by Lee Driver
Sara felt the room closing in. So many people, so many stares. The impulse to flee was compelling. She grabbed Dagger’s arm and whispered, “I want to go home, Dagger. NOW.”
Dagger lifted her glass to her lips. “Take a deep breath and a long sip.”
“I don’t want anything to drink.” Her eyes darted around the room, and she clamped her bottom lip between her teeth.
“Look at me, Sara.” His gaze was penetrating, almost threatening—if she hadn’t known him better—but his touch was gentle as he brushed her hair away from her face. “I’m not going to let anything happen, okay? We’re going to drink their liquor and eat their two-hundred-dollar-a-plate meal. If you want to swipe a few crystal goblets, I have more than enough room in my pockets.” A nervous smile tugged at Sara’s lips. “Don’t fail me now, Sara. I can’t face Sheila and her cronies on my own.”
After a couple sips of champagne, Sara released her grip on Dagger’s arm and they made their way across the room.
Sheila smiled seductively, her eyes running the length of Dagger’s frame as he approached. After wrapping an arm around his waist and planting a kiss on his cheek, Sheila proceeded to place herself between Dagger and Sara. Dagger didn’t reciprocate the hug.
“You’re looking good, Sheila.”
“Of course.” Sheila tried clasping Dagger’s hand but he moved his martini to his left hand. “You remember Molly, Laurette, Jim, Worm, Kelly.” Sheila continued the introductions, completely ignoring Sara. When the men turned their attention to Sara, Sheila was forced to introduce her. “Oh, and this is Dagger’s...just what is it you do, dear? Receptionist? Secretary?” Eyelashes too long to be real fluttered.
Sara held her hand out to the men. “Sara Morningsky.”
The men lurched forward. The women watched for Sheila’s reaction.
Pumping her hand a little too strongly, Worm stammered, “Sal Wormley, cub reporter at The Daily Herald.”
“So, Sugar,” Laurette asked Dagger, “I hear you’ve moved.”
“My former landlord didn’t care too much for Einstein.”
“Einstein?” remarked a pudgy young man who was sweating profusely. His Napoleon haircut was plastered to his damp forehead.
“Dagger’s mangy bird,” Sheila explained.
“Actually, he’s a beautiful scarlet macaw and he’s quite intelligent,” Sara offered.
“Einstein is in love with Sara.” Dagger stole a glance toward Sara, which was difficult to do since Sheila was blocking his view.
“I bet.” Worm’s glasses started to fog up.
The young men watched Sara, studying her full lips and turquoise eyes. The women looked in unison again to Sheila for her reaction. Their gaze shifted constantly as if the women were spectators at a tennis match.
Sheila asked Dagger, “Have you seen Daddy yet, honey?”
Honey? An uneasy feeling crept up his spine. Dagger’s gaze drifted to Sheila’s left hand where she flashed her engagement ring. Sheila sprinkled endearing terms a little too freely for his liking. Obviously, he thought, he must be the only one who understood what unengaged meant. “I’m sure I’m the last person he wants to talk to.” Dagger intercepted a waiter and exchanged his empty glass for a fresh martini.
Laurette pressed on. “Are you in a big ole’ house or a tiny little apartment, Dagger?”
“Actually, it’s a converted car showroom.”
“How tacky,” Sheila muttered.
Dagger continued, “I’m adding on to it, though. I like working with my hands.”
Molly’s baby voice chimed in, “That’s what Sheila tells us.”
The women smiled coyly. Dagger could feel Sheila’s breast pressing against him, her tight grasp around his waist almost stifling.
Sara took a sip of champagne and caught a glimpse of Sheila’s engagement ring. All the apprehension Sara had felt in the car, arriving at a house full of people she didn’t know, letting Dagger coax her out of her secure house in hopes of getting her used to being around other people—none of it had prepared her for this. She wanted to curl up and die, run for the safety and security of familiar surroundings.
Worm turned to Sara and asked, “So, where do you live?”
In all sincerity, with the innocence of her naive eighteen years, the young woman replied simply, “With Dagger.”
CHAPTER 6
The silence hung like a dark cloud. Even women standing nearby, friends of Sheila’s mother, had eavesdropped on their conversation. Sheila could feel her face turning red.
Molly forced a smile and as she turned to leave said, “I guess that means my bridesmaid’s dress stays in storage.”
“It’s actually Sara’s house,” Dagger clarified.
Sara’s face flushed. “Of course, we have separate living quarters,” she stammered. But the damage had been done. She felt the room closing in, the large chandeliers hanging dangerously close, the stares too numerous.
A five-piece band struck up a song in the corner of the room. Sheila pulled on Dagger’s sleeve. “Dance with me,” she ordered.
“I think I’ll go find the ladies room.” Sara left quickly, trying desperately not to trip in the heels. One of the security guards directed her up the staircase.
“When were you planning on telling me that you and your little friend were shacking up? And to announce it in front of my friends. How clever of the little...”
“Just stop it.” Dagger pulled her arms away from his neck, grabbed her by the forearm, and steered her away from the dance floor. “Come on.” He found a study down the hall from the ballroom. It was ornate with thick wainscoting and dark wood. Once he closed the door, Sheila tried to kiss him but he held her back.
“I don’t know how many different ways I have to say that we’re through, Sheila. I’m sorry but we just are not going to make it.”
She folded her arms in front of her, eyes flashing. Years of sunbathing and tanning booths had encouraged tiny lines around her eyes. Her face was thin with lips to match, and the constant sucking on cigarettes had caused tiny creases to form above her top lip. “You aren’t one to just jump into bed with someone, Dagger. My god, I ought to know. It took me, what? Six, eight dates? You meet her three days before our wedding and all of a sudden the wedding is off? Was she that great of a fuck?”
Dagger pointed a finger barely an inch from her face. “Watch it.” His dark eyes seemed to withdraw, the pupils enlarge. He felt the more he tried to pull away, the more she thought he wanted her. The more disdain he displayed, the more it seemed to encourage her. He didn’t know how many times he could deny that he slept with Sara. Sheila wasn’t going to believe him.
“STOP IT.” Dagger moved away from the door, away from Sheila. “This isn’t about Sara. How many times do I have to tell you? It’s about you. Listen to yourself. Is it that hard for you to accept the fact that we are wrong for each other?”
“Yes,” Sheila whispered. “I love you, Dagger. I don’t want anyone else.”
Dagger emitted an exasperated sigh and moved over to the window, hands jammed in his pants pockets. Globe lights lit up the brick walkway below leading from the patio. Guests stood in clusters sipping their drinks. All he had ever wanted when he met Sheila was to have an in with the Cedar Point elite, build up his business with some higher-paying customers. All he had was a little too much scotch one night, and next thing he knew Sheila was picking out an engagement ring.
“Whining doesn’t fit you, Sheila. The only thing I ever was to you was a slap in the face to your father. You’ve told me yourself you used to bring home boyfriends in leather jackets riding Harleys just to give your father gray hair.”
Sheila trailed her fingers along the dark mahogany desktop, all the while moving closer to Dagger. “So, you didn’t sleep with Sara?”
“No, but even if I did, it isn’t any of your business, Sheila.”
Her eyes flashed. “Even if you did...?”
“See, you’re reading into it again.”
Dagger looked down at her left hand. “Give me back the ring. I don’t appreciate your giving people the impression the wedding is just on hold.”
Sheila looked at the ring, the marquis cut with tiny baguettes. She clasped her hand to her chest. “No, I won’t. I’m going to give you as long as you want to reconsider. Besides, what else am I going to do with a Bill Blass wedding gown?”
Dagger shrugged. “It’s cubic zirconia anyway.”
She clenched her fist, moved her hand behind her back in a childish gesture. “No, it isn’t.”
Dagger shook his head. “You had the damn thing appraised. Why should I be surprised?” He checked his watch and wondered what Sara was up to. Was she lost somewhere in this forty-plus room mausoleum? Or did she run to the car and is now hiding in the backseat?
“Dagger!”
He jerked his gaze to her and suddenly realized she had been talking to him.
“I don’t have time for this.” He walked out leaving Sheila standing in the middle of the room spouting something very unladylike.
Sara had never seen a washroom this large. If it was supposed to be a bathroom, why were there two couches, a makeup table, and a television set?
She checked her reflection in the mirror, ran a hand through her hair. What little curl she had coaxed out of it earlier had disappeared, giving way to the weight. She pulled her hair behind one ear the way Sheila wore hers. But it eased its way out. She ran a hand across her throat. The necklace Sheila wore looked real. Sara didn’t own any jewelry. It was too cumbersome.
Examining her features in the mirror, she felt her arms and legs could use some trimming, her eyes were too far apart and too odd-shaped, her lips too full. Turning, she checked the back of her dress, which clung to her rear end, another part of her body she felt was too muscular. She gave a resigned sigh and sat down on one of the couches. It felt good just getting off her feet. What would feel better would be to get out of the shoes. She fumbled with the straps, pulled off the shoes, and wiggled her toes. Relief, splendid relief. Dangling the heels in one hand, she left the washroom.
Returning to the ballroom didn’t tempt her. Facing Sheila and her friends after what Sara had just blurted out would be too embarrassing. Instead, she walked past the stairway and down the hall, which was carpeted in a thick, rich Oriental design. She paused at the railing and stared down at the clusters of people.
Some of the women looked like the models Sara had seen in the catalogs Dagger brought home for her to look through. He had wanted her to add more clothes to her nearly empty closet, but she had not yet been up to shopping in crowds. Instead, she thumbed through the colorful pictures of women with flawless skin and expensive clothes.
Sheila and her friends were like the models. Their hair was perfect, glossy as if coated with some plastic film. Those with low-cut dresses seemed to have something pushing their cleavage up to their throats. And their lips were pouty as if they had been stung by a swarm of bees. Sara had read that some women have plastic surgery to increase their bust size, their butts, even their lips.
Sighing, Sara turned away from the railing and wandered farther down the hall. Family pictures hung on a wall covered in a velvet-textured wallpaper, picking up the peach and navy hues of the carpeting.
She had heard that Robert Tyler had two sons, but Sara had yet to meet any of the Tylers. The family photos appeared several years old—two boys in hockey uniforms, the same boys in baseball uniforms, school prom tuxes, and college caps and gowns. Next was a picture of a man, very distinguished-looking with thick, graying hair and dressed in expensive-looking clothes. He was standing next to a woman with brown hair and a streak of gray at her temple. Sara guessed her to be proud of that one streak. The older son exhibited an identical streak. Probably ran in her family. The couple and the boys were standing outside a resort hotel, somewhere warm, palm trees in the background.
Photos that seemed more recent showed one of the boys several years older with a baby and a wife. The other son was photographed standing near huts, looking tan and shirtless. Another picture showed the same adventurous son, rather attractive, in a pose resembling the male models in a catalog.
Another portrait in an expensive, ornate frame showed the father again but this time with more gray hair, a trimmer build, and a different woman. She had blonde hair swept up and surrounded by cream-colored flowers, which matched her lace gown. She had bright blue eyes and clung to the man. He wore a tuxedo with a spray of baby’s breath in his lapel. It looked like a wedding picture.
Next to the wedding picture hung another picture of the young woman, a close-up of her flawless skin and long blonde hair. Sara studied the picture more closely and then realized where she had seen the woman before.
CHAPTER 7
Sara and Dagger leaned against the opposite wall and stared at the portrait. Dagger shook his head. “This is unreal.” He had already asked Sara twice if she was sure it was the same woman.
Sara said, “It doesn’t make sense, though. Why would Mr. Tyler hold a party if his wife is dead or missing?”
“Maybe he doesn’t know it. Maybe she’s supposed to be out of town.”
“Or maybe he killed her and told everyone she was out of town.”
“DAGGER!” The booming voice came from the top of the stairway. A barrel-chested man with thick white hair that fit like a helmet walked toward the two. He gave an approving glance down Sara’s form, a disapproving glance at the heels dangling from her hand. He pulled back his shoulders and tilted his head back, giving Sara the same arrogant stare down his pointed nose that Dagger had received on more than one occasion. With an arch of a bushy brow he turned his gaze to the young man. Dagger felt as if Dad had just caught his son and date necking in a darkened living room. But the glint in his eyes told Dagger, good taste.
“Mr. Monroe.” Dagger wanted to flatten him right on his pompous ass.
Leyton Monroe pointed to a study down the hall, saying, “If I could have a minute of your time.”
Sara watched the men leave and understood why Dagger didn’t like Sheila’s father. And it seemed to her that Monroe wasn’t too fond of Dagger, either. She returned her gaze to the portraits on the wall, studying details of the woman’s face, the woman who was obviously Robert Tyler’s second wife, the woman she had seen lying on a blood-soaked white carpet in a townhouse at the Dunes Resort a little more than forty hours earlier.
“Handsome fella, isn’t he?” The voice was silken, a tone slightly higher than a radio announcer.
Sara turned to see the man in the photo, the mountain climber, model, all-around sports enthusiast. He was even better looking in person, with sun-bleached hair and soft brown eyes. Any woman would kill for his flawless complexion. Although he stood just under six feet tall, athletics helped him to fill out his tuxedo rather nicely. And as if on a personal crusade against formal attire, he left his tie off and his shirt collar open.
The man held his hand out and clasped Sara’s with a firm grip. He smiled, revealing dazzling white teeth a little too even to be god-given. “I’m Nicholas Tyler. But you can call me Nick.”
Sara found Nick a little reluctant to give her back her hand. “Sara Morningsky.”
Lifting his glass in a toast, Nick glanced at the shoes dangling from Sara’s fingers, then at her feet. “Sore?”
Sara smiled, color rising to her cheeks. “I’m not used to wearing heels.”
“You are about as fresh as a breath of springtime.” He turned his hand and brought the top of her’s to his mouth, pressing his lips just a little too long and touching her skin lightly with his tongue.
Sara pulled her hand back and smiled, saying, “And you’re just plain fresh.”
“You’re quick.” Nick turned and looked at the portraits. “Great-looking family, don’t you think?”
“Who is everyone?”
“Eric is my brother. He’s the married one.” Nick pointed at the picture of a dark-haired version of himself. “That’s Eric J
r. He’s three. Cute kid. Takes after Uncle Nicholas.” Nick flashed another toothy grin. “And the brunette who now has dyed red hair, which my brother hates, is the gold-digging Edie Winthrop, my wonderful sister-in-law.”
“You sound like the brother scorned. Did Edie pick Eric over you?”
Nick shook his head, wisps of blonde hair falling across his forehead. “She’s not my type. Besides, she’s several years older than me.” He flashed Sara his boyish grin again. “I don’t like old ladies. She’s like a horse that’s been ridden hard.” He casually draped an arm around Sara’s shoulder.
“This is your mother?” Sara pointed at the photo with the two sons at the resort.
Nick’s boyish grin faded. “Theresa Tyler. She was the prima donna of socialites. She could throw a party together in two hours, wrote the etiquette books. And she still had time for us kids.”
“You talk in the past tense.”
“My mother died about nine years ago. Ovarian cancer. They diagnosed it in the summer and she died right before Christmas.”
Sara watched his eyes. A sadness washed over him for the first time. But he quickly recovered. He flagged down a passing waiter and retrieved two glasses of champagne, setting his empty glass on the tray. He handed a drink to Sara. She took a polite sip. She had never seen so much liquor flowing. Everywhere she turned there were waiters, even outside the restroom. She found herself curious about how much of a head start Nick had gotten. There was a slight slur to his words and a glaze to his eyes.
She pointed to the most recent wedding portrait and asked, “So this is your stepmother? She doesn’t look much older than you.”
“Oh, yes. That is my stepmom. My mother’s body wasn’t even cold and my father had to find someone to fill her side of the bed.” His words were laced with sarcasm. He took another sip of champagne.