by Maryann Reid
The speaker paused for breath and approval, and the audience clapped their hands in enthusiastic reception of the praise he was bestowing on their children and grandchildren. Blake clapped her hands so hard that her palms stung, and she felt warm tears brimming in her eyes.
“Professionals would spend weeks rehearsing the pieces of music you’re about to hear. These kids had only one week to master them, and I think you’ll agree they did, in fact, master them. I’m honored to present to you this year’s Florida All State Band!”
With that, the bald man scurried off the stage, the lights brightened again, and the tuxedoed student conductor bowed to the audience before turning his attention to the band. He tapped his baton on the podium, and in unison the musicians readied their instruments. A crisp wave, and the stringed instruments offered up the pondering first notes of Dvorak’s “New World Symphony.” The first clarinet sounded a question, and Blake’s son Lionel suggested the first French horn’s answer, which the flutes and piccolos then discussed briefly before the whole band started arguing.
Blake felt as if her chest would burst, she was so filled with pride. She sat hypnotized as the band completed the first movement. They then launched into Gunther Schuller’s “Diptych for Brass Quintet and Concert Band,” the opening phrases of which sounded like perfect music for the soundtrack of a horror movie.
From the end of that piece the band swung into a rendition of Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” that at last got Blake’s tears flowing. My dad would have loved every note of the jazzy piece.
Next came “I Dreamed a Dream,” from Les Misérables. And then, to Blake’s surprise and delight, Lionel stood and moved to the front of the stage for a performance as a soloist.
Her son made the French horn sing the romantic lyrical phrases of “I Dreamed a Dream,” with as much soul as any world-famous instrumentalist. When the piece ended with Lionel’s horn murmuring the last sad line all alone, Blake found herself on her feet, cheering as well as clapping fit to knock her hands off her wrists. She was not the only one.
She sat again as Lionel returned to his seat, and noticed Suki diverting her intense gaze from the stage back to Blake. The bodyguard studied Blake’s face as if picking her out of a police lineup.
“Is there a problem?” Blake asked Suki, swallowing tears and trying to sound stern.
“Not that I know of, Boss.” Suki’s face took on its accustomed blankness, and she continued texting Henry or whomever else she might be in contact with as the band struck up Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever,” their grand finale. After the last soaring triumphant note, in unison the band members and their conductor bowed to the audience, who gave them a standing ovation that lasted long after the kids had left the stage.
Blake was still applauding when Suki clasped her hand and hissed in her ear, “We’ve got to go now, Boss.”
“But I—” She yearned to go find Lionel and hug him so tight he’d have trouble breathing, tell him how talented he was, how he was so like his grandfather. But he doesn’t know me, she reminded herself, and suddenly it was Blake who couldn’t breathe.
Suki either didn’t notice, or didn’t care. “NOW, Boss.” She dragged Blake with her, pushing other audience members out of their way, and by the time they reached the covered walkway to the garage they were moving at a full-on run.
“What’s the—” Blake gasped out, but then Suki started hauling her up three flights of stairs.
“Henry missed check-in,” Suki rapped. She didn’t break stride, and she wasn’t breathing any harder than if they’d been moving at a lazy walk.
On the fourth level Suki pulled Blake, still at a run, directly to the rental car. At first Blake thought Henry must be napping, his head bowed over his chest.
Then she realized his gray hair was red with blood.
“Crouch behind me and dial nine-one-one,” Suki snapped at Blake.
Down on her knees, struggling to see the BlackBerry’s keypad through her tears, Blake noticed the car’s tires were slashed. Suki must have seen it too, because the last thing Blake heard before the emergency dispatcher spoke to her was Suki snarling, “Goddamn it, the tires should have been enough. He’s just a nice old man…”
Chapter Ten
March 28
New York, New York
Not long ago, the Marquee nightclub was the sort of place Brett Skeet could only dream about what the inside might be like. Tonight, with cash withdrawn from the business Visa that Blake left with him in case any expenses related to the Wishman Spears came up while she was in Florida, Brett was in with the in crowd. The doorman giving priority admittance to VIPs was happy to promote Brett to that status for the night.
Just inside the door Brett halted and looked around, impressed with the decor. Blue light illuminated the whole club, and hanging over the central dance floor was a double-helix strobe light. Pictures and patterns of light projected onto all four walls were reminiscent of Japanese anime. Surrounding the dance floor were padded benches fronted by small candlelit tables. There was a single long, sleek oak bar, but an absence of bar stools ensured that all patrons would have easy access to the bartenders. Staircases led up to railed catwalks where exhibitionist dancers could put on a show for their fellow customers.
Brett claimed a table, because as a VIP he was entitled to table service. Seeing the badge the doorman had given him, a perky little blonde bartender hurried to his table and chirped, “What will you have tonight, sir?”
“Give me a Cherry Bitch.” He struggled to refrain from grinning.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes with that for you, sir.” The perky blonde dashed back to the bar and assembled ingredients: black currant tea, gin, lime juice, apple juice, syrup, fresh cherries. Brett listened to the music and people-watched, and in about ten minutes the bartender brought him an iced glass of liquid sin.
Some of the most flamboyant customers were already on the catwalks, shimmying for all to see. A tall, curvy redhead with hair down to her waist was doing a fair imitation of Shakira’s belly-dancing moves, and she kept throwing glances at Brett. He raised his glass to her and grinned. She beckoned to him to join her, but he shook his head and ran his tongue along the rim of the glass, keeping his gaze fixed on her. Watching her watching him.
She danced down the stairs and approached him, glancing from her own rolling hips to Brett and back again. He drained his glass when she reached his table. When she put out her hands for his, he let her coax him out of his seat and onto the dance floor.
Her hips undulating against him were as intoxicating as a thousand Cherry Bitch cocktails. She smelled of liquor and sweat and a sweet smokiness he belatedly recognized as marijuana. Turning her back to him, she commenced grinding her firm buttocks into his crotch. He yearned to lay her out on the dance floor and explore every inch of her in full view of everyone, but the Marquee wasn’t that kind of club.
Instead he danced with her, his hip-hop moves somehow blending with her own exotic, sinuous motions. They were soon the center of attention, many of their fellow customers gathering around to watch them. Dance song after dance song they shook and stamped and weaved together, two strangers bound by a glue of sexual chemistry.
At long last, his muscles jittery from exertion, he clasped her hand in his and led her back to his table. “I’ve got to have a drink and catch my breath. You’re too much woman for any man to handle all night without a break, girl.”
She laughed, and he waved the perky bartender back to wait on them. He ordered another Cherry Bitch and she, intrigued, decided to try one herself. While they waited for their drinks, he gasped between breaths, “I’m Brett, by the way.”
“Savannah,” she told him, and held out her hand to shake his. Instead he kissed hers, giving each fingertip a teasing little suckle. She giggled and moaned, both at the same time.
They danced and drank until the Marquee’s closing time. Out on the sidewalk she told him, “I don’t want this night to end.”
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“Me either.” That bitch Blake is happy to let me run errands for her, but she won’t take me on trips with her or even tell me why she’s going away. Probably fucking some dude she knows in Miami. Well, two can play that game.
Savannah stood on her tiptoes and grabbed his head to pull his lips against hers. They kissed on the sidewalk as though their lives depended on the eroticism of their performance, and when at last they stepped apart she whispered, “My place or yours?”
“Mine.” He hailed a passing taxi, and they felt each other up in the backseat all the way to Blake’s apartment.
Inside, Matt sat cross-legged on the sofa, watching late-night television. He wore only a pair of jeans, and Savannah eyed his well-defined abs and biceps with obvious appreciation.
“Who’s this?” Matt asked, eyeing the redhead with a different sentiment entirely.
“A guest,” said Brett, and escorted Savannah inside,
Matt put his hands up. “Hate to be the cock blocker, but that ain’t happening.”
Brett stuck his chest out in defiance. “Or you’ll do what?”
Savannah looked on in amusement.
“I’ll tell Blake,” Matt said coolly.
Brett turned to Savannah and spoke in a forced, formal tone. “We’ll have to reschedule our meeting another time. Sorry about the inconvenience.”
Matt rolled his eyes.
Savannah spun around on heels, flipped her finger to both men, and marched to the elevator.
Brett walked in and Matt went back to watching television.
#
March 28
Tampa, Florida
Blake sat in the surgery waiting room, watching the minutes crawl by on the wall clock. Suki paced like a caged tiger, and occasionally growled like one too.
Edith must have Henry’s wife on a plane by now. What the hell am I going to tell her?
At that moment Blake’s BlackBerry rocked out a chorus of “Big Time.” Vickie, her new publicist, was calling. Blake considered letting it go to voicemail, but she didn’t really have anything else to do except wait for the surgeon to come out and announce Henry’s prognosis.
“This is Blake,” she said, her words seeming to crawl like the wall clock’s minute hand.
“I know who I called,” snapped Vickie. “What I don’t know is what the hell you were thinking.”
“If you’re going to swear at me, I can just hang up on you.”
“Seems to me you already have. It’s all over the news that you went to some high school band concert today, and—”
“What?”
“You heard me. Don’t try to change the subject.”
“I’m not. Are you telling me I was in the news by name? Blake Bertrand?”
“What other name would you be called in the news? The—”
“I flew to Miami using a false name and ID.”
That got Vickie’s attention. For at least five merciful seconds the line was utterly silent.
“Why?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Well, I’ll tell you something that does matter. The producers of that reality TV show who wanted you as their host are going to hear about this, that you blew them off to go to a stupid fucking school band concert. You don’t even have a niece or nephew, let alone a child of your own. It’s going to be a miracle if they still want you when they hear about this.”
“That’s fine.”
“Oh, no it isn’t! Listen, Blake, I’ve always said there’s no such thing as bad publicity. But I think you just proved me wrong. When being in the news means you’re unpredictable and disrespectful, that’s bad, and the best publicist in the world can’t save you from that kind of reputation.”
“I’m not asking you to do anything about this. I’ll talk to you when I get back to New York.”
She pressed the End Call button, and watched the crawling of the wall clock’s minute hand.
Chapter Eleven
March 31
New York, New York
At about the same time the Delta began descending for its landing, Blake received a text message from Connor Stafford, the New York–based project director she’d hired to supervise her Wishman Spears operations:
“Oh, that’s just fantastic,” Blake muttered.
Suki, trying to get a nap during the flight because she hadn’t slept since they found Henry beaten nearly to death, cracked one eye open. “What’s gone wrong this time, Boss?”
“I know you’re exhausted, but I’ve got to run a business errand before we go back to my apartment.”
“Hoo-fucking-ray,” Suki agreed, and opened her other eye and breezed down the aisle to visit the bathroom before passengers were instructed to buckle their seat belts. While her bodyguard answered nature’s call, Blake phoned for a taxi to meet them at the airport.
Connor Stafford’s office was located in Queens. Their cabdriver was a wily lifelong resident of New York, however, and delivered them to the office in half the time Blake would normally expect. She paid him to wait, hoping for an equally speedy trip home.
More than anything else in the world, at the moment, I want a long hot soak in the bathtub and some soothing jazz. I may even go to bed after my bath and sleep through dinnertime, through the night, and barely wake up in time for a late brunch.
She was expected, so the receptionist waved her back to her boss’s office immediately. Blake knocked on the door, eased it open, and found Connor on a phone call. She took a seat in one of the two chairs across from his desk, and Suki slumped into the other.
“I’m going to need to call you back,” he said after a moment. “I’ve got something urgent to tend to. Talk to you again before I close up shop for the day.” He placed the phone on its cradle and announced, without preliminary greetings, “We’ve got a zoning fight on our hands, Blake.”
“But we were expecting that, weren’t we?” She wished the chair wasn’t so comfortable. Her eyes were trying to close against her will.
“Yes, but you know it’s no good to delay addressing this sort of thing. A public meeting has been scheduled, and already there’s almost twenty ‘concerned citizens’ signed up to speak against your plans for the Wishman. They complain that traffic is certain to more than double in the area.”
“I’m sure it will, but the influx of new business—”
“It’s not me you’ve got to convince, it’s local residents. You or your architect or both will need to attend the meeting and give a presentation on why the economic benefits outweigh the traffic inconveniences.”
“Forgive me for complaining, Connor, but I don’t see why there’s a problem that required me to come here today. All you had to do was get me signed up to speak at the meeting.”
“That’s exactly why I needed to talk to you. Don’t you usually leave these things up to Charles? Some guy Brett Skeet said he was in charge of any fee payments or signatures that might be needed during your absence.”
“Yes. Charles is in California meeting with investors. Brett volunteered to handle this.”
“Well, that’s fine, except that I tried all weekend and all yesterday to get him on the phone. He never accepted or returned my calls.”
A heat began to rise in Blake’s gut. “When is the deadline to sign up to speak at the meeting?”
“Four o’clock this afternoon.”
She glanced at the time on her BlackBerry’s display. It was half past two already. “I’m so sorry, Suki, but—”
“We need to run another errand.” Suki pushed the words out even as she pushed herself out of the chair and onto her feet.
“I apologize, Connor,” Blake said before she followed Suki out of the office.
Chapter Twelve
March 31
New York, New York
It was a few minutes after five o’clock when Blake and Suki finally arr
ived at Blake’s penthouse apartment. Suki immediately proceeded to run the shower in the bathroom adjoining her bedroom, but Blake still had one item of business to attend to before her hot soak in the bathtub and an early bedtime.
Unfortunately, Brett Skeet was nowhere to be found. His luggage still sat next to her bedroom closet, but the man himself was missing.
She sat on the bed and texted him as she kicked off her ballet flats.
As she undressed, she expected to hear the chorus of The Police’s “Message in a Bottle” signaling that she’d received a text. Her BlackBerry lay silent on the bed covers, however, as she stripped out of her black Versace slacks and ruffled blue blouse.
She dialed his number, gazing out the huge window at New York’s rush-hour traffic ten stories below. Her call went to his voicemail.
“Brett, I need to discuss something important with you. Please call me back.”
Finally she trudged into the bathroom, mixed the hot and cold water to exactly the temperature she wanted, and let the tub begin to fill. She dribbled some luxury bubble bath into the water under the faucet’s flow.
Might as well brush my teeth, since I’m planning to skip dinner and just go to bed. She wet her toothbrush at the sink, and glimpsed something out of the corner of one eye. A splash of scarlet red protruding slightly from behind the toilet.
Blake crouched down and reached for the spot of color that didn’t belong on the bathroom’s slate gray floor. It was fabric. She pinched it between thumb and forefinger and held it up for inspection.
A bra. Two cup sizes larger than Blake wore.
She laid the foreign garment out on the sink counter and shut her eyes.
#
“Get out of my face!”
That was Brett’s voice, coming from just outside Blake’s closed bedroom door. Blake fumbled in the dark for her BlackBerry, which she’d placed on the bedside table just before she crawled under the covers and promptly fell asleep. She accidentally knocked something off the table, but judging by the sound it wasn’t her phone. With another grope she found the BlackBerry, tapped a key to light its display, and checked the time: