by Sandra Brown
“You gotta.”
She said it with a smile, but he knew she meant it. He couldn’t argue after she’d already been so charitable. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. She had his clothes waiting for him, actually hurried him along without seeming to as he pulled them on. She held his jacket for him, then placed her hand on the center of his back and propelled him toward the door.
When they reached it, he turned to her. “Thank you. You made a huge concession, and I appreciate it more than you know.”
“Coming-home present.” She kissed her finger, then pressed it against his lips. “But next time, it has to be by appointment and full fare.”
“My financial situation should improve substantially by tomorrow.” But remembering how uneasy she’d been to be seen with him in the lobby, he added, “If you still want me for a client, that is. I could be bad for your business.”
“Every business requires a little finessing now and then.” She was making light of it, but he knew the thought had crossed her mind. “You might want to try one of the new girls. They’re young and gorgeous, and I trained them personally.”
“Satisfaction guaranteed?”
“Always. Want me to set something up for you?”
A mental image of Laura Speakman flashed through his mind. “I’m not sure what I’ll be doing, where I’ll be. Let me call you. But I tried the old number. Got a recording that it had been disconnected.”
She passed him a business card. “I have to change it periodically. To keep the vice cops honest,” she added, smiling.
He kissed her on the cheek, thanked her again, and they exchanged a good-bye. She closed the door, quietly but firmly. Getting into the elevator, Griff met the gay decorator getting out. The man looked him up and down, then closed his eyes and gave a soft, swooning moan. “Too, too cute,” he murmured as he glided past.
The lobby bar was doing less business now than earlier. The girl who had waited on him was chatting with one of the idle bellmen. The pianist had been replaced with canned music.
The doorman was greeting an arriving guest when Griff pushed through the revolving doors. Outside, the air had softened, but it was still hot enough to steal his breath until he acclimated. He stood there, sweating, for a full sixty seconds, waiting for the parking attendant to show. When he didn’t, Griff went looking for him. He walked the length of the porte cochere and rounded the corner into the parking garage.
Where he ran into a fist.
It connected with his cheekbone like a jackhammer. One jab. Two. Then another.
He staggered back, swearing loudly, swinging wildly in uncoordinated self-defense, trying to bring his assailant into focus.
Rodarte.
CHAPTER
6
RODARTE’S GRIN TURNED HIS FACE INTO A HALLOWEEN MASK. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did that hurt?”
Griff’s indrawn breath whistled through his teeth, which were clenched in pain. He dabbed at his cheekbone, and his fingers came away red. “Son of a bitch!”
Rodarte lit a cigarette, laughing as he fanned out the match. “That’s what I heard, too.”
Griff glowered at him.
“I heard your mother would screw a dog if nothing else was around. Poor little Griff. You had it rough, didn’t you? Till Coach Miller and his wife took you in.”
When Griff had been indicted, overnight going from poster boy to pariah, a lot of his ugly past had been exposed. Neither Coach nor Ellie had been a source of information. Griff would have bet his life on that. But a hotshot reporter from the Morning News had dug until he’d excavated just enough facts to hold together his speculations. They made for a sensational exposé. In conclusion, the writer had implied that Griff Burkett’s fall had been predestined from birth, that he’d been bred to transgress, and that the crime he’d committed should have been foreseeable.
Rodarte leered at him. “Tell me, how did it feel to throw the big game? Honestly, now. Just between us. Did you have any twinge of conscience? Or not?”
Wyatt Turner’s warnings rang in Griff’s ears. Do not cross him. Turn the other cheek. Which seemed an ironic admonition at this particular moment, when his cheekbone was throbbing and the entire side of his head was hurting so bad he thought he might throw up.
Griff wanted to grab Rodarte by his greasy hair and smash his face against the concrete wall of the parking garage, again and again until his ugly features had been pulverized to mush.
But Griff couldn’t do a goddamn thing without bringing trouble down on himself, and Rodarte knew that. Nothing would have given the bastard more pleasure than seeing Griff locked up again on the very day he’d been released.
Muttering an invective, Griff turned away, but Rodarte grabbed him by the shoulder, brought him back around, and shoved him up hard against the wall. “Don’t turn your back on me, you cocky fucker.”
More than the name-calling, being manhandled like that cleared Griff’s head of sharp pains and made his anger as brittle and cold as glass. He could kill this bastard. Easy. Being tackled in a game was one thing. Being touched by Rodarte was quite another. “Take your hands off me.”
Either his steely tone, or maybe his eyes, telegraphed the murderous fury he felt, because Rodarte let go and shuffled back several steps. “You were owed that,” he said, hitching his chin up toward Griff’s bleeding cheekbone. “For flipping me off today. I drove all the way out to jackrabbit country to commemorate your release, and that’s the thanks I got for my thoughtfulness.”
“Thanks. Now we’re square.” Griff brushed past him.
“I had an interesting conversation with some former associates of yours yesterday.”
Griff stopped and turned.
Rodarte took a deep pull off his cigarette, then dropped it on the garage floor and ground it out with the toe of his shoe while he blew smoke upward. “I don’t need to name names, do I? You know who I’m talking about. Your former business partners.”
“They went slumming?” Griff asked.
Rodarte merely grinned.
The three bosses of the organized crime group—the Vista boys, as Griff thought of them. That was who Rodarte was talking about. The men in the five-thousand-dollar suits. The trio Bill Bandy had introduced Griff to when he needed a quick fix to a big gambling debt.
The Vista triumvirate had been obliging, and then some. They’d opened wide the doors of their luxury offices in the high-rise building they owned in Las Colinas overlooking the golf course. And that was just the beginning. There were lavish dinners in the private dining rooms of five-star restaurants. Private jet trips to Vegas, the Bahamas, New York, San Francisco. Limousines. Girls.
Seduction in its purest form.
The only thing he’d turned down was the drugs, although at any given time, he’d had access to any and all he wanted.
“Those guys know you’re out,” Rodarte was saying. His smile was dangerous and insinuating, a jackal’s grin. “They’re not all that glad about it. They thought for sure you’d get nailed for doing Bill Bandy.”
“I had nothing to do with Bandy.”
“Riiiight.”
Griff would be damned before he stood here pleading his innocence to this asshole. “You see the Vista boys again, tell them I said they can go fuck themselves.”
Rodarte winced. “Oooh, they’re not gonna like that. First you kill their key bookmaker—”
“I didn’t kill Bandy.”
“See? I don’t think they buy that, Griff. You were so pissed at him for ratting you out to the FBI, of course you killed him. You had a right to. Almost an obligation. Look, I understand. And so do they. A rat’s a rat. If you hadn’t snuffed him, Bandy might have given them up next.”
“So what’s their gripe?”
“They’ll never know for sure whether or not Bandy would have betrayed them. While you,” he said, poking Griff in the chest with his index finger, “you actually named names to the FBI. Their names. You see the problem? Their thinking is that Bandy
would have remained loyal to them if it hadn’t been for you. Regardless of how it all came down, they blame you for fucking up their smooth operation.”
“Gee, this is a sad story.”
Ignoring the remark, Rodarte went on. “You were bad for their business. For years after you got sent to Big Spring, they found it harder to entice a professional athlete anywhere in the southern United States. Players of every sport were nervous, afraid that if they cheated, they’d get caught like you did.”
Rodarte took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. “The Vista boys, as you affectionately call them, haven’t fully recovered from the grief you caused them.”
“The grief I caused them?” Griff finally gave vent to the angry pressure that had been building inside him. “None of them served a day of time.”
“Only because the FBI was building their racketeering case around your testimony alone.” Rodarte gave a rueful shrug over the flaws in that strategy. “Your story didn’t fly with the federal grand jury. They figured you were trying to point the finger at others to take the heat off yourself.”
He poked Griff again. “That’s the only reason the Vista boys weren’t also indicted. But they came close. They haven’t forgotten how close. And all thanks to you. They’re sorta holding a grudge.”
“The feeling is mutual. Now, get out of my way.”
When Rodarte failed to back away, Griff tried to go around him. Rodarte sidestepped, blocking him. “But basically these are nice guys we’re talking about. They might welcome you back into the fold—on one condition.”
“Are you their recruiter now?”
Rodarte winked. “Let’s just say a word from me could grease the skids for you.”
“I’m not interested in getting back into the fold.”
“You haven’t heard me out.”
“I don’t need to.”
Rodarte dusted an imaginary speck off the lapel of Griff’s jacket. If the man touched him again, Griff thought he might have to break every bone in his hand.
“Take a piece of advice, Griff. Think about it.”
“I had five years to think about it.”
“So you won’t be working with them again?”
“No.”
“What about their competitors? The Vista boys are businessmen, after all. They’re nervous—just a little—over what you might do now that you’re out.”
“I’m thinking of opening a lemonade stand.”
Rodarte’s frown said that crack was unworthy of him.
“It’s none of their goddamn business, or yours, what I do,” Griff said.
“They beg to differ. Especially if you’re planning to link up with one of their competitors.”
“Relieve them on that score. They’ve got nothing to be nervous about. See ya, Rodarte.”
Again Griff moved away, but Rodarte scrambled and planted himself in his path. He moved in close and lowered his voice again, this time to a conspiratorial whisper. “Then there’s the matter of the money.”
“What money?”
“Come on, Griff,” he said in a singsongy, wheedling tone. “The money you stole from Bandy.”
“There was no money.”
“Maybe not cash. A safe-deposit box key, maybe? Foreign bank account numbers? The combination to a safe. Stamp collection.”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit!” Rodarte stabbed Griff in the chest with his finger once again, harder, angrier.
Griff saw red, but despite his wish to break bones, he couldn’t touch the man. One touch would be all the provocation Rodarte needed to engage him in a fight. If he got into a fight with Rodarte, even if he won, he’d spend the night in the Dallas County Detention Center. Bad as his new apartment was, he preferred it over a jail cell.
“Hear me, Rodarte. If Bandy had any money squirreled away, the secret died with him. I sure as hell didn’t get it.”
“Pull my other leg.” Rodarte slammed him back against the wall and moved in close, baring his teeth. “A hot hustler like you would have made sure he didn’t come away empty-handed. You’ve got expensive tastes. Cars. Clothes. Pussy. If you didn’t tuck away some of Bandy’s money, how are you going to finance all those luxuries?”
“Don’t worry your pretty head about it, Rodarte. I’ve got it covered.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Doing what?”
Griff didn’t reply.
Rodarte said, “I’ll find out, you know.”
“Good luck. Now get the fuck out of my way.”
They shared a long, hostile stare. It took every ounce of willpower Griff had not to knee the guy in the balls and throw him off. But he stood his ground and his gaze didn’t flinch. Eventually Rodarte dropped his hands from Griff’s shoulders and took a step back. But he wasn’t admitting defeat.
“Okay, Number Ten,” he said softly. “You want to make this hard on yourself, fine by me. In fact, I prefer that you do.” He whispered as though making a malevolent promise.
Griff went past him and had made it to the corner of the garage when Rodarte called him back. “Hey, answer me one question.”
“Yes, I think you’re ugly.”
Rodarte laughed. “Good one. But, seriously, when you snapped Bandy’s neck, did you come? I know that happens sometimes.”
“What do you think?”
Laura didn’t have to ask About what? She and Foster hadn’t talked about Griff Burkett yet, but he might just as well have been the centerpiece on the dining table. His presence between them seemed almost that tangible.
She set down her fork and reached for her wineglass. Cradling the bowl of it between her hands, she thoughtfully stared at the ruby-colored contents. “My first impression is that he’s angry.”
“At?”
“Life.”
The formal dining room, which accommodated thirty or more, was used only for entertaining. The first twelve months of their marriage, they’d hosted numerous dinner parties. In the past two years, there had been only one—at Christmas for SunSouth’s board of directors and their spouses.
This evening, as on most evenings, they were having their dinner in the family dining room. Much cozier, it was separated from the commercial-size kitchen by a single door. The housekeeper-cook got off at six o’clock each day. Her last duty was to leave dinner in a warming tray. Since Laura had assumed much of Foster’s workload, she usually stayed at the corporate offices until seven-thirty or eight, making their dinner hour late. Foster refused to eat before she got home.
Tonight their dinner had been delayed by the interview with Griff Burkett. Laura had lost her appetite, but Foster seemed to be enjoying the beef Wellington. He cut off a bite and chewed it exactly twelve times, four series of three, swallowed, took a sip of his wine, blotted his mouth with his napkin. “Spending five years in prison would put any man in a bad humor.”
“I think Mr. Burkett would be angry under any circumstances.”
“That anger having been ingrained into his personality?”
“Well, you read the newspaper story about how he grew up,” she said. “Granted, his early years were a nightmare. But that doesn’t excuse what he’s done as an adult. He broke the law. He deserved his punishment. Possibly more than he received.”
“Remind me never to get on your fighting side, Mrs. Speakman. You’re ruthless.”
She didn’t take offense, knowing he was teasing her. “I just have no tolerance for grown-ups who blame their shortcomings, even their lawlessness, on a disadvantaged childhood. Mr. Burkett alone is accountable for his actions.”
“For which he has atoned,” her husband reminded her gently. Lightening the mood, he added, “I promise to do my part to see that our baby doesn’t have a disadvantaged childhood.”
She smiled. “Left alone, I think you’d spoil him rotten.”
“‘Him’?”
“Or her.”
“I’d love a little girl who looks just like you.�
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“And I’d be over the moon to have a boy.”
Their smiles remained in place, but the unspoken words hung there above the dining table. Neither a son nor a daughter would have Foster’s features. Similar, perhaps, but not his.
Laura took another sip of wine. “Foster…”
“No.”
“Why ‘no’? You don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“Yes, I do.” He indicated her plate. “Finished?” She nodded. He laid his knife and fork at a precise diagonal across his plate and folded his napkin beside it.
She stood up as he backed his wheelchair away from the table. “I’ll ask Manuelo to clear the table while I get the coffee.”
“Let’s have it in the den.”
In the kitchen she filled a carafe with coffee, which she’d set to brew while they were having dinner. She placed it on a tray with cups and saucers, cream pitcher, and sugar bowl. She carried the tray into the den. Foster was washing his hands with bottled sanitizer. When he was done, he placed the bottle in a drawer.
She fixed his coffee and carried it to him. He thanked her, then waited until she had hers and was seated on one of the leather love seats, her feet tucked beneath her.
He continued the conversation as though there hadn’t been an interruption. “You were going to say that we could take the more conventional route. Have artificial insemination with an anonymous donor.”
That was exactly what she’d been about to say. “They keep sperm donors anonymous for a very good reason, Foster. We would never know his identity, never have a mental image of him. The child would be ours. We’d never be studying his or her features, looking for similarities to…to someone we’d met.”
“Do you object to Griff Burkett’s features?”
“You’re missing the point.”
He laughed and rolled his chair over to the love seat. “No I’m not, I’m teasing you.”
“I guess I’m not in a teasing mood tonight.”
“I’m sorry.” He reached up and ruffled her hair.
But she wouldn’t be placated so easily. “This is probably the most important decision we’ll ever have to make.”