White Hot

by Sandra Brown

  “Are you still my man, Red?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have to spell it out?”

  Red’s woebegone eyes turned angry. “After forty-something years, you’ve got the gall to ask me that?”

  Huff wouldn’t be put off by Red’s indignation. At this juncture, he didn’t care if he was affronted. “When you’re lying on your deathbed, do I have to worry about you making some soul-cleansing confessions to your priest?”

  “This late in the game, confession wouldn’t do me any good, Huff. I’m gonna burn. And so are you.”

  • • •

  “I’d better be getting back to town,” Lila said, reaching for her hat.

  “No rush. George is having to deal with that conveyor. He’s going to be busy for hours. Besides,” Chris said, holding up the bottle of white wine, “there are at least two more glasses left, and one of them has your name on it.” He took the hat from her hand and replaced it with a refilled wineglass.

  The picnic had seemed like a good idea. Had seemed like a good idea. But all Lila had done since her arrival was whine. About the heat. The bugs. You name it.

  They’d driven out to the meeting place separately. It was one of their usual rendezvous. The grassy picnic area overlooked a bayou and was heavily shaded by mature trees. On weekends it was crowded with families, but on weekdays it was deserted.

  He had given her only an hour’s notice, calling her just after her husband left his office. She arrived a few minutes late, alighting from her convertible wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and a wisp of a sundress through which he could see nearly all of Lila.

  But when she saw the picnic he’d laid out, her expression turned sour. “What’s this?”

  “What does it look like?”

  “Why don’t we stay in your car so we can have air-conditioning?”

  He wasn’t partial to picnics himself. But if they stayed inside the car, they would have sex and then she would leave. He needed more time than that. Today he needed time to smooth talk and woo her.

  He had thought that the romance of alfresco dining would appeal to her. He’d taken her hand and drawn her down onto the quilt beside him. Gently he’d removed her hat. He’d stroked her neck and décolletage.

  “I’ve been feeling so claustrophobic, Lila. Because of Danny. The walls seem to be closing in on me. When I’m indoors, all I think about is his death, and the horrible way he died.” Sliding his hand up into her hair, he whispered, “I wanted to lie down with you, not wrestle in the car. Help me forget for a while. Please?”

  The sweet talk appealed to her, and she applied herself to eradicating his sorrow. After some sweat-inducing foreplay, she straddled his hips, impaling herself on him with such vigor, his breath left his lungs in an audible whoosh.

  For the next several minutes, Lila seemed intent on erasing from his mind all thoughts of anything except their slippery coupling. She focused strictly on restoring him emotionally. Or killing him in the process.

  But afterward, she began to complain. She didn’t like the outdoors. “There’s never a bathroom around when you need one,” she’d said. “Like now, for instance.”

  “Go behind a bush.”

  “And get a rash on my privates? I don’t think so.”

  Two glasses of wine improved her outlook somewhat. So did Selma’s delicious chicken salad and crispy cheese biscuits. But after swatting away a bothersome fly, she reached for her hat and announced that it was time she went home.

  Now that he had forestalled her leave-taking with another glass of wine, he said, “Come on, drink up.” He pressed the glass to her lips and tilted the bottom of it to such a sharp angle that the wine dribbled over her chin.

  His eyes followed the trickles down her throat and chest until they disappeared beneath her dress. He winked at her, then moved the fabric aside and licked the wine from her breast. “Excellent vintage,” he said.

  Sighing with pleasure, she reclined on the quilt and adjusted her bodice to accommodate him. By the time his lips found their target, she was moving against him restlessly. “Ah, God, that drives me crazy.”

  He flicked his tongue. “What, that?”

  “God, yes.”

  He kept her nipples pinched between his fingers while his mouth traveled to more exotic terrain. Before it was over, he feared she would tear his hair out by the roots.

  She was an obliging and fair lover, taking him into her mouth, which she cooled first with pinot grigio. On the brink of release he got on top of her and thrust himself into her roughly. She responded in kind, and each enjoyed a crashing orgasm. But the instant it subsided, she gave his shoulder an ungracious shove. “Get off me. It’s hot and you’re heavy.”

  With her hair and makeup mussed, her dress twisted around her body in a way that revealed more than it covered, she was the picture of debauchery. Poor George didn’t stand a chance of keeping her satisfied.

  Smiling at her and lazily trailing his finger down the outside of her thigh, Chris said, “You’re the sexiest woman I know, Lila, but sometimes you outdo even yourself. Like just now. Like last Sunday.”

  “Last Sunday?” She checked her wristwatch, cursed beneath her breath, and sat upright.

  “You remember. When I went over to your house.”

  “Lord, I bet I’m a sight.” Hastily she straightened her dress and searched the rumpled quilt for her underpants. “If George is home when I get there—”

  “He won’t be,” Chris said, trying to curb his impatience. “He’s busy. He’ll be at the foundry for hours yet.”

  “But he might come home unexpectedly.” Finding her underwear, she stood up and stepped into them, then bent down to retrieve her hat. “He’s been acting weird lately. Watching me. I think he suspects something.”

  “That’s your imagination.”

  “At first, I thought so, too. But the other night after we got home from the wake, he asked me where I’d disappeared to.”

  He chucked her beneath the chin. “Bet you didn’t tell him.”

  She wasn’t amused. “I’ve been all lovey-dovey ever since, to try and throw him off track, but I’m not sure he’s convinced. He talks about you a lot and watches me when he thinks I don’t know he’s watching.”

  In light of his recent conversation with George, Chris wondered if she was right. But if George suspected them of having an affair, so what? He didn’t really care if her husband knew. Right now he was interested only in Lila’s cooperation should it be needed.

  He followed her as she made her way up the incline to where she’d left her car. She tossed her hat into the backseat and opened the passenger door.

  “Hold it.” He turned her around and drew her close. “No good-bye?”

  “I haven’t got time, Chris.”

  “Are you sure?” he growled, nuzzling her ear.

  She pushed him away, playfully, but meaning business. “I’m supposed to be waiting for my doting husband to get home from a hard day at work. You’ll have to find some other girl to take care of this.” She squeezed him playfully, quickly.

  “I don’t want another girl.” He pushed his thigh between hers and rubbed it against her crotch. “I want a woman. You, Lila. And you want me, too, because I know how to make you happy.”

  It wasn’t very graceful screwing. It certainly wasn’t comfortable. But he gave her another orgasm, which was all that mattered with Lila. When he finally released her, she was panting and her eyes were glazed.

  Now was the time to ask, he thought. “If I ever need you, you’ll be there for me, won’t you, Lila?”

  “I’ll try.” She was attempting to straighten her dress, but the lightweight fabric was clinging to her sweaty skin. “Sometimes it’s hard for me to get away on short notice.”

  “I don’t mean just for sex. What if I really needed you?”

  She pulled back and looked at him with misapprehension. “Needed me? Like for what?”

  He smoothed his hands down her
arms, a tender, affectionate caress. “Like, if your uncle Red asked you whether or not I was at your house last Sunday afternoon, you’d admit that I was, wouldn’t you?”

  Her eyes cleared instantly, as though someone had thrown cold water in her face. She no longer looked drowsily satiated. In fact, she had never looked more alert. “Why would Uncle Red ask me something like that? Oh, Christ, George does know.”

  “No, no, this has nothing to do with George.” He held her shoulders, massaging them gently. “It’s about me. Us. I’m trying to get a divorce, Lila. When I do, I want to talk to you about the future. Our future.

  “I know it’s too soon to ask you for a commitment. Especially with this mess about Danny hanging over my head. But that will be cleared up soon. How soon will depend a lot on what you tell Red about last Sunday.”

  There, that had subtly placed their future together in her hands. He had gracefully shifted the responsibility for whatever happened onto her, and he had dangled the prospect of marriage to him.

  To seal the deal, he leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “I can count on you, can’t I?”

  “Of course you can, Chris.”

  “I knew I could.” He kissed her lightly on the lips, released her, and helped her into the car. She started the motor. Then she smiled up at him. “You can count on me to look after Lila.”

  He felt like he’d been slapped. “What?”

  “You must really think I’m stupid. You’re a great lay, Chris, but that’s the only reason I can stand you. George isn’t much, but he worships me. I’m the princess in my household. In yours, I’d be under Huff’s thumb, and just be the wife you were cheating on. And this business about your brother’s death? It’s your mess, baby doll. Get out of it yourself.”

  chapter 21

  Beck’s cell phone rang as he was climbing the front steps of the Hoyles’ house. He answered, listened, cursed, then asked, “When?”

  Red Harper said, “’Bout an hour ago.”

  “Did he offer an explanation?”

  “That was the problem. He couldn’t.”

  “Okay, Red. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll get back to you.”

  He disconnected and went into the house. The wide foyer was shadowed and hushed, as though the house was napping. There was no one in Huff’s den. Beck found him in the most unlikely place—Laurel Lynch Hoyle’s plant conservatory.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “I live here.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m a little cranky.”

  “So I see. Go pour yourself a drink.”

  “Thanks, but I’d better not.”

  “You need a clear head?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Sit down. You’re wound up tighter than an eight-day clock.”

  Beck lowered himself into one of the rattan pieces that furnished the room. The western sky, as seen through the tall windows, had turned lavender with the dusk, the same color as several of the potted orchids that bloomed in profusion. The ferns were lush and deeply green, suggesting a coolness that was welcome after the heat outside. The room was like an oasis, inviting one to relax.

  But it was going to take more than a tropical ambience to unwind him.

  Huff was reclined on a chaise lounge, fringed throw pillows behind his back. He was holding a glass of bourbon, but he wasn’t smoking, upholding his late wife’s wish that he not smoke in her special room.

  “Feeling okay?” Beck asked.

  “Better than you, I think. If I were to bet on which of us has the highest blood pressure right now, I’d put my money on you.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  Beck released a long breath and settled back against the cushions of his chair. “We’re getting hit from all sides, Huff.”

  “Give them to me one at a time.”

  “For starters, there’s the Paulik crisis. I spoke by phone to the doctor overseeing his care. Billy’s prognosis for recovery is good. Physically he’s doing as well as can be expected.”

  “But?”

  “But he’s severely depressed.”

  “That means a shrink,” Huff said, looking none too pleased about it.

  “Not even workmen’s comp pays for that, even if the Pauliks filed a claim, which they haven’t. I think we should offer to provide a psychiatrist.”

  Huff made a sound of disgust. “Those doctors drum up business for each other. It’s a racket.”

  “In some instances I’m sure that’s true. However, it stands to reason that Billy is having a difficult time coping mentally and emotionally. Beyond that, it would be a good PR stroke for us. Which we desperately need.”

  “All right. But a few sessions ought to do it,” Huff said. “Nothing long term.”

  “Say five.”

  “Say three. What else?”

  “Mrs. Paulik. The new SUV we sent over yesterday was in my parking space when I got to work this morning. I dispatched laborers to their house to do some repairs, repainting, et cetera. Mrs. Paulik wouldn’t let them in. She sent them packing, then called and told me where I could stick our bribes. She’s moving her family out of your house—your ‘stinking house,’ to quote—and said that if we thought a few play-pretties could shut her up, we could think again.”

  Huff took a sip of bourbon. “That’s not all, is it?”

  “No,” Beck replied reluctantly. “She’s going to sue us.”

  “Dammit! She said that?”

  “She promised that.”

  Swirling the liquor in his glass, Huff thought it over for several moments. “I’m betting she won’t, Beck. She’s grabbed us by the short and curlies with these threats. Okay, she’s got our attention. Let’s sweeten the pot.”

  “More gifts? I think that would only strengthen her resolve and give firmer footing to her allegations that we’re using bribes to buy her compliance. And there’s a furthermore.” Beck paused, sighed. “Furthermore, she’s threatening to talk to the Justice Department. She wants criminal charges to be filed.”

  Huff finished his drink and set the glass on an end table, his jerky movements attesting to his anger.

  “She doesn’t have a chance in hell of succeeding,” Beck said. “It would have to be proved that we knew an accident was virtually certain to occur, and that would be damn near impossible to do even by the sharpest prosecutor.

  “On the other hand, I know of companies who’ve had to contest charges of intentionally disregarding safety factors and purposefully endangering their employees. Customers of long standing suddenly take their business elsewhere. Employees, especially middle management, resign for fear of going down with a sinking ship.

  “It can take years for these type cases to come to trial. A huge conglomerate with a billion-dollar budget and a phalanx of lawyers working the case might survive. Privately held companies like yours rarely do.”

  Huff scoffed at that. “It’ll take more than one disgruntled, loudmouthed woman to shut down Hoyle Enterprises.”

  “Ordinarily I would agree with you. But Alicia Paulik isn’t acting alone. She’s recruited Charles Nielson to lead the charge. I received a fax from him today. I won’t bullshit you, Huff, it’s your worst nightmare.”

  “Where’s the fax?”

  Beck opened the briefcase he’d carried in with him and took out a single sheet. He stood and handed it to Huff, saying, “Maybe I’ll have a short one after all.”

  He went into the den, poured himself a bourbon and water, spoke to Selma, who came to inquire if he was staying for dinner, then returned to the conservatory. Huff was no longer reclining on the chaise. He was pacing the width of the windows. Beck noticed that the fax had been balled up and thrown to the floor.

  “He’s pissing in the wind. Our workers won’t strike,” Huff said definitely.

  “They might.”

  “They won’t.”

  “If they’re rallied—
”

  “Rallied, hell!” he roared. “They’re too afraid for their—”

  “Things aren’t like they were forty years ago, Huff,” Beck shouted. “You cannot conduct business like you did when you first took over the plant. You cannot be autonomous.”

  “Tell me why the hell not.”

  “Because Destiny isn’t some feudal burg without any connection to the outside world. The government—”

  “Has no goddamn right telling me how to run my business.”

  Beck laughed shortly. “Well, federal law says they do. The EPA and OSHA are monitoring us and taking names. Now Justice might enter the fray. That’s probably given Nielson a hard-on.” He rubbed the back of his neck before taking a sip of whiskey. “He’s called upon the labor unions to send—”

  “Thugs.”

  “They’ll be here by the first of next week. They’ll organize a picket line and urge our employees to strike until . . . Well, you read the fax. There’s a list of demands with the promise of more to come.”

  Huff made an impatient gesture. “Our employees won’t listen to any outside agitators, especially if they’re from up north.”

  “And what if they’re homegrown southern boys? Cajun. Whites and blacks. Nielson’s too smart to send men who would be dismissed out of hand. He’ll send people from this area who speak the language.”

  “No matter where they hail from, our people will resent their interference as much as we do.”

  “Possibly. Hopefully. But Billy’s accident has had a profound impact, Huff. You haven’t been to the plant since it happened. The atmosphere is dismal, charged with resentment. Men are grumbling, saying it wouldn’t have happened if we had maintained the machinery routinely and enforced safety rules.”

  “Paulik had no business trying to work on that belt. He hadn’t been trained to.”

  “I wouldn’t use that argument, Huff, because it’s one of theirs. I’ve heard complaints that new employees are put on the floor without any proper training, and that a foundry is no place to get it on the job. If I were George Robson, I’d be watching my back, although they all know he’s only a mouthpiece.”