'Honey, we've already been over that,' Venetia reminded her gently. 'Those two hundred and forty-nine guests are not faking it. Believe me. They really do have salmonella poisoning.'
'I'm not saying they don't. And for Christ's sake, stop giving me that look.'
Dorothy-Anne paused to accept the cup of cappuccino from Cecilia.
She took a quick sip and it scalded her tongue. She was so worked up she'd forgotten how hot Cecilia served it. She put the cup down carefully.
Venetia looked at her obliquely. 'I'm not saying you're obsessed. But accidents happen, baby. They happen all the time.'
Feeling herself deflate, she slumped wearily down into her chair and rubbed her face. 'Sorry. I didn't mean to overreact.'
'I know that, baby.'
'It's just that I've been desperately grasping at straws.'
'You're not alone, honey. We've all been doing that. The thing to do now is finish your coffee, eat a Danish—'
As if on Cue, Cecilia, having hung the coat in the closet, now passed the plate of pastries under Dorothy-Anne's nose.
Dorothy-Anne waved it away. 'No, thanks. I don't have any appetite.'
'You really ought to put something in your stomach,' Venetia urged. 'Especially before a press conference.'
Dorothy-Anne smiled grimly. 'In that case, how about some hemlock?'
'Verrrry funny.'
Switching into her business mode, Venetia tapped some papers on the desk with glossy, cabernet-tipped fingers.
'Now, this is your prepared press statement. The legal department's been over it with a fine-tooth comb. So long as you stick to the text, neither accepting nor denying responsibility—'
'Whoa.' Dorothy-Anne held up a hand, palm facing outward. 'Hold it right there.'
'Sure.' Venetia shrugged, as if it were of no consequence, but eyed her warily. 'You're the boss.'
'Right. So why don't you brief me on how the victims are doing?'
Venetia flinched at the word. 'Please. Do not refer to them as victims during the press conference,' she advised.
'Oh?' Dorothy-Anne raised her eyebrows. 'And pray tell why not?'
'Because it could be interpreted as an admission of negligence. And that could make us legally culpable.'
'What!' Dorothy-Anne's mouth dropped open in stunned disbelief. 'My God! These people are our guests! We're responsible for their safety and well-being and . . . And you're worrying about legal culpability?'
Venetia looked at her levelly. 'I'm just telling you our attorneys' position.'
'Attorneys!' Dorothy-Anne snorted and made a dismissive gesture. 'The hell with attorneys! Venetia.' Her voice dropped to a whisper. 'We . . . made . . . people sick!'
'And we're doing what we can to rectify this unfortunate inci—'
Dorothy-Anne waved a hand irritably. 'Let's save the public relations jargon for the press, shall we?'
Venetia felt her cheeks sting at the rebuke. It wasn't like Dorothy- Anne to rake anyone over the coals; rarer yet for Venetia to be at the receiving end when she did.
'Now, then.' Dorothy-Anne folded her hands on the desk and leaned forward, eyes fervent with genuine concern. 'Tell me what we're doing for the victims. And yes, you heard correctly: I said victims. I want to know specifics.'
'Very well.' Venetia sat back down. 'Two hundred and forty-nine guests came down with diarrhea, stomach cramps, and fever. Of these, twenty were taken to the emergency room at Santa Cruz Bay, treated, and then released. No one required hospitalization.'
'Go on.'
'The other two hundred and twenty-nine cases were milder, but just to be on the safe side, we hired private, round-the-clock nurses. Treatment basically consists of making sure the patient gets plenty of fluids.'
'And there've been no fatalities?'
Venetia shook her head. 'If there had been, we'd have told you right away. Apparently, fatalities occur only in extreme cases. Even then, it's mostly the chronically ill, people with suppressed immune systems, or the very young and the very old.'
In other words, the helpless and the harmless, Dorothy-Anne thought sadly, the weak and the innocent . . .
'Everything considered,' Venetia was saying, 'we're getting off lightly.'
'Lightly!' Dorothy-Anne looked at her sharply.
'Yes. It was a mild outbreak.'
'Thank God for small favors, you mean?' Dorothy-Anne said tartly.
'That's right.' Venetia ignored the blunt sarcasm. 'Believe me, honey, it could have been worse. A whole lot worse.'
An updraft stirred up the snowflakes outside, sent them spiraling skyward in great swirls. Gusts of wind buffeted the windows like a barrage of accusations. The glass panes quivered against the onslaught.
She swiveled her chair back around. Leather creaked as she leaned forward. 'Any idea as to how these . . . these appalling bacteria were spread?'
'Yes.' Venetia nodded. 'The usual way, through food. The most likely culprit is eggs, meat, fish, or poultry. They're zeroing in on the camarones en escabeche rojo—shrimp in red chili sauce, but that's only a guess. We'll know for sure sometime tomorrow.'
Tomorrow, Dorothy-Anne thought grimly. God alone knows what other crises tomorrow will bring.
'How about the stricken?' she asked, steepling her hands and raising one eyebrow. 'Other than medically, what are we doing for them?'
'We've provided flights home for the dozen or so who've requested it. Also, we're refunding the cost of the entire hotel stay and round-trip airfare for any ill guests'—she eyed Dorothy-Anne severely, as if to emphasize the largesse of the corporate coffers—'in addition to which, they're getting vouchers for another vacation, all expenses paid, at the Hale resort of their choice.'
'Something I'd think twice about redeeming,' Dorothy-Anne murmured sourly.
'I take exception to that'—Venetia sat forward and locked eyes with Dorothy-Anne—'especially since we're doing everything we possibly can. Honey, we're bending over backward. You know that!'
'Yes, yes,' Dorothy-Anne said irritably, swiveling the chair.
The snow was coming down heavier now, and the entire campuslike complex, even the cars in the parking lot below, were obscured by the trillions of whirling white daubs. From where she was sitting, the monochromatic sky seemed alive. As if a plague of white locusts . . .
She tried to quash the menace of the mental image.
Steady on, old girl, she told herself. It's just snow. An unseasonably late snowfall. That's all it is.
Tightening her lips with resolve, she squeezed the hallucinogenic image from her mind. Leather creaked as she propelled her chair back and reluctantly stood up. 'Well. Might as well go and face the music, eh?' Her voice and facial expression left no doubt as to the distaste with which she regarded the task. 'The sooner I get this over and done with, the better.'
Venetia rose to her feet also. With a rustle of papers, she quickly retrieved the prepared press statement from the desk. 'Don't forget this.' She held the papers out. 'You'll be needing it.'
Dorothy-Anne eyed them with apparent disapproval. 'No.' She shook her head firmly.
'No? What do you mean, no?' Venetia stared at her. 'Girl?' She poised one elegant hand on a slender hip. 'Have you gone bonkers?'
'No to that, too. It's just'—Dorothy-Anne raised both hands in the air—'prepared statements are too heartless . . . too . . . cold.'
'But that's the point!'
Dorothy-Anne shook her head. Golden hair swayed like diagonally cut curtains framing her face. 'The point is,' she said, fingering one sheaf of hair behind her ear, 'if I've got to do this unpleasant chore, I want it to . . . come from the heart.'
Still clutching the papers, Venetia leaned her knuckles on the desk and heaved a massive sigh. 'Why,' she deplored despairingly of her reflection in the mute polished desktop, 'am I not surprised?'
29
Gloria said to Christos, as the two of them were lying naked on the rumpled sheets of the tiny Russian Hill house she had
rented for their trysts, the blinds closing off Alcatraz, the Golden Gate, and the entire world beyond, 'Darling, must you smoke that dreadful weed? Really, marijuana gives off the most sickeningly sweet odor.'
Unperturbed, Christos flicked his Bic and relit the joint. He sucked on it noisily, then held it out to her.
She pulled a face. 'No, thanks. That's one thing I'd rather not get into.'
'Best shit there is.' His voice sounded constipated from holding in the smoke. 'It's Hawaiian.'
She shook her head. 'I already told you. I don't want to.'
He shrugged as he exhaled. 'Your loss is my gain. 'Sides, it isn't like you're Mary Poppins.' He grinned and winked knowingly. 'Right?'
'I never pretended to be Mary Poppins,' she said stiffly. 'It's just that I prefer my drinkie-pie-poos.'
He lay there and took another toke, feeling a pleasant buzz to his high. 'Well, you know what I say. To each his own.'
Gloria rolled over on her side and propped herself up on an elbow, the better to admire the chiseled naked perfection and . . . well, the intense maleness of him. They'd been seeing each other regularly for . . . what? Three months now?
Her alcohol-impaired brain counted backward.
No. Over three months. Which was remarkable—especially in light of the fact that the novelty still hadn't worn off.
If anything, she was crazier about him than ever.
But what is it that makes him such a turn-on? she wondered, not for the first time. And why am I so attracted to this lean, mean, blue-collar sex machine? What's he got that other men don't?
Wisely, she decided these were questions best left unanalyzed. Everyone knew it was dangerous to probe the Freudian minefields of passion and arousal—you never knew what you might come up with.
Keeping the magic going was her reason for leasing this house. And it had made all the difference. No more furtive comings and goings from sleazy flophouses. No more smirking front desk clerks or flea-ridden mattresses to contend with. Tiny though it was, this bougainvillea-shrouded hideaway gave her a sense of privacy and protection. More important, it imparted a stamp of respectability and legitimacy to their liaisons.
She watched as he carefully pinched out the joint and put it on the bedside ashtray. Then she felt him hook his warm muscled leg across hers.
Her reaction was instinctive. She gasped as a thrill hummed through her body.
'Gettin' enough of an eyeful?' he teased cockily.
'Christos, you're awful! Really, sometimes I wonder why I put up with you.'
She pretended to pout.
He laughed. 'Wanna know why? 'Cause I'm always ready, willing, and able. 'Cause I'm hot to trot and a hunk and a half. 'Cause I'm one righteous dude who knows how to dive between a lady's legs and eat her sweet pussy—'
'Ugh!' she said in disgust. 'Must you use that term? You know how I hate it.'
'Yeah, yeah.' He flashed her a Chiclet grin. 'So you say. But ya ask me?'
She was silent.
'Deep down inside, you're turned on by my dirty talk. Why else would ya'—he winked slyly—'how'd ya put it? Put up with me?'
How well he knew her.
Sighing, she let her fingers do the walking across his firmly muscled chest and down his gleaming abs. Reaching his nest of pubic hair, she stroked his penis with her fingertips. Lo and behold. It rose to the occasion. Again.
Would wonders never cease?
Gazing steadily into his eyes, Gloria gently pulled back his foreskin. 'Just so you know,' she said huskily, 'the reason I put up with you is because I . . . I . . . '
Realizing what she was about to say, she swiftly bit down on her lip.
'Yes?' His dilated pupils glowed raptly. 'Say it! Tell me!'
She swallowed, aware of her fluttering pulse. 'I love you,' she whispered hoarsely, a flicker of anguish crossing her face, as though her own words had shocked her.
Quickly she looked away.
'Hey, babe. Don't turn away.' He took her by the chin and forced her to look at him, his thumb stroking her jaw.
Her breasts rose and fell; spots of bright red prickled on her cheeks. Was he torturing her deliberately? Or merely playing some perverse kind of game? Leading her on so she would make a total fool of herself?
She wished she knew. At times she believed she was in charge. That she was the one putting him through his paces. And other times, like now, she wasn't quite so sure if he wasn't pulling her strings.
His voice was unexpectedly soft as he said, 'Come here.' And taking her in his arms, he pulled her atop him.
She could feel herself melt. Moist was his skin; warm and redolent with the musk from their previous bouts of lovemaking. And all the while she was aware of his penis, trapped between her belly and his, twitching and straining with renewed urgency.
'Say it again, Glo,' he whispered, his hands gliding smoothly, expertly, down her silky back and soft buttocks. 'Open up your heart. Share your secrets.'
Eyes widening, she stared at him, her dark shoulder-length hair swaying like a curtain. Looking into his luminous eyes was like losing touch with reality, like diving into a swirling vortex despite being aware of its hazards.
Oh, how easily, she thought, how willingly and gladly I would drown in those heavy-lashed, cobalt pools . . . .
Her fingers dug into his shoulders.
'I love you, Christos!' she whispered fiercely. 'God, if you only knew how much!'
Without warning, she began to tremble all over. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.
'Hey!' He was all kindness and concern. 'Babe? You okay?'
She was silent.
He raised his head, his tongue, swift and snakelike, darting from between his lips. Catching each salty tear before it dropped.
'I love you, too,' he said softly.
Her tears stopped as abruptly as they'd started.
'You . . . do?' she said tentatively. She looked at him in childlike surprise, as though suspecting a trick.
'Sure I do. And I'd prove it, except—' He sighed and shrugged eloquently.
Except. . . ? Gloria felt her stomach contract. What does he mean by except?
And then it dawned on her.
'N . . . nooooo!' With a great howl of anguish, she yanked herself loose and backed away.
'Glo?' Christos shot up into a sitting position. 'What the fuck?'
'There's someone else!' she accused bitterly, her face flashing poison. 'That is what you're trying to tell me. Well? Isn't it?'
'Yeah, but—'
She didn't let him finish. 'Why, you . . . you prick!' she hissed. 'You piece of shit!'
Christos was taken aback. This was a new Gloria, an entirely different one from the Gloria he knew. Something ugly and monstrous, hideous as bone stripped of its flesh, seemed to have pushed through the surface of her face.
He stared at her. 'What the hell's gotten into you?'
'Into me?' She glared at him. 'My, God! Why didn't I see it coming? How could I have been so fucking blind?'
He tried to be reasonable. 'Look, Glo—' he began.
But she was too far gone. 'Don't you Glo me!' she screeched. And swinging her arm back, she brought it flashing forward in a blur.
Christos saw it coming, but didn't try to block it. The loud ca-rack! sounded like a pistol shot as her palm connected with his cheek. His head snapped sideways, her handprint glowing whitely on his skin.
'Son of a bitch!' she panted, slapping him again, this time with her other hand.
His head pivoted in the opposite direction, but he refused to protect himself. 'For chrissake, Glo,' he said calmly. 'Will ya get hold o' yourself?'
But her eyes were glazed from her liquid breakfast, and there was no stopping her. Again and again she slapped him, alternating sides so that his head swiveled left, then right, then left and right, left and right.
'Two-timing bastard!' she hissed. 'Goddamn prick!'
'I said stop it,' he warned softy.
The quiet threat i
n his voice made absolutely no impression. Liquor- fueled rage, blinding and all-consuming, pumped madly through her veins, pounded wildly in her heart.
Hurt, dammit, hurt! Returning pain in kind was all she could think of. Two eyes for an eye! Two teeth for a tooth!
The furies that drove her were too volcanic to be contained, too chaotic and elemental to do anything except let them run their course. Her slaps were increasing in speed even as they began to lose their sting.
But Christos had had enough. Quick as lightning, his hand darted out, intercepted hers, and caught her by the wrist. She swung with her other hand, but he seized hold of that wrist, too.
Her breasts heaved as she struggled to pull free. When it proved futile, she raised her head. 'Motherfucker!' she panted. And hawking deeply, she drew her lips back across her teeth and spat in his face.
He didn't so much as flinch.
Her eyes flashed fire and ice. 'Now let go of me.'
'Unh-unh.' He shook his head. 'Not till you get yourself under control.'
'What bloody nerve!' Her eyes raked him up and down. 'Really! Just who do you think you are, telling me what to do?'
'Wanna know somethin' funny, babe?' he retorted. 'I've been askin' myself the same thing. Only with me it's, 'What the fuck am I doin' around this crazy-ass bitch!' '
A mask seemed to descend over her face. Her eyes went dark, then narrowed into slits. 'Aren't you forgetting something?' she said coldly.
'Lemme guess. If I am, you're gonna tell me. Right?'
She stared daggers, then lowered her head, took a moment to compose herself, and raised her chin.
He was so taken aback, he almost let go of her wrists. The transformation was that sudden and startling.
The woman who'd attacked him was a foul-mouthed fishwife. The woman who now spiked him with a haughty glare was every inch the Pacific Heights socialite.
'What you are forgetting,' she pointed out icily, 'is that ours is a capitalist arrangement. In other words, I pay you to get what I want.' She smiled sweetly, but her eyes were like whirring drill bits. 'And what I want right this very moment is for you to take your filthy paws off me.'
Second Love Page 27