by Sandra Brown
Burke noted that his olive-complexioned forehead wasn't even damp. The
son of a bitch had known he had this rap licked, just as he'd beaten all
the others.
Pat, acting as spokesman for the N.O.P.D since the incident involved his
division, was busy fending off reporters and their questions.
Burke kept Bardo and Duvall in his sights as they triumphantly worked
their way through the crowd of reporters toward the exit. They dodged no
microphones or cameras. Indeed, Duvall cultivated and relished
publicity, so he basked in the spotlight. Unlike the prosecutor, they
were in no hurry to leave and in fact loitered to receive the accolades
of supporters.
Nor did they avoid making eye contact with Burke Basile.
On the contrary, each slowed down when he reached the end of the row
where Burke stood, right hand flexing and releasing at his side.
Each made a point of looking Burke straight in the eye.
Wayne Bardo even went so far as to lean forward and whisper a hateful,
but indefensible fact."I didn't shoot that cop, Basile. You did."
"Me?"
She turned and pushed a strand of hair from her forehead with the back
of her gloved hand."Hi. I wasn't expecting you."
Pinkie Duvall strode down the aisle of the greenhouse and took her in
his arms, kissing her hard."I won."
She returned his smile."So I gathered." '"Another acquittal."
"Congratulations."
"Thank you, but this one was hardly a challenge." His expansive grin
belied his humility.
"A less brilliant lawyer would have been challenged."
Pleased by her praise, his grin widened."I'm going to the office to make
a few calls, but when I come back I'll be bringing the party with me.
Roman had everyone on standby. In fact, I noticed the catering vans
arriving when I came in."
Their butler, Roman, and the entire household staff had been on alert
since the trial began. The parties Pinkie hosted to celebrate his legal
victories contributed to his notoriety as much as the flashy diamond
ring he wore on the small finger of his right hand, from which he'd
derived his nickname.
His post-trial bashes were as much anticipated as the trials themselves
and were well documented in the media. Sometimes Remy suspected jurors
of voting for an acquittal just so they could experience firsthand one
of Pinkie Duvall's famous fetes.
"Is there anything I can do?" Of course there wasn't, and she knew that
before asking.
"Just show up looking as gorgeous as always," he told her, sliding his
hands down her back and giving her another kiss. After releasing her, he
wiped at the smear of dirt on her forehead."What are you doing out here,
anyway? You know I don't like a lot of traffic in here."
"There hasn't been a lot of traffic. Only me. I brought a fern from the
house because it didn't look healthy and I thought it could use some
TLC. Don't worry, I didn't touch anything I shouldn't."
The greenhouse was Pinkie's domain. Horticulture was his hobby, but he
took it seriously and was as much a stickler for neatness and precision
in the greenhouse as in his law practice and in every other area of his
life.
He took a moment now to survey proudly the rows of plants he had
cultivated. Few of his friends, and even fewer of his enemies, knew that
among Pinkie Duvall's other passions were his orchids, in which he
specialized.
Extreme measures were taken to maintain the delicate balance of the
environment inside the greenhouse. There was even a special enclosure
within the greenhouse to house the equipment that monitored and
controlled the climate. He'd done an exhaustive study of the topic and
attended the World Orchid Congress every three years. He knew the
precise light, humidity, and temperature conditions in which each
particular group flourished. Cattleyas, laelias, cymbidiums, oncidiums
Pinkie nurtured them with the attention of a neonatal I.C.U nurse,
providing each with proper potting, drainage, and aeration.
In return, he expected his plants to be exemplary and extraordinary.
As though they didn't want to disappoint their master, they were.
Ordinarily. But now he frowned as he moved toward a grouping of plants
labeled Oncidium varicosum. The stalks were heavy with blossoms,
although they weren't as profuse as some of their neighbors'."I've been
pampering these nonas for weeks. What's the matter with them?
This is a very poor showing."
"Maybe they haven't had time to " "They've had plenty of time."
"Sometimes when " "They're inferior plants. That's all there is to it."
Pinkie calmly picked up one of the pots and dropped it to the floor. It
broke upon impact with the stone tiles, creating a mess of fern root,
shattered crockery, and bent pedicels. Another soon joined the first.
"Pinkie, don't!" ' Remy crouched down and cradled one of the tender
plants in her hand.
"Leave it alone," he said with detachment, even as he sent another of
the plants to its doom. He didn't spare a single one. Soon the entire
group lay in shambles on the tiles. He stepped on one of the stalks and
ground the blossoms beneath his heel."They were ruining the appearance
of the greenhouse."
Remy, upset over the waste, began scooping up the plants. Pinkie said,
"Don't bother with that. I'll send one of the gardeners in to clean up."
He left with her promise that she would leave soon and start getting
dressed for the party, but she didn't leave immediately. Instead, she
stayed to sweep up the debris herself, being careful to put away
everything she had used and leaving the greenhouse in pristine
condition.
The pavestone path leading to the house meandered through the lawn.
Carefully tended flower beds were sheltered by a canopy of moss-draped
live oaks. The trees had been there for centuries before the house was
built, the original building dated back to the early nineteenth century.
Remy entered through one of the back doors and took the rear stairs,
avoiding the kitchen, butler's pantry, and dining room, where she could
hear the caterer issuing terse orders to her corps of assistants.
By the time Pinkie and his guests began arriving, everything would be
ready, and the food and beverage service would be seam less.
Remy barely had allowed herself enough time to dress, but preparations
had been made to speed up the process. A maid had already drawn her bath
and was there awaiting further instructions. Together they discussed
what Remy would wear and, after having laid everything out, the maid
left her alone to bathe, which she did quickly, knowing that she would
need extra time with her hair and makeup. Pinkie expected her to look
her best for his parties.
Fifty minutes later, she was putting on the finishing touches at her
vanity table when she heard him enter the master suite."Is that you?"
"It sure as hell better not be anyone else."
Leaving her dressing room, she joined him in the bedroom and thanked him
when he whistled appreciatively."Can I fix you a
"Please." He began
removing his clothes.
By the time she'd poured him a scotch, he was down to his skin. At
fifty-five, Pinkie was impressively fit. He kept his body hard and
compact with rigorous daily workouts and deep muscle massages by a
masseur he kept on retainer. He was proud of the physique he'd
maintained despite his fondness for exceptional wines and New Orleans'
notable cuisine, including its famous desserts like bread pudding with
whiskey sauce and creamy pralines chock-full of pecans.
Kissing Remy's cheek, he took the highball glass she offered and sipped
the expensive scotch."I brought you a present, and you've exercised
enormous restraint by not mentioning it, although I know you saw it."
"I thought you should choose the time to give it to me," she said
demurely."Besides, how was I to know it was for me?"
Chuckling, he handed her the gift-wrapped box.
"What's the occasion?"
"I don't need an occasion to give my beautiful wife a gift."
She untied the black satin bow and carefully removed the gold foil
paper. Again Pinkie laughed softly."What?" she asked.
"Most women tear into packages with unbridled greed."
"I like to savor a gift."
He stroked her cheek."Because you didn't receive many when you were a
little girl."
"Not until you came along."
Inside the gift wrap was a black velvet jewelry box, and inside that,
lying on white satin, was a platinum chain on which was suspended an
emerald-cut aquamarine, surrounded by baguette diamonds.
"It's beautiful," Remy whispered.
"It caught my fancy because the stone is the same color as your eyes."
Setting his drink on the nightstand, he lifted the pendant from the box
and turned her around."I think you can dispense with this for one
night," he said as he unfastened the cross she always wore. He replaced
it with the new pendant, then propelled her toward the
eighteenth-century cheval glass that had once dominated the Parisian
boudoir of a doomed French noblewoman.
Critically, he assessed her reflection from over her shoulder.
"Nice, but not yet perfect. This dress looks wrong now. Black would be
much better. Something low-cut, so the stone lies directly against your
skin."
He unzipped her dress and pushed it off her shoulders. Then he unhooked
her brassiere, and pulled it away. With the stone now nestling in her
cleavage, Remy averted her eyes from the mirror and crossed her arms
over her chest. Pinkie turned her to face him and pushed her arms aside.
As he gazed at her, his eyes turned dark. His breath rushed over her
skin.
"I knew it," he said in a rough voice."That's the perfect setting for
that stone."
He pulled her toward the bed, ignoring her mild protests."Pinkie, I'm
already dressed."
"That's what bidets are for." He pushed her back onto the pillows, then
followed her down.
Always potent, Pinkie's sex drive was never as strong as following a
successful trial. This evening he was particularly urgent. It was over
in a matter of minutes. Remy still had on her shoes and stockings but
her hair and makeup had suffered his aggressive lovemaking. He rolled
off her and reached for his drink, finishing it as he left the bed.
Whistling softly, he crossed the bedroom and went into his separate
dressing area.
Remy turned onto her side and stacked her hands beneath her cheek.
She dreaded beginning the dressing procedure all over again. In fact,
given a choice, she would go to sleep where she lay and skip the party
altogether. She had started out the day feeling tired, and the lethargy
was still weighing her down. However, the last thing she wanted was for
Pinkie to notice her lack of energy, which she'd been hiding from him
for weeks.
She forced herself to get up. She was filling her tub with another bath
when he emerged from his dressing room, freshly showered and shaved,
dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit. He looked at her with
surprise."I thought you'd be ready."
She raised her hands helplessly."It's easier to start over than try and
repair. Besides, I don't like using a bidet."
He pulled her close and gave her a teasing kiss."Maybe I left you in
that convent school a semester too long. You developed some awfully
prissy habits."
"You don't mind if I'm a little late making an appearance, do you?"
He gave her fanny a pat, then released her."You'll be ravishing and well
worth the wait." At the door, he added, "Remember to wear something
sexy, black, and low-cut."
Remy lingered in her second bath. Downstairs, she could hear the
musicians tuning their instruments. Before long, the guests would start
to arrive. Until the wee hours, they would gorge themselves on rich food
and strong drink. There would be music, laughter, dancing, flirtation,
and talk, talk, talk.
Just the thought of it made her sigh wearily. Would anyone notice if the
mistress of the house decided to stay in her room and skip the party?
Pinkie would.
To commemorate his courtroom victory, he'd bought her another beautiful
piece of jewelry to add to a collection that was embarrassingly
considerable. He would be offended to know how much she dreaded
attending his celebration or how little value she placed on his gift.
But deriving any real joy from his generosity was impossible, because
his lovely and expensive gifts were poor substitutes for all that he
denied her.
With her head still resting on the rim of her tub, she turned to look
toward the dressing table, where the new treasure lay in its satin-lined
box. The beauty of this particular stone escaped her. It radiated no
warmth and, indeed, looked cold to the touch. Rather than shooting off
sparks of fire, the facets glittered with an icy light.
It called to mind winter, not summer. It didn't make her feel happy and
fulfilled, but hollow and empty.
Silently, Pinkie Duvall's wife began to cry.
Pinkie made much ado over Remy when she came downstairs.
Possessively taking her arm, he announced that the party could
officially begin now that she had joined it. He guided her through the
crowd, introducing her to the guests she didn't know, including the
bedazzled Bardo trial jurors.
Many of the guests were infamous for their association with scandal,
crime, or combinations thereof. Some were rumored to belong to the
Metropolitan Crime Commission, but since the membership of that
by-invitation-only group of blue bloods was secret, no one could be
sure. The group's unlimited funds were exceeded only by their unlimited
power.
Some of the guests were politicos who wielded self-serving influence
over voters. There were movers and shakers among the nouveaux riches,
while others hailed from established, old-monied families who exercised
despotic control over local society. A few had connections with
organized crime. All were Pinkie's friends, associates, and former
clients. All had come to pay
him homage Remy endured the fawning of her
husband's guests for the same reason they fawned over her to remain in
his good graces. The new pendant was admired and envied, and, to Remy's
embarrassment, so was the chest on which it reposed. She was reluctant
to be the center of so much attention, and hated being ogled by sly men
whose sly wives scrutinized her with barely concealed disdain and
jealousy.
Seemingly unaware of their insincerity, Pinkie put her on display like a
living trophy. Remy sensed that behind their phony smiles, his friends
were inspecting her for the first signs of tarnishing and asking
themselves, Who would have thought such an unlikely pairing would have
lasted this long?
Eventually the conversation turned to the trial and she was asked her
opinion of the verdict."Pinkie gives one hundred percent to every
trial," she replied."I wasn't in the least surprised that his client was
acquitted."
"But you must admit, my dear, that this one was easy to predict."
The remark was tinged with condescension and came from a society maven
whose turkey-wattle neck dripped diamonds.
Pinkie spoke for Remy, countering the woman's comment."The outcome of a
trial is never predictable. This one could just as easily have gone the