The Hideaway

by Meryl Sawyer

  Seth had been all over him—literally. What was half a mil to Max? He had billions and nothing to do with it. Then Max had opened his safe and shown Seth the bearer bonds he kept for a lark. Instant cash. Anyone could sell them and get money. No questions asked. Pocket change—worth a couple of mil. Enough to fully fund a senate campaign.

  That cinched the deal. From then on Seth had been all his. Max’s toy. Why Seth had bothered to try to make amends with Claire and end up with a wet sticky dick eluded Max.

  Vanessa moved off Seth, looking at Max, homing in on his crotch. “Sweetie, don’t you want to get in on the fun?”

  “I’m having all the fun I can have.” The biggest kick of all would be telling Vanessa that he had no intention of backing her film. She was trying so hard to please, to cover the cunning mind beneath the silicone veneer.

  Blind ambition.

  Max studied the gold band with his initials on the cigar, and adjusted his position. He’d been on his side, his head supported by his bent arm. Now he had a cramp. Changing his position didn’t seem to help much.

  But watching Seth did. He now had the actress facedown and was running his tongue along her spine. Vanessa was moaning to beat the band. Lousy acting, Max thought. Why piss away good money on any film of hers?

  But if she pleased Seth, really pleased him, Max might reward her with a bone—one of his smallest bearer bonds worth ten grand. She could sell it the next day and start looking for another sucker.

  He scooted himself up to the headboard, then leaned over and dropped the five-hundred-dollar cigar into the ashtray. Damn thing had made him nauseous. He sucked in a deep breath to clear his lungs. That helped settle his stomach, but the pain in his shoulder was worse, much worse.

  Why had he lain on his side for so long? He should have rolled onto his stomach to watch them. He glanced over and saw the show was now in high gear. Seth was nipping at the bimbo’s butt while holding a fistful of hair so her head was face-down in the pillow. She was turned away from Max and slightly to the side with just enough room to breathe.

  Seth was the picture of ecstasy, loving every second. When it came to women, Seth had a cruel streak. He was really getting off on hurting Vanessa a little. All in the name of hot sex, of course.

  The pain inched down Max’s arm, but he ignored it, thinking of how much fun he’d have later. Making Seth pay for enjoying this. Some people might have said Max was perverted, he reflected. Not so. Poor people were perverted. Rich people were kinky.

  Kinky and … the breath stalled in his lungs. An explosion of, white-hot pain seared through his chest and shoulder, down his arm to scorch his fingertips. His heart! Something was wrong! He glanced at the bedside clock.

  Just after midnight.

  In a one-horse town like this, would a doctor be in the emergency room after midnight? Could he get there in time?

  “Seth!” he cried, a strangled sound he hardly recognized as his own voice.

  Seth looked over at Max, all smiles. Max struggled to cry out again, but his lips were too contorted with pain to form the words. The severity of the situation registered on Seth’s face—thank God.

  Seth’s smile vanished, and Max managed to reach his hand toward him for help. Seth glanced down at Vanessa whose head was still facing away from Max. Evidently she hadn’t picked up on the distress in his tone when he’d cried out to Seth. She kept moaning like an actress in a cheap porn flick.

  Help me, Max silently cried, mouthing the words. Seth levered Vanessa’s backside up, then entered her from the rear, a look of unadulterated pleasure on his handsome face. He turned his head slightly and blew Max a kiss.

  Claire glanced up at the digital alarm clock on Zach’s nightstand. Almost four o’clock. When had she arrived here? Before ten, she thought. How many times had they made love?

  She lay very still, staring into the darkness and knowing if she moved, Zach would be on her again. The thought alone caused a flutter in her tummy and a familiar heat languidly crept through her. It had been a night of sex, as primal and raw and uninhibited as she could imagine.

  Wild sex.

  Tell the truth, Claire. You loved every second. Tonight for the first time in her life, she’d let herself go. True, she had initially fought Zach with that king-of-the-mountain game, finally yielding in total surrender to his superior strength.

  Why had she initiated that silly game? She searched her brain, yet couldn’t explain it to herself. It must be some sort of control issue, she decided. Zach was so strong and physically able to dominate her. She must have needed to be in control. She couldn’t come up with a better explanation.

  But there was one thing she was certain about. Making love to Zach was like taking a narcotic and telling yourself that once would be enough. She was hooked, plain and simple.

  Okay, so what are you going to do about it?

  She had been waffling for some time, teetering between wanting him and hating him. He would deliberately bait her with some crude remark or action, and she would fall for it. It was a stupid, adolescent way of approaching a relationship. And that’s what she wanted from Zach—a real relationship.

  But how did he feel? What did he want?

  She looked over at Zach, his face barely visible in a slanting bar of moonlight coming through the window. He didn’t relax as he slept, she thought, remembering him catnapping on her sofa just last week. If anything his expression was more stern, worry etching the masculine planes of his face.

  What troubled him even in his sleep?

  She glanced down at his arm slung possessively across her rib cage just below her breasts. The soft underside of her chest rested on his tanned forearm. Bronze against opal white. The contrast fascinated her; everything about him fascinated her.

  Yet on another level, he frightened her because she didn’t understand him. A relationship founded on sex didn’t leave much room for understanding. She reminded herself to follow Angela’s advice and get this man out of her system. It was going to take longer than one night, so she needed to keep her emotional barriers up.

  Sex and nothing more. It worked for Angela—for years. Yet the thought depressed Claire terribly. This wasn’t how she saw herself at all. She wanted a home and a family.

  Two or three children would be perfect. A dog. A couple of cats. But most of all she wanted a man who would make a good father, a man who would want to share the kind of family life she wanted.

  She reached over and caressed Zach’s cheek, wondering if any woman could tame Zach Coulter enough so he would remain true to her instead of skipping from bedroom to bedroom the way his father had. She lightly touched the stubble along his jaw.

  With a flush of warmth that centered between her legs, she recalled the rasp of his beard against her breasts. Between her thighs.

  Oh, Lordy, what had she gotten herself into this time?

  As if sensing her mental hesitation, Zach moved in his sleep. His arm tightened, pulling her against his solid torso. His warm breath fanned across her breasts. She could feel his heart beating strong and steady against her body. What would it be like to wake up every morning with Zach holding her?

  She snuggled closer, and he whispered her name in his sleep with an aching tenderness that took her by surprise. He was so intense about life, so passionate when he made love. It was difficult to believe such a man existed who could make her cry out with pleasure and bring tears of utter happiness to her eyes. Now she knew what had been missing her whole life.

  The echo in her soul that crept into her mind in the early hours just before dawn. The voice in her mind that knew her innermost thoughts. The mirror of her heart, reflecting hidden desires and secret fantasies.

  Zach Coulter.

  He was her destiny and always had been, she thought, looking back to her youth. Tonight, her life had changed forever, her very existence had been altered by the experience. And telling herself anything else would be a lie.

  She shivered in his arms … wondering wh
at would happen if he knew she was falling in love with him.

  Bah-ring! Bah-ring! The telephone beside the bed shattered the stillness. Zach sat bolt upright and shook his head, staring at her as if she were a ghost. He hesitated a moment as if he couldn’t believe she was there. Then he reached out and touched her face with his fingertips, a surprisingly affectionate gesture.

  Bah-ring! Bah-ring! Zach grabbed the telephone with a gruff, “Coulter, here.”

  Claire watched as he cradled the receiver against his shoulder and switched on the lamp. She pulled the sheet up to cover herself.

  “Aw, shit,” he said as he slammed down the receiver. He was out of bed, striding across the room, totally oblivious to how magnificent he looked without a stitch on. “Max Bassinger dropped dead of a heart attack.”

  “I can’t believe it!” Claire cried, stunned. “I just saw him at the Fosters’ reception tonight. He seemed perfectly healthy.” She thought a moment, remembering something someone had said at the gallery. “I heard he had a heart condition, but it wasn’t supposed to be life threatening.”

  Zach pulled on his jeans without bothering with underwear. “Yeah, well, your buddy, Seth Ramsey was there when it happened. He called Ollie Hammond.”

  “Why? Max’s hacienda is miles outside of town in your jurisdiction.”

  Zach buttoned his shirt. “Beats me.”

  “Seth is up to something.” Claire jumped out of bed, the top sheet tucked under her arms, and retrieved his badge from on top of the dresser. She pinned it squarely on Zach’s shirt, imagining him confronting Ollie Hammond. She smelled big trouble.

  He stared down at her, and she had the insane urge to lure him into bed again. She did not want him to fight with Ollie Hammond. Her sixth sense told her there was something terribly wrong.

  “Call Brad Yeager at the Fifth Pueblo Hotel for me,” he said as he opened the door. “Tell him to get out to Bassinger’s pronto.”

  “Be careful,” she cautioned.

  Zach looked over his shoulder, an adorable smile on his face. He continued to smile at her until the suggestion of a boyish dimple appeared, tempering the rugged planes of his face. “This shouldn’t take long. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

  She called the hotel and gave Brad Yeager directions to Casa del Sol. Then she prowled around Zach’s small house, turning on the lights. Both dogs had awakened when Zach left and were now waiting by the front door. She let them out and they flew down the steps and out to the meadow.

  She hadn’t had much of a chance to inspect Zach’s home last night, so she carefully looked around the living room. Beautifully buffed wood floors offset a Navajo rug that was an excellent reproduction. The Santa Fe style furniture consisted of a leather sofa in a rich shade of sage and a single chair in a slightly darker hue.

  The wooden coffee table appeared to be part of a barn door from a ranch. Numerous brands had been seared into the wood with branding irons. The Lazy Z, Twin Peaks, the Double J. Displayed squarely on the center of the table was a bronze.

  It was a great horned owl perched on a limb. The branch soared out from a solid base then stretched across the entire table. The owl was perfectly balanced on the tip of the limb, suspended high over the coffee table. It was an amazing feat of engineering, but it wasn’t nearly as impressive as the owl itself.

  The bird appeared to have been captured alive rather than cast in bronze. Truly amazing. She looked at the base to see who the artist was. There was no signature on the base. Unusual.

  Artists, even rank amateurs, signed their pieces. She pondered the question, then recalled what her father had told her about Jake Coulter. He’d fancied himself to be another Ansel Adams. He’d spent days in the mountains taking pictures of animals. Her father had passed him off as nothing more than a womanizer who hung around her mother using his photography as an excuse.

  Could he have been a talented photographer and gifted artist as well?

  Twenty-six

  Angela walked into her kitchen at a few minutes before seven, Paul at her side, having returned from a sunrise horseback ride in the hills. The housekeeper had breakfast ready; the smell of hot tortillas and bacon filled the air.

  As soon as Paul had this horse thing out of his system, she was positive he’d use the guest house she was secretly converting into a studio. She’d ordered brushes from Florence and contracted with a New York company to purchase the finest archival paper. Wait until Paul saw the thousands of tubes of paint gathered by her special source in Paris.

  “What are your plans for today?” she asked casually as Maria, the housekeeper, served her special blend of eggs and bacon laced with Chimayo red chili and cheese rolled in blue corn tortillas. The locals called them breakfast burritos; Angela called them divine.

  Angela mentally crossed her fingers but Paul’s answer was the same as it had been since he’d moved in. “I’m going to shower and get the trail dust off.”

  He grinned and her heart couldn’t help kicking up a beat. He’d lather her up—to take care of that nasty trail dust—and they’d make love standing in the shower, the water sluicing over them. The man had an appetite for sex that outdistanced any of the young studs she’d known. Angela didn’t mind. No young hunk had ever made her feel this way.

  With Paul she felt safe in ignoring her father’s dire warning—he’s only after your money. Sure, Paul took what she offered, but with such genuine gratitude and enthusiasm for life that she couldn’t fault him. It thrilled her to see him happy.

  They were enjoying the burritos when Angela glanced at the television on the counter and saw Max Bassinger’s face on the screen. “Please, turn up the TV, Maria.”

  CNN featured a perky reporter with a perpetual smile who was doing her best to look sad. “We are distressed to report the untimely death of oil tycoon and financial genius, Max Bassinger. He died last night of an apparent heart attack in bed at Casa del Sol, his hacienda in the exclusive art colony of Taos, New Mexico. Beloved by millions, Max—”

  “Beloved?” Angela cried. “The man was a creep. If he hadn’t been so rich—”

  “Wait,” Paul interrupted, “they’re going live to Casa del Sol.”

  The newscaster, ever upbeat, chattered on about Max’s rags-to-riches story as the camera panned across the opulent hacienda Max had renovated.

  “Casa del Sol,” Angela scoffed. “It should have been Casa del Muerto—house of death. It was built by Indian slave labor. The original owner bought the slaves right down on the plaza where they had an Indian slave market. After the hacienda was finished, the jerk got what he deserved. His horse threw him and he broke his neck. Since then the place has been cursed. One bad thing after another. The Indians claim chindis—that’s what they call ghosts—haunt the place. The ghosts undoubtedly are the Indian slaves who died of heat and thirst, building a hacienda so grand it rivaled the plantations in the old South.”

  “Interesting,” Paul commented as the camera revealed the mob in front of the mansion. “How did all those reporters get here so fast?”

  Angela shook her head. “There’s Zach and Ollie Hammond. I wonder why Ollie’s there? Casa del Sol is in Zach’s jurisdiction.”

  The CNN reporter on the scene took over from the announcer, saying there would be an interview with Vanessa Trent, a close friend of Max Bassinger’s who had been with him when he had been stricken.

  Angela gave the busty actress high marks for getting tears to run down her face without ruining her makeup. But why was she wearing such a sexy dress to talk about Max’s death? With that much exposed cleavage, corn flakes across America were going to become soggy while men hung on every word Vanessa uttered.

  “Dear, dear Max,” Vanessa gushed, dramatically brushing tears off her cheeks. “He adored me. He was backing my first film, you know.”

  “Is that what you were discussing when he died?” asked the reporter.

  The question caused a fresh spate of tears and Seth Ramsey stepped into camera
view to put his arm around her. Another man Angela didn’t recognize moved up from behind the actress so she was now being supported by two men.

  “She’s faking it,” Paul said as the camera angle widened, bringing into view Ollie Hammond, Zach and the FBI agent. “Zach’s not buying it either.”

  “Earlier we discussed my-my movie,” Vanessa played out the moment. “Then Max, well, he”—she looked to Seth for support and he smiled sympathetically—“came into the room where Seth and I—” Another dramatic pause “Well, we were … you know, making love. Max came up to us before we noticed him.”

  “Seeing us making love was too much for him,” Seth interrupted and the camera jerked to the side to catch him. “Max collapsed onto the bed.”

  “Wait a minute,” Angela cried. “The announcer said Max died in bed. Now Seth claims Max collapsed onto the bed.”

  “The other reporter was in Atlanta at CNN headquarters. The reporter here in Taos didn’t hear what the announcer said,” Paul told her. “That’s all.”

  “It sounds fishy to me. Someone doesn’t have their story straight.”

  Paul’s brow furrowed into a deep V. “Do you suppose all three of them were in bed together?”

  “Anything’s possible,” Angela assured Paul, suppressing the urge to lean over and kiss him. Until he’d come along, she’d been into kinky sex. A ménage à trois wasn’t that far out, but Paul seemed shocked.

  The reporter spoke loudly to be heard over Vanessa’s fresh burst of tears. “We have been speaking with television star Vanessa Trent and state senate candidate, Seth Ramsey. They were with Max Bassinger when he suffered a fatal heart attack.”

  “Senate candidate?” Angela said. “Since when?”

  “Since he had the opportunity to get free television time,” Paul responded. “Unless the three of them were all in bed together. Then he’s toast.”

  “Maybe,” Angela conceded, “but it’s getting harder to shock people. Americans re-elected a president even though he had been implicated in numerous extramarital affairs. I don’t think it matters that much anymore.”