The expanse of mirrors on the far wall visually doubled the room and everything in it, reduced in size the doorway in which she was framed, and from where she stared at her smaller, reflected self. Even from this twofold distance she couldn't help but recognize her expression of covetous longing, the envy shining in her eyes.
She ran her tongue across her lower lip. The bedroom was picture perfect, the kind of room you saw in glossy magazines.
For a moment she savored the scent of fresh linens, admired the bed, anchored like an island of white luxury: curvaceous white cane headboard and footboard; snowy sheets trimmed in lace; a cloudlike dream of a duvet; plump, lace-edged European squares. On either side of the bed, beautiful brass tables held silk-shaded lamps, cut crystal ashtrays, telephone, tissue box, small Carrier clock. And to her left, also reflected in the mirrors across the room, a wooden table patinaed with great age. Serving as a bar, it was laden with a silver tray of crystal tumblers and one bottle each of scotch and vodka.
But what truly took her breath away was the carpet, which took up most of the floor. A floral needlepoint, it depicted a riotous garden at the height of full bloom, with cabbage roses and all manner of detailed flowers, and was so skillfully stitched it seemed a crime to walk on.
But neither the needlepointer's art nor the exquisite room could distract Amber from her mission, or from the unsettling notion that Gloria Winslow might at this very instant be arriving, retrieving the keys from behind the loose stone, perhaps already unlocking the front door and getting ready to mount the stairs. Only to discover, like the three bears finding Goldilocks, a stranger in her house.
And then what?
Then I'm in deep shit, Amber thought, crossing the carpet to check out the wall of mirrors.
Each pair of panels, it turned out, opened into a closet; from the rods hung bare wooden hangers.
And that was it for the bedroom, with the exception of the sliding glass patio doors, also fitted with drawn shades, which faced the foot of the bed.
Where to hide?
There wasn't much choice.
None, actually—except for the obvious.
From experience, Amber knew that Christos never hung up his clothes. The big question was, did Gloria Winslow?
Amber sincerely hoped not.
Striding to the mirrored wall of closets, she chose the section nearest to the head of the bed, ducked inside, and pulled the doors shut.
They closed with a snap.
Darkness engulfed her.
Trying to get comfortable, she sat cross-legged on the floor and settled down.
She didn't have long to wait.
Gloria's first order of business was pouring herself a king-size dose of Stoli from the freezer in the kitchen and tossing it down the hatch in three breathtaking gulps; then, grabbing a chilled bottle of Cristal by the neck, she headed up the stairs.
In the bedroom, she kicked off her shoes, shrugged herself out of her coat (a lightweight pink cashmere from Chanel), and left it lying where it landed on the floor. Ditto the pink tweed jacket of her two-piece suit. Without thinking, she popped the champagne cork, topped off a glass, and parked herself on the bed, bottle within easy reach on the floor, glass even handier on the bedside table.
Firing up a cigarette, she lay back. Puffed angry bursts of smoke at the ceiling.
If only Christos would get a move on, she thought, with a scowl. The fucking prick.
Gloria didn't like being kept waiting. In fact, she strongly suspected Christos of playing with her head—not showing up (yesterday), and making her wait (today), being part of a macho attempt at puffing up his ego.
As if that would prove he was boss!
What a joke!
The absurdity almost made her laugh out loud.
Well, he can play all the games he wants, she thought, malevolently sipping some champagne. He'll soon see how far it gets him. All I've got to do is tighten my purse strings and whammo!
That would teach him.
Yes, indeedy. And for a start, she could give him an icy reception . . . a little foretaste of things to come.
Four cigarettes and two glasses of champagne later, she finally heard his footsteps on the stairs.
About time! she huffed, shooting a glare in the direction of the open door. Then, deciding to play it cool, she cleared her face of expression, lit another cigarette, and struck a sexy pose.
Strutting into the bedroom, Christos looked properly contrite. 'Hey, babe. Ya caught me in the shower.'
It never failed. The moment Gloria looked at him, she was gone. He always had that effect on her.
It was so difficult to remain angry with him.
She watched him saunter toward her and stand at the side of the bed, pelvis thrust forward, eyes sweeping across her curves.
'Soon as I listened to your message, I threw on my clothes and came runnin',' he said. 'See?' He bent his head forward and gestured. 'Didn't even wait to dry my hair.'
But Gloria couldn't care less about his hair. All she had eyes for was his snug denims—or, more to the point, the impressive equipment contained therein.
Hooking a finger in his belt, she pulled him on top of her. 'Why don't you throw those clothes right back off?' she suggested huskily, looking up at him from under half-lowered eyelids. 'But first, a little kissy. Hmm?'
She parted her lips in anticipation and he obliged, tongue diving deep and tickling her tonsils.
So much for small talk.
Time for some action.
'I'm all wet already!' she whispered, shoving his head down her short pink skirt. 'Eat me, baby! Eat me and fuck me good!'
Christos raised his head and looked at her. 'Heyyyy, look who's talkin' dirty! An' last time you gave me a hard time about it!'
Her eyes were shiny, like little round dental mirrors. 'A hard time's what I want, lover boy. So are you going to give it to me? Or are we just going to talk?'
His trouser rat rose to the challenge.
In due course, they burst across the finish line in a climax of seismic shudders.
'Was that an earthquake, or was that us?' he panted.
'That,' she crooned, tightening her vaginal muscles and keeping him trapped inside her, 'was us. I hope you're in top form, big boy. 'Cause for me, that was just the warm-up!'
Amber witnessed the Sexual Olympics in their entirety, courtesy of the crack between the closet doors. Belatedly, she wished she'd never had the bright idea of spying on Christos and Gloria. What she'd learned from Round One—and there were clearly more rounds to follow—pierced her with pain.
She had seen and heard more than she wanted—a lot more. Worse yet, several disturbing facts became apparent, the first and foremost being that it wasn't a case of Christos's having to grin and bear it. Or even work at getting it up.
No, sirree. He was in hog heaven, and enjoying every minute of it.
Amber's lips twitched, and silent tears blurred her vision.
He gets off on Gloria Winslow.
The realization was like a punch in the gut.
Matter of fact, they get off on each other.
I'm the one he has to work to get it up for—and that's only if he throws me a mercy fuck!
And even those occasions had become increasingly rare of late.
Bitterly Amber wondered: Who had seduced Christos? Gloria Winslow, the woman? Or Gloria Winslow, the walking, talking, and eminently fuckable bank account?
Not that it mattered much. Whichever Gloria it had been, Amber knew she could never hope to compete—especially if Christos and Ms. Rich Bitch were hooked on each other.
And from the look and sound of it, they most definitely were.
Suddenly a slew of inexplicable behaviors on Christos's part fell into place. Like the reason he'd chilled toward his old friend and partner, Amber Stich. And why he'd been treating her like shit. Always finding fault, picking on her, putting her down. Making her feel stupid. As if she couldn't do anything right.
; And then there were those silences, those long, drawn-out silences. That windchill factor, his emotional temperature plunging, freezing her out.
He wants to get rid of me.
The knowledge surfaced before she had a chance to block it.
Shit!
Amber stifled a groan and hugged herself tightly. She had the urge to rub her arms to restore her circulation, but was afraid of making noise. Meanwhile, she suffered in silence: her muscles cramped from sitting immobile all this time, legs going to sleep, head spinning from what she'd discovered . . . or rather, what she'd suspected all along for the last couple of months, but hadn't been able to face—had put off facing.
There's no room for me in his life, now that he's got Gloria Winslow.
Now, listening to the postcoital murmurs leaking into the closet,
Amber couldn't help noticing the easy familiarity between Christos and Gloria, that comfortable intimacy of two people who got off on each other without the baggage of guilt or shame. They were tuned to a wavelength all their own.
And it doesn't include me.
'Well, babe?' Even muffled by the closet doors, Christos's voice came across low-down and dirty. 'Ready for the fuck o' your life?'
Babe.
The word ricocheted wildly inside Amber's head, whizzed around in her skull like a bullet seeking escape.
He calls her babe!
She clapped her hands over her ears.
It's what he used to call me!
She didn't think she could stand any more of this. God, no. Her insides already felt like one vast wound, and everything she heard and saw ripped savagely into raw bleeding flesh. If only she could make tracks and flee . . .
Wishful thinking. There was only one way out, and while Amber couldn't care less about Gloria's reaction, she wasn't all that keen on Christos's finding out she was spying on him. No, not keen at all. Every instinct told her that if he did, it would all be over, finito—a mental hand snapped its fingers in her ears—like that!
And then what? She would have no one to cling to. She'd have lost him for good.
If she wanted to hang on to him—and she did; God, did she ever! — she had to ride this out. Had to!
Outside the closet, the dirty talk trailed off, became moist little kissing and sucking sounds, low, throaty moans. Amber could hear the rustle of bed linens, the creaks of bedsprings, the soft slap of flesh against flesh.
She wiped away her tears and leaned forward. Squinted through the crack between the doors with one eye.
And bit down a cry of pain.
Round Two had begun.
Later, quite a while later, they lay side by side, Gloria's head resting on his sleek, hard-muscled chest. 'Christos,' she whispered. 'What am I going to do? I need you worse than an addict needs a fix. Much worse!'
He nuzzled her hair with his lips.
She shifted position and rolled on top of him. Raised herself on her elbows, her breasts dangling like firm, ripe fruit, her eyes staring down into his. 'I'm serious. You're the only man who's ever been able to satisfy me!'
He smiled lazily. 'Heyyyyy. That's what I'm here for, babe.'
'Yes, but this is today.'
'That's right.'
'So what about tomorrow? And the day after?'
'What are you worried about? I'm your own Dial-a-Stud. Remember?'
Suddenly she began to tremble and tears sprang to her eyes. 'Don't make jokes about it!' she said fiercely. 'I told you I love you!'
'I know, babe,' he soothed.
'And you said you loved me.' Her smooth brow furrowed with fear. 'You meant it, didn't you, Christos? You weren't just stringing me along?'
He laughed and pulled her down and pressed her head against his chest. 'Jee-zus. Don't be so dense, Glo. What d'you think I do? Cruise the streets, tellin' every chick I run across that I love her?'
Gloria gave her head a little shake. 'No,' she said in a tiny voice. 'Of course not.'
'Ya got that right. An' you wanna know why?'
She was silent.
''Cause I got you, babe,' he said softly, touching her chin with his forefinger and tilting her head up to face him. 'You,' he repeated, looking into the depths of her eyes. 'An' deep down inside, you know it, don'tcha?'
She gave another little nod. 'I . . . I know I'm being silly, Christos, but I . . . I can't help it! Sometimes I'm so afraid.'
'Afraid!' He laughed. 'What've you got to be afraid of?'
She sighed and laid her head back down against his chest. 'Losing you,' she whispered.
'Aw, for chrissake, Glo! That's the last thing you need to worry about.'
'No, it's not!' she said stubbornly. 'We both know this can't go on forever. Not like this. Sooner or later, something's going to happen to spoil our happiness.'
He didn't speak, but she felt his heartbeat speed up.
Her long, soft, dark lashes descended over her eyes. 'Have you given any thought to what we discussed the last time?' Meaning getting rid of her husband, but not putting it in so many words.
Christos shrugged his shoulders and played dumb. 'Shit, Glo. We talked about lots of stuff.'
Gloria raised her head off his chest, her eyes going right into his. 'For God's sake, Christos!' she said huskily. 'You know very well what I'm referring to.'
He drew a deep breath, held it to the count of ten, then slowly exhaled the pressure in his lungs. Very gently, as though she were exceedingly fragile and might break, he carefully rolled her off him.
With a sickening lurch of fear, Gloria watched him turn his back on her, swing his legs over the edge of the bed, and sit there, hunched forward. For a moment, she wondered whether she mightn't have pushed him too far.
Maybe he doesn't have it in him, she thought. Maybe I should just forget about it.
But she couldn't. She was too close to give up now. All she needed was to find the one final button to push, and Christos would do her bidding.
He has what it takes, she told herself. I know it, even if he doesn't.
Well, he would realize it soon enough. She was certain of it.
Rolling her head sideways, she looked at him appraisingly. He was still sitting there, elbows on his thighs, head in his hands, like his skull was about to come apart and split in two if he didn't hold both sides together.
Gloria scooted around. Her eyes were hard and calculating, but her body was soft and warm and inviting.
'Christos,' she breathed, wrapping her arms around him. 'Darling?'
He tried to shrug her off. 'Back off, Glo,' he growled. 'I already told yuh! I'm not killin' anybody!'
Undeterred, she knelt behind him and pressed her creamy breasts against his back.
'I don't know why you're all worked up,' she said, putting a little pout in her voice. 'I only have our best interests at heart.'
He laughed harshly. 'That's a good one. Lemme guess. It's somethin' in the air?'
The air? Gloria frowned. What on earth is he talking about?
She said: 'I'm afraid you've lost me.'
'The air,' he said bitterly. 'Up there in High Society. It sure must be different from what the rest of us folks breathe down here.'
She stiffened. 'And what makes you say that?'
'Cause if yuh had both feet on the ground, yuh wouldn't be talkin' such shit!'
'I am not talking shit,' she enunciated quietly. 'I'm dead serious.'
'Okay,' Christos said. 'Let's say yuh are. Just for the sake of argument.'
She shrugged. 'Fine.'
'Got any idea what you'd be gettin' us into?'
'You're the expert,' she said. 'Why don't you tell me.'
'Aw right. Lemme see now. For starters, we're lookin' at murder one.'
'Only if we get caught,' Gloria pointed out.
'An', since it's premeditated, and this is California, it's a capital offense.'
Her face was expressionless. 'I can live with that.'
'Yeah? You ever hear o' Death Row?'
She had t
o fight to keep from showing her anger. God, but he could be dense! Even after all these months, he still didn't get it. She was tempted to snap: Oh, I know Death Row all right! I live on it. Every minute of my married life kills me a little bit at a time.
But she'd voiced that opinion often enough; repeating it would only be a waste of time. Go straight in one ear and out the other.
'An',' he continued, 'last but not least, since yer plan involves the two of us, we'd be facin' one more doozy of an offense. This federal statute known as conspiracy?'
Now Christos paused. Waiting to see what kind of reaction he'd provoked.
But Gloria still didn't speak.
'Well?' he demanded. 'Now the cards are on the table, what d'you think?'
Gloria stared off into space. Her lack of expression hadn't changed. 'Like I told you, I can live with it.'
'Well, maybe I can't,' he retorted. 'Ever think o' that?'
She gazed at their reflection in the wall of mirrors opposite the bed. We truly make a gorgeous couple, she thought.
'It isn't the killing that's really bothering you, is it?' she asked softly.
Christos twisted around, his head snapping up. 'Hell you talkin' about?'
Expertly Gloria began to knead the muscles in his shoulders. They felt tight and knotted from sudden tension.
'I am talking about—oh, you, me, us. I am talking about a long-term relationship, an utter, drastic change in your lifestyle.'
'An' what's that got to do with anything?'
'It's got everything to do with it, darling. Big changes invariably cause stress. Quite simply, you're unprepared to deal with all that pressure. It's not an unheard of phenomenon, you know.'
'Huh?' He gaped at her and blinked. 'Speak English, will ya?'
'Having money,' she explained patiently, 'real money, can be an awesome responsibility. Add power and committing yourself to me . . . to us . . . and I don't blame you for getting cold feet. It's an awfully big step to take.'
Suddenly he burst out laughing. 'Aw, Christ, Glo! Ya just don't get it, doya?'
Jerking his shoulders loose from her massaging hands, he jumped to his feet and looked down at her, clenched fists trembling at his sides.
Second Love Page 41