by T. E. Woods
“Because that’s who she is,” Lydia said. “She’s Princess Aurora Fantasia Amazia of the kingdom of Goldenia.”
The boys’ jaws dropped.
“Surely you two are aware of the war being waged in Goldenia,” Lydia said.
“I don’t even know what that is,” Adam whined.
Tommy poked his friend. “Don’t be stupid. It’s on the news, like, every night.” He signaled his awareness to Lydia. “I know all about it.”
Lydia sighed in resignation to Tommy’s male pride forcing him to pose at such a young age. “Then you’re aware the ruling family is fighting to keep the invaders from Cholesteron from stealing the cocoa fields and jeweled mountains. Not to mention all the gold.”
Tommy nodded. “That’s how the country gets its name.” He puffed out his ten-year-old chest.
“That’s right,” Lydia said. “His Royal Highness King Caramello the Powerful is a wise man. He knows, of course, his country will win the war.”
“With the help of U.S. Marines,” Adam added. “I’m remembering this now.”
“His Royal Highness is of course deeply grateful for the U.S. Marines,” Lydia said. “But he also knows war is a dangerous place for his beautiful daughter.”
“Because she could get kidnapped or bombed on?” Tommy asked.
“Or maybe they’d scalp her or lock her in a tower,” Adam added.
“You boys are aware of the ways of war.” Lydia placed a gentle hand on their shoulders. “So King Caramello, with a heavy heart, sent his beloved Maizie away.”
“He needs to keep her safe,” Tommy said.
“What better way to keep his daughter safe than to send her away in disguise?” Lydia pulled her shoulders back. “With me as her sworn protector, to be sure. His Royal Highness placed her on this island and told her never to divulge her true station until the war was won. Then she will return home to her castle. No longer seen in torn clothes and dirty hair. She will be attended to, once more, by thirty servants who will brush her hair with diamonds and clothe her in the finest satin.”
“Wow,” the boys sighed in unison.
“Of course, should the king learn of your behavior here today, well … let’s just say he’d handle you the same way he’s handling the invaders.” Lydia shivered.
“We don’t have to tell him,” Tommy said. “Look around you. No one saw us. Only you.”
“Yeah. It was stupid what we did.” Adam squirmed closer. “You could tell him we won’t do it again. Tell him we promise. Tell him he could tell our parents if we do. But we won’t, so he won’t have to tell nobody nothing.”
Lydia shrugged. “But I saw it. And I’m sworn to protect the princess. I don’t know if I could keep it from him.”
The three of them sat in silence for nearly a minute. “But you didn’t stop us from teasing her,” Tommy said. “You’re in as much trouble as we are.”
Lydia brought her hand to her mouth. “You’re right. Oh, no! When the king finds out …”
“But we won’t tell him,” Adam insisted. “We promise. You said yourself Maizie’s too cool to tattle. No one has to know.”
“Still …” Lydia let her dilemma play out.
“How about this?” Tommy offered. “You tell the king Adam and I will be Maizie’s sworn protectors, too. You don’t have to tell him we know about her being a princess. You could just say we’re her friends or something. Tell him you like that idea because you can’t be with her all the time. Like you have to eat and sleep and go to the bathroom. That you can’t come to school. I mean, how weird would that be to have your protector around you all the time. No offense, but I’ve never seen you before.”
Lydia looked concerned. “I try to be inconspicuous, but you’re right. I do have to go to the bathroom sometimes.”
“Tommy and I could watch her at school,” Adam promised. “You could have the day off. My mom likes to go to Zumba. Don’t you want to go to Zumba?”
Lydia considered the offer. “And you’d make sure no one teased her?”
Tommy allowed himself a preteen swagger. “Adam and I rule the school. If the kids know she’s okay with us, they’ll leave her alone.”
“You won’t breathe a word of her true identity to anyone?” Lydia asked. “The fate of the entire war hangs on no one knowing where the princess is hiding.”
“You tell the king we’ve got his daughter’s back.” Tommy stood and brushed bark off his jeans. “If anyone gives us any trouble, we’ll let you know. But you don’t have to worry.”
Adam scrambled to stand next to his friend. Lydia rose and shook both boys’ hands.
“Then this will be our secret mission,” she said. “Good luck to us all.”
She watched the boys strut away, whispering to themselves as they shoved shoulders.
Chapter Eighteen
Reinhart indulged himself with the sports section as he waited for the movers to finish. The headlines screamed the Wings’ victory over Los Angeles in game one of the NBA playoffs. Pundits exhausted the thesaurus trying to describe the genius of Barry Gardener’s star performance and were brutal in their assessment of LionEl’s pouting as the rookie stole the show.
It had been quite a night and he and Ingrid had savored every minute of it. She’d been perfect. Regal and charming to the celebrity guests who filled their Staples Arena luxury box. Gracious when the owners of the Lakers stopped by. Yes, sir, he thought. She was the perfect companion in his rarefied atmosphere. The flight back in the Stinson jet had been a reconnection for them. A flush of victory brought out the romantic in each of them. He’d asked the pilot to fly lower over San Francisco and reminded Ingrid of the weekend they’d spent there early in their marriage. They both laughed at the memory of opening the door to their Fairmont suite to discover three days’ worth of newspapers. They’d been so lost in each other time meant nothing.
And the glow spilled over to their arrival back on Mercer Island. Their lovemaking had been spontaneous, erotic, and utterly satisfying. Reinhart made the decision when he awoke with his wife’s head nestled on his shoulder that he’d pay more attention to his marriage. Hell, he’d get reinvested in his operations, too … both Rainy Day and the Wings. He’d dallied too much with the leotard-encased insanity that was Felicia.
“All done here, Mr. Vogel.” The gruff voice pulled Reinhart back into his penthouse. He looked up to see the last of the boxes stacked by the door.
Reinhart slipped a fifty into each of the two men’s hands. “You guys do good work.”
“Thanks.” His nametag pegged him as Mel. “I ain’t never been up this high. Great looksee at the city.”
“And here’s hoping those Wings keep it up, huh? Great game.” The shorter one with arms like tree trunks tucked his fifty into his pocket. “That Gardener’s the bomb. I’m thinking with him we could go all the way.”
Reinhart pointed to the man’s shirt. “Means a lot coming from you, Vic. Short for Victor?” The man nodded. “Let’s hope that’s what we are over the Lakers. Game two’s tomorrow.” He walked toward the door, ushering them out. “You fellas know where to take the stuff?”
Mel glanced at his clipboard. “Storage address is right here. Says the manager’s waiting. He’ll lock ’er up when we’re done.”
Reinhart thanked the men again, closed the door, and stepped into the expansive living room. He’d cleared every trace of Felicia from the apartment. Three years had been too long, no matter how skillfully she made her tongue cha-cha. He walked into the bedroom, opened the drawers and closets, and made a mental note to call Ingrid’s personal shopper to have her stock the place. Bring her here after they fly back from Los Angeles. His mind wandered to last night’s victory celebration. He’d forgotten how firm her body was. Not what you’d expect from a fifty-year-old. Of course, she spent enough money and time at gyms, spas, and plastic surgeons she ought to feel thirty years younger. He made another note to call his jeweler. Have him design something special for Ingrid should
the Wings win the championship.
He steeled himself when the penthouse door opened.
“Reinhart!” Felicia’s smile was wide when she saw him come out of the bedroom. “I thought you were in Los Angeles. I could have skipped my workout and had brunch with you.” She strolled toward him, making sure each sway of her hip was pronounced. “I hope you’re in a better mood. You left me crying in my pillow for three days.” She tossed her warm-up jacket on the sofa. Her leotard showed off her million-dollar body. Reinhart was impressed his groin didn’t respond. He watched her pull the clip from her hair and shake her flaming tresses free.
“The movers just left, Felicia. I’ve packed all your clothes and personal effects. See the manager at Harbor View Storage. He’ll give you a key. I’ve paid the rent on the locker for two months. Plenty of time to find alternate arrangements.”
Felicia stood motionless for two heartbeats before she turned and ran into the bedroom. Reinhart heard drawers opening and doors slamming.
“You son of a bitch!” Felicia exploded into the living room. “You have no right. This is my home.”
“This is my home, Felicia. I let you stay here so long as it pleased me.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “And it no longer does.”
“My jewelry! And this!” Felicia stepped toward the heavy bronze statue perched on a black granite mantel. “They’re gifts, Reinhart. They’re mine!”
“I purchased the Giacometti for the apartment.” His grin was more a sneer. “You know I’m always dragging things in that might dress the place up. As for the trinkets and baubles, you’ll find them at the storage locker. I have no use for them. If I gave them to Ingrid, she’d be insulted.” He glanced at his watch. “Hers is an elegance you could never achieve.”
She leaped toward him, hands flailing. He sidestepped and she tumbled onto the thick beige rug. “You bastard.” She pulled herself up. Reinhart steadied himself for another attack, but she stood clear, chest heaving as she gained control of her breath. “Reinhart, you can’t mean this.” Her voice quieted between gasps. “Couples have fights, big guy. It’s how relationships roll. We can get through this. Work it out.”
“The only thing for you to work out, Felicia, is how you’re going to handle this. You can leave right now or you can make a scene.” He opened his arms wide. “And you’ll see there’s no one here who might be moved.”
Two tears slid down Felicia’s flushed face. “You can’t turn your back on our baby.”
Reinhart pulled a card from his jacket pocket and laid it on the credenza behind the red leather sofa. “I’ve made my feelings crystal clear from day one. I won’t let you hold me hostage.” He tapped the card. “This is my lawyer. I’ve briefed him on the situation. Should you decide it’s in your best interests to terminate this pregnancy, he’s prepared to see all expenses are covered and give you a generous allowance for an extended recovery at the spa of your choice.”
Felicia stared at the card. The sweetness she had offered moments before was gone. “And why should I settle for two weeks at Canyon Ranch when I’m eight months away from the keys to your vault? One blood test and this little bun I’m cooking is heir to all that’s yours.”
Reinhart’s jaw tensed. He took three steps toward her and willed himself to stop. “You little whore. I’ve made you rich and you want to blackmail me?” He glared at her. “Here’s the deal. I can’t stop you from having this kid. If you do, a reasonable amount will be put into escrow to provide for its needs. But that stops when the kid’s twenty-one. Don’t hold any fantasy that I’ll be a part of its life. Not now, not ever. No Father’s Day tender moments, no backslapping on college graduation, not even a deathbed reach-out. This kid won’t inherit a dime.” He took another step toward her. “If you decide to have this child, all business connections between Rainy Day and Fit with Felicia will cease at the end of your current contract. That’s next month. There’ll be no Internet distribution. No nine hundred square feet on Michigan Avenue. No advertising tie-ins.” He leaned toward her, his voice a hot blast to her face. “That is how this relationship rolls.”
He stepped back. This had gone on longer than he anticipated. He was eager to get to Rainy Day. Pierce’s idea to expand into Chicago was premature. The kid didn’t know how to assure high-level service at home. How could he manage the cutthroat world of Michigan Avenue retail?
“Big guy.” Felicia’s voice was smooth as silk from three feet away. “I hear you. You’re upset at my announcement and I get that.”
He turned to see her inching toward him. A sexy smile on her face. Breasts thrust forward. “I give, I give.” She reached out and rested a light hand on his chest. “I’ll take care of this, I promise. You’re right, the timing’s off. My attentions need to be focused on expanding into Chicago.” She stepped close enough for him to smell her earthiness and batted her eyes up toward him. “Now let’s put this behind us.” She nodded a teasing look toward the bedroom. “Whaddya say we get in there and have a good old-fashioned make-up rodeo?”
Reinhart looked down at her. A slow smile crossed his face as he recalculated the situation. “You conniving little cunt. You’re not pregnant at all, are you? It’s a deliberate ploy to get me to leave Ingrid.” Her expression verified his assessment. He grabbed her shoulders. “If I got all goo-goo dreaming of nursery decorations and baby booties, you had nothing more to do than leave the diaphragm in its case. If I stood my ground, you could feign an abortion and hope to play on my guilt forever.” He tossed her onto the sofa. “And now you’re thinking one last romp just might knock you up after all.” He crossed the large room in broad steps, grabbed her jacket and purse, opened the front door, and tossed them into the hall. “Consider this your notice. Rainy Day has no intentions of renewing your contract.”
Felicia scrambled to her feet and scurried past Reinhart. “We’ll see what Pierce has to say. And not just about the contract. Let’s see what he thinks about his beloved Bird when I’m done talking to him.”
He pulled her back into the penthouse and slammed the door. “Let’s get one thing perfectly clear.” His grip on her arm tightened. “Rainy Day is mine. Pierce is my stepson at home, but at work he’s my employee. He does as I say or, like you, he seeks alternate employment. You’ve run out of options with this little stunt, Felicia. We’re done.”
He yanked open the door, shoved her out, and waited until he saw her board the elevator before closing it. He stood in the penthouse foyer and willed the discomfort of the encounter out of his mind. He focused instead on the beautiful room and watching the sun shimmer across glass and steel canyons. Reinhart felt his steady resolve return. He was master of his life. He stepped to the Giacometti and reflected on the message of the walking man. Naked and stark. His strength heralded in the simple essence of bronze muscles. Like Reinhart, he needed nothing but who he was. And who he was now was a man who needed to talk to his stepson before flying to Los Angeles.
Chapter Nineteen
Mort poured Robbie another cup of coffee. They’d stayed up too late watching the Wings beat the Lakers in game two, and Mort was in no hurry to get to the station. Give me a straight-up grudge murder any day of the week, he decided. There was no better team for sniffing out a bad guy than he and Micki and Jimmy. But Trixie was a different breed. Despite all the profiling bullshit the FBI tried to peddle, Mort knew the motives of serial killers could only be known after they were caught. Taking the motive out of the equation handicapped the investigation. He hated knowing there was nothing he could do until Trixie slipped and showed her hand through one slight mistake.
Until then, they waited.
“You see this picture?” Robbie flipped the newspaper around. “LionEl does not look happy.”
“Guys like him live for the glory,” Mort said. “He’s wondering what hit him.”
“Gardener was beyond brilliant last night,” Robbie said. “I don’t know why Wilkerson’s been sitting on him all season.”
Mort spr
ead peanut butter on a slice of toast. “He’s got an expensive gun in LionEl. I imagine he’d rather go with the tried and true than risk a rookie.”
Robbie nodded. Mort studied his son as Robbie went back to the sports page. He finished his toast and took a risk.
“What’s up with you and Claire?”
“I told you, Dad. Her mom’s celebrating her fifty-fifth birthday. Claire took the girls to France for a month.” Robbie kept his eyes down.
“You’ve been here a week and haven’t called her once.” Mort pulled the sports section away. “And I don’t think she’s called you. That’s not like you guys.”
Robbie sighed and leaned back. “We need a little break. Things have been crazy this past year. Three columns a week at the paper. This book tour.” He ran a hand across his stubbled chin. “Claire’s forced to manage the house and the kids pretty much on her own. And then there’s the money.”
“You told me The Fixer’s selling well.”
“It’s selling great. Who knew having extra money, a lot of extra money, would be as much of a hassle as not having enough? She wants to splurge on a house in France. Keep the girls close to their roots.” Robbie shook his head. “But I don’t know if I have another book in me. There’s no telling how long this cash train is going to roll. I want to make sure the girls’ education is taken care of and our retirement is set. We’re locking horns every ten seconds.”
Mort remembered the barn burners he and Edie had when they were first married. He couldn’t recall a reason for a single fight, but, man, they had them. They moved past it, though. The last decade of their marriage had been calm and wonderfully predictable, with Allie’s disappearance the only bone of contention between them.
“You’re a long way from needing to retire, Robbie. And you’re writing success is just beginning.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I know talent when I see it,” Mort said. “So, you decided to take advantage of my serial killer to get away from your wife?”