Punchline

by Jacqueline Diamond

  His companions appeared equally wrung out, except for Mindy. Her only indication of a hard workout was that her shrink top appeared to have shrunk even more.

  Kate Munro headed toward him, determination overwhelming her obvious distaste at the sand pouring into her pumps. Darryl paused with the volleyball under his arm, and didn’t object when Mindy came to stand beside him.

  He would give Belle a taste of her own medicine, he reflected. With any luck, that would be the end of the whole stupid business.

  BELLE STOPPED AT a pharmacy on her way home. Her stomach had been bothering her for three days, and she’d run out of antacids.

  Stalking down the aisle with a small cart, she mentally reviewed the telecast of herself, which she’d just watched at the office. Working late was par for the course, particularly when deadlines had to be met, and usually she didn’t mind.

  But tonight she’d felt like going home and resting. She hoped she wasn’t coming down with the flu.

  At least the broadcast had flattered her, according to Janie and Anita, who had also stayed late. Their only regret, voiced after Tom had departed, was that they hadn’t had a more macho specimen on hand.

  Oh, well, he’d enjoyed himself, and the point had been made. Belle didn’t need Darryl. She could get any man she wanted.

  Except that she didn’t want any of them. Not since her hideously close brush with matrimony the year before. Belle’s thoughts flicked back to that arch-villain of villains, her former fiancé, Fred Lowell.

  At first, he’d seemed close to ideal: handsome but not flashy, steady but not dull, financially solvent and totally enamored of Belle.

  His occupation as a stockbroker had further endeared him to her. She didn’t want to make the mistake of marrying someone in the public eye. Too many marriages between royal egos disintegrated as careers surged.

  Fred had raved about her glamour and had seemed to enjoy escorting her to fancy restaurants. He’d filled her ears with tales of the killings he’d made on the stock market for his clients and, he’d insinuated, for himself. Okay, so Belle hadn’t been wildly in love with Fred, but she’d been wildly in love with the sense of security he brought.

  Until the day federal agents had marched him off to face charges of fraud. And selling stocks without a license. And misrepresentation and breach of trust and a bunch of other allegations.

  Fred Lowell turned out to be a con man who was participating in the witness protection program after testifying against a drug dealer. He had made the feds look like idiots and Belle feel like a fool, and he got convicted to the tune of a long prison sentence.

  The only blessing was that they hadn’t publicly announced the engagement, so she’d been spared the full glare of the news cameras. To the reporters who’d phoned, she had described Fred as a business acquaintance who’d been advising her on investments.

  Fortunately, she hadn’t made any. On her salary, she couldn’t afford to.

  Belle left the pharmacy with only the vaguest idea of what she’d purchased. She was a disorganized shopper who rarely made lists, and tonight she’d gone down the aisles and through the checkout in a weary and preoccupied daze.

  Well, if she’d bought anything she didn’t need, she would donate it to charity.

  As she picked up a couple of cartons of Chinese food a block from home, Belle reminded herself that she’d sworn to go on a diet. But she couldn’t handle one tonight. Not when the newscasters had promised to air Darryl’s rebuttal on the nine o’clock news.

  As she pulled into the carport of her condo, in a small development tucked among the houses and apartments of the Palms area, she checked her watch. Half an hour to go She was unlocking the front door when her neighbor,

  Moira McGregor, poked her head out.

  “That was fun today.” Moira was the high-spirited octogenarian who had been among the swimsuit participants. “Which issue will the picture be in?”

  “Next May.” Belle propped the door open, sacks clutched in her arms. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I saw you on the news,” said her neighbor. “I don’t care what anybody says, I hope you banged that man’s brains out. He’s a good looker, even if he is stuck on himself, and you deserve a little fun.’’ With that startling remark, the old gray head disappeared into the condo.

  Belle staggered into her living room and dropped the pharmacy sacks on the coffee table. One flopped onto its side and the contents spilled out, giving her a clear view of what she’d purchased.

  Now why had she bought sunscreen with a protection factor of fifteen when she meant to get twenty-five? And she didn’t need conditioner, she needed mousse.

  Most perplexing, how could she have thrown in a pregnancy test when she’d been reaching for the manicure set right next to it?

  With a grimace of disgust, Belle carted her Chinese food into the dining area.

  As she downed the aromatic shrimp and beef with broccoli, she reflected that she ought to finish decorating the condo. She’d purchased it three years ago, only to watch real estate prices plummet in Southern California.

  Since Belle hadn’t intended to sell the place in the near future, the decline in value of her condo had had no immediate effect except to make her feel poor. Therefore, instead of consulting an interior designer, she’d relied on her own taste in picking up a few items here and there.

  Unfortunately, she tended to fall in love with individual objects without considering how they fit into the overall scheme. As a result, a Regency sofa reigned over a modern brass-and-glass coffee table and a huge Oriental vase full of dried pampas grass.

  Belle had failed to pull the whole thing together, and had even worsened the effect by adding an inexpensive Persian carpet and an armoire picked up at a garage sale in Beverly Hills. And her ever-expanding collection of books was crammed into makeshift shelves supported by cinder blocks.

  Maybe she should spray-paint everything red. That might do the trick.

  The food helped settle Belle’s stomach. She ought to start a load of laundry; she ought to open her mail; she ought to pay some bills. But the same sense of exhaustion that had dogged her for days kept her rooted to the chair.

  Wondering why her feet had begun to swell, she kicked off her shoes and groped behind her on the sideboard until she found the remote control.

  She clicked to the news, which appeared on the oversize TV set positioned across the living room. The headline items were footage of two politicians shaking hands over a treaty, and a government expert announcing that the economy was finally booming, or it was crashing, or it was leveling off, depending on which set of statistics you used.

  The anchorpersons returned. “Earlier, you saw our interview with Belle Martens, who edits the women’s magazine Just Us,” said the female half of the duo. “Witnesses claim that she and rival editor Darryl Horak drank spiked punch and landed in bed together.”

  “We promised to get a response from the man himself,” said her male counterpart. “Belle denies the claim, but does he? Here’s Kate Munro with Darryl Horak’s side of the story.”

  The scene switched to a beach at sunset. There stood Darryl, dark hair finger-combed away from his forehead, sweaty T-shirt clinging to his muscular chest, a volleyball under one arm. The picture of virility.

  “Does Belle Martens ring my bell? I’m too much of a gentleman to say.” His cocky grin made her itch to tell him what she thought of his claim to good manners. “But you know, in my position, I’m surrounded by gorgeous ladies. One more or less would hardly be noticed.”

  From off-camera, he pulled a woman, her camera-ready smile glittering with perfect teeth. The other volleyball players visible in the background ogled her abundant dark hair and “Baywatch” figure.

  Mercifully, the camera cut to Kate Munro. “People say that opposites attract. Now tell the truth, Mr. Horak. Belle Martens has gone home with you, and there she is lying on your bed zonked out of her mind. Can you honestly say you wouldn’t take advantag
e of the situation?”

  “I’d cover her with the biggest blanket I could find and check into a hotel,” Darryl responded, to the laughter of his friends.

  “Thank you, Darryl Horak.” The reporter stared directly out from the screen. “Now back to the studio.”

  The co-anchors returned. “I think we’d have to term those two a real odd couple,” said the woman.

  You’re not kidding, Belle snarled silently, and switched off the set. She felt like calling the station to report that, far from covering her with a blanket, Darryl had leered at her that very afternoon and proposed a rematch.

  Great idea, Belle. Why don’t you go stick your finger in a light socket next?

  She had known she was upset but she hadn’t realized how upset until she felt her entire Chinese dinner begin an upward march through her esophagus. Choking it back, Belle raced for the bathroom.

  A few miserable minutes later she emerged, aware for the first time that her stomach troubles meant more than just mild indigestion.

  She’d been nauseated on and off for days. Her feet hurt and her energy hovered near zero. When she’d put on her bikini today, she’d noticed that her breasts were swollen, but had attributed it to a general weight gain.

  Belle’s calendar wouldn’t be much help because she never kept track of things. She had to rely on her memory, which said that she’d begun her most recent period the day of Janie’s twenty-eighth birthday party.

  That had been the last day of July. Six weeks ago.

  She was two weeks late. She was nauseated. And for some subconscious reason, she’d thrown a pregnancy test into her cart.

  Grimly, she took the test and marched back into the bathroom. The directions told her to wait until first thing in the morning, but she never paid attention to details like that.

  It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. The tube turned blue as the sky, blue as Lake Tahoe, blue as the white underwear Belle had washed with a navy sweater.

  She sank onto the Regency couch and thumped her feet onto the brass-and-glass coffee table. Of all the impossible, unforeseen, dreadful things Darryl Horak could have done to her, this one deserved a prize.

  It was horribly unfair. She couldn’t even remember having fun.

  Hands clenched in her lap, Belle gave herself a pep talk.

  It isn’t that bad. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. You’re thirty-one and you’ve always wanted kids. This way you don’t have to marry some creep to get them.

  She thought about her four-year-old niece, Mikki. Usually the child was a blazing bundle of energy, but once when Belle had put her to bed, she’d nestled close like a kitten.

  Belle remembered the warm feel of the girl, and the sight of that sweet face softening into slumber. Raising a child might be difficult at times, but she wanted that challenge and the rewards that came with it. This pregnancy might be unexpected, but it wasn’t unwelcome.

  The one thing she didn’t want was any further involvement with Darryl Horak. She must figure out a way to present her pregnancy so no one would suspect what had happened.

  Lots of women got artificially inseminated, didn’t they? So why not claim that she had, too?

  Even if he suspected the truth, Darryl would probably steer clear. He might have planted his seed inside Belle, but if she got her way, that would be the last thing he would ever have to do with this baby.

  4

  “THAT MARKETING DIRECTOR should be here any minute.’ Janie Frakes peered toward the restaurant door. “Are you tense? Do you have butterflies in your stomach?”

  “I have a great void in my stomach’ muttered Belle, reaching for another piece of bread. She caught Janie’s disapproving frown, but the fashion editor kept silent.

  Everyone had noticed how Belle was gaining weight. She’d sworn to keep her secret as long as possible, intending to be one of those women so svelte that no one realizes they’re pregnant until they give birth to triplets. But her appetite, in combination with a queasy stomach, defied her.

  Today, she didn’t care about her burgeoning figure. She was more concerned about gaining the good opinion of Mira Lemos, the marketing director of the future High Desert Megamall.

  If Mira chose Just Us to cosponsor the mall’s opening weekend, it would be a major coup for the magazine. It would mean more ads, more publicity, more subscribers and more prestige.

  With Mira’s busy schedule, it had taken weeks to arrange this lunch. Its vital purpose was to promote a “Just Us” theme for the opening weekend.

  The mall’s grand unveiling would take place in June. Since it was only early November, under ordinary cir- cumstances that would leave plenty of time for Belle to organize her plans.

  But the way pregnancy was sending her body into new and unexplored realms of discomfort, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to prepare for the opening unless she got a big head start. Doggone Darryl Horak and his overachieving sperm!

  Since September, Belle had only seen his arrogant self twice, at press parties. Both times she had glimpsed him across a crowded room, in the company of gorgeous women. His air of virulent self-confidence had made her stomach churn. But then, it didn’t take much to make her stomach churn these days.

  She twisted in her seat and gave the door another glance. The trendy Beverly Hills eatery was crowded today, its outdoor terraces packed with the well-dressed and the dying-to-be-seen. She hoped Mira wouldn’t have any trouble finding them.

  Across the table, Janie reached into a portfolio and pulled out her notes. “Okay, so we’re going to emphasize that ‘Just Us’ is a terrific theme because it sounds cozy. And the mall needs to cultivate that image because it’s so huge and impersonal. Belle? Are you listening?”

  “Sure.” Actually, she had been trying to remember whether her ultrasound was scheduled for tomorrow or the following day. The way she was gaining weight, the doctor wanted to make sure everything was progressing normally.

  Normal? A child fathered by Darryl Horak? Belle would be relieved if the kid didn’t have horns and a tail.

  “I wish the pink ghost were here,” Janie muttered, stowing away her notes. “For moral support, if nothing else. What do you suppose she has to do today that’s more important? This magazine is her baby and she should give it more tender loving care.”

  “The pink ghost” referred to Sandra Duval, publisher and owner of Just Us magazine. Pink stood for the color she preferred for her stylish and very expensive clothes. Her staffers called her a ghost because she was seldom seen.

  At eighteen, Sandra had been Belle’s roommate at Cal State Fullerton, also majoring in communications. At twenty she’d fallen in love and had left college to marry a multimillionaire three times her age. Widowed at twenty-five, she had purchased a struggling women’s magazine called You and Me.

  Sandra’s two major contributions had been to rename it Just Us and to hire her old roommate as editor. For the past six years, she had left almost everything to Belle.

  But it never hurt to have the glamorous pink ghost, known for her extravagant parties and movie star escorts, show up to impress a potential advertiser. Sandra always managed to be charming, even if she did give the impression of having just blown in from another planet.

  “I haven’t seen her in weeks,” Belle said. “I left an e-mail message on her computer but…Oh, no. Tell me it isn’t true.”

  Janie followed her gaze. “Ugh. Please tell me it isn’t true.”

  In rapt conversation with the maître d’ stood Darryl Horak. From the tilt of his chin above the Italian leather jacket to the precise angle at which he braced his cashmere-encased legs, he was every inch a man about town.

  Beside him stood the slightly taller figure of his entertainment editor, Greg Ormand. Less of a clotheshorse, he wore a russet turtleneck sweater whose chief asset was to reveal every carefully cultivated muscle in his chest and shoulders. He gave new definition to the phrase “Flaunt It.”

  “The man has no class,’ growled Janie, wh
o still hadn’t forgiven her ex-boyfriend for slighting her. “At least yours wears decent clothes.”

  “Mine?” returned Belle. “Are you referring to Darryl Horak as mine?”

  Janie bit her lip. The subject of that drugged night together had been mercifully allowed to die, except for occasional joking references on Channel 17.

  “I certainly hope they don’t see Ms. Lemos before we do,” Janie said. “They’d steal her in a minute. Does Greg have morals? No, he does not!”

  “Let’s go stand in the doorway so we can spot her first,” said Belle.

  “You mean…near those two?” said Janie.

  “We’ll eclipse them.” Belle stood, then wished she hadn’t. Her center of gravity had slipped to somewhere around her knees, and she had to grip the back of the chair for support.

  “I’m going to save our seats.” The fashion editor remained planted in her chair. “It’s so crowded in here, the waiters have been eyeing our table like jackals.”

  No way was Belle going out there alone. She reached down, seized Janie’s portfolio and slammed it onto the center of the table, barely missing their water glasses. “They won’t give our table away now,” she said. “Come on.

  As they neared the restaurant’s entrance, Darryl’s head swiveled toward them, and one eyebrow arched in the perfect delineation of mocking curiosity. “Ladies, what brings you here?”

  “We’re watching for someone,” Belle announced, stationing herself as far from him as possible while she scanned the restaurant’s outdoor terraces below.

  “Hello, Janie.” Greg eyed the fashion editor with appreciation. “Your hair looks cool.”

  Janie fingered her coiled braids. “Just a little something I threw together.”

  Belle, who had heard Janie cursing about the hours it took to fix her braids, struggled to keep a straight face. She couldn’t understand how an otherwise rational woman could behave so foolishly around a man.