“That’s right.”
A slow, humorless smile curved his lips. “You’re lying.”
His confidence shook me. The guy was either the most omniscient man on Earth or the world’s best poker player. But you’re not bluffing, Madison. Something did happen in D.C., something Hunter doesn’t want known. Don’t blink, don’t let him rattle you. “Jake left me a box full of interesting items. How do you think I tracked down Fancy?”
Doubt flickered in his eyes.
I gripped my arms harder. “What do you think of that, Maxie?”
Hunter glanced behind me. Foolishly, I turned. He grabbed my hair and pulled me toward him. “Don’t you threaten me!” he hissed. “I won’t be made a fool of by the likes of you again!”
“Let go of me!” I grabbed his belt-less pants and yanked hard. Iron bars did wonders to break a man’s grip. Not to mention his balls.
We let go simultaneously. Hunter reeled back and fell so hard that the springs on his cot shook. I tumbled into the wall, then rubbed my head, grateful not to feel blood. “Bastard!”
He sat on the bed, holding his crotch. Unmitigated fury radiated from his eyes. I had the terrifying notion that he’d have skinned me with a potato peeler if he could have gotten his hands on me. After long moments of mutual glaring, he said breathlessly, “What do you want?”
My shoulder pulsed with a dull, rhythmic ache. I rubbed it gently. “I told you. I found Tina. And I know how to get to her. You sponsor me financially and you back me politically. No more crap like trying to get me tossed into jail. In return, I get Fancy to drop the charges, and I take you to Tina. I won’t tell anyone that you were in jail.” I gripped the bars again, staring intently at him. “I’ll even let you bring Tina to Voltaire and get all the brownie points.
“Come on, Hunter. We get the killer, you get the credit, and I’ll get out of your life. How brilliant is that? You know that’s what you really want.”
He considered briefly and then stood. “What I want is what you have on the D.C. trip.”
“No way.”
“Then forget it. If you can find this woman, so can I.”
I glared defiantly at him. “Maybe. But can you find her before someone else dies?”
His gaze faltered for a moment. He looked away as if thinking. When he looked back, his eyes were set hard again. “You’ll show me the box?”
I nodded. “Then I’ll send it home to a friend. And we head out together. That’s it. Take it, or I cut you out.” I thought he was going to explode—literally. “Do we have a deal?”
He drew a deep breath, his smug mask settling back in place. “Why not? Watching you make a fool out of yourself is good for laughs. I suppose I can tolerate you a little longer.”
“You are such a charmer.”
He pointed at me. “But you listen to me, and you listen well, Angel. If you think you can make a fool out of me and get away with it, then you’ve got another thing coming. You watch your back, woman, from here on out. Got me?”
I forced a grin despite the shiver his words sent down my arm. “Whatever.”
“Get on with it then. Get me out of here.”
I headed down the hall, and my mood lifted. I’d bearded the lion and still had flesh on my bones. Okay, it might get flayed off in the future, but, for now, I was finally getting somewhere.
My smile stiffened. Damn. I’d forgotten to ask Hunter about Sara. Jake had always hinted of a resemblance to someone, and the association didn’t seem to be a good one. The cops in the corridor indicated the same. And Hunter blurted that he wouldn’t be made a fool of by the “likes of you again.” Had he meant Sara? And why did I remind him of her?
But now was not the time to press that. I turned on my heel, yet again, and headed toward the front desk. From there, I called Fancy, who then spoke to the precinct commander with whom she was apparently on excellent terms. The Commander deemed the whole incident an innocent mistake, though, more likely, the thrill of a metaphorical swirly to a bully wore off and the cold reality of false arrest sank in.
Sweet-Eyes agreed to overnight Jake’s lockbox to Zach with a message of reassurance. But not before we did a show-and-tell for Hunter, close enough to confirm the authenticity of the contents but far enough to deny physical contact. I gloated, Hunter growled. Life was good.
Hunter took me to a jet crewed by a male flight attendant yummy enough to be a pool boy. My attention, however, quickly detoured to the owner of the jet. Hunter was right; nothing pathetic about her. She was, in fact, Tribeca Thomson, the wealthiest socialite in Chicago.
Tribeca—Tri-Tri to her friends, a position I ran ten million dollars short of qualifying for—had supposedly been named after the lower-Manhattan neighborhood. The official story boasted that her father made his fortune on the rebirth of an area known as Triangle Below Canal, bordered in part by Canal Street and the Hudson River, now one of the most trendy (read: pretentious) locales in New York. The unofficial story whispered that the name derived from her mother, an ex-beauty queen and part-time porn star, for whom “Triangle Below Canal” referred to a specialty involving two men and her ability to do a headstand for extended periods of time.
And Tri-Tri had certainly inherited her mother’s looks: flawless skin; high, rounded curves; legs up to here and hair down to there. When we arrived at the hanger, she strode out to greet Hunter in an emerald, hand-embroidered Prada mini-dress with lime-green Roberto Cavalli strappy sandals, all of which likely cost more than my entire wardrobe.
Leaving me near the steps of the plane, Hunter met her halfway. She melted into his arms and kissed him so thoroughly that, if kissing alone could make a baby, she’d have conceived twins. Waiting out of earshot, I tried to ignore the surge of blood to certain parts of my body, trying to convince them that my mind was in charge of my sexual responses, their incessant throbbing making it quite clear which parts really were in charge, and if my mind didn’t like it, it could take a hike. I hate it when my body gets pissy.
Tri-Tri listened as he spoke, casually twirling sunglasses worth two months’ rent. Moments later, she glanced over Hunter’s shoulder and gave me a look most people saved for the bottom of their shoes after a walk in a cow pasture. Then she pouted; heiresses must pout at least daily, after all. After that came the eye-fluttering and then, finally, the coup-de-grace giggle, complete with cleavage press, and a peck on the cheek. Seemed like high school all over again: the cool kids covertly feeling each other up in the hall as they whisper in my direction, and me on the sidelines longing to re-sequence their DNA. Hey, a girl could dream.
Finally, we boarded. Tri-Tri breezed by without a glance, and Hunter herded me up the stairs like a troublesome pet. I guess I was lucky I hadn’t been consigned to the cargo hold.
The pilot disappeared into the cockpit and did his “tower this and tower that” routine. Decorated in shades of peach and beige, the small plane sported four leather seats to one side of the plane and a triple-long couch on the other. The rear end, which included a galley and bathroom, could be partitioned off by a folding door. Presumably, this spared the mistress of the plane the sight of others working for a living.
I took the front seat to the left; the attendant took the one behind me. Hunter and Tri-Tri sat on the couch, her long legs tucked underneath her and her breasts never more than two inches from his arm. I caught a few snippets of their conversation above the whine of preflight procedures, mostly simpering about how he was “too generous” and being “taken advantage of” with a final comment about a “hanger-on.” Gee, I wonder who she meant by that?
Fine, whatever. As long as I get what I want, he can tell the evil Bitch Queen anything he likes. It doesn’t bother me at all. Well, not much, anyway.
We took off without a safety briefing. Apparently, nobody cared if I’d locked my tray table, probably because I didn’t have one. Or, I concluded after long moments of fumbling with the armrests, the little bugger was extremely well hidden. I abandoned my search a
nd retrieved a Time magazine from the side pocket. As we leveled off, “pool boy” offered me a snack.
Behind me, Tri-Tri turned up the drama, cooing and whispering louder than ever. I rolled my eyes and searched some more but still couldn’t find the damn tray. I did, however, find a set of Bose earpods and an MP3 player strapped to the armrest. Toggling through the menu, I delightedly called up one of my favorite Sarah McLachlan albums and settled back into the seat. The attendant returned, carrying a silver tray. He’d fixed the mistress of the plane some kind of pale, peachy martini drink and poured Hunter a tall, dark beer. Coming over to me, he flicked a button on the front of the armrest and released a tray from near my elbow. Jeez. How did he find that thing? With a friendly smile, he deposited an effervescing glass of soda and a basket of gourmet cookies and smoked nuts. I saw him glance at Tri-Tri, who gave him a dismissive finger wave, after which he took his seat and buried his head in a paperback.
As I watched the interchange, I caught Tri-Tri’s gaze. She cuddled so close to Hunter that she was practically on his lap. Her arm snaked between his arm and chest, boobs squashed against his bicep. Cocking a professionally shaped eyebrow my way, she raised her martini glass to her fashionably mauve lips, a slight, thoroughly conceited smile playing on them. Eyes locked on mine, she wrapped her arm around Hunter’s neck and whispered in his ear. The look she shot me was unmistakable: mine and you can’t have any, with a definite nyah, nyah, nyah subtext.
I dragged my attention to my snack basket and ripped open a package of Chessmen cookies. Desperate to find something else, anything else, to focus on, I checked out my surroundings. A loose side panel, attached to a small video screen, caught my eye. Instinctively, I started to pry it open in search of the wiring. A memory, like a flat-handed slap to the mind, stopped me. The last time I’d been curious about what was behind a panel on an airplane, I was ten years old. Fortunately, Mom had the foresight to check on me in the bathroom. Even more fortunately, she had reconnected the arcing wires and slammed the panel closed before the stewardess came back to find out why the “Bathroom Occupied” light blinked in Morse code. I wasn’t allowed to go to the bathroom alone after that.
Irritated by that familiar sensation of the geeky inadequacy of my youth, made even more poignant by the soft-porn play going on behind me, I pulled my hands back and dove into more snacks. I’d almost managed to shut out the wriggling behind me when Hunter and Tri-Tri went to the back of the plane. I glanced back and saw her pull him by his tie into the partitioned section. She closed the door behind them, grinning broadly.
I blinked. They had to be kidding. There was no way—I glanced at the attendant. He arched an eyebrow, then stood and went into the cockpit, leaving me alone.
My jaw fell open. Oh, come on! I mean, I’m sitting right, freaking, here! There’s nothing but a crummy, thin door between me and them, and they’re going to—they wouldn’t. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. Ignore them. She’s just looking for attention. I liberated two cookie squares, sat back, and cranked up the volume. For the next several moments, I luxuriated in the crumbly ecstasy of shortbread and the dulcet tones of Sarah M. I tapped my feet and stared out the window. La, la, la.
A thump shook the partition.
Ah, crap.
I dropped my head to my chest. This cannot be happening. I shifted uncomfortably at the sudden vision of Hunter’s muscular chest; his ripped abs; a broad swath of dark hair descending in a tapering triangle over his hard, flat stomach into a slender black line snaking downward to—No! Stop it! Madison McKenna, you will NOT have that vision. You will NOT think of … of … of what you ARE thinking of.
Man, I so need a boyfriend.
I took deep breaths through my nose and breathed out through my mouth, yoga style, for several long moments. Once I got my heart rate out of the danger zone, I raised my head and stared straight ahead. I’m not paying attention. I don’t care what they do; it has nothing to do with me. I’m going sit here and read my magazine. That’s what I’m going to do. Read my magazine and not pay the slightest bit of attention. I flipped the magazine open only to note with annoyance that I’d already finished this one. Well, heck, now what?
Thump. Thump, thump.
I glanced back at the door. The magazine rack was mounted on the wall beside it. I chewed my lower lip. I really do want another magazine. I could just walk back there, find what I want, and walk back to my seat like the mature, unconcerned adult that I am. I have absolutely no ulterior motives in mind. I stood. Here I go. One mature, unconcerned adult walking over to a magazine rack … arriving at a magazine rack … taking a magazine … nothing to it. I glanced at the door. I should look through the magazine, to make certain I’d like it. No sense in—
THUMP! The partition fell open.
My body jerked like a jackrabbit flushed from cover. Panicked, I dropped the magazine and grabbed the handle, catching it before it opened fully. The sounds of rhythmic moaning flowed over me. Oh, man! I froze, eyes closed, awaiting the impending disaster. After several seconds, when no affronted screaming manifested, I opened one eye and then the other. I sighed and meant to pull the door closed. Honestly. But restraint and curiosity launched into battle in my psyche, and, unfortunately for restraint, curiosity had an army of horny minions on its side.
I peeked.
Hunter had Tri-Tri bent over the counter before them, his back to me. His trousers, shirt, and boxers lay on the floor beside her clothes, leaving him wearing only black socks and a white, sleeveless t-shirt. His chiseled muscles bulged as he pulled her hips back and forth against him. She gripped the surface, white-knuckled, and lifted her smooth, tight buttocks high to meet him, her whole body rocking to the rhythm of his thrusts. And I’d have to say that the guttural groans were pretty damn indicative of her mood.
Far better, however, was the sight of Hunter’s own firm ass. So taut, so—oh, my God! He has a tattoo! Halfway up his right cheek, is that … ? Yes, it is! It’s Taz, the Warner Brother’s cartoon, Tasmanian Devil! That’s so cool! No, it isn’t. Yes, it is. Grow up! I nibbled on my ring finger, watching little tattoo Taz watch me, watch him. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Mmm, but I do love the sight of a man’s butt, especially when it’s at work. Those smooth, deep hollows that form when his muscles tighten and … no! No, you are not doing this, Madison. You are NOT that hard up. Speaking of hard—no! Enough!
I yanked the door, slowing at the last second to click it soundlessly closed. Grabbing the magazine from the floor, I ran on tiptoe back to my seat. Once there, I ripped open a package of cashews and tossed them down like a kid mainlining Skittles. I gulped the remainder of my soda so quickly a burp erupted before I finished.
Okay, Madison. Get a grip. You’re an adult … and he’s an adult … and we could do adult things … No! None of that. Hunter’s a mean, self-righteous—yeah, but the way he moves those rock-hard muscles. Older men aren’t supposed to look that good! I mean he’s way too old for me. Right? But, that utterly bite-worthy ass and that cute tattoo—I moaned, squirming in my seat. Then, in that cruel way the mind has, I remembered the last time I’d been so uncomfortable in a seat. In the car with Jake. The thought chilled like ice water in my lap.
A sigh escaped as my inner slut slunk back into her dark corner. I picked up the new magazine. Still, I thought, as I buried myself in the desensitizing sputter of irresponsibly inflammatory political rhetoric, it’s a good thing Hunter and I hate each other. I glanced at the closed partition. As long as we hate each other, things can’t get complicated.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Hunter and Tri-Tri returned ten minutes later. He dropped into a seat as if nothing had happened and fell asleep almost instantly. From the triumphant look on Tri-Tri’s face, I knew she knew that I knew, and that I was meant to know. She probably left the door unlatched on purpose. I should have felt sorry for her—that kind of exhibitionism indicates deep self-esteem problems—but I was too preoccupied with the thought of flushin
g her head in the toilet.
A few moments later, the attendant returned. He didn’t even blink when I joined him in the galley and took a mini-bottle of amaretto. In fact, he palmed me two more. I sensed pity, but I ended up with booze and cookies, so what the hell.
We all settled down to the post-coital rumbling of Hunter’s snores. Even Tri-Tri slept, her breathing gentle and feminine. I’ll bet she does that on purpose.
High above vast forests of the Northeast, my mind finally relaxed and allowed the low-throated engine drone to lull me into a soporific stupor. Upon landing, we were hustled through customs and led to a limousine. It was nearly one a.m. as we cruised through the tree-lined streets and into the walled city of Vieux Quebec. We passed under stone bridges flanked with Arthurian watchtowers and past Continental shops, neatly aligned along narrow avenues.
Our destination was the Chateau Frontenac, a castle overlooking the Saint Lawrence River in old Quebec City. Like some medieval fortress, complete with spires, the center building stood taller than wide and more than a dozen stories high with wings flanked to either side. Lights illuminated the castle, bestowing the verdigris of its copper-sheeted roof with an ethereal glow that hovered like a mystical turquoise cloud. Guinevere would have totally dug the place.
We passed under stone archways to an inner courtyard where the limousine glided to a stop before the front steps. A doorman, sporting a uniform the same forest green as the four-posted canopy above, greeted us in a local French dialect. Tri-Tri replied in impeccable continental French, emerging from the limo as light and fresh as spring. I, on the other hand, contemplated faking a faint just to get someone to carry me in.
Mr. Doorman escorted us through gold-trimmed, mahogany-bolstered rotating doors into a cavern of burnished metal, cool marble, and warm hardwood. Tasseled chandeliers of vaguely Egyptian design lit the room. Deep rich tones intermingled with subtle watercolor hues as murals of fruits and flowers lined the upper walls.
The Last Best Lie Page 19