by AB Plum
What else does he know about Michael? Whatever it is, shouldn’t FBI agents maintain some objectivity? Why does his hatred feel so personal?
Patrick hijacks the conversation, then, and the questions go unasked. He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a miniature cell phone.
“Courtesy of Bradley Chan. He’s fixed these so your husband can’t access your voicemail or your text archives. They’re for our exclusive use with each other. It’s the only way to talk with you in the house and me in the bunkhouse.”
“Next I suppose you’ll tell me I don’t even have to hold this device to my lips. I can press a button—any button—and you can pick up what I say a mile away.”
“Bingo.”
Reality mocks me. He suggests carrying the phone inside my bra during the day and placing it under the bed at night. My stomach rolls. Jesus, he’ll overhear Michael and me in bed.
More accurately, he’ll hear Michael—because no matter how rough the sex becomes I never make a sound. Any noise from me enhances Michael’s pleasure.
It occurs to me to refuse to allow Patrick to eavesdrop in the bedroom. The small compartment housing my common sense opens wide. Nothing matters except finding a way to stay with my three kids until Patrick finds us a safe house.
When we reach the main gate, Seth Bodine, the second-highest-ranking security kingpin at Belle Haven, is waiting. The skin on my arms crawls.
He gets out of the car parked horizontally in front of the gate. His Marine-shaved head and bulky shoulders remind me of a gorilla. Flat, granite eyes contrast with his slow grin. I’ve spoken to him half a dozen times in the ten years he has worked for Michael. Like all the security guards on site, he wears a gun, holstered at his waist. The handle sticks above the open holster.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Romanov. Patrick.” He places both arms outside the open window and leans forward. “Patrick, I’m going to ask you to step out of your vehicle. I have orders to stop you from entering the grounds.”
Black dots dance in front of my eyes. Our first unforeseen problem. I inch forward in my seat and make eye contact with Seth.
“Who gave those orders?” Queen Elizabeth couldn’t sound more snooty.
“Jed. He got them from Mr. Romanov.”
“I think he misunderstood.”
“I have my orders, ma’am.”
Even though my shoulders weigh a ton, I shrug. “My husband’s coming any minute. He’ll clear this up. Until then, I’d like Patrick to close his window. It’s chilly.”
For a second, his tough-guy persona crumbles. The treadmill in his brain slows, speeds up. He narrows his eyes. “All right, but I’m staying here.”
“Your choice.” The coolness in my voice sounds real. “Roll up the window, Patrick.”
He does, turning his head so I can see his broad grin. “Good start.”
Chapter 79
HE
John Fuller stops in front of a bungalow semi-obscured by fog. He waits till I stop then wheels around and lowers his head. His appreciation for my courtesy in trailing him home doesn’t extend to an invitation to enter his castle.
As today’s rude youth say so blithely, No problem. He can’t afford my brand of coffee.
“I know AnnaSophia is expecting you, so I won’t delay you.” A note of longing mixed with jealousy lingers.
“She’ll understand if I’m late. After our accident, I plan to drive three miles per hour.”
“Stupidly, I thought with the fog, I didn’t have to stop.”
We’ve already visited and revisited his moment of guilt. I give him a two-fingered salute. “You have my number. You have AnnaSophia’s number. You have my insurance carrier’s number. I hope you can get out of bed tomorrow.”
“Yoga will get me out of bed. Have a good evening.” Again, that wistful note.
So his wife is ill. I’ll have to learn more. Because I’m not finished with John Fuller.
Surprisingly, most of the road idiots have stayed home. Which makes my drive relaxing. Now that I have time to reflect, I find AnnaSophia’s attitude almost spunky. Too bad she’ll soon discover her thorniness can’t penetrate my skin. What fun leading her to that discovery.
Pulling up to the gate at Belle Haven, seeing Patrick’s red pickup, I curse silently. Seth Bodine stands next to the pickup statue-still. He comes forward as I pull to a stop.
“Is my wife in the pickup?”
“Yessir. She ordered Patrick to disregard my directive to step out of his vehicle.” His hand rests on the handle of his Glock.
Is he waiting for me to countermand my earlier order not to shoot Patrick? “How long have they been here?”
“Almost an hour. The security cameras recorded their time of arrival.”
“Is Patrick armed?”
“I haven’t frisked him, sir.”
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. My wife ordered him to remain in his car.” My tone pronounces Seth an idiot.
He straightens as if about to take a bullet between the eyes. “Should I search him now?”
“And let him think I’m scared?” I shake my head, indicating my disgust with his suggestion. Does the guy, a former cop and Marine Master-Sergeant, know nothing about humiliation? “He can have an Uzi, and I’m not afraid of him. Move your car. Open the gate. Follow us to the guesthouse. Stay there until I tell you to leave.”
He obeys my instructions, bringing up the rear of our cortege like the last hearse at a funeral. The fog cloaks the twosome in a velvet curtain. I can’t swear who’s riding ahead of me.
Dammit, I should’ve had the pickup bugged—like every other employee’s car. If he protested the violation of his privacy, adiós amigo. I can only guess the story they’re hatching.
The guesthouse glows with lights. On my way home, I called the executive housekeeper and told her to turn on the lights and deliver hors d’oeuvres and wine. With Patrick joining us, I should have doctored a few stuffed shrimp with a couple of milligrams of crushed oxycodone.
An opportunity missed.
Patrick parks in front of the steps leading to the door. Afraid AnnaSophia will melt in the fog? She runs up the steps as if in a monsoon. Her wild, red hair is loose—a small defiance.
He cuts his engine and opens the driver’s door. Tempted to let my foot slip off the brake, I ease in behind his pickup.
Probably pushing my luck to have two car accidents within two hours of each other.
He bounds up the steps three at a time. I swallow a laugh. His attempt to impress Seth and humiliate me comes off pathetic. Without the briefcase, I could leap up four steps at a time. On my next visit to the weight room, I’ll invite him along. Show him real muscle.
Unlike AnnaSophia already in the house, Patrick waits at the door. Interesting. What’s his game?
“Afternoon, Mr. Romanov.” Greeting me by name might throw me off if I didn’t understand the tactic. Always catch your enemy off guard.
“Patrick. Let’s go inside. I assume you and AnnaSophia want to tell me a story.” I step past him and open the front door.
AnnaSophia stands in front of the fireplace, hands toward the heat. She turns slowly, but her hair flies out behind her like sparks from the blaze. The walls in the large room shrink. The fire fades. Her hair lights up with an intensity that is blinding.
Patrick stares but manages to keep his jaw tight.
The sight of her preening slams into my gut. Hot blood burns my eyes. My wife the whore. Forcing myself to move slowly, languidly, in no hurry to exact my revenge, I saunter toward her. The walls return to normal. The fire leaps. Her hair still blinds, but I avert my gaze from its aura to her throat.
“Darling.” I lip-brush her neck, and glee spurts into me when she flinches. “How’s your father?”
She sidles to an armchair. “Come in, Patrick. Sit down.”
Get comfortable. I deduce that’s what she wants to say. When she doesn’t, I take the chair opposite her and hitch my head toward the sofa.
; “Get comfortable,” I say in a silky voice that gives away none of my building outrage. The quintessential host, I add, “Help yourself to appetizers. I’ll open a bottle of—”
“Michael, this isn’t a cocktail party.”
“Sounds ominous.” I show the wine label to Patrick. He shakes his head. Probably doesn’t know a bottle of good Merlot from a bottle of Coke. “Worried about John Fuller?”
“John said on the phone he was fine. Has anything changed?”
“Oh, I’m sure something, somewhere has changed, Darling.” If I sat closer, I’d pat her head like an adoring father. “But the last I saw John, he was walking briskly up his driveway.”
“We have a report to make about Jed, Mr. Romanov.” Patrick’s abrupt change of subject almost covers the tiny sigh that escapes my wife’s lips.
“Then you’d better tell me.” I face AnnaSophia and cross my legs. “Jed is my most trusted security advisor.”
“Does that mean I need his permission to leave the grounds?”
“Of course not.” I frown—pretending I don’t understand.
“He tried to stop me from leaving this morning.”
“Why?” I swing my foot back and forth as if completely relaxed.
“He thought you wouldn’t like me—like my driving alone in the fog.”
“I thought Patrick was driving you—or at least following you—to Carmel.”
“He did,” AnnaSophia pipes up, breathy and girlish. “But the fog was too heavy. I decided to go to yoga. Get my mind off Daddy. Patrick volunteered to follow me to class.”
“Doesn’t your class start at eight-thirty?”
“I can take the advanced session.”
Bored, I say with saint-like patience, “Where does Jed come in?”
“He wanted to call you. I didn’t have time to wait, or I’d be late.” She keeps her gaze glued to mine, but I see her carotid hammering. Patrick is throwing off his own electricity.
“If it was unsafe to go to Carmel, why was it safe to go to yoga?” I ask with perfect logic.
“Patrick said he’d follow me in case I had a problem.”
“And Jed understood Patrick was following?”
“Yes.”
“Was he rude?” I already know the answer. Better to ask if Jed were crude.
She lifts her chin. “He’d never speak to you the way he spoke to me.”
I jiggle my foot, then swivel my gaze to Patrick. “What’s your input?”
His gaze remains steady. “I take Mrs. Romanov at her word.”
Of course. I rub my chin as if thinking. Neither moves or glances at the other, but that behavior gives them away like characters in a Nineteenth Century novel of manners. They have rehearsed this farce. Their coiled tension crackles more fiercely than the fire.
Faking a smile, I turn to AnnaSophia. “What would you like me to do about Jed?”
She blinks, sits up straighter, and stops hugging her waist like a child. “Fire him.”
Crisp, cold, calculated. I lay one hand against the side of my mouth and speak in a loud stage whisper, “And they say women are the gentler sex.”
Stone-face Patrick gives me more stone face. Are all mechanics humor-impaired?
AnnaSophia opens her yap, but I hold up my hand. “Jed thinks he has a broken rib.”
“When I opened my door, he should’ve moved.”
“Am I insensitive if I allow him to spend the night? Allow him to pack his things?”
“As long as I don’t have to see him or speak to him—”
“Done—though giving you what you want will cost me a lot of money.”
“Why? You don’t need cause—”
“I don’t need you to teach me the law, Darling. What I don’t need right now is bad PR. Claims by Jed accusing me of firing him unfairly could derail a huge business deal.”
She must know the price she’d pay if we were alone, but the smug, yah-yah-yah smile flickering around her lips reflects no such awareness. Both she and Patrick appear mesmerized by the fast rhythm of my crossed leg.
Fools. They undoubtedly imagine I am anxious. Inwardly, I laugh.
Uncrossing my legs, I turn to Patrick. Let’s see what happens when I throw him a surprise. “Jed’s departure means I need a new security person. Want the job?”
His laugh borders on mockery. “I’m a mechanic. I know nothing about security.”
“A modest man. How refreshing. Would you like to sleep on the offer?”
Patrick hesitates. Ahhh, he and the bitch have a short in their crystal balls.
“Perhaps you can persuade Patrick, Darling. You’ve never liked Jed. Having someone you trust might help your nerves.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my nerves.” Hands fisted, she rises halfway.
“Calm down, Darling. I simply meant if Patrick accepts my offer, you won’t have to face Jed again.”
“Even if Patrick turns down your offer, I won’t have to face Jed again. Jed is history, if I understand your intentions.”
“Jed is history.” You do not, however, have a clue about my intentions. I clap loudly, then stand. “I’ll go see Jed right now. Then, I need to go back to the office. You two feel free to stay here and enjoy the wine and hors d’oeuvres. Our new chef is quite creative.”
Patrick gets to his feet—probably to remind me not so subtly—that he towers over me by at least three inches. “I should go too. I need to go pick up AnnaSophia’s car.”
“Yes, I’ve meant to ask—where is her car?”
“Her car died in the parking lot at Wells Fargo. I didn’t get it fixed while she was in class, so I called a tow truck to bring it here about 4:30. I want to give it a thorough checkup.”
“Now, aren’t you glad you didn’t go to Carmel, Darling?” I buss her cheek then nuzzle behind her ear as a display of sheer contrariness.
The blood drains from her face, leaving her as white as snow in the Monet. Her whole body goes stiff, but she makes no overt move to put distance between us.
For the absolute hell of it, I tweak her cheek. “I plan to be home early for dinner, Darling. We have to talk about plans for your birthday celebration. I already have your gift.”
“Wasn’t that my birthday gift Enrique delivered two days ago?”
“The box from Nordstrom?” Triumph rides the question.
“Beautifully wrapped. Huge.” She turns to Patrick. “When I opened it, I nearly fainted.”
His eyes darken and his jaw works, but I can read his mind. Skimpy, sexy lingerie. The kind of surprise gift you’d expect from a husband who enjoys porn movies with the guys.
“Too bad you weren’t here to see her reaction, Mr. Romanov.”
“Indeed. I will regret my absence for years to come.” I smile at AnnaSophia. Go ahead, keep the topic alive. Maybe he’ll actually ask what was in the box.
Or does he already know the contents?
His failure to ask confirms my deduction—there is very little Patrick does not know about my household.
Chapter 80
SHE
Patrick and Michael leave together—though I have serious doubts Michael will go off the grounds. He would like nothing better than to return to the guesthouse and find me and Patrick together.
We could say his lack of curiosity about my birthday gift gave him no peace.
Or we could say he wanted to discuss the security offer.
Or we could say we’re tired of keeping our love for each other secret.
Smiling at the outrageous idea, I open the front door and step into the gloom. The fog still has not lifted, but my mood has soared. As the cliché goes, getting Jed fired made my day. Why Michael capitulated so easily raises my suspicions.
Can I drink enough wine again to make it through the night?
I slip into the house through the back door, toeing off my soggy shoes. Eyebrows raised, Jennifer Conners comes into the mudroom.
“Oh, Mrs. Romanov, I thought you were in the guesthouse. You
r son woke from his nap a little upset. Elise has tried everything—cookies and milk, stories, games—but—”
She is still speaking as I run upstairs, calling Magnus’s name. He rushes out of his room, throws his arms around me, and bursts into sobs. Elise tries to explain, but I shoo her away. At twenty-four, she thinks I’m too dense to know she and Michael are lovers. In her youthfulness, she fails to understand I don’t care. The more times they screw, the fewer times he bothers me. Sometimes, her attitude teeters toward self-importance. She believes—stupidly—that she is more important than I am to Magnus.
If I could find a reason—or manufacture a reason—I’d have her fired like Jed.
Between the tears and sniffles and hiccoughs, I put together what frightened my son.
“I dreamed Papá got mad. Real mad. Really, really, really mad.” He sticks his thumb in his mouth—a behavior Michael abhors—and peers up at me from under his lashes clumped together like the points of stars.
“I’m sorry you had such a scary dream.” I pull his warm, hard little body closer.
Please, please, please do not let him grow up like his father.
“He yelled at Alexandra ’n Staysa ’n me.” His chin quivers and he bites his bottom lip.
Unfortunately, yelling is reality and not a dream. “Where was I? Did I ask him to stop?”
He shakes his head again. Tears spill down his ruddy cheeks.
Shame washes over me. What an unfair question. Why would any of my children think of me as anything but a coward?
“He hurt you,” Magnus whispers. “Bad. Real, real, real bad.”
“Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry you had such a bad dream. I’ll be careful, okay?”
“Don’t make Papá mad.” His dark, wounded eyes plead for agreement.
Dread spreads into my stomach. I kiss the top of his head. “I’ll try real hard.”
He removes his thumb. His look scrapes my soul. “You promise?”
“I promise,” I infuse the words with sincerity and make a silent promise. Tonight, I’ll find a way to start a new life. I’ll call Ari in Philadelphia. Beg for a contact from his wife.