Guilty Pleasures

by Bertrice Small

  It was at that point that J. P. Woods realized that she wanted this Charles Pell out of her life, but because he was her creation, she was, Mr. Nicholas said, responsible for him. Great! Another fucking burden for me to carry, she thought irritably. Why couldn’t I have been content with things the way they were? For the first time in my life, I let my heart rule my head, and look what a mess I’ve made of things. I want to go back to the way it was. Is that even possible?

  And then one morning, some months later, Gloria came into her boss’s office. She was ashen. “It’s his lordship,” she said.

  “Oh, crap, what’s he done now?” J.P. asked, immediately irritated. She hadn’t seen Charles in over a week now.

  “He’s dead!” Gloria said, and then she sat down.

  “What? How? When? Are you absolutely certain?”

  “The police are outside. They want to speak with you. I’ll tell you what they told me. He and some flavor-of-themonth starlet were doing . . . coke, for God’s sake! Afterward, while they were having rather loud sex, according to the guests on the fifteenth floor, someone got into the suite and shot them. The police say it was a hit. The girl had been living until recently with some gangster type who threatened to kill her if she left him.” Gloria paused. “She did, and the police think he did. I’m sorry, J.P. I know he was your protégé.” The way she said it, J.P. realized Gloria thought he was something more but wouldn’t voice that thought.

  J.P. was stunned. Charles. Her Charles, whom the twenty-first century had turned from a tender caring man into the worst son of a bitch alive, was dead. Good riddance!

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s a tragedy, Gloria. He has family in England. I’ll notify them, and we’ll ship his body home. At company expense, of course. The recent royalties due him will more than pay for a very fancy wake at Frank Campbell’s. Despite his recent behavior, Stratford Publishing doesn’t want to appear ungrateful or unfeeling,” J.P. said calmly. “You make the arrangements when we can claim his body. Get someone from PR to write a nice juicy obit. I’ll want to see it first, of course. I’ll call his brother in England as soon as we are certain of the facts in this matter.”

  Gloria nodded. “Will do, J.P.,” she said, rising from the chair and hurrying out.

  J. P. Woods smiled to herself. She still had the Charles Pell who did love and adore her in the Channel. She hadn’t visited him in months, but he wouldn’t notice the passage of time. She reached for her phone and dialed Mick Devlin’s extension. “Mick,” she said when he answered, “Charles Pell has gone and gotten himself murdered. Come into my office, and I’ll tell you everything. We’ve got a funeral to attend.”

  TIFFY AND THE SULTAN

  “I t’s not a real fantasy if the guy looks like your husband,” Carla Johnson said to her friend Tiffany Pietro d’Angelo.

  “Why not?” Tiffy said. “I love Joe. Always have. Always will.”

  “The Channel isn’t about love,” Carla replied. “It’s about wild and crazy guilt-free sex with no complications, girl! You’ve got this new Arabian Nights tale all worked out, and the hero is going to look like Joe? Ewwww? What’s the matter with you?”

  “Well, if not Joe, then who? I don’t want it to be someone I know. I’d die of embarrassment when I ran into them next,” Tiffy declared. She was a very pretty petite woman with a fluff of champagne blond hair.

  “Pick an actor you like,” Carla suggested.

  “Maybe I’ll just think tall, dark, and dangerous and see what pops up,” Tiffy said.

  “That would work nicely,” Carla said. “I always like surprises. Especially the dark and dangerous kind.”

  “It’s been forever since I’ve been to the Channel,” Tiffy said. “Even with the kids gone, there just doesn’t seem to be any time right now. The office has been so busy. Did Joe tell me that you’re going with them to that lawyers’ conference next week?”

  “Yep,” Carla said. “I haven’t been to the big city in ages. I’m in the mood to do some serious shopping, and we’ve got tickets for a couple of shows. Why don’t you come, Tiffy? It would be a terrific outing for us all. You and Joe should make more time for yourselves. Taking that long cruise last winter with Rick was an eye-opener. You won’t live forever, sweetie. You should enjoy life while you can.”

  “I can’t, but I wish I could. It sounds like fun,” Tiffy said. “But I’m the only one other than Joe who understands the complexities of the Van Duzer estate trust. They’re leaving for Europe next week and won’t be back for a couple months. They always want to go over everything and update stuff before they travel. Joe has to be in the city for that conference. He’s on two committees and chairs one. So that leaves me. I don’t mind. It will give me time to try out my new Arabian Nights fantasy. I’m really in the mood for it too.” She sighed. “It seemed easier when the kids were young and at home. We always seemed to have time for everything, even with bake sales and chauffeuring them to dances and sports. And our summers at Camp Cozy—I really miss those times.”

  “Water under the bridge,” Carla said sanguinely. “I’m not one to look back a whole lot. I’m always too curious about what lies around the next corner.” She chuckled. “So I’ll go to the city and spend Rick’s money on some clothes for our vacation next winter, and you’ll stay home, deal with the Van Duzers, and play in the Channel.”

  “You guys are going away again?” Tiffy was surprised.

  “Yep! We’re taking a cruise to South America. We’ll be going to Machu Pichu, and we’ll be in Rio for Carnival,” Carla said. “And we get to spend a weekend in Patagonia.”

  “Wow!” Tiffy exclaimed. “I guess you two really like cruising.”

  Carla grinned mischievously. “All year long it’s either hurried sex now and again or no sex,” she confided. “But get Rick away from Egret Pointe and the law offices, and he turns into an animal. Every day, Tiffy! And sometimes more than once. If I had known that a grown-up vacation would turn him on so much, I would have planned them years ago. But now that I know, we’re going every chance we get.”

  “I am so envious,” Tiffy said with a sigh.

  “Maybe you and Joe should take a real vacation,” Carla suggested.

  “Yeah, one day,” Tiffy replied, but it didn’t sound like she had much hope. “Joe loves what he does. He wants to do it all the time. He’s just like his cousin Ray.”

  “Well, if you can’t get him to take you away someplace romantic, then I guess you’re just going to have to keep visiting the Channel like I used to do,” Carla replied.

  Tiffany Pietro d’Angelo nodded. “I’ll feel better after I’ve lived out this new fantasy,” she assured her best friend.

  The next few days were busy ones. Tiffany personally packed Joe’s luggage, matching the ties, the shirts, and the suits for him. She saw that he had enough socks and that the two pairs of shoes he carried were polished to a glossy shine. She put in a pair of pajamas, Joe’s comfortable flannel robe, and his worn leather slippers. His toiletry bag had everything he would need and a few things he might need. She tucked silly notes in his pockets, where he would find them and smile.

  She pulled all the paperwork for the Van Duzer trust so she could reread it and be ready when the elderly couple came in next week. Tiffy knew they weren’t going to change a thing in their carefully worked-out trust. They never did. But each time they went off traveling, they would insist on coming in beforehand and going over everything again. They were sweet people, and in a small town like Egret Pointe, law offices like Johnson and Pietro d’Angelo were apt to be more patient and accommodating than large city firms would have been.

  The firm had called a limo service from the city to come out and take Carla and the two men into town. “It’s a legitimate business expense,” Rick Johnson said. “And it’s no more expensive than garaging the car for a couple days.”

  Tiffy fussed with Joe’s tie a final time as he prepared to get into the waiting limousine. “I’ve put in Tums and Pepto just in
case,” she said. “Don’t overeat or eat the hot stuff. It always sets you off.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he assured her. “You’re sure you’ll be okay with the Van Duzers?”

  Tiffany nodded. “They’re coming on Wednesday afternoon, and you know they won’t do anything. After I’ve dealt with them, I might take the rest of the week off. You know, Joe, we haven’t gone off together in a long time. Perhaps I’ll plan a getaway for us.” She looked hopefully at him. “Maybe Bermuda? You could play golf,” Tiffy tempted him. “I know how busy the office is, but what about Christmas week?”

  “The kids,” he began.

  “Have jobs and lives of their own,” Tiffany said, her voice suddenly edgy. “They can do without us for one damn Christmas. I want to go away with my husband. Alone. Without the distractions of their problems or your office.”

  Joe Pietro d’Angelo looked surprised. “Well, gee, Tiff, if that’s what you want, then make it so. But let’s do something more exciting than Bermuda. I hear Barbados is pretty nice. Find us something really first-class on the ocean with help. If we’re going to go, let’s do it right,” Joe told her. Then he gave her a kiss and climbed into the car.

  Carla, who had heard the exchange, gave her friend a thumbs-up before the door shut, and the limo took off. Tiffy walked over to her own car, which she had taken out of the garage earlier. She climbed in and drove into the village, parking in the office’s lot, which was behind the building. It was a reasonably quiet day. There were no appointments because both lawyers were gone. It was an excellent time to catch up on paperwork.

  The following day the Van Duzers came in at eleven o’clock sharp for their appointment. Mr. Van Duzer, a tall, distinguished gentleman with snow-white hair, was dressed in a dark suit, a white shirt, and a striped tie. His wife wore a wool suit and a fur coat. Her jewelry—three rings and a strand of pearls—was the real thing. As expected, they went over everything with Tiffy but made no changes to their family trust.

  “I’m sorry we missed Joe,” Mr. Van Duzer said pointedly.

  “He’s chairman of one of the committees at this conference,” Tiffy said, “and their presentation was first thing this morning after the welcome breakfast. However, we went over everything before he left, Mr. Van Duzer. His advice was not to make any changes, as you have so wisely decided.”

  “Such a lovely man, your husband,” Mrs. Van Duzer said in her sweet, high-pitched voice. “Do tell him we’ll call from London if we need to make any changes.”

  “Of course I will, and you have a wonderful visit with your daughter and her family,” Tiffy responded as she escorted them out of her husband’s private office. They wouldn’t call. They always said the same thing, she thought, smiling. She turned to the two secretaries. “I’m going home, ladies. I won’t be in the rest of the week since we don’t have anything to do. Feel free to take Friday off. Joe and Rick’s orders.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Pietro d’Angelo,” the two women chorused.

  Tiffy’s cell began to ring as she left the office. Looking, she saw it was her husband. “I’m just leaving,” she told him by way of greeting. “The Van Duzers have been cosseted and catered to, and they are now gone off to catch a plane,” she told him. “How are you?”

  “We’re doing okay. Conference is really interesting.”

  “I gave the girls Friday off. Said you and Rick said to do it. There’s nothing to do, and I’ll check the voice mail,” Tiffy told him.

  “Good idea,” he agreed. “What are you going to do? If you want, you could come into town now, and we’ll spend the weekend.”

  “Too late. My hair needs touching up, and I’ve got to research our winter trip,” Tiffany told him. “You’ll be home Friday night, sweetie. We’ll do dinner at the inn on Saturday, okay?” And I’ll be a happier camper for having visited the Channel, she thought with a small secret smile.

  “Okay. Enjoy the rest of your day and tomorrow,” he said.

  Tiffy drove home, put the car in the garage, and fixed herself a chicken sandwich and a salad, which she ate with a glass of Winter White wine from the Pindar Vineyards out on Long Island. A glance at the clock told her she had several hours until the Channel opened up for the night. She took a leisurely bath, then lay down for a nap. When she awoke, it was dark. Checking the lighted dial on her bedside clock, she saw it was almost eight. She rolled over and reached up beneath her night table, where she secreted her Channel remote. The remote worked on all the televisions in the house, but tonight she didn’t have to hide in the den or her craft room in the finished basement.

  She glanced again at the clock, which, clicked from seven fifty-nine to eight o’clock. Tiffy pointed the remote at the television in the small painted entertainment center across the room, and clicked the B button. Instantly she was in the harem of her father’s palace. The warm air was perfumed faintly with the scent of the damask roses in the gardens beyond the gold-veined, cream-colored marble pillars. She gazed from amid the multicolored silken pillows where she lay, taking in the scene surrounding her. Her persona in this fantasy was that of Princess Hestia, the sultan’s daughter, who was known as the Star of Cinnabar.

  In the center of the large chamber where she now lay was a fountain tiled in several shades of blue. In the fountain’s center was a small spray, its rainbow droplets catching the sun as they sprinkled into the air. Gold and silver fish swam lazily in the water. Her own mother was dead, but her father’s other three wives, his two current favorites, and his half dozen concubines peopled the room, along with female servants and several eunuchs. Somewhere a musician played a stringed instrument as Hestia’s own personal slave woman slowly brushed the princess’s long pale golden hair.

  Her deep violet blue eyes were sharp—she watched everything about her. The gossiping wives. The two favorites preening and beautifying themselves in an effort to outdo each other. The younger concubines giggling as they sat telling each other stories. Hestia was seventeen and a widow. Her father, the sultan, indulged her as he did no one else among his women. She was the only daughter of his second wife, who had died giving birth to another child when Hestia was ten.

  After her mother’s death, her father had kept the child of his heart close. He might have given her in marriage to a powerful lord, but instead, to keep her near him, he had married her off to the eldest son of his vizier. Hestia had been content with his decision. She was her young husband’s first wife, and his family was honored to have her among them. But then tragedy had struck. Her husband was killed in a fall from his horse when they had been married less than a year. Once it was determined that Hestia was not with child, she was returned to her father’s house. Happy to have his favorite child returned to him, the Sultan of Cinnabar was in no hurry to marry her off again.

  Her knowledge of sexual practices complete, the princess had a bit more freedom than the other women had. She had bribed one of the younger eunuchs to go to the marketplace and purchase a fine dildo for her. She had given him exact instructions, and he had not failed her. Now, because he’d kept her secret, she allowed the eunuch the privilege of using the dildo on his mistress for her pleasure whenever she felt the need. For a time it had sufficed, but of late Hestia had felt the need for more than a dildo.

  The head eunuch, Abu Abu, came into the harem. At once all the women were alert, but he passed them by and went to where the princess lay having her hair brushed. A short plump man of mixed race, his skin was pale brown and his eyes the black of midnight. Hestia had known him her entire life. He bowed low. “Princess, your esteemed father requests that you come with me. He would speak with you on a matter most serious.” Abu Abu held out his fat hand to her.

  Hestia smiled and took it, letting him pull her up. “If Papa wishes my presence,” she said in her melodious voice, “I will certainly come, for I am a dutiful daughter.” Then she followed the head eunuch from the harem to her father’s library, where not only the sultan but her half brother, Prince Omar, awaited her. Cros
sing her arms over her chest, she bowed to her father and then to her brother. Omar was the heir. They had never liked each other, but as heir he was entitled to her respect. Hestia knew how important it was to be polite to him. Her very life could depend on him one day.

  “You are to be married, my daughter,” the sultan began.

  Hestia remained silent, waiting for more information. Her heart was pounding with a mixture of excitement and fear.

  “It will be a political alliance, my daughter,” the sultan continued. “You will become the first wife of the new Sultan of Sherazad, and the sultan’s sister will be married to your brother, Omar. You and your brother will meet the sultan and his sister, Princess Shalimar, at the Forest of Palms oasis, which is located at the border between our two kingdoms. Speak now, daughter, and tell me your thoughts.”

  “Will the sultan be satisfied that his sister is a second wife, Papa?” Hestia wanted to know. “Especially as I will be the sultan’s first wife?”

  “Omar has divorced Amira. Princess Shalimar will be his first wife. When that has happened, he will remarry Amira, who is content to be second in his life,” the sultan answered his daughter.

  Hestia turned to her half brother. “How can you do this to Amira?” she asked him. “Amira has always loved you, and you would relegate her to second place for this princess, whom you have never laid eyes upon?”

  “An alliance with Sherazad is important to Cinnabar,” Prince Omar answered his sister. “The sultan’s sister cannot be placed second in my household. Amira understands that. Why do you not? This time, sister, you will have a strong man for a husband. A man who will tame your unseemly independent spirit, not some besotted boy who was honored by your presence in his bed and who could not get you with child. It is your son by the sultan and my son by the sultan’s sister who will one day rule these two kingdoms and keep peace between our two countries.”