'Jee-zus!' he exclaimed softly. 'You know somethin'? You really are one helluva bitch!'
'It's all a matter of interpretation. I view it as being assertive. But if you take it to mean I'm being a bitch, well'—Gloria shrugged—'who cares what you think, anyway. Now. The choice is yours: either you let go of me, or you'll never see another red cent. Which'll it be?'
'Is that all you think I'm after? Your freakin' dough?'
'Well, aren't you?' Her smile sharpened into a taunting scimitar. 'Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't recall your ever turning my money down.'
'You know somethin', lady? Fuck you!'
'My, my!' she said, heaping on the sarcasm. 'Such a gentleman!'
He heaved a massive breath, held it in to steady himself, and let it out slowly.
'You just might be wrong,' he said tightly.
'Oh?' She arched perfectly tweezered eyebrows. 'And why is that?'
'It ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, I really care about you?'
She began to laugh. 'Oh, give me a break! If that isn't the second oldest line in the world! Face it, babe'— her face contorted with malice as she flung his own endearment back at him—'maybe you think you're a stud. But you want to know something?'
He didn't, but he figured she was going to tell him anyway.
'You,' she trumpeted, 'are no better than a Polk Street runaway!'
His face hardened. 'Is that so? Well, then why don'tcha go to Polk Street and find yerself one? An' good riddance!'
He let go of her wrists and shoved her away from him. She flopped over backward, bounced on the mattress, then scrambled to her knees and watched as he grabbed his 501s and yanked them on.
'And where,' she inquired, 'do you think you're going?'
'Someplace sane.'
He paused as he did up his fly, buttoning it from the bottom up. Then he plucked his gray T-shirt off the floor, gave it a good shake, and pulled it on over his head. Hurriedly tucking it into his jeans, he cinched his belt and glanced over at her.
'Someplace where it ain't always Looney Toons time.'
Gloria laughed again. 'Let me guess.' She tapped her lips playfully with a forefinger. 'You're exercising your macho prerogative by walking out on me. Is that it?'
'You said it, lady.'
Gloria didn't seem the least bit fazed. 'You'll come back,' she said knowingly. 'Your type always does.'
Christos gave her a look, no game playing in his eyes. 'I were you?' he said. 'I wouldn't hold my breath.'
She pretended a loud yawn. 'Believe me, darling, I'm not.'
Her anger had dissipated, and she was deriving a perverse satisfaction from toying with him. And why shouldn't she? She was, after all, the injured party. Hadn't Christos all but confessed about there being someone else?
He had. And, true to male form, wasn't he behaving exactly like you'd expect a guilty man to act? Huffing and puffing and making a big show of ruffled feathers as though he were the victim?
Yes. He deserved to squirm. And she would take great pleasure out of seeing him wheedle, cajole, and beg his way back into her good graces.
Whoever came up with the adage was wrong, Gloria thought, watching in amusement as Christos stomped around collecting his socks and boots. Revenge is not a dish best served cold. Quite the contrary. To truly savor it, revenge is best served hot—scalding steaming, bubbling hot!
Christos, boots in one hand and socks in the other, was standing there, scowling at her. 'You still think this is some kind o' game,' he said tightly. 'Don't you?'
'Oh, darling.' Gloria rolled her eyes to heaven. 'You don't really expect me to take you seriously. Do you?'
He glared pugnaciously. 'Matter o' fact, yeah,' he said. 'I do. I'm out that door?' He cocked a finger and pointed, pistollike, toward it. 'It's adios for good.'
'Oooooh!' She shuddered theatrically. 'Famous last words, I presume?'
He shrugged. 'Believe what you want. See if I care.'
With the grace of a dancer, he bent over, balanced himself balletically on one leg, pulled a sock and Western on the other foot, then reversed the process. Carefully, he pulled his jeans down over his boots, stretched to his full height, and looked around for his Levi's jacket.
'Musta left it downstairs,' he muttered to himself. Then he looked over at Gloria. 'I'll see myself out. Oh, before I forget.' He dug out the set of keys she had given him from his jeans pocket. 'Here.' He tossed them on the bed. 'I won't be needin' 'em anymore.'
With that, he turned and strode to the door.
When his keys landed beside her, warning bells had gone off in Gloria's head. My God! she thought in a sudden explosion of understanding. He really is serious!
He was already at the door, his hand turning the knob.
'Christos!' she cried.
Shutting his eyes, he stood very still and said, 'Shit!' under his breath. But he didn't turn around. Now what? he wondered wearily.
Her voice trembled with fear. 'About your . . . your not coming back. You really meant what you said, didn't you?'
For crying out loud! What did she think? That he talked just to hear himself jaw?
'That's right.' He opened the door wide.
'Wait!'
In a panic she flew off the bed and launched herself naked across the room. His face was expressionless as her hands clutched him fiercely and her lips peppered him with urgent little kisses: they landed here, there, everywhere.
But Christos did not respond. He wanted out. So badly, in fact, that he no longer cared how big the Winslow fortune might be. All the gold at Fort Knox wasn't worth putting up with this kind of shit.
'Please, don't leave me!' Gloria begged in a torrent of words. 'Darling, don't! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!'
He turned his red-cheeked face away from her desperate kisses. He'd had it with her. Why, he implored silently, can't she just shut up and let me go?
Her body was heaving with sobs. 'I didn't mean any of those ugly things I said,' she moaned miserably. 'Not one of them! It's just that'— Gloria dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms tightly around his legs, her shuddering, tear-streaked face pressing against the pale blue denim of his thighs—'when you admitted there was someone else in your life, I . . . I could see my entire world crumbling! It hurt so much that I went berserk!'
'Shit,' he scoffed.
'It's true!' she insisted. 'Why won't you believe me?'
Christos shook his head hopelessly. 'You still don't fuckin' get it, do ya?'
She lifted her tear-streaked face and stared up at him.
'Get what?' she cried. 'Christos, what the hell are you talking about?'
'I'm talking about, you know—engagements, weddin's, vows?' Seeing her deepening frown, his voice took on the exasperated tone of a tutor dealing with a particularly backward pupil. 'I'm talkin' about—the obstacle between us? The one that'll always be there, keepin' us apart?'
'Darling,' she pleaded, 'please! Will you stop torturing me with riddles?'
Christos inhaled, exhaled sharply. Glaring at her, he prised one of her arms loose from around his legs. Taking it by the wrist, he held her hand up to her face for inspection.
Her big diamond engagement ring and baguette-studded wedding band flashed brilliantly as he passed the bejeweled finger back and forth in front of her eyes.
So? she thought. Big fucking deal. She wore them all the time.
'Now do you get it?' he asked.
'No.' She shook her head. 'I can't honestly say that I do.'
'Y'know, for one smart lady you can be pretty dense.' His voice turned ice cold. 'Course I was talkin' about you! Just take a look at your ring finger! Then tell me there isn't another man in your life!'
She stared at him. 'Surely you can't mean my husband!' she said incredulously.
'And why the fuck not?'
She all but burst out laughing. And to think she'd been afraid there was another woman! She felt light-headed—dizzy, euphoric, and delirious with relief.
>
She said: 'Surely you can't consider Hunt a threat. Darling, if I told you once, I told you a thousand times: we're married in name only.'
'So?' he said harshly. 'You think I wanna share you forever?'
She stared at him.
'But you'—he let go of her wrist and gestured—'right away you wanted to believe the worst! That the someone else was in my life!'
He turned away and kicked the door jamb. 'Shit! That the thanks I get for lovin' you?'
She lowered her head, silently staring down at the rings on her finger. A sick feeling came up inside her. What a fool he must think her to be! For all her sophistication, for all her intelligence, for all her resourcefulness, she had thrown a tantrum worthy of a spoiled, jealous child. And over what? Nothing!
Was it any wonder she was on shaky ground with everyone she knew? Even Christos?
'Oh, darling,' she whispered sorrowfully. 'If only I'd known!'
'How could ya?' His voice was derisive and he still had his back turned to her. 'You're always so wrapped up in yourself you can't see, hear, or think straight!'
She flinched at the stinging truth behind his rebuke. 'But why did you have to beat around the bush?' she asked. 'Couldn't you have come right out and said what was on your mind?'
'Hell, lady. I tried.' He twirled around. 'Before I could finish? You'd already taken it the wrong way.'
A pained look crossed her face. He's right, she thought. I never gave him a chance.
Holding onto him, she climbed unsteadily to her feet. The tears were rolling down her cheeks.
'Please don't leave,' she said softly. 'We can work this out!'
His face was expressionless. 'Yeah,' he said cynically. 'Sure.'
'We can!' she insisted. Her face was stubborn, childlike, desperate.
'And what about next week?' he said savagely. 'And next month? And next year? We gonna sneak around for the rest of our freakin' lives?'
A strange look came into her eyes. 'We wouldn't be arguing about this if I weren't married.'
'Maybe.' Christos shrugged. 'Then again, maybe not. But the thing is, you're hitched, Glo. Face it. There's no gettin' around that.'
She kissed his cheek, barely touching it lest she cause him more pain. How could I have slapped him like that? she wondered guiltily. What in God's name came over me?
Her voice dropped to a hushed whisper. 'And if I were single? Would you walk out on me then?'
'Get real, Glo. That's . . . what's the word? Hypothetical? Yeah. Hypothetical.'
'Perhaps,' she whispered. 'But don't you see? We can do something about that. We can make it into reality!'
He squinted at her. 'You sayin' you're gonna file for divorce?'
She sighed deeply. 'Well, not exactly.'
He stared at her. 'Then just what are ya tryin' to say? Huh?'
'A divorce isn't that simple.'
'Why is it,' he inquired, 'that things with you never are?'
'Because,' she said bitterly, 'before I got married I signed a prenuptial agreement.'
'Uh-huh,' Christos said, seeing it coming.
'So if I divorce him, it'll leave us high and dry.'
Christos almost smiled. Listen to her, he thought. Saying 'us.' It'll leave 'us . . . '
'So?' he said. Deliberately playing it cool. 'Say you don't get jack shit. So what? Y'got me, babe. What more d'you want?'
Toying with her. Throwing out bait just to get a reaction.
Gloria zeroed in on it like a shark after blood.
'Listen!' she hissed. 'I've earned my share of the pie! Do you have any idea what it's like, always playing the kissy-kissy couple in public and then, once we get home—bam! It's like a curtain comes down and I don't exist?'
Christos said, 'Okay, so you're unhappy. I can dig that. And if you walk out on him, you get screwed. Big fuckin' deal.' He shrugged. 'Who needs his dough?'
'Who in hell do you think? We do!'
'Glo . . . '
'I mean it! Haven't you realized it costs money just to breathe?'
'Yeah, but if gettin' unhitched means you get zilch, and you ain't willin' to settle for that, what's the point of even discussin' it?'
'Because there's another way!' she said softly. 'A way to have our cake and eat it, too!'
He kept his expression guarded. 'And what way's that?'
Gloria pressed her nakedness against his clothed body. She tilted her head way back and stared up at him.
He could see a peculiar light dancing in the depths of her eyes, the booziness giving her an unfocused look. But he noticed something else, too, something hard and inflexible and disturbing lurking just beneath the woozy surface.
'Who knows what might happen from one day to the next?' she whispered. 'Maybe Hunt could have an accident!'
Her bright eagerness jolted Christos. For a moment, he could only stare at her in disbelief. When he finally found his voice, it was as shocked as his expression.
'What did you say?' he whispered hoarsely.
A hurt look crossed her face. 'Why are you giving me that evil look? Darling, what is it?'
'What is it?' he whispered in horrified awe. 'Y'got to ask? My God!'
He pressed his hands to the sides of his temples and shook his head slowly, as if to reorient himself back to reality.
'Just listen to yourself, will ya? Don't you realize what you're sayin'?'
'Of course I do,' she said serenely. 'Believe me, I've given it a great deal of thought. If there were any other way—'
'I can't believe I'm hearing this!' He looked and sounded amazed, as if he were witnessing a truly spectacular and immensely gruesome accident unfolding before his eyes.
'Darling,' she said softly, 'you do see, don't you? It's the only choice we have. . . .'
His temper reached the snapping point. 'Goddammit, Glo!' he exploded. 'What kind of shit you feedin' me? It ain't the only choice!'
She drew back and flinched against his outburst.
'But you want to ice him?' he continued. 'Fine! Go right ahead and do it. Me? I don't ice nobody. Got that?'
'But. . . but accidents happen all the time,' she cajoled. 'The only thing we have to do is to help one along—'
He grabbed her by the arms and shook her roughly. 'Accidents like that don't just happen!' he snarled. 'At least, not around me, they don't!'
She sulked prettily. 'I only want what's best for us.'
'I don't give jack shit why you want it!' His voice abruptly quieted. 'I already told you. Murder's where I draw the line.'
Again she pressed herself up against him, and he could feel the quick, wild beating of her heart. 'He's rich, Christos!' she whispered.
He could see his tiny reflection mirrored on each of her pupils, his twin faces shining like newly minted coins—gold ducats just waiting to be plucked, he thought, then shut his eyes to quash the greediness of the image.
But it was no use. The shiny coins imprinted with his visage were superimposed on his retina; danced a gilded waltz across his closed lids.
Gold! The standard of wealth and power. The universal symbol of all that money could buy, all that desire could fulfill—and for which men, over the millennia, had murdered one another to possess.
Murdered . . . ?
With a start, he opened his eyes. Gloria was still staring up at him, a calculating cast to her face.
'My husband's not just rich,' she whispered, her voice that of the seductress—Eve and Delilah and Salome all rolled into one. 'He's not even rich-rich. He's filthy, dirty, super rich! Darling, do you have any idea what that means? Can you possibly imagine the magnitude of such a fortune?'
As a matter of fact he could, but Christos wisely held his tongue. He wasn't about to let on that he'd checked out the Winslows in Forbes—or knew it was Old Lady Althea who controlled the purse strings. The less Gloria thought he knew, the better off he'd be.
'He's worth billions!' she breathed. Her eyes glittered feverishly. 'That's right, darling. Billions! With a ca
pital B!'
'I already told you,' he said tightly. 'I ain't into murder!'
She clutched him by the arms. 'What's the matter with you? Don't tell me you're afraid of becoming a billionnaire?'
'Hell, no. Why should I?'
'Then what's holding you back?'
He gazed coldly into her upturned face. 'Just a little matter of not wantin' to end up on Death Row,' he said grimly.
'Death Row!' She gave a little laugh. 'For crying out loud, darling! We're not idiots! We'll plan it real carefully.' Her voice took on a dreamy timbre. 'Just think of all those billions and billions of dollars '
For a moment, he opened the floodgates and allowed his imagination to soar. It was wild, thinking you could have anything in the world you ever dreamed of—and a lot you never even knew existed. Rolls-Royces, Ferraris. Lamborghinis. Private jets and yachts and limos. Helicopters. Closets full of custom-tailored shirts and suits. Mansions, penthouses, beachfront estates. Servants waiting on you hand and foot.
Money to spend.
Hell, money to burn!
Feeling himself poised on the edge, he reeled his imagination back in.
Gloria's eyes glowed vividly, as though she'd journeyed alongside him in his flight of fancy.
'Can you imagine it?' she whispered. 'Just you and me, darling! You and me and all those beautiful, beautiful billions! If that isn't happily ever after, what is?'
He didn't reply.
But he didn't have to. She hid her smile, knowing that the seed had been sown. And for now, that was enough.
30
The reporters smelled blood.
The instant Dorothy-Anne stepped into the conference room, pandemonium broke loose. Flashbulbs popped, blinding her and leaving a succession of afterimages burning on her retinas. Dark-lensed videocams whined and microphones were thrust in her face.
'S'cuse us! S'cuse us . . .' Cecilia Rosen marched briskly forward, clearing a path through the throng.
She was closely followed by Derek Fleetwood, six feet tall and sleekly handsome, and Venetia, equally tall and fashion-runway perfect, who formed a protective barrier on either side of Dorothy-Anne as they hustled her forward to the lectern. Sandwiched between them, Dorothy-Anne appeared small, pale, and extremely fragile.
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