Luxury Model Wife
Page 14
Victoria couldn’t have cared less. “Whatever. Just call off your thugs. I won’t be intimidated. And you’re going to rectify some of the damage you’ve done by treating Steve Carlson’s wounds. He’s in the car.”
“Carlson’s here? No way. You should have taken him to a hospital.”
“He got hurt protecting me. I’m not taking him to the ER.” The bar fight had probably gone viral on social media. She wouldn’t risk his further embarrassment at the hospital.
“What happened?”
“Get your medical supplies and I’ll tell you while you patch him up.”
*****
Steve limped to the front door of Jimmy’s million-dollar townhouse with Victoria by his side. His busted cheek bled, his knuckles had been sliced raw, and his ribs felt like they’d been slammed with a hammer. Still, he’d gotten worse in Middle East combat.
This wasn’t the way he’d planned to confront his former friend about the trouble with Pinnacle. Coming to Jimmy’s place looking like an accident victim put him at a distinct disadvantage.
He sighed in resignation. If this was the way he had to see Jimmy, so be it. His pride wasn’t so bloated he couldn’t play patient for Victoria’s sake. If it were up to him, he would have gone home for a stiff drink and a hot shower and crawled into bed.
Jimmy opened the front door, but didn’t say a word when Steve entered with Victoria. Steve could tell his old friend was relieved nothing messy had been brought to his door—no torn limbs or gunshot or knife wounds—just some non-lethal cuts and bruises.
And the stink of rotten memories.
“Let’s go into the den,” Jimmy said. “Katherine went back to bed.”
“Katherine?” Steve whispered the question to Victoria.
“The girlfriend.”
“Ah.”
Jimmy walked off, apparently expecting Victoria and Steve to follow. Once inside the den, Jimmy pointed to a brown leather sofa and motioned for Steve to sit. “Take off your shirt.”
Jimmy left the room and returned with a stack of fresh towels and some bandages.
Victoria helped Steve remove his shirt, her fingers brushing his skin like a balm. Despite the circumstances, her eyes flashed at the sight of his half-naked body. Though his face felt like it’d been flattened with a meat mallet, he grinned up at her as if to say, I know what you’re doing.
To her credit, she winked at him and grinned back.
Jimmy got down to business. “What’s going on?”
Victoria answered. “As if you didn’t know. You swore you’d stop me from doing business with Carlson’s.” She glared at Jimmy and stood her ground.
Jimmy leveled a malevolent stare at Steve and then disappeared into a powder room. The sounds of water running followed. When Jimmy returned, he pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and checked Steve’s pupils with a pinpoint flashlight. “You’ve got guts coming here.”
Steve blinked against the light. “Wasn’t my idea. But I appreciate your help all the same.” He kept all traces of sarcasm out of his voice in deference to Victoria.
The apology seemed to throw Jimmy off his stride. He looked from one to the other as if unsure what to say next.
“You set us up.” Victoria’s voice had a hard edge Steve hadn’t heard before. “First you had Carlos threaten us, and now some moron is following me. Is that who’s been prowling around my house? When he assaulted me, Steve stepped in.”
“What prowler?” The hair on the back of Steve’s neck tingled.
Victoria ignored the question and pointed a finger at Jimmy. “Your guy got the worst of the fight, by the way. He’s at the police station. Or the hospital.”
“Yeah, he was wearing his nose on his cheek last time I saw him,” Steve added.
Jimmy scowled at him, but turned back to Victoria with an expression that caused Steve’s sore fists to open and clench. Jimmy looked at Victoria the way…a man looks at a woman who isn’t his stepmother.
“When have I ever given you the impression I’d hurt you?” Jimmy replied.
Victoria glared at him, her spine ramrod straight, obviously not seeing what Steve saw. “You’ve resented me for years. Setting your thugs on me seems like the obvious next step.”
Jimmy unrolled clean gauze and disinfected it with peroxide. “That’s ridiculous. I admit, I didn’t argue when Bruce and Carlos told me they were going to try and reason with you. Why not? They wanted your consignment and they’re furious they missed out. But those guys are harmless.”
“So you say,” Victoria replied.
Jimmy began dabbing dried blood from Steve’s face and the sting made him grimace. “I had nothing to do with this.” He held Steve’s chin to assess his work, then added more peroxide to the gauze, and continued cleaning his wounds with more force than was necessary.
“Ow.” Steve pulled back.
Jimmy leaned closer. “Hold still. That wound on your cheek is one millimeter away from needing stitches. Don’t tempt me to sew you up anyway—without anesthesia.”
Steve held still, but he didn’t like taking orders from Jimmy, or being at his mercy.
“I’ll tape the wounds with butterfly bandages,” Jimmy said next. “You should be okay.”
“Great.” All of a sudden, Steve wanted to take Victoria and get the hell out of there. He hated being at Jimmy’s mercy and despised the way he looked at Victoria.
Steve tasted his bruised bottom lip. No wonder things had gotten so complicated.
He met Jimmy’s eyes. His old friend dabbed at his face a final time and reached for clean bandages, but not before Steve read his expression. Steve knew that look. Jimmy was feeling guilty about something.
“So you have no idea who attacked Victoria?”
Jimmy glanced from Steve to Victoria and parried the question. “You were together when it happened?”
Victoria nodded. “At a club.”
There it was, out in the open.
Jimmy swung back to glare at Steve. “Dating the widow?” His eyes glittered with contempt.
Steve bristled. “This has nothing to do with you. Let it go.”
Jimmy resumed patching up Steve’s face with an angry hitch of breath.
Steve spoke through clenched teeth. “It’s been more than six years. I’ve said I’m sorry a hundred times. We may never be friends again, but my feelings for Victoria are real. This isn’t some game I’m playing.”
Jimmy continued as if he hadn’t heard, checked Steve’s ribs, and squeezed hard, probably on purpose.
“Damn.” Steve winced. “Your bedside manner sucks.”
His old friend ignored the jibe. “Your ribs are bruised, might be fractured. I doubt they’re broken. In any case, there’s really nothing you can do except let them heal on their own.”
“Sounds like the prescription for a fucked-up friendship, too.” He looked up and met Jimmy’s stare.
To his surprise, Jimmy cracked a smile. “Let me see your hands.” He swabbed Steve’s swollen knuckles with disinfectant, checked the bruises, and applied ointment. “I think you’ll live.”
Steve pulled his hand free and tried to stand. He wanted to get the hell out of this house. When he stood, the room spun, and a walloping migraine burst through his head like fireworks. “Whoa.”
Jimmy steadied him on his feet. “Stay put. Get some rest. I’ll give you something for the pain.”
Jimmy turned toward Victoria. “I’ll drive you home.”
“No way.” Steve blinked hard, trying to clear his brain.
Jimmy went to a closet and removed a blanket and pillow. “You don’t have more than a level one concussion, so it’s safe to sleep. Rest is your best medicine. I’ll check on you later.”
Victoria lowered Steve on the couch and covered him with the blanket. “Jimmy’s right. You need someone to check on you. Just for tonight.”
“No way am I staying here.” The Italian leather cushions massaged his sore muscles and soothed his abraded skin like a r
aft in a pool on a summer day.
“Do it anyway, since Victoria asked,” Jimmy replied. He gave Steve pills to swallow.
Victoria kissed Steve’s cheek. “It’ll be okay. See you tomorrow.”
“I’ll rest, but only for a few damn minutes. Then I’ll drive myself home.”
The next thing he knew, someone snored.
*****
Victoria got into Jimmy’s car. “Thanks for taking care of Steve. He really didn’t deserve to take a beating.”
“Wish I’d been the one to do it.” Jimmy pressed the garage door opener and started the engine.
Victoria let out a sigh. “Get over yourself, Jimmy. Haven’t you punished him enough? He cares about you. And he cares about me.”
“He cares about himself.”
“You’re still acting like a kid. Steve’s a good man. You know he is.”
Jimmy said nothing for a long time. He drove through the streets of West Chester toward the Van Orr estate while the tension between them swelled to the breaking point.
Victoria cracked first. “I found a way to honor your father’s memory by hosting a charity auction, for which Steve has agreed to forfeit his commission. He wants to help.”
“Steve did that?” Jimmy frowned with obvious disbelief.
“It was his idea.”
Jimmy said nothing as he pulled into Victoria’s driveway and parked. “And what about you? What do you get?”
“I didn’t marry your father for his money. I never considered his things mine. I loved James, and I always will. I want to give him the respect he deserves.”
“So what are you proposing?”
“Accept that I’m working with the Carlsons. Be on my side, for once.”
Jimmy looked away to stare out his window and Victoria let him be.
Finally, he spoke. “It was rough seeing Steve tonight. But not as bad as I thought it might be.”
Victoria smiled. “There’s nothing like a bar brawl to bond men.”
Jimmy chuckled and turned back to her. The sound of his laughter broke the remaining tension in the car.
He kneaded his brow as if rubbing away a world of worry. “I know I’ve been a jerk. I’m sorry for the way I treated you. My father would have pounded me into pulp if he were alive. He loved you very much.”
Relief flooded her, causing an odd mix of elation and overwhelming weariness. As soon as she got inside, she’d head straight to bed.
Victoria leaned over and gave Jimmy a quick hug. “Thanks.”
Chapter Eleven
The phone on her bedside table rang and woke her. Victoria glanced at the clock. Eight a.m. She’d only been sleeping a few hours.
Beverly’s voice boomed through the cell phone. “Come to the store, quick. We’ve been robbed.”
Victoria struggled to take in oxygen.
Beverly continued to holler. “I’ve been trying to reach Steve, but he doesn’t answer his cell. I called the police. They’re on their way.”
Victoria fought off the immobilizing panic that threatened to consume her. She had to stay in control and help Beverly. “I’ll find Steve. We’ll meet you at the shop. Be there in twenty minutes.”
Beverly sobbed. “We’re cleaned out. Your stuff is gone, Vic.” She burst into tears.
Oh God, will James and Lydia ever forgive me?
Victoria swallowed her anxiety. “Don’t worry about that now.” Her pulse raced with her next thought. “Is Pirate all right?”
“He’s fine. Swinging in his cage.”
Victoria sighed with relief. “Well, that’s good news, at least. I’ll be right there.” She hurried out of bed and rifled through her clothes closet.
Ten minutes later, she careened down Market Street toward the emporium. She speed dialed Jimmy’s private cell number.
He answered on the second ring. “Dr. Van Orr.”
“It’s Victoria. We have an emergency. I need to find Steve right away.”
“He left my house about half an hour ago. Said he was stopping at the diner for coffee.”
“Can you meet us at Carlson’s?”
“What’s wrong? I’m on my way to an appointment.”
“We’ve been robbed, Jimmy. Someone burglarized Carlson’s store. They took the Van Orr collections among other things.”
Jimmy cursed into the phone. “Dad’s stuff is gone?” A pause followed. “Okay, I’ll be right over.”
Victoria turned left at the next light and headed toward the diner. She parked in the lot and ran through the front door. The diner was crowded, but she had no trouble spotting Steve at the counter.
His face was swollen and bruised beneath his bandages. A waitress poured him a fresh cup of coffee with a sympathetic twinkle in her eyes.
Victoria rushed to his side.
Steve turned on his stool and grinned at her, but grimaced with the effort. “Morning, beautiful.”
She spoke fast. “Beverly’s been trying to reach you. You didn’t answer your cell.”
He pulled his phone from his pocket. “It’s on vibrate. I didn’t notice. Sorry.” He lifted his coffee cup. “Want breakfast?”
“No. We have to leave. Right now. Something terrible has happened.”
He paled beneath his bloody bruises. “Something else?”
“We need to get to your store. The police are on their way.”
He heaved himself off the stool and threw money on the counter.
“What’s going on?” He asked as they headed toward the exit. A deep frown creased his brow.
“We’ve been robbed.”
Steve stopped short and swore. “Not again.”
“What do you mean, again?”
He let out a curse. “This will be the third time.”
She fought back tears of frustration and loss. “And that’s something you forgot to mention when you accepted my consignment?”
He lifted a hand. “The former break-ins didn’t amount to serious losses. Still, I had the store and the warehouse secured with a new system. I was assured they’d been burglar-proofed. I doubled my insurance and the police have picked up patrols. I thought everything would be safe.”
“Well, you were wrong.” He should have told her about the previous thefts. Safety was her personal hot-button issue. “I trusted you with James’s belongings. I fought for the right to work with you.”
“I’m sorry, Victoria. Believe me, I never would have taken your consignment if I had doubts about my security. The system is state of the art.”
His eyes were filled with despair, and she was sorry for that, too, but her bigger concern was her after-death promise to James. She’d vowed to do right by him and wondered how she could have been distracted from her husband, even for a moment. James had given her so much and she had let him down. She’d failed.
A new form of misery filled her.
“Please, I—”
“I’ll see you at the shop to meet with the police. After that—I don’t know.”
*****
Officer Wilson arrived at Carlson’s Antiques Emporium with his partner to take a statement. Steve walked around the shop with him, pointing out empty spaces where the stolen items had been.
Beverly sipped chamomile tea at the counter, her face blotchy and tear-stained. Victoria soothed her then provided a list of the stolen Van Orr pieces to Officer Fallon.
The thieves had cleaned out the antique jewelry cases, taken every ounce of gold and silver, several museum-quality pieces of furniture, and the entire Lydia Van Orr doll collection. The Rohmer French fashion poupeé alone was irreplaceable.
Steve stared at the empty space where the Rohmer had been. His heart sank.
“Too bad your witness can’t tell us who did this,” Officer Wilson said, slanting a look at Pirate.
The bird squawked inside his cage, seeming to enjoy the company. He swung on his perch and broke into a Broadway song.
“Funny bird,” the rookie said. He scratched his ear with his pen.
Steve bristled. “I had nothing to do with this. If you check the police reports, you’ll see I’ve been hit twice before. So have other shops on Antiques Row. Whoever’s doing this knows exactly what they’re stealing.” He fought to maintain his cool. “Everyone in the antiques business knows my merchandise is the best around. People want it. Just ask.”
Wilson nodded. “We will.” He moved on and stood before the empty doll cabinets. “Did I hear you say a doll was worth one hundred seventy-five thousand dollars? Are you shitting me?”
“Not at all. If this was New York, I could probably have sold it for more.”
The cop whistled.
Pirate whistled back.
“That’s more than I make in a freakin’ year.” He closed his notebook. “No justice in this world.”
“Ironic, coming from you.” Steve grinned, despite himself. Wilson wasn’t really such a bad guy—at least when he stopped trying to act like some asshole TV cop.
Wilson smirked. “Yeah, guess so. This time, let’s see if justice can’t be served. This is no simple burglary. With all that’s been happening to you and Mrs. Van Orr, there’s got to be a connection.”
The bell rang over the front door and Norman Leighton entered the store. He looked around the room and called out to Steve.
Steve excused himself and moved to the front of the shop to greet the lieutenant.
“Holy shit, you do look as bad as the other guy.” Leighton frowned at the half-empty store and sucked his teeth. “You’re not having a good week.”
“And it keeps getting worse.” He was thinking about Victoria. What could be worse than losing her? He’d really screwed up.
The lieutenant lowered his voice. “That guy you fought last night. Know who he is?”
Steve shook his head. “Never seen him before. But he’s been following Mrs. Van Orr.”
Leighton shook his head. “I’m not surprised. Turns out he’s a P.I. named Arnold Flynn.”
“That drunken has-been is an investigator?”
“And ex-con investigator, at that. I’m checking to see if he has a current license. Says he’s from the Midwest. Probably the only clients he gets are former cellmates. He wouldn’t give me specifics—he used the client confidentiality crap to avoid answering my questions. But he says he was hired to find and make contact with Mrs. Van Orr.”