing around with the schedule, fit in a vacation for yourself.”
“I will. I promise.” But she was already shutting her mind to where she would go, what she would do—and with whom? Instead, she busied herself with a note. For once, Riley didn’t interrupt.
It was a long time before she noticed his silence. All the plastic remnants of their breakfast had been removed and the in-flight movie had started before she finally glanced over and saw him sprawled—as much as the narrow space allowed him to sprawl—in his seat. His eyes were closed, but she could tell he wasn’t sleeping.
A faint smile curved her mouth. “What are you doing—fantasizing about Rina Cole?”
“No,” he said without stirring. It was another face he was visualizing. But he lied and said, “I’m dreaming I’m on the deck of my boat with the sun on my face, a tangy ocean breeze playing with my hair, a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice in my hand, and a pot of coffee brewing in the galley. That’s the life for me.”
“You had it—remember?—and gave it up.”
“Sometimes, Delaney—just sometimes—the dream is better than the reality.”
She found it impossible to reply to that quietly voiced statement. She gathered up her purse and unbuckled her seat belt. “I think I’ll go see if Glenda has made it to the office yet.” She accidentally bumped his leg when she stood up.
“Careful. You’re rocking the boat.”
“Sorry.” Smiling, she headed up the aisle to the telephone.
THREE
THE TAXI PULLED CLOSE TO THE curb and stopped in front of the Park Avenue address Delaney had given the driver. A horn blared in angry protest. The cabbie ignored it as he turned in his seat to collect the fare.
“A receipt, please.” She paid him, her glance following Riley when he climbed out to retrieve their luggage from the trunk.
The cabbie, an emigrant from a Middle Eastern country, took her money and handed her the printed tape from the meter. Delaney shoved it into her purse, and stepped out of the taxi into the giant solar collector that was Manhattan in late July. Its acres of concrete absorbed the sun’s radiant energy and released it to bake the city. Already she could feel beads of perspiration forming along her upper lip.
She took her overnight bag from Riley. “Remind me to thank you for holding out for an air-conditioned cab.”
“I will.” He draped the matching garment bag over her arm.
She turned toward the tall, buff-colored building, automatically scanning the jam of traffic on the wide street and the steady stream of pedestrians on its sidewalks. For anyone in the security business, New York represented a nightmare of clogged streets, snarled intersections, teeming sidewalks, and perpetual reconstruction—an environment totally beyond control. She tried not to think of all the problems it would present as Riley joined her. Together, they crossed the sidewalk to the building’s entrance.
“No press,” Riley remarked on the absence of any reporters or photographers outside.
“A minor blessing that I suspect won’t last long.” Delaney nodded to the doorman as she passed. Inside the marble-walled lobby, she walked directly to the uniformed guard behind the security desk. “I’m Delaney Wescott. This is my associate, Riley Owens.”
“Carl Bettinger,” supplied the guard, an iron-haired man Delaney judged to be a fit and trim, no-nonsense fifty-year-old. “Mr. Golden told me to expect you. He’s on the twentieth floor. The elevators are to your right.”
“Thanks.”
She crossed to the bank of four elevators and pushed the button. Immediately the doors to the first elevator swished open. She stepped inside and turned to face the doors, leaving ample room for Riley to join her. He punched the button for the twentieth floor and the doors slid shut.
There was a grind and a whir, a faint sensation of movement as Delaney watched the digital readout tick off the floor numbers.
On twenty the elevator slowed to a stop and the doors parted again. Delaney shifted her grip on the overnight bag and stepped out of the elevator.
As she rang the bell to Arthur Golden’s pied-à-terre, Delaney instinctively took note of the layout of the floor’s wide corridors and the locations of the exit signs for the fire stairs and the doors to the other apartments on the floor. A second later, the door opened and Arthur Golden stood before her, dressed in a navy silk Armani suit, a cellular phone to his ear.
Delaney had seen Arthur only a few times after he left the law firm where both had been associates. He had changed little in the interim. Always meticulously groomed, he wore his hair clipped short, never a strand out of place. His skin was tanned, not too darkly, but just enough to give his aristocratic features that California look. No traces remained of the poor Kansas farm boy he’d once been. On the contrary, he looked smooth, suave, and successful—an image he had carefully crafted and one that had served him
well.
Arthur said something to the party on the phone and motioned for Delaney to come in. That was the extent of his greeting as he turned and walked with purposeful strides out of the apartment’s formal entrance hall into its living room. Delaney followed with Riley right behind her.
The living room was sleekly contemporary, its walls glazed in ecru, its sofa and chairs upholstered in a soft shade of rust. Horizontal blinds instead of drapes hung at the broad windows that gave the expected yet still spectacular view of the city—a kind of Gershwin sweep that declared, “This is Manhattan!”
Arthur walked straight to a long, well-equipped bar, then glanced back at Delaney and cupped a hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “I’ll be right with you,” he said, then turned away and resumed his telephone conversation, speaking in low, hushed tones.
Delaney draped her garment bag over one of the armchairs and set her overnight bag on the textured carpet beside it. Riley placed his bags next to them, then said in a soft undertone, “Sounds like that phone call is very important.”
“With Arthur, it’s hard to be sure,” Delaney murmured. “When we both worked at the same law firm, it was a standing joke that when Arthur was on the phone, it was impossible to tell if he was negotiating the deal of the century or making dinner reservations. About the time you decided it was an act, he’d bring in some contract with unbelievable terms.”
“You can’t trust appearances.”
“Especially with Arthur. Behind all that polish and the designer clothes is an extremely intelligent man.”
Riley took his own measure of Arthur. “Cunning?”
Delaney smiled. “Let’s just say, he isn’t the kind to stand on ethics.”
“Few people do nowadays,” he replied.
“Careful. Your cynicism is showing,” Delaney chided.
Riley slanted her a mocking look, his eyes smiling. “And yours doesn’t?”
She had no opportunity to respond as Arthur concluded his conversation and turned back to them, laying the cellular phone aside.
