by Sandra Brown
“This was about me?”
She nodded.
Rage surged through him. His veins swelled and pulsed with it. But his voice remained remarkably calm. “He’s going to die.” He said it as a fact, meaning it unequivocally, telling her that she could bank on it. “Stanley Rodarte is going to die.”
Now he understood why she had refused to call the police. Rodarte would have made it understood that accusing him would bring on a reprisal even worse than the beating he’d already given her.
Most sickening was knowing that the only reason Rodarte had victimized Marcia was to send a message to Griff. In that, he’d succeeded. Griff read the message loud and clear. Rodarte wasn’t finished with him yet.
Well, guess what, cocksucker, Griff thought. I’ve only begun with you.
“I’ll make him pay for this,” he vowed to Marcia in a whisper. “I swear to you.”
She pressed his hand. He bent down to her lips again. The garbled sounds came from the back of her throat, but she managed to make her warning understood. “Be careful of him.”
CHAPTER
9
THE CALL CAME EARLY ON A MONDAY MORNING, JUST AS HE was waking up, but before he’d got out of bed. He rolled over, sleepily groped for his new cell phone on the nightstand, and flipped it open. “Hello?”
“Mr. Burkett?”
That woke him up. “Yeah. Here.”
She didn’t identify herself. She didn’t have to. “Would one o’clock today be convenient for you?”
“One o’clock?” Like he had to think about it. Like he might have a conflict. Like he had something else to do. “One o’clock’s fine.”
“Here’s the address.” She gave him a number on Windsor Street. “Got it?”
“Got it.”
She hung up. Griff snapped his phone shut, then lay there clutching it, clutching the fact that they were really going through with it. Then he sat bolt upright. The hitch in his back protested loudly enough to cause him to catch his breath. He threw off the sheet, got out of bed, and, buck naked, went clambering through his apartment until he found a pen and paper to write down the address. He was certain he’d committed it to memory, but he was taking no chances.
He went into the bathroom. Standing at the toilet, he looked down at himself and muttered, “Don’t even think about getting stage fright.”
As expected, he’d passed the physical exam with flying colors. The nurse had come through for him in only two days. The report showed his EKG to be normal, his lungs clear. He had low blood pressure, low cholesterol, and a low PSA—he thought that had something to do with his prostate. His sperm count, by contrast, was high. Excellent.
He’d put the report, along with his cell phone number, in the addressed and stamped envelope Speakman had given him for this purpose, and dropped it into the nearest mailbox.
That had been two weeks ago. Since then, he’d moved to another apartment and acquired a tan.
Using his newfound cash, he had abandoned the roach-infested place and moved into a duplex. Living strictly on a cash basis presented the expected problems. Eyebrows were raised when he signed his lease, but the management of the complex took the cash without asking too many questions. His new place wasn’t in the ritziest of neighborhoods, which would have required letters of recommendation and closer scrutiny, but it was worlds above where he’d been.
The complex had a security gate, well-kept grounds, a gym, and a pool—which accounted for his tan. After moving in his new furniture and setting up a sound system and plasma-screen, high-definition TV (the best invention ever), he didn’t have much else to do except work out—it had been during a moment of pique that he had considered getting fat—and lounge by the pool.
He also went to the hospital nearly every day to visit Marcia, and he always took something with him. He’d taken flowers until the nursing staff complained that the room was becoming a greenhouse. Dwight, who’d proved to be a steadfast and attentive friend to her, chided Griff for not being more creative. So one day he took her a teddy bear. The next day he carried in a goofy hat. “To wear until you can get out of here and have your hair done,” he told her as he gently placed it on her head.
She still couldn’t speak, but she communicated her gratitude for his visits with her expressive eyes. By now she could take short strolls down the corridor. Dwight had referred a plastic surgeon who, according to Dwight’s affluent and well-preserved clientele, was a genius. After examining Marcia, the surgeon promised to do great things but said he couldn’t even begin until she had completely healed.
She still sipped her meals through a straw, and every time Griff witnessed that, his fury resurfaced. What he conjectured was that Rodarte had gone up to Marcia’s penthouse immediately after their encounter in the garage. Expecting her client, she’d opened the door to him. He’d pumped her for information about Griff, and when she didn’t—actually couldn’t—divulge any, he’d tried beating it out of her.
From Rodarte’s standpoint, it was a failed mission only insofar as he still didn’t know what Griff’s future plans were. But he’d had the satisfaction of terrorizing and disfiguring a beautiful woman who was an acquaintance of Griff’s. Knowing he could get away with it because of her profession was a bonus. Rodarte was a lowlife, a bully who would enjoy inflicting pain just for the hell of it. Gratifying his mean streak was really all the motivation he needed.
Griff couldn’t think about it without becoming enraged. On one of his visits to the hospital, he again broached the subject of reporting Rodarte to the police, but the fear and anguish that filled Marcia’s eyes dissuaded him.
“He won’t get away with it,” he told her. “I promise you.”
There had been no sign of Rodarte since the assault. Griff knew where to find him, but he didn’t dare go looking. Rodarte would love for him to come crashing down doors threatening bloodshed. No doubt that was the kind of reckless reaction he had hoped to provoke.
Griff wouldn’t give Rodarte the satisfaction of getting his butt thrown in jail again, nor did he wish to make matters worse for his suffering friend. So for the time being, he honored Marcia’s silent pleas and didn’t seek retribution.
Today thoughts of Rodarte were obscured by Laura Speakman’s call. Having had two weeks to prepare for it mentally, he was surprised by how nervous he was. To distract himself until the appointed time, he went for a five-mile run, then worked out with weights in the gym. His goal wasn’t to build himself back up to his football playing size but to maintain the lean, strong form he had now.
He followed the weights session with laps in the pool. But when it occurred to him that too much exertion might be detrimental to his sexual performance, he immediately got out.
He flossed before he brushed. He clipped his fingernails. He put on his new Armani sports jacket. He left his apartment at twelve-thirty. He arrived at the address at twelve thirty-seven. He had twenty-three minutes to kill.
The house was in an established area that had a Neighborhood Crime Watch, where residents were on the alert for people who lurked about and looked suspicious. He decided it would be better not to wait parked on the tree-lined street where he would fit that description to a tee.
Instead, he pulled into the narrow driveway and followed it around to the rear of the house, where there was a sheltered parking area and a neat backyard, made shady by two venerable sycamore trees. A privacy fence separated the property from the houses on either side.
In this older neighborhood, people were buying the houses and either razing them to rebuild on the coveted wooded lots or completely renovating. Griff guessed this was one of the latter, because it appeared as though what had once been the garage had been converted into a room. But it had been done well, and the house had retained its character and charm.
He’d bought the red Honda from Wyatt Turner. It wasn’t what he wanted to drive, but it ran okay and he figured that paying cash for a flashy new car—soon after shelling out a deposit on the
duplex—would send up all kinds of red flags to his probation officer, the IRS, the FBI. Even his lawyer eyed him suspiciously when Griff asked how much he wanted for the car and then counted out hundred-dollar bills to pay for it. Turner didn’t ask how he’d come by the cash. Griff didn’t volunteer the information.
Now he kept the Honda’s motor running so he could leave the air conditioner on. He drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel and hummed accompaniment to the country song playing on the radio. The artist had sung the national anthem to open one of the Cowboys’ home games, then, at the invitation of the owner, had watched all four quarters from the sideline.
After an easy win against Tampa Bay, he’d asked Griff for his autograph. This guy was a hot new star. He’d won several Grammy Awards, but he’d hem-hawed and stammered, tongue-tied and starstruck, as he extended Griff his program and a Bic pen.
Today that singer wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire.
He heard her car over the radio and his own humming. He shut down the Honda, took a deep breath, exhaled, and got out.
He followed the driveway along the west side of the house and came up behind her on the small porch as she was unlocking the front door. Sensing him there, she turned, startled. “Oh.”
“Hi.”
“I didn’t realize you were already here.”
“I parked around back.”
“Oh,” she said again, then hurriedly unlocked the door and went in ahead of him. She closed the door as soon as he’d cleared the threshold. A short entry hall opened into a living area. Louvered shutters were closed over the wide windows, so the room was dim. It was basically square, with a small fireplace in the center of one wall, a hardwood floor, standard pieces of furniture.
She lowered the strap of her handbag from her shoulder but clutched the bag against her chest, as if she was afraid he might grab it from her. “I thought I’d got here ahead of you.”
“I don’t live far.”
“I see.”
“Couple of miles. I got here sooner than I expected.”
“Have you been waiting long?”
“Not too long. But you’re not late. You’re right on time.”
During this scintillating conversation, she had adjusted the wall thermostat. Cool air began whirring through the ceiling vents. Griff was grateful. He’d begun to perspire. He wanted to take off his sports jacket but thought she might read something suggestive into the removal of a garment, any garment. Since he didn’t have a clue how this was supposed to go, he figured he’d follow her lead, even though doing so involved some sweating.
She was dressed for the office. Her suit was black, but the fabric was summer weight. Linen, he thought. The skirt came to the tops of her knees, the jacket was nipped in at the waist. Under it was a pale pink top that draped across her chest and looked soft. Same jewelry as before. Black high-heeled sandals. Her toenails were painted a pearly ivory color.
He’d noticed all this as he came up behind her on the porch. He didn’t dare scope her out now, because she was drawn as taut as a piano wire, acting uptight and all business. If she’d had DO NOT TOUCH tattooed on her forehead, it couldn’t have been any plainer how she felt about being alone with him.
“There are some magazines in there.” She pointed out an armoire in the corner. “And a TV with…with videos.” Simultaneously they looked at the closed doors of the armoire, then back at each other.
“Okay,” he said.
“Give me a few minutes. Then, whenever you’re ready, I’ll be in the bedroom.”
And with that, she walked across the living room, down a hallway, turned in to a room at the end of it, and closed the door.
Well, at least now he knew how it was going to be. They’d do it like porcupines.
He shrugged off his sports jacket and folded it over the back of a chair. He went to the armoire and opened the double doors. It contained a treasure trove of pornography. He sorted through the stack of magazines. A panoply of possibilities. Something for everybody. Same with the collection of videos.
Who had stocked this stuff? he wondered. Foster? Her? Somehow he couldn’t see them visiting a triple-X video store, browsing among the titles for something that would turn him on. “What do you think he’d like, honey? Twixt Twins or Euro Snatch?
Maybe they’d sent Manuelo on that errand; one of the magazines was in Spanish. Maybe Manuelo was into porno. Maybe that accounted for his vacuous smile.
Griff recognized his musing for what it was: stalling.
He wandered into the kitchen at the back of the house. There was bottled water and a six-pack of Diet Coke in the fridge. He took a bottle of water, twisted off the cap, drank some as he went into the former garage, which was now a sunroom, although not that much sunlight was coming in through the drawn blinds. The house was as sealed off as Mrs. Speakman.
He returned to the living room and sat down on the sofa that faced the armoire. He tugged off his boots, wiggled his toes, and tried telling himself he was comfortable and relaxed. He sorted through the magazines again, and the glossy photos on the covers got things started. But, deciding he preferred his own imagination, he set the magazines aside, pulled his shirttail out, and unbuttoned his jeans.
He leaned back against the sofa cushions, closed his eyes, and recalled the night he’d been with Marcia. But erotic images of her were instantly obliterated by those of her lying in her hospital bed looking like something out of a war zone.
Shit!
Before he lost what he had, he searched his mind for something to think about that would keep it up. What had recently tickled his fancy or even sparked his curiosity? That mind search took only a few seconds, but it was the real deal, all right. He became instantly aroused.
And once he really focused on it…
He tapped on the closed door.
“You can come in.”
He opened the door and stepped into the bedroom. It was completely furnished, although later he couldn’t remember a damn thing about it except the pastel sheet that covered her to her waist. She was lying on her back, a pillow beneath her head, her hands clasped over her stomach. She still had on the pink top, and he could see a sliver of bra strap at her shoulder.
And under the sheet?
Her jacket and skirt were folded on a chair. Shoes were beside the bed.
Panties? He didn’t see them. On or off?
In any case, he was glad he’d followed a hunch and kept his clothes on. Obviously getting naked wasn’t part of the program.
But out of necessity his jeans were unbuttoned. Her glance in that vicinity was so fleeting he wondered if what she saw even registered before she looked up toward the ceiling and kept her eyes trained on a spot there.
He walked to the side of the bed and faced away from it. She didn’t say anything, so neither did he. He took off his jeans but left his boxers on. For good measure—literally—he discreetly squeezed himself through his shorts and felt a reassuring bead of moisture dampen the cloth. Then keeping his back to her, he lifted the sheet and lay down. He felt ridiculous modestly pulling the sheet over his legs, but he did.
He lay there on his back, also staring at the ceiling, for thirty seconds or so. But this was a real mood killer, not to mention the jeopardy in which it was placing his ability to make a kid.
He turned onto his side to face her. She didn’t speak, or even blink. But she opened her legs. The one nearest him made contact. The outside of her thigh glanced the top of his. Just that much skin-to-skin contact gave him the needed staying power.
He moved onto her, situated himself between her legs, and pushed his boxers past his hips. She raised her knees, not in a way that was particularly inviting, but at least they were anatomically positioned to have sexual intercourse. He probed where he was supposed to probe.
His heart bumped. No panties. Just…her.
She turned her head aside and closed her eyes.
Which made him angry. It was a given that this was going to be
awkward. Difficult even. But she’d done nothing so far to make it any easier. While he’d been out there thinking dirty thoughts to get himself aroused, what had she been doing? Obviously nothing. Masturbation probably wasn’t in her vocabulary, but couldn’t she have done something to make herself more receptive? If not for his sake, then for her own? Couldn’t she tilt her hips up just a little? Shift forward, shift back? Take him in her hand and guide him home? Something?
The only thing she did was to turn her face away.
The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. This was her idea, not his. She was orchestrating this, not him. She didn’t want conversation beforehand? All right. He didn’t have anything to say to her anyway.
She wanted to do it with their clothes on? Okay by him.
No foreplay? Who needed it? Not him.
She wanted to turn her head away like she was about to be sacrificed or something? Let her cope any ol’ way she liked.
She wanted to lie as stiff and unyielding as a board? Fine.
But it wasn’t fine, because it soon became apparent that he couldn’t penetrate her without hurting her, and the thought of hurting her—
“Just do it,” she said.
So he did it.
After that, biology and primal instinct took over. The tight resistance only compelled him to push harder, deeper. He closed his eyes, but only because he couldn’t stand to watch her grimace. That was what he told himself anyway. He tried to empty his mind of all thought except the money he was going to have.
That’s it, think about the money. Don’t think about her. Don’t think about how this feels or how snug…Shit! Don’t think snug. Don’t think…ah, hell…
With a long groan, he emptied himself, then forgot the rules and collapsed on top of her. His face remained pressed into the pillow, near her head, strands of her hair curling against his nose, until he could catch his breath.
She didn’t move when he levered himself up and withdrew. She just lay there with her face still turned to the wall, eyes closed, a vertical frown between her eyebrows. He got out of bed, pulled up his boxers, and stepped into his jeans. When he finished buttoning up and buckling his belt, he looked over his shoulder. She had lowered her knees. The sheet had been pulled up to her waist again. She lay with one forearm across her eyes.