by Gina LaManna
Anne glanced around the room, a beautifully adorned space, noting additional details as she sashayed from one food platter to the next. Elegant candlesticks fitted with regal purple candles cast a dim glimmer to offset the chandelier hanging low in the center of the room. The smart-looking waiters bustled around, whisking champagne glasses from cocktail tables mere seconds after they’d been set down by wandering guests.
And the guests! Anne noted. Thin, gorgeous women, some of them in downright stunning gowns, others in flirty party dresses. Still others paraded around in power suits like important executives. The handful of men mingling at the tables were even more impressive in their expensive suits, sipping bourbon or whiskey on the rocks like the lead in an action flick.
Anne was willing to bet these men didn’t go home and turn on the ball game and suck down a Budweiser. They were here to discuss literary fiction; they were cultured and attentive and good listeners and…
Anne felt her neck grow hot as she caught the eye of one such man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his muscles neatly defined beneath his suit. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that enhanced the salt-and-pepper spattering in his hair. Through them, he looked at her, raised a glass. His lips pursed as their gaze lingered for a second too long.
Flustered, Anne turned away, skimming her heel on the ground and nearly falling face-first into a chocolate fountain as she struggled to regain her balance. She wasn’t like Mark. She was loyal. Dedicated to her family. And before she could decide otherwise, she stabbed a strawberry and stuck the spear under the flow of chocolate, shoving the whole thing in her mouth.
She’d just reached for a second helping of the bacon-wrapped scallops when a low male voice rumbled over her shoulder.
“I hoped I’d see you here.”
Anne spun around, her mouth still awkwardly full. “Roman! God, wow. It’s been so long. You look great.”
A shadow flickered over his face. “Thank you. Say, do you have a minute to chat? You look beautiful by the way. I hope Mark’s here. If you came alone, you’ll be swamped with suitors.”
Anne’s cheeks warmed. “Mark’s home with the kids.”
“Ah, unfortunate. Anyway, I was hoping we could chat for a minute.”
“Sure. Would you like to sit down?”
Roman didn’t seem satisfied with any of the nearby seating options when Anne pointed them out, claiming they were too loud for conversation. Ever the dutiful friend, Anne followed Roman to the back of the ballroom where he pushed through one of the curtains to reveal a small roped-off area.
“I see you have access to the VIP lounge,” Anne joked as they entered. “I suppose you’d be considered a guest of honor.”
Roman’s smile was a patient flicker. “One would think.”
He gestured to one of the couches, and Anne sat there while he chose a maroon armchair that resembled a throne. They were seated in a private lounge decked out in dark reds and seductive blacks. A gorgeous display of Stargazer lilies and birds of paradise sat on a coffee table, poking their heads out from an exotic compilation of greens and pinks and oranges. The room held a highly perfumed floral aroma from the bouquet that was almost intoxicating.
Anne wished she’d brought a plate of appetizers to the room to give her hands something to do. She’d never felt quite comfortable around Eliza’s husband. She couldn’t exactly say why. Partly because of his demeanor, partly because of his looks. The dark hair, a strong jawline, the almost-black eyes and deeply penetrating gaze that seemed to pierce right through her.
Anne had always figured that someone so good looking had something to hide. A ridiculous notion probably, but the lingering feeling had never dissipated. It was only exacerbated as Roman shifted in his seat and studied her, letting her sit in unease. The only way to make it through Roman’s awkward silences was to wait them out. She’d learned that years ago.
“This is a great party,” Anne finally offered. “You must be super proud of Eliza for starting her own company. I know I am.”
Roman gave a soft snort. “I’m not sure she had a choice. She was fired from her last job.”
“I didn’t realize that.”
“I’m surprised she didn’t tell you. It seems she shares the rest of her secrets with you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Eliza must have told you about the private investigator she hired to follow me around. You didn’t find Luke on your own.”
“N-no.” Anne choked on the lie. “Roman, it’s not—”
Roman pressed a finger to his lips to shush her. “I don’t care about all that. And before you ask, don’t worry. I haven’t mentioned a word to Mark, though I did consider it. I think a husband has a right to know when he’s being followed. From experience.”
Anne felt the color drain from her face. Her fingers trembled. She had blown everything. The only scenario worse than Anne confronting her husband about the affair, about the PI and the stalking and everything else, was someone else beating her to the punch. Especially someone like Roman.
It was with a slow dawning of realization that Anne saw there was more to Roman than she had anticipated. His silences weren’t accidentally awkward—they were planned, manipulative devices. He had a way with words, the ability to twist them, stretching and expanding and shrinking them until they were mere remnants of their former selves, like a stretched-out rubber band left to curl in on itself after the elasticity had tired.
Anne was also certain that Roman was aware of his looks and the effect they had on women. However, this evening, Roman didn’t need to use his looks or his cunning or his twisted silences to spark fear in Anne. He was using pure, old-fashioned techniques. Blackmail.
“What do you want me to say?” Anne’s body quivered as she hovered in the chasm between anger and terror. “Whatever Mark and I discuss—or don’t discuss—is our personal business.”
“Fair enough, but I’ve gone and made it my business.” Roman eased back in his seat. “But this doesn’t need to be difficult, Anne. I need something, and you can get it. Look at it like a business arrangement.”
Anne glanced down at her feet. The urge to leave the room built up, bubbling just beneath the surface. She had half a mind to swing her purse over her shoulder and stomp the half mile back to her car. But Roman had her pinned to the chair, and he knew it.
“I knew when Eliza fired the maid, even though she tried to keep the place clean herself. I knew she funneled chunks of money into my account every month like an allowance. It’s like she thinks I’m her little puppy dog on a leash—cute, playful, but too stupid to manage my own life. Do you know how humiliating that is for a man?”
“I swear I didn’t know any of that.”
“You didn’t, but I did,” Roman said. “That’s the thing, Anne. I know everything.”
“I don’t see how this has anything to do with Mark or me.”
“We can make this quick.” Roman was watching her with pity in his gaze. “Luke is a buddy of mine. We didn’t start out that way, but when I suspected he was following me, I turned the tables on Eliza. It’s sad, really. Our marriage wasn’t always doomed. I loved her. Still do, even.”
“I think you should talk to Eliza. You guys can sort it out, I’m sure. Eliza is crazy about you.”
“She was, maybe still is in her own strange way. But I can’t trust her anymore.”
“She only hired a PI because she thought you were having an affair.”
“After all we’ve been through, she should trust me. I married her so she could stay in the country.”
“You married her because you knew she’d provide a comfy, cozy life for you,” Anne retorted, unable to help herself. “You’re no saint, Roman.”
“No, I don’t think I am,” Roman said. “In fact, that’s why we’re here tonight.”
“Where exactly is here?”
“I know your secrets. Better yet, I know Mark’s. And you’ll do everything in your power to protect him, which is w
here I come in. That’s the beauty of a marriage like yours, Anne—it’s not over yet. You two can make things work.”
“What do you mean?”
“I paid Luke Hamilton more than Eliza was offering.” Roman gave a thin smile. “I bought the information your private investigator was supposed to be providing to you.”
Anne felt her stomach sink. “That’s not ethical of Luke.”
“Is having your husband followed without his knowledge ethical?”
Roman let the question hang between them for a long moment. “Like I said, I did love Eliza. Still do. But I don’t like when people underestimate me. My father’s been doing that for years, and I don’t need it from anyone else.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“Oh, Anne. You know it, I know it, Eliza knows it,” Roman said. “Unless I turn into Tom Cruise overnight, my own father will always be disappointed in me. And my mother… I think she’s afraid of me.”
“Why would that be?” Anne managed.
“I think she’s afraid I’ll turn out like my father.” Roman gave Anne a darkly thin smile. “And we wouldn’t want that.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Feels good to get it off my chest,” Roman said easily. “It’s nice to talk to someone who won’t report my father to the police because I shared his dirty little secret. He hits her, you know. But my mother will never leave him. I called the cops once when I was seven. When they showed up, she denied everything, told them I made it up for attention. How do you think that made me feel?”
“That’s awful, Roman. I am so sorry.”
“Do you know what I just can’t figure?” Roman sat back in his seat, looking deep in thought. “They love each other. Really, truly, in some twisted way. Isn’t that fucked up?”
“Are you like him?” Anne asked quietly. “Have you ever—”
“Don’t play the saint, Anne. I’m not the one who left my kids for three days without a word. You’re just as fucked up as I am. We all are.”
Anne’s throat began to close. “You still haven’t told me why I’m here.”
“I want money. I thought that’d be obvious.”
“From me?” Anne gaped. “I don’t have money. Plus, you and Eliza are loaded.”
“Were loaded,” Roman said. “Past tense. And I don’t like to give up pretty things. That’s where you’ll help me out.”
“How’d you get the money for Luke, then? He’s not cheap.”
“No, but like I said, we used to have money. Those morsels Eliza doled into my account bit by bit—she thought I squandered the money on stupid, frivolous things. On women, fancy dinners, hotels, the like. Paranoid, that one. It’s a miracle she hasn’t had you followed after your little incident.”
Anne swallowed hard. “You saved the money, I’m guessing?”
“Tucked it safely away.” Roman leaned forward, his elbows coming to rest on his knees, his eyes gleaming with confidence. “The truth is, Anne, if I want a woman, I don’t pay for her company.”
Anne felt her cheeks heating.
“Don’t worry. It’s not you I want.” Roman’s eyes flicked over her. “If I was looking for a woman’s company, I could do better than a housewife who spends her free time spying on her husband.”
Anne flew to her feet. “What the hell is wrong with you, Roman?”
“Luke Hamilton belongs to me. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Anne hadn’t yet fully connected the dots, but lines were starting to be sketched. She could see where he was going with everything, but she hadn’t fitted together how Roman planned to emerge victorious.
She toyed with the frayed edge of her purse. “Are you going to tell me why you haven’t talked to Mark yet? Told him you know about the affair?”
Roman looked annoyed. “It’s no wonder you and Eliza are friends. You both don’t get it, do you? This is so much bigger than Mark and some stupid woman.”
“What do you mean, it’s bigger than that?”
“Luke didn’t give you every last detail that he dug up on your husband.”
“I still don’t understand why Luke would tell you anything about our private life. He has no right.”
“It was Eliza’s money paying your bill,” Roman said pointedly. “Eliza paid Luke for you. See, Luke and I have an arrangement, and when anything with Eliza’s name on it crosses his desk, he brings it to me. Let the highest bidder win. The check was in her name, so he came to me looking for an auction, and I gave him one.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“That doesn’t matter. We all know how this works. Money makes the world go ’round. I’ve got a secret. If you’ve got money, that secret stays quiet.”
“I don’t have any money. I already told you that,” Anne said bitterly. “Like you said, I’m nothing but a housewife. I haven’t worked in nearly a decade. We have four children and live in Los Angeles. Our savings account is abysmal. If Mark got laid off, we wouldn’t be able to pay the mortgage on our house for three months without filing for bankruptcy.”
“Right,” Roman said. “But Luke helped me out with that little… kerfuffle. As it turns out, your mother is one rich bitch. I met her once at your house, never liked her.”
Anne’s mind went immediately to Beatrice Harper. The woman who vacationed on Martha’s Vineyard. The woman who lived in a pristine, hundred-year-old Victorian house that qualified as a historical landmark. The woman who could afford to send her grandchildren to college without batting an eye. And the very woman who had never given her daughter a dime.
“I have no way to access that money,” Anne said. “Most of it is tied up in funds for the kids’ college tuitions, and we can’t touch it until they’re eighteen.”
“I don’t care about college funds. I care about cash. I don’t care if you get the money from your parents or if you whore yourself out to pay for it. I just want fifty thousand dollars by next month.”
“Or what?”
“Or I let Mark’s little secret slip to the police. Or better yet, a journalist. The DA. Someone who won’t find Mark’s little whoopsies quite so amusing.”
“They can’t fire him over an affair.” Anne’s lips felt dry. She still wasn’t used to the word affair.
“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about Mark’s integrity.” Roman studied Anne carefully. “It might seem as if Mark is a hero, a real stand-up officer. But what if I told you he wasn’t as squeaky clean as he’s led everyone to believe?”
“Are you insinuating that my husband is a dirty cop?” Anne scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Are you willing to take the risk that I’m wrong?” Roman shrugged one shoulder. “Fifty grand will keep me—and any evidence to the contrary—quiet. That way, you won’t have to run the risk that I am very, very right.”
Anne paused. Did she believe that her husband was a crooked cop? A year ago, she would have bet her life that her husband didn’t have a lying bone in his body. Now, Anne wondered how much more there was to Mark Wilkes.
Still, she trembled. Fifty thousand dollars? There was no way she could get that sort of money. From anywhere. She and Mark didn’t have anything near that in savings. They’d have to sell the house, and that would defeat the purpose of keeping this mess a secret.
Briefly, Anne flirted with the idea of phoning her mother. She pictured the call and snorted right there in front of Roman. There was even less chance of Beatrice giving her the money than of Anne being able to sell the house and keep the secret from Mark.
At this point, Anne’s best option would be to go on a crash diet, pick up a pair of stripper boots, and head down to the local club. And that was preposterous. Nobody wanted to see Anne naked.
Unfortunately, Anne knew how this worked. She read books, watched movies. This was just the beginning. Fifty thousand dollars was the start of a journey that would never end. She and Roman were entering a dangerous game of chicken that would go on until
one of them flinched. Or ended up dead.
With a shudder, Anne suddenly understood the word motive in a new light. She’d always thought that mystery plots were too far-fetched, too unrealistic to ever exist in this world, especially not in Anne’s modest little life dedicated to raising four decent human beings while keeping her sanity intact. Her biggest problems were supposed to be keeping her children fed and bathed and the numbers on her bathroom scale at a reasonable level. And, of course, not running away from her family—again.
“If I’m going to get you that much money,” Anne said finally, “I deserve to know what you think my husband has done.”
“I figured you’d ask.” Roman tipped forward in his chair. He beckoned with his finger for Anne to lean closer. “Don’t worry. I’ve got nothing to hide from you.”
Then Roman told her. Every last detail.
Anne had always said she’d never be able to kill anyone. That murder wasn’t in the cards for her. But as Roman whispered in her ear, she felt nothing. She felt neither sick nor angry, desperate nor frightened. She merely wondered what it would be like if Roman ended up dead.
TRANSCRIPT
Defense: Ms. Hill, you were at both book club events on February 13, correct?
Marguerite Hill: I’m the author. The whole point was my being there.
Defense: It’s been established that the subject of murder arose on the afternoon of the thirteenth. Would you say that it was the content of your book that spurred the group’s discussion toward murder?
Marguerite Hill: I’d say that’s ridiculous. My book discusses women—our power, our rights, and the ability to take control of our lives. There’s nothing about murder.
Defense: I read your book, Ms. Hill. Impressive. You’re a talented author.