Syrah and Swingers

by Sandra Woffington

  8

  Max and Joy entered the lobby of La Lionne Sauvage hotel, part of a massive winery complex that included a top-notch restaurant, tasting room, spa, pool, and golf course. The lobby of travertine tile and travertine columns gave the room a cool Old World elegance, but French furniture with delicate legs, ornate curvy bodies, and buttoned upholstery in gold and burgundy damask, as well as marble-topped tables, offset the simplistic with the splendorous. It was upscale and haughty.

  Max approached a pair of employees standing behind a heavy brown marble countertop. He flashed his credentials.

  “How can I help you?” asked the man, mid-thirties, who over-enunciated every syllable as if it distinguished him as part of the upper-class instead of a lowly receptionist.

  “We need to speak to one of your guests,” said Max. “A Dr. Draven Blackmoor.”

  The male seemed to know that specific guest by heart. “Dr. Blackmoor is staying in one of our private casitas, not in the hotel. I can ring him for you.”

  The girl behind him added, “He’s in the spa. I booked the appointment for him just an hour ago.”

  “Which way?” asked Joy.

  “Can’t it wait until he’s done?” asked the male.

  Joy gave him a deadpan answer. “Killers don’t wait, so we don’t either. Which way?”

  The flustered male pointed to his left. “Through the double doors and follow the signs out to the pool area. The spa is on the other side of the pool.”

  Joy led the way.

  To Max, she acted like she needed this face-to-face showdown in order to cut the cord with Draven Blackmoor once and for all. He knew that feeling. It was the real reason he went to see Belladonna in prison—to face the woman who had poisoned them. Regardless of who she was, mother or not, he had remembered her face. He would never forget that face.

  Max followed Joy around the enormous pool. A handful of guests brave enough to face the summer sun filled a row of chaise lounges. One couple chatted. One couple read. And others slept or simply closed their eyes and minds to the world outside. Max noted an absence of children. They had returned to school.

  The spa building rose two stories high. An open verandas on the second level jutted out like a massive shaded balcony from which guests enjoyed picturesque views of the pool area.

  Inside the spa, Joy flashed her credentials. “Where can we find Dr. Draven Blackmoor?”

  Scents of essential oils and perfumed lotions overpowered Max. At least it smelled better than the forensic suites.

  A pretty young girl with no makeup and a blond ponytail stumbled over the request. Her smile became a frown. Her eyes widened as she glared at Joy’s badge. “Let me get the manager for you.”

  Max intervened. “We’re not here to see your manager, Miss. Where is Draven Blackmoor right now?”

  The girl complied unwillingly. Her face contorted into an I-hope-I-don’t-get-fired expression of panic. “Through that door and on your left. Room seven.”

  Joy led the way down the beige and cream hallway lined with prints of lavender and herbs. She took long strides that fought against the calming music.

  To Max, Joy seemed taller, more self-assured than ever before. He hoped she wouldn’t lose it.

  Joy opened the door quietly.

  A female masseuse, mid-twenties, rubbed Draven Blackmoor’s bare back as he lay face down with a white towel draped across his buttocks. His legs stretched to the end of the table, and his feet hung off the edge.

  Joy flashed her credentials, put a finger to her lips to keep quiet, and signaled for the girl to leave, which she did in a hurry. She and Max stepped in.

  Max closed the door with an audible thud.

  “Hello, Draven. You wanted to see me?” said Joy.

  Draven Blackmoor rolled over and sat up. He let the towel slide off of his hips as he rolled over. He made a show of his nakedness by standing on his feet and slowly wrapping the towel around his well-toned hips, six-pack waist, and other prideful parts. “Why, Joy, I rather think that it is you who wanted to see me.”

  Blackmoor was every bit what Max had expected and more. Mid-forties. He had thick black hair swept back from his face, which mixed boyish charm with bad-boy noir features. His jaw was heavy and square; his eyes dark, like Joy’s. His hair receded the slightest amount at the corners of his face, giving him an eerie vampire look—or was Max just imbuing his looks with his own stamp of characterization that Joy had provided? Blackmoor’s chest rippled with muscles and appeared to be clean-shaven—or else the man lacked hair. Maybe it was etiquette at swingers’ parties, he didn’t know, but David King’s voice filled his head. “Well, if that don’t beat all.”

  “You brought back-up.” Draven casually sat on the edge of the massage table. “Or is this a threesome?”

  “Do you know Ted Hook?” asked Joy.

  Blackmoor paused as if to consider the question, but Max picked up on his game—a cat toying with a mouse. “No bells, beautiful. I miss you. How about a date for old time’s sake? Leave your bodyguard at home.”

  Max rolled his eyes.

  Joy smirked. “As you well know, Draven. I don’t need a bodyguard to protect me from you. I walked away on my own two feet.”

  Draven’s eyes narrowed. He crossed his arms. The man clearly liked to be in charge, and it rattled him when he wasn’t.

  “Why are you here, Draven?” asked Joy.

  “I remembered your homey descriptions of San Diego and Wine Valley during our time together, so I thought I’d end my book tour right here in your backyard. Rekindle the fire.”

  “You can’t rekindle ashes,” said Joy.

  “I’m on tour for my newest book, The Serial Killer’s Guide to Pleasure. I’m lecturing in San Diego tomorrow afternoon. You should come, Joy. There’s a rather gruesome surprise. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. It’s right up your alley.”

  “Maybe gruesome is your alley, doctor.” The corner of Max’s mouth turned up in a smirk.

  Joy glanced at Max, and the corner of her mouth turned up in gratitude for having her back.

  Draven Blackmoor stood on his feet. His jaw clenched. His dark eyes narrowed at Max. He was taller than Max by an inch or two. He clearly wanted to make that point, which was why he stood up. “Have dinner with me. Alone. And we can talk. Unless you are afraid of me. You know I don’t bite.” He took a step forward, as if to see if Joy would step back, but she didn’t budge. His dark eyes bore into hers, and he whispered, “Actually, I do bite, don’t I?”

  Max worried that Joy would say yes, not because she would weaken to his noir charms, but because she needed to tear this guy apart to see what lurked inside. It was her nature. And Draven Blackmoor seemed to know exactly how to exploit that nature. Max hoped he was wrong.

  “I said all I needed to say to you a long time ago.” Joy used a caustic tone meant to flay his flesh.

  “It hasn’t been long enough for you to forget me.” Draven’s eyes moved from Joy to Max. “You two are in sync in a funny way. More than partners. Less than lovers. It’s almost as if he’s your…”

  “He’s my partner, Draven. Something you know nothing about. You always did have a theatrical imagination.”

  Draven reached out to touch Joy’s cheek, but she shoved his hand away. Max stepped closer. Draven backed off. He returned to the massage table and sat down. “We had some pretty theatrical times. I loved you, Joy.”

  Joy’s voice maintained control. “You aren’t capable of loving anyone but yourself, Draven. You love control. You feed off of it. But I walked away. And you lost the object of your obsession.”

  Draven jumped to his feet. He stalked toward Joy with slow, even steps. “We all feed off of control. Don’t all lovers assert or give up control—dominant and submissive? One person wears the pants, whether it’s a man or a woman. The other heels and obeys. Even some gay couples—one calls himself ‘husband,’ the other ‘wife.’ The submissive likes to be dominated. He or she likes a strong alpha-ani
mal to overrule objections and force him or her down the path of pleasure. It leaves them both exhilarated and happy. Two strong equals would tear each other’s throats out and both would die.”

  Max broiled. He wanted to swing a fist.

  Joy put up her hand, set it against Blackmoor’s bare chest, and stopped his advance. She pushed back with moderate force. “Go home, Draven. There’s nothing for you here. Not even ashes.” Joy turned to leave, and Max followed her out.

  Max met Draven’s eyes. “I bite too. Remember that, because you’re in my backyard, which means you’d better stay leashed.” He followed Joy out the door.

  Joy marched back across the pool area, through the lobby and across the parking lot. She yanked the car door open, hopped in, and fumed.

  “Are you okay? That guy is a complete a-hole.”

  “A-hole?”

  “Hey, that was the extent of David King’s allowable cuss words. Don’t judge me.”

  “Well, I can do better—Draven Blackmoor is a fucking asshole! I can’t believe I fell for his sadistic psychobabble. I need a long, hot bath to clean off his stink.”

  “Want me to stay over again?”

  “No.”

  “Hey, that’s a good sign. You’re not chicken anymore.”

  Joy became quiet. She burst out laughing. “Not exactly. I asked Steele to stay over.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to include him in this? You were afraid he’d ask questions.”

  “I’ll dodge the questions I can’t answer.” Her face grew somber. She let her head fall back on the headrest. “There were so many things I wanted to tell Sam. He knew something was wrong the moment I stepped in the door and rushed into his arms. But he never pressed. I wish he had. The day he died, I’d finally worked up the courage. I’d planned to open up to him. Tell him everything. About Draven, about my fears. I played it all out in my head. I was going to call him ‘Dad.’ And then…”

  “He knew who he was, Joy. He didn’t care what you called him. He knew how you felt.” Max’s voice filled with remorse too. He stared out the windshield. “I told my dad most things, but I think you just expressed how he must have felt while he was in the ambulance and dying. I looked down at him, and he struggled to say what he needed to say. I shushed him, stopped him from talking.”

  Joy stared straight ahead too. “I like to believe they both knew we’d find each other. And the rest, we’ll figure out.”

  Max turned the key and fired up the engine. “I’m glad you’ve got a guard dog, a scrappy one named Steele.”

  “Me too, Max. Until Draven Blackmoor leaves town, I won’t feel entirely safe. That’s paranoia talking.”

  “You said before that you had the brains and I have the gut instincts. Well, my gut says he’s bad news. Brains and guts—it’s a good combination—they keep us alive.”

  9

  Steele knocked on the door of Joy’s house.

  Joy flung the door open, stepped into his arms, and planted a long, passionate kiss on his lips. Her heart beat faster, responding to his touch. She trembled with repressed desire—the need to open her heart and release every secret and the fear that prevented her from following through. When she let him go, he pulled her back into his arms and returned a kiss that revealed that his heart had opened to let her in. Sensuous, yes. Needy, yes. Their needs matched and met in that kiss, until he let her go.

  Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to add commentary. Steele kept one arm around Joy’s waist. He held up a plastic bag. “Venison jerky, as promised.”

  “We are totally tearing that open and ripping our canines into it.”

  Steele laughed. “Spoken like a true carnivore.”

  They sipped whiskey on the patio and watched the sun dip closer to the golden hills dotted with homes. A ceiling fan in the patio cover rotated, sending whooshing waves of air over them. They snuggled together on the gray wicker love seat and black cushions. Joy had lighted the stone hearth, but the sun drowned it out. Still, the flickering flames danced in pleasing and warm waves that matched the fire kindling between them.

  Steele opened the bag and set it on the table. He reached for the jerky and handed a piece to Joy. She leaned down and snatched it between her teeth, ripping it from his hand. They both laughed.

  Joy bit into the dark meat like a lion tearing flesh. A piece pulled away, and she chewed. She put a hand up over her mouth. “Oh my gosh! This is the best jerky I’ve ever had. Seriously, the best.”

  Steele grabbed a piece for himself. “Well, you bagged the deer, so I had the best ingredient to work with.”

  “It’s got just enough fight and chew and—the flavor—wow!”

  “I have to admit, it came out as good as I’d hoped. It’s a good marinade, and the rest is getting the smoking time just right.” Steele washed his jerky down with a sip of whiskey. “It’s good to see you. You guys had a late night, so I was surprised you wanted to get together, but I’m glad you did. We’ll get you to bed good and early.”

  Joy gave him a wry smile. “You, jerky, and sleep—my world is perfect.” Joy chewed another bite. The more she chewed, the less she had to converse.

  “I heard you interviewed swingers. That had to be a crazy group. I can’t imagine.”

  Joy squirmed. “Hey, judgmental. People have reasons, you know. Besides, most people are screwing each other’s brains out after getting drunk or with no protection and cheating too, but swingers meticulously employ safe sex; they don’t get drunk and they have strict can’t-do-this and won’t-go-there rules. It’s not what people think.”

  “Really? Hey, you’re talking me into it.”

  “Okay, don’t go that far. I like you just as you are.” Joy washed a bite down with whiskey.

  Steele leaned in to kiss her. She returned his kiss and wrapped her arms around him, despite the awkward angle. Their breath mingled whiskey, soy sauce, sugar, pepper, and smoky flavors with a hint of heat.

  As the sun fell, they nibbled on the jerky and on one another’s lips and soft-spoken words, until the sun slipped behind the hills, leaving them in the shadow of night.

  They stepped inside through the French patio doors and into the kitchen.

  Joy pulled a pre-baked a potato, green chili and cheddar cheese frittata from the refrigerator and set it in the oven. She popped two cored apples, stuffed with butter and brown sugar and sprinkled with cinnamon, into the oven beside the frittata. Joy withdrew a navy blue ceramic salad bowl from the refrigerator and slid it across the granite countertop to Steele. “Do the honors?”

  “I’m a salad king.” Steele pulled a salad bottle from the bowl, shook it, opened the top, and splashed some vinaigrette on the greens and strawberries. He pulled tongs from the bowl and tossed the spring mix of reds and greens.

  Joy slid two navy-and-white floral plates across the countertop, and Steele divided the salad between two plates.

  Joy poured them a glass of crisp sauvignon blanc, which they sipped as the kitchen warmed and a sweet, candied aroma filled the air.

  A thousand times, or so it seemed, Joy thought of ways to tell Steele about Draven Blackmoor. But every imaginary opening of hers ended with a question from him that she could not bring herself to answer. She felt ashamed for entering Blackmoor’s rat hole.

  My old flame is in town.

  What’s his name?

  Draven Blackmoor

  The serial killer expert? You dated him? What was that like?

  I can’t talk about that.

  Why is he here?

  I can’t talk about that.

  Tell me about him.

  I can’t talk about that.

  “What’s wrong? You’re quiet,” asked Steele.

  There—that was her opening. Just blurt it. “I’m sorry. I’m more tired than I thought.” Nope. It stayed locked away.

  Joy convinced herself that Draven Blackmoor would leave town soon, and she’d never have to see him again. Steele would never have to know. It was not like th
e two men would ever meet. Blackmoor had an alibi for the night of the party. He didn’t kill Ted Hook. Maybe Ted killed Ted—suicide. Thought after thought assaulted her brain. She knew it was wrong to keep secrets. She was pretty sure that Steele would stay by her side, even if she told him about Blackmoor, but she clearly was not ready to make that leap. Not yet.

  Steele reached over and set his hand over the back of Joy’s hand. “Is it the prison visit you made with Max? I heard the prisoner was poisoned.”

  Joy was grateful for the diversion. It gave her a chance to open up about a subject she could discuss. “The prison staff opened an investigation. The weird thing is that someone had slipped her a medication that mimicked death—so why not just kill her?”

  “To keep her quiet, maybe. To send the message, ‘we let you live, but we could have killed you.’”

  “Maybe—so who’s keeping her alive? And why has she been kept in solitary all these years?”

  “I don’t know. Why did you guys go to see her?”

  Joy wanted to share something, some truth that would ease her guilty conscience. “Remember in the hospital, when I told you that Max and I had a shared history? We lived together the first three and a half years of our lives, until adopted by David King and Sam Burton?”

  “Yeah, you said you were in foster care.”

  “We lived in a house here in Wine Valley with Belladonna and a guy named Cyrus.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know if she was there all of the time. Max and I both remembered her face and voice, but the gut feeling was like she was a distant relative. My father—then an FBI profiler—and Max’s father—then a lieutenant—raided the house. They found Max and me at the kitchen table. Ursula—that’s Belladonna’s real name—had fed us oatmeal laced with belladonna. Cyrus wasn’t there. He’s still missing. Maybe dead. There were a dozen bodies on the property. Not his.” Joy left out the part about the kitten. And the part about being twins. And pretty much everything else.

  Steele set down his fork. “What the f…how does anyone poison children? Did you learn anything?”