Envy Mass Market Paperback

by Sandra Brown

  She came around quickly and angrily. “Don’t patronize me, Noah.”

  “Don’t be so goddamn sensitive,” he snapped.

  “I resent belittling, sexist remarks like that.”

  “That’s a sexist remark? Can’t I pay you a compliment without your reading something into it?”

  “Not when we’re fighting.”

  It was upsetting, and a little alarming, that his charm seemed to have lost some of its effectiveness. “What’s with you, Maris? Since you got back yesterday, you’ve been as prickly as a porcupine. If working on this project,” he said, slinging out his hand as though to shake off a contagion, “is going to cause a chronic case of PMS—”

  “And that’s not sexist?”

  “—then I recommend you—”

  “This has nothing to do with that!”

  “Then what?”

  “Nadia.”

  “Nadia?”

  “Did she know about your meeting with Blume?”

  He covered his discomfiture with a short laugh. “What? You think I called up our local gossip columnist and leaked the story?”

  Folding her arms across her middle, Maris turned back to the window. “You’re lying.”

  He came off the desk. “I beg your pardon?”

  “She knew, Noah. Nadia’s the most conniving woman I’ve ever met, and ordinarily she makes no secret of it. In fact, she takes pride in it. But when Blume mentioned his meeting with you, she blanched, looking as though she’d just been exposed. Then she couldn’t hustle me away from him and out of there fast enough. As we said good-bye, she oozed goodwill, but nervously.” She came around slowly. “She knew.”

  The look she gave him was so damned superior, it enraged him. He felt blood rushing to his head. He imagined capillaries bursting behind his eyeballs. Fury pulsated through him. Only by an act of will could he keep his voice from revealing it.

  “Why would I tell Nadia, Maris? There was nothing to tell. If Nadia knew, she heard it from Blume. I’ve seen them with their heads together on more than one occasion. They probably stroke each other for inside information.”

  “Yes, that’s how it works,” she whispered as though to herself. When she refocused on him, she asked, “If Blume told her, why didn’t she write about it in her column?”

  “That’s simple. WorldView owns a chain of newspapers that carry her column. She couldn’t risk inflaming them by blabbing that David had thumbed his nose at Goliath, which is exactly what my meeting with them amounted to. If I’d known it was going to cause this much hullabaloo, I’d have continued avoiding them. I swear to God, I thought that meeting would be the end of their persistence.”

  “She confessed.”

  His heart knocked against his chest. It was difficult to keep his features impassive. “What? Who? Confessed what?”

  “I told Nadia that I was on to her. That I could see through her and knew that she had designs on you.”

  “Designs?” he repeated with amusement. “What quaint phraseology.”

  “I didn’t use it to be cute, Noah,” she said testily. “Today I had lunch with a woman who told me to my face that she wants to sleep with you.”

  He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Maris. For God’s sake. Nadia wants to sleep with every man. She’s made it her life’s quest. She’s one giant, raging hormone. She’s come on to me, sure. Do you think I’m that easily flattered? She also comes on to waiters and doormen and probably to her garbage collector.”

  “A lot of men find her attractive.”

  “She is. But I didn’t have an affair with her when I was single, and I sure as hell wouldn’t jeopardize my marriage to you by having one with her now.” He sighed and shook his head ruefully. “Is that what all this has been about? You let Nadia upset you?”

  “No. I was more upset over the WorldView thing than I was about Nadia. If you want Nadia, then you deserve her.”

  He forced himself to smile. “I’m glad you gave me an opportunity to explain both misunderstandings. These things shouldn’t fester. It’s bad for our marriage.”

  He gave her a few moments to ruminate on that, then smiled the tentative smile of a scolded puppy. “If that’s the end of the interrogation, I’d like to hug my interrogator.”

  Since she didn’t raise any barriers, either real or suggested, he joined her where she stood and placed his arms around her. He pressed his face into her hair. “I was angry when I made that ludicrous statement about chronic PMS, but it has a basis of truth, doesn’t it? You’re not yourself.” He stroked her back. “Was that little island so horrible?”

  “I wondered if you were ever going to express any interest in my trip.”

  “That’s unfair, Maris. Since your return, you haven’t exactly invited conversation. You’ve been sullen and standoffish. In fact, I’ve considered approaching you with a chair and whip.” Undaunted by her failure to laugh, he kissed her temple. “How was your trip? What’s the island like?”

  “Not horrible at all. Different.”

  “From what?”

  He felt her shrug. “It’s hard to explain. Just different.”

  “And the author, was he as difficult to work with as you expected?”

  “More difficult than I expected.”

  “We’ve got an impressive slate of books to publish next year from our authors under contract. Why bother with this recluse?”

  “Because he writes well. Very well.”

  “But is he worth the difficulty he puts you through?”

  “I won’t give up on this book, Noah.”

  “I’m only thinking of you. If working with him makes you edgy and—”

  “It doesn’t.”

  Luckily she couldn’t see his expression or she would have realized how close she came to being slapped senseless for interrupting him. He took a moment to tamp down his anger before asking in a deceptively pleasant voice, “What is this literary marvel’s name?”

  “I’m sworn to secrecy.”

  “Isn’t he carrying the anonymity to a ludicrous degree?”

  “There’s a reason. He’s disabled.”

  “How so?”

  “I really can’t talk about it, Noah. I can’t betray his trust.”

  “Are you sure your opinion of the writing hasn’t been swayed by his disability?”

  “I loved the writing before I knew about his circumstances, which don’t affect his talent. He’d be talented in any form. In spite of all the difficulty working with him imposes, I’m enjoying the work. It’s going to be good for me. I’m getting to flex some editorial muscle. Over the last few years, I’ve become fat and lazy.”

  “A little lazy, maybe, but not fat.”

  He slid his hands over her butt, a caress he knew she liked and that usually evoked an agreeable response. This time it was less effective. “I was speaking metaphorically, Noah.”

  “I realize that. Still…” He bent his head and kissed her, first on the cheek, then her mouth. He wanted to be assured that her outburst wasn’t an indicator of something more serious, specifically that she doubted his loyalty to Matherly Press.

  She returned the kiss. Not with the fervor he sought, perhaps, but when he pulled back she smiled up at him, assuaging his concern.

  “If these financials didn’t need my attention,” he growled, “I’d be tempted to lock the door and take you right here.”

  “Why don’t you say ‘damn the financials’ and do just that? I could be taken.”

  He kissed her again, then purposefully set her away from him. “Sorely tempting, darling. But duties call.”

  “I understand.”

  “Tonight? After dinner with Daniel?”

  “You have a date.” She kissed him quickly, then retrieved her raincoat and handbag. “I may stay late and try to clear my desk, so I probably won’t change before dinner.”

  “Then we’ll leave straight from here and ride over together. I’ll have a car waiting downstairs at six-forty-five.”
<
br />   “See you then.”

  He blew her a kiss as she went out, then returned to his desk, confident that he had dodged a bullet. As always, Maris had been pacified with a little attention and affection. But her upset over the WorldView meeting was no small matter.

  When he considered how close he’d come to being caught today, he wished to watch Morris Blume slowly and agonizingly bleed to death. Telling Maris about that meeting had obviously been Blume’s way of reminding him that the deadline was fast approaching. Blume had seized an unplanned opportunity to make a power play, to remind him that WorldView was ultimately in charge of this transaction.

  It had been a close call. It had cost him some valuable time. In the long run, however, the incident had caused no permanent damage. Thank God he’d had the foresight to inform Daniel of that meeting with just this contingency in mind. In the event that he or Maris had gotten wind of it—and the industry grapevine was notorious—he had taken the old man into his confidence, thereby throwing him off track.

  The Matherlys weren’t fools. But they were nowhere close to being as clever as he. He left absolutely nothing to chance. He planned meticulously. His schemes were long-range and therefore took a steely patience and perseverance that lesser individuals lacked.

  He relied on his instincts and his intelligence, but also on the best possible resource, the one that was virtually unfailing and always in full supply—human nature. Mind control was easy if you knew a person’s likes, dislikes, secrets, weaknesses, fears.

  He possessed a gift for getting people to go right where he wanted them to go and to do exactly what he wanted them to do. He was talented that way. He had an uncanny knack for manipulating people, for persuading them to make a decision they mistakenly thought was their own and to act on it. He had done it before. Most recently with Howard Bancroft. But he had honed this particular skill long before he had ever heard of Howard Bancroft.

  His desk phone rang. Before he could even speak, Cindy apologized for the interruption. “I’m sorry, Mr. Reed, but Ms. Schuller has called five times and insists on being put through.”

  “Fine.” Noah depressed the blinking button. “Hello, Nadia,” he said breezily. “I understand you had quite an exciting lunch.”

  “Envy” Ch. 12

  Key West, Florida, 1986

  Todd Grayson’s first impression of Key West was a crushing disappointment.

  Making the move had been nearly all he’d talked about for months. He’d thought of little else and had practically exed off the days of his calendar like a child counting down toward Christmas. He’d resented anything that interfered with his daydreaming and planning, including his final semester’s studies. His heart, mind, and soul had been focused singly on getting to his Floridian mecca.

  But now, having arrived, having fulfilled a long-held dream, his first sight of it left him less than spiritually enraptured.

  He likened the place to an old whore. It looked used, seedy, a little unhealthy, and a lot tired. Continuing the metaphor in his mind as though he were writing it down, Key West appeared to be more a common streetwalker who advertised her wares on a corner, rather than an exotic courtesan who enticed with whispered promises. Once the tacky and rather pathetic attempts at glamour were stripped away, the town had little to offer and nothing to recommend her. She was cheap and common, and the only promise at which she hinted was one of dissipation.

  His and Roark’s plan had been to depart for Florida the afternoon of their college graduation. They had everything packed and ready, their only chore before hitting the road being to return the caps and gowns in which they’d marched to “Pomp and Circumstance” and received their degrees.

  They planned to caravan in their respective automobiles and had agreed to stop just before their arrival and toss a coin to determine which of them got to lead the way to Duval Street.

  But fate intervened. Their well-laid plans were changed for them. A family obligation prevented Todd from leaving that day. Roark offered to postpone leaving, too, but after a rushed consultation, they agreed that he should go ahead and start looking for housing.

  “I’ll be the scout. By the time you get there, I’ll have camp set up,” Roark had said as they exchanged their dejected good-byes. Roark’s Toyota was packed to the gills. Every square inch of interior space had been utilized to transport all that he owned in the world from the fraternity house where he had lived for the past three years to the next phase of his life.

  “This sucks,” Todd muttered.

  “Big time. But hey, it’s only a minor setback.”

  “Easy for you to say. It’s not your setback. While I’m languishing, you’ll be down there writing your ass off.”

  “Hardly, man. I’ll be busy scoping out things, finding us a place to live. Getting the telephone hooked up. That kinda shit. I won’t get any serious writing done.”

  Todd knew that wasn’t true. Roark always wrote—drunk or sober, tired or wired, sick or well. He wrote when he was happy and when he was sad. He wrote just as much when he was in a good mood as he did when he was pissed over something. He wrote when it was flowing easily and when the phrases simply would not come. He wrote no matter what. Any which way you looked at it, despite all his arguments to the contrary, this was giving him a head start, and Todd resented it like hell.

  As Roark wedged himself into the driver’s seat of his packed Toyota, he tried again to lift Todd’s spirits. “I know this seems like a big deal now, but one day we’ll barely remember it. You’ll see.”

  As agreed, he had called Todd immediately upon his arrival in Key West. A few days later he phoned again to report that he had rented them an apartment. Todd barraged him with questions about it, but his answers were evasive, his descriptions vague. After hanging up, Todd realized that all he really knew about their new place of residence was that it fit into their budget.

  It was six weeks before Todd was able to set out for his relocation to the tip of the continent. The morning of his departure, as he left his childhood home for what would be the last time, he wasted no time on sentiment and never looked back. Instead, he equated it to a release from prison.

  He drove almost twenty hours that first day and crossed the state line into Florida before pulling off at a roadside park and napping in the driver’s seat of his car. He arrived in Key West at midafternoon the second day. Although not all his expectations were met upon his arrival, some were.

  The air, for instance. It was warm and balmy. No more running to an early class on a bitterly cold and windy morning ever again, thank you very much. The sun was hot. Palms and banana trees grew in abundance. Jimmy Buffett music was pervasive, as though it were secreted through the pores of the city.

  As he navigated the tourist-clogged streets, following the rudimentary directions Roark had given him, his initial disappointment began to recede and was replaced by flurries of excitement. His mood was buoyed by the sights and sounds and smells.

  But this flicker of encouragement didn’t last. It was snuffed out when he located his newly leased domicile. Dismayed, he checked the address twice, hoping to God he’d made a wrong turn.

  Surely this was one of Roark’s practical jokes.

  Tall oleander bushes formed a unkempt hedge between the street and the shallow, weedy lawn in front of the building. He expected Roark to leap from between the blooming shrubs, grinning like a jackass and braying, “Man you oughta see your expression. Looks like you’ve been hit in the face with a sack of buzzard shit.”

  They would have a good laugh, then Roark would guide him to their actual address. Later they’d go out for a beer and relive the moment, and that would be the first of a thousand times they would retell the story, as they retold all their good stories when they wanted or needed a laugh.

  Except the one about the incident with Professor Hadley. That was one story that neither retold. They never talked about it at all.

  Todd parked his car at the crumbling curb and got out. He was re
luctant even to step between the oleanders—which looked like shrubs on steroids—and follow the cracked sidewalk up to the door of the three-story building. The cinder-block exterior had been painted a flaming flamingo pink, as though the lurid hue would conceal the low-grade building material. Instead, the color accented the lack of quality.

  A crack as wide as Todd’s index finger ran through the wall of blocks from eaves to foundation. A wild fern was growing out of it at one spot. Hurricane shutters, the color of pea soup, were missing slats and seemed to be clinging to the building only out of fear of falling into the stagnant water that had collected around the foundation. As wide as a moat, it was a flourishing mosquito hatchery.

  The frame of the aluminum screen door probably had once been rectangular, but it had been dented and bent so many times that it was grossly misshapen. A large part of the mesh had been peeled away, making it totally ineffectual against flying insects—or chameleons, Todd discovered when he opened the door and stepped into a dank vestibule with a concrete floor. Two of the green lizards were lounging on the interior wall. One scampered away when Todd entered. The other puffed out his red throat as though in protest of the intrusion.

  Six mailboxes, which would usually be found on the outside of a building, had been secured to the wall. Once his eyes had adjusted to the dimness, Todd read, to his distress, his and Roark’s name on one of the boxes.

  There were six apartments in all, two on each floor. Theirs was on the third. Stepping over a puddle of unidentifiable fluid, he started upstairs. When he reached the second-floor landing, he could hear The Price Is Right coming from a TV within one of the apartments. Otherwise the building was quiet.

  By the time he reached the third floor, he was sweating. He cursed the same balminess he’d been extolling only minutes before as he’d driven through the streets with the car windows rolled down, ogling the bare-shouldered, bare-legged girls strolling the sidewalks.

  Surely the individual apartments were air-conditioned, he thought as he tried the door knob on 3A. It was locked. He knocked—three times in all before Roark answered. His suntanned face broke into a wide grin. “Hey, you made it! An hour early.”