by Sandra Brown
“The car keys?”
She retrieved them from her handbag and reluctantly handed them over, being careful not to touch him. “Thanks.” He bounced the keys in his palm and looked smug to have them in his possession. “Order anything you like from room service. The DPD is taking care of the charges.”
“How long are you going to extend me this hospitality?”
“Till Burkett is in custody.”
“That could be a while.”
He grinned. “I don’t think so. But you’ll be our guest till then, whenever it is. In the meantime, don’t worry. He can’t get near you.” Having made clear his message, he went to the door and placed his hand on the knob. “If you need anything, call me. Anytime.” He glanced beyond her toward the bed, then his gaze slid back to her, and he smiled. “Nighty-night.”
CHAPTER
29
AS SOON AS RODARTE WAS THROUGH THE DOOR, LAURA turned the dead bolt. She heard him confer with Carter and the policeman outside, then the soft ping of the elevator when it arrived.
But even after she knew he was gone, she stood hugging herself. She would ask housekeeping to bring her a can of air freshener so she could rid the room of his scent. But later. She didn’t have the wherewithal to talk to anyone just now. She was weary of words.
She unzipped her suitcase and began unpacking it. But halfway through the chore, she ran out of energy. Even the will to move deserted her. She lay down on the bed. Tears came easily. They ran unchecked from the corners of her closed eyelids, trickled down her temples and into her hair.
Just as they had that day when Griff Burkett had brushed her tears away, the day it all had changed, the day—face it, Laura—he had reawakened her to feelings and sensations she hadn’t experienced in a very long time. She’d told herself she didn’t miss them, didn’t yearn for them. How foolish she’d been. How wrong.
But she’d been particularly susceptible to tenderness that afternoon. Foster’s indifference to her SunSouth Select proposal had cut her to the quick. It was worse than an outright rejection would have been. He simply had never acknowledged it again. He’d acted as though she’d never made the presentation. He’d killed the project with apathy, smothered it with his silence.
That afternoon, just before leaving to join Griff Burkett, she’d gone into Foster’s office looking for something. What she’d found was the syllabus she had spent hundreds of hours preparing. It was in his wastepaper basket, along with the pieces of the airplane model. He’d disassembled it and tossed each component into the trash.
Even Griff Burkett had asked her about the model. He, a stranger, with no vested interest whatsoever in the airline industry, had been more curious about it than Foster.
Seeing the destroyed model had devastated her. It signified the death of her idea. Even though it was almost a certainty she would ovulate that day, she should have called Griff Burkett and canceled their appointment. She was too emotionally fragile to go, but she went, not wanting to explain to Foster why she had skipped a cycle and wasted an opportunity to make a baby for him.
While she lay beneath the sheet, waiting for their hired stud to come into the bedroom, she felt like a sacrifice on an altar. And it occurred to her then that that was precisely what she was, a sacrifice on the altar of Foster’s ego. She’d been crying over that when Griff came into the room.
Neither had expected what happened next. She was certain that Griff hadn’t intended it any more than she. Indeed, her tears had made him angry at first.
And then, with surprising gentleness, he had whisked them away. His caring had soothed the hurt of Foster’s rejection. Instinctually she had grasped at it, clutched it with a desperate need for validation and tenderness, understanding and affection. Griff had responded to this reaction as most men would, sexually.
She had never joined him in that house seeking sexual satisfaction. Quite the opposite. She had fought the very idea of it. She went through her days, and nights, telling herself that she didn’t feel deprived, that fulfillment came from other aspects of her life with Foster, that she didn’t miss the weight of a man on her.
But feeling him swell inside her had been powerfully erotic. She was seized by a longing so acute, wasn’t it natural, even excusable, that her body responded, and that, almost in spite of herself, she had given herself over to it?
She could almost justify what had happened between them that day.
But how could she excuse the afternoon four weeks later? She couldn’t. What they’d done had been wrong, and ultimately calamitous.
Now she pressed her hand against her lower abdomen and wept for the child who would never know his father.
Either of them.
The next day she presided over the meeting she had called. All the department heads were there, as were all the board members.
She cut straight to the chase. “I won’t hold you to the terms of Foster’s will, automatically appointing me CEO. Foster wrote the proviso to prevent leaving the airline without a specified executive officer in the event of his sudden death. You know how he hated leaving anything to chance. However, he also ran this corporation as a democracy. I intend to carry on that tradition.”
She reached for her water glass and took a sip. “Foster’s manner of death will result in a trial. If not a trial, then at least there will be a formal inquiry and legal entanglements that can’t be avoided. One way or another, I’ll have to get through them, unsure of how or when they will be resolved. I want to prepare you for some unpleasantness. Allegations will be made, and I’ll have to address them publicly.
“There will be an ongoing melee with the media. I hope to protect SunSouth from the worst of it, but Foster’s and my names are synonymous with the airline. I beg your cooperation. If anyone from the media asks you for a comment, please refer them to our legal department. No matter how harmless a reporter may seem, please don’t reply to any questions or make any statements or speculations. Anything you said could be used out of context.”
“What unpleasantness do you predict?” one asked.
“The nature of our relationship with Griff Burkett may come into question. I confess it was intensely personal and private.” An awkward silence descended over the room. Everyone focused on something other than her.
When no one spoke, she continued. “That brings me to my next point. If at any time you deem me unsuitable or incapable of carrying out my responsibilities to SunSouth Airlines and its employees, if you don’t wish me to represent the airline as CEO or in any other capacity, request my resignation and I’ll tender it immediately and without argument. I want you all to understand that.”
Finally Joe McDonald raised his hand. “I’ve been appointed spokesperson for this meeting.”
“All right.” She braced herself. Perhaps they’d already decided that a woman whose husband had died under unexplained but violent circumstances, who was involved with a felonious ex–football player in any way, wasn’t fit to be their CEO.
“We discussed this in advance of the meeting,” Joe told her. “And we’re in unanimous agreement that we want you to remain in your present position. That is, CEO.”
“I’m very pleased to hear that,” she said, struggling to keep her emotions under control. “I would hate to lose my husband and my job in the same week. But what I told you remains in effect. The continued success of SunSouth must be your priority. If ever you feel the future of the airline is in jeopardy, it’s your duty to replace me.”
“It’s our duty to support our leader,” Joe said. Several others said, “Hear, hear.” Joe continued. “We stand with you, Laura. You have our complete trust in your integrity, as well as in your ability to run this airline.”
“Thank you.” She blinked away tears. “Now, with that matter settled, let’s talk about Select.” There were murmurs of surprise. “Are there still copies of the syllabus circulating?” she asked Joe.
“I collected them all. You told me that, for the time being, Select
was tabled.”
“For the time being, it was. I’m officially untabling it.”
It was an exhausting day but a rewarding one. She accomplished much. The reintroduction of SunSouth Select had been received with the enthusiasm she had hoped for. Many commended her for moving ahead and focusing on the future, rather than dwelling on the unhappiness of the past.
Following that meeting, she had conferred with the senior partner of the law firm that handled Foster’s personal affairs. In deference to her, the venerable gentleman had come to her office. They went over Foster’s will, the various bequeathals he’d made to charity groups, and specifically to the foundation named after Elaine.
“I’d like to deliver that donation personally,” Laura told him. “As you know, the foundation was very dear to Foster. In fact, once the estate is sold, I want all the proceeds to go to it.”
“Sold?”
He was surprised that she wished to sell the estate and tried to dissuade her from making such a radical decision at a time when her emotions were running high.
She remained steadfast. “This isn’t a rash decision. I’ve had two years to think about it. If Foster hadn’t survived the car wreck, I would have put the estate on the market then. There are no surviving Speakmans. I don’t want to live there alone, and it’s too magnificent to stand empty. That would be a waste. So please make the necessary arrangements. I want the sale to be handled as discreetly as possible, with no fanfare, and no media. Those conditions must be specified in the contract with the realtor.”
“Understood,” the attorney said.
Rightfully, her unborn baby was heir to the estate. But she couldn’t see herself bringing up a child in those vast, formal rooms. The child would never miss what he’d never known. No doubt the attorney would have argued the unfairness of her decision, but she didn’t tell him she was pregnant.
He, as well as the SunSouth personnel, needed time to absorb the shock of Foster’s death before being further shocked by his having left an heir. She needed time to absorb it herself.
Except for the police car following her back to the hotel, she felt more at peace than she had since Foster died. Her mood wasn’t buoyant by any means, but she felt a sense of satisfaction for having endured the day without succumbing to the sorrow that had kept her inert the night before.
The police officer at the door of her room didn’t forget to ask for her car keys. She relinquished them with a frown, which he pretended not to see. While she sipped a Coke from the minibar, she watched the six o’clock news. The manhunt for Griff Burkett was still the lead story.
Rodarte was on camera, talking about possible leads, but Laura didn’t believe him, and the reporter interviewing him also looked skeptical. When asked about Manuelo Ruiz, he paused strategically, then said, “I’m afraid to speculate on Mr. Ruiz’s fate, although we remain hopeful that he’ll be found unharmed.” His point was made by what he didn’t say.
She switched off the TV and took a shower. She looked at the room service menu, because in spite of a mild residual nausea, she was hungry. She wondered how that could be. Nothing looked appetizing, but she ordered a club sandwich and asked that mashed potatoes be substituted for French fries. At least the potatoes and the toast on the sandwich might settle her stomach.
The food arrived. The policeman signed the tab, grudgingly adding the five-dollar tip she insisted he give the waiter in addition to the fixed service charge. She took the tray onto the bed with her and, while nibbling at the food, began making a list of Foster’s possessions that she wanted to give to people who’d been special to him. There were items from his office, the house, and especially the library, that she knew he would want certain individuals to have.
That done, she started writing acknowledgments. Kay had already tackled that job, but some of the thank-you notes Laura thought it was only proper that she write personally.
The policeman knocked loudly on the door, startling her. “Mrs. Speakman? Are you all right?”
Setting aside the note cards, she got up, went to the door, and looked through the peephole. He almost filled the fish-eye lens, standing with his back to the door, arms extended at shoulder level, as though barring entrance.
“I’m fine, Officer.”
“Good. Stay inside.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Don’t open the door.”
She unlatched the chain, unlocked the bolt, and opened the door.
The policeman turned and pushed her back into the room. He kicked the door shut with his heel at the same time he backed her into the wall.
“Never knew a woman yet who stayed put when told to.”
It was Griff Burkett.
CHAPTER
30
LET GO OF ME.”
“Un-huh.”
She tried to push him away. He tightened his grip on her shoulders, which only caused her to struggle harder. “Stop that!” he said.
“Then let me go.”
“Not a chance.”
She stopped trying to fight him off, but her eyes threw daggers. “How did you get past the guards?”
“They’re in the stairwell. One of them’s missing his hat, shirt, and gun belt,” he said, nodding down at himself. The shirtsleeves were several inches too short, the buttons strained against his chest, and the fit across his shoulders wouldn’t pass close inspection, but it had fooled Laura enough to get her to open the door. He hoped it would fool anyone who saw him escorting her from the building.
“I didn’t hit them hard. They won’t be out long. I’ve got to smuggle you out of here before someone realizes they’re not at their posts.” He pulled her away from the wall. “Get some clothes on.”
She dug her heels in and tried to wrest her hand free from his grip. “I’ll scream this building down before I go anywhere with you.”
He took her by the shoulders again. “I did not kill your husband, Laura.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head, refusing to hear.
“Listen to me. Manuelo Ruiz stabbed Foster, not me.”
Her eyes popped open. She gaped at him. “Manuelo would never—”
“He did. And I’ll give you a detailed account of what happened that night. Later. Right now, we’re getting out of here. Now, dammit, get some clothes on.” He said it with an undertone of threat, playing on her evident fear. He would make amends later, but he didn’t have time for niceties now.
Coolly, she said, “I can’t dress as long as you’re holding on to me.”
Gradually he removed his hands from her shoulders but was poised in case she tried to get to the door. She stepped around him and moved to the bureau. She took several articles of clothing from a drawer, considered them, exchanged them for others.
Impatiently, he yanked the items from her hand and threw them onto the bed, then jerked on the belt of her robe, untying it. “Get into them, and make it fast.” She turned her back and let the robe slide off her onto the floor. She was naked. He was running for his life, but it was a sight that momentarily stopped him from thinking about anything else. She stepped into panties and worked a T-shirt over her head, then started moving toward the door. He grabbed her arm, halting her.
“There’s a tracksuit in the closet.”
The closet was adjacent to the door. He went to it, slid open the door, and sorted through the clothes.
“That,” she said.
“This?” She nodded. He peeled the tracksuit off the hanger and thrust it at her. “Hurry.”
She stepped into the stretchy pants and pulled them on. “If you force me to go with you—”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“Of course you do!”
“Shoes.” He took a pair of sneakers from the closet and dropped them at her feet.
“You’ll be adding kidnapping to your other crimes.”
He helped her balance while she worked her feet into the sneakers. “Where’s your purse?”
“Griff, I im
plore you.”
“Are you wearing the jacket?”
She pulled it on. “Rodarte—”
“Will be checking with these guys any minute.”
“That’s right. You’ll never get me out of this hotel. He has guards posted downstairs, too. They’ve got my car keys.”
He fished her ring of keys out of his pants pocket and jangled it at her. “You’re walking out of here, Laura. You and your police escort. Anyone challenges you, you say you need some things from the store, you have a hankering for Taco Bell, your grandmother is sick. I don’t care what excuse you give, just make them believe it.”
She looked him over. “Despite the getup, don’t you think they’ll recognize you?”
“For your own safety, you’d better hope they don’t.”
She glanced down at the holster on his hip. Rather than frightening her, it seemed to embolden her. Taking a stance, she folded her arms and looked up at him. “You wouldn’t hurt me. I know you wouldn’t.”
“You don’t think?”
Slowly, she shook her head.
He moved in close and lowered his face to within inches of hers. “I’m not going back to prison. So if I’m caught, all bets are off. I’ll blare to the whole frigging world that Foster Speakman couldn’t get it up. He was no longer a man, the marriage was a sham, and, in order to have a kid, he hired me to fuck his wife.” Her face went slack with dismay.
“Yeah,” Griff said, “think about that. I saw the pictures of his funeral, watched the stories about it on TV, saw you posed so pretty at his graveside. I’ve read his obituary and listened to politicians singing his praises. Everybody thought he was bloody wonderful, didn’t they? What do you think their opinion of Foster the great is going to be when I tell them he paid me to play stud for him?
“And don’t forget, to prove it’s true, I’ve got a hundred grand in the bank with his name on the signature card.” He encircled her biceps, forming an unbreakable grip with his strong fingers, and shoved her toward the door. “Now move it.”