by Judith Gould
"I'll be right back, ladies," Teddy said, excusing himself to the bathroom.
The instant he was out of earshot, Marguerite turned her gaze on Valerie. Even in the dim, flickering light of candles, Valerie could see her mother's look of determination.
"I hope you're giving Teddy the attention he so richly deserves," Marguerite said. "I must say, you certainly seem somewhat lackadaisical about your engagement."
"I've just been very busy, Mother," Valerie answered defensively.
"Busy! That tiresome excuse!" Marguerite leaned toward her daughter. "You must not forget that Teddy can give you everything any young woman could ever want. He has money, Val, and what's more, he's very good at making more. And it doesn't hurt that he's also extremely popular. Everybody adores him."
"Or fears him," Valerie said.
"What?" Marguerite looked shocked. "You're being fanciful. Ridiculous. Why would anyone fear Teddy?"
"Well," Valerie said, "from what I hear, he's not so popular with some of his tenants, Mother."
"Perhaps they don't pay their rent on time," she countered. "Anyway, how could you possibly concern yourself with what some tenant would say?"
"They're people, too," Valerie said quietly.
"Humpf!" Marguerite dismissed her daughter's remark and straightened her shoulders for another assault. "And how could you forget to wear your engagement ring, Val? That's positively insulting. Teddy tells me that you won't set a date for the wedding yet. What in heaven's name is wrong with you?"
"Nothing's wrong with me," Valerie said with rising anger. "I'm just not ready yet."
Her mother's eyes caught hers once again. "It's inevitable, Valerie, dear," she said with a quiet forcefulness. "There's nobody else, and Teddy is ideal. Certainly more of a man than I would've ever dreamed it possible for you to attract."
Valerie swallowed, determined not to lose her temper, but she couldn't allow her mother's last remark to pass. That was the old Valerie, she told herself. The Valerie who would sit and take whatever her mother felt like dishing out.
"Why do you always have to put me down?" she asked.
Marguerite was taken aback for a moment, then plunged on. "Well, face it, Val, dear," she said, "you were never a great beauty. Now that you're older, you do have a certain .. . appeal, I must admit. But you didn't have that growing up. Besides which, you were always a little . . . strange ... a little peculiar. That hasn't changed."
She smiled at Valerie, a smile that a stranger might assume was sweetness itself, but that Valerie knew to be filled with scornful disdain. "You certainly weren't very social," Marguerite went on, "with your nose always in a book. Or playing with your precious pets instead of other children."
Valerie digested her mother's diatribe in silence, wounded by the dispassionate way in which she described a shy little girl starved for love. Despite all of my resolutions to the contrary, she thought, I still want this woman's approval and love. And no matter how independent I tell myself I am, I still let her hurt me.
She finally cleared her throat and replied. "If you'll remember, Mother," Valerie said, "there weren't a lot of girls you'd let me play with. You didn't think that most of the ones I tried to make friends with were good enough."
"One has to protect a child from the . . . less desirable elements in society, Valerie," Marguerite replied. "And you seemed drawn to that element."
"Then when I got older," Valerie said, "you always made me feel like I wasn't pretty enough or clever enough. You always made me want to run and hide from other girls—and boys—my age because you thought they were so much brighter and better-looking than me."
"They usually were," Marguerite said firmly. "I pointed them out as examples for you to follow. Don't you see, Val? I was trying to get you to make something better of yourself. But no, you couldn't be bothered with your hair and clothes, could you? You couldn't be bothered with making yourself attractive to suitable young men. Thank God Teddy came along. And thank God you'd become a more presentable young lady by then and outgrown some of your silly shyness and backwardness. At least Teddy could see the possibilities."
Valerie was growing increasingly furious but decided to hold her tongue. She knew that any further argument with her mother would be an exercise in futility.
"Ah," Marguerite exclaimed with delight, "here comes our handsome young man now. I was just talking about what a wonder you are, Teddy."
"Me?" he asked in an amused voice. He stood by Valerie, waiting for her to make room for him on the wicker couch, then sat down next to her and took one of her hands in his. "I hope your daughter feels the same way," he said.
Valerie looked at him and smiled. "I think I'll keep you guessing," she replied. But deep down inside, she was beginning to feel as if Teddy was anything but the wonder her mother thought he was, and she wanted nothing more than to get up and go home to Elvis.
They sipped their coffee, chatting a while longer, until Teddy pointedly looked at his watch. "It's getting late," he said, "and I'm afraid we've kept you up past your bedtime, Marguerite."
"Not at all," she said. "I've enjoyed every minute of it."
"Well, I've got a very early morning," Valerie said, "and I'd better get going."
"I forgot," Teddy said. "Being up here all week loafing around, I tend to forget that you have a job to go to."
"It's too bad you couldn't arrange to be off this week, Val dear," Marguerite said.
Valerie rose to her feet and stifled a yawn. "It was impossible, Mother," she said. "Things are too busy at the clinic."
Teddy got to his feet and put an arm around Valerie's shoulders. "We can see ourselves out, Marguerite," he said. "Keep your seat."
"Thank you, Teddy," she said, "but I think I'll go on in now."
He removed his arm from Valerie's shoulder and extended Marguerite a hand. She rose and offered a cheek for him to kiss.
"I'm so glad you could come," she said. "And I'm thrilled with the news."
"Thanks, Marguerite," Teddy said.
"Good night, Mother." Valerie kissed her cheek. "Dinner was delicious."
"I'm glad you enjoyed it, dear," she said. "And I hope to see more of you both."
They walked to the porch door, which led out to the parking area, and Marguerite patted Teddy on the back. "We'll speak soon," she said.
"Yes," he said. "I hope so."
For a moment, Marguerite watched as they walked out toward their cars, then she snuffed out the candles and went inside.
In the parking area, Teddy turned and put his arms around Valerie, then kissed her deeply, running his hands up and down her back. She drew back and looked up at him. "I'd better run, Teddy," she said. "It's late, and I'd better get home."
"What?" he said testily. "I thought you'd spend the night with me."
"I can't, Teddy," she said. "I've got to take Elvis out."
"Then why don't you go home, take the ugly mutt out, and then come on over to my place?" he cajoled, brushing her neck with his lips.
"Not tonight, Teddy," she said. "I've got a very early morning and a really busy day ahead."
He continued nuzzling her neck. "Come on," he whispered. "We'll have a real good time, Val. We could fuck all night long."
"Teddy!" she said. "I just told you that I have to get up very early, and I have a long, hard day ahead of me."
"Call in sick," he said, his hands pressing her buttocks to his groin.
"No can do," she said. "I mean it."
"Aw, Val," he whined, "come on. You can do it. Let the dogs and cats and horses take care of themselves. Just this once."
"No, Teddy," she said firmly, trying to wriggle away from his arms. "I've got a job to do. Now, let me go. I've got to go take care of Elvis."
Teddy finally let her loose. "Then go," he said. "Go take care of your fucking mutt."
She looked at him challengingly. "I will," she said. She opened the door to her Jeep and climbed in, closing the door after her. She fired up the engine
and gazed at him, standing alone next to his Jaguar. He looked like a little boy who hadn't got his way, as he increasingly did these days.
Well, too bad, she thought. Nobody who calls Elvis a fucking mutt and doesn't apologize is going to get to sleep with me.
She started down the long gravel lane to the highway and home to Elvis.
"Bitch!" Teddy snapped under his breath as he watched her taillights disappear. Then he got in his car and headed straight for Tiffani's, hoping that she would be home. If not, he thought, I'll find somebody else. No problem.
Chapter Seven
Arielle Conrad's high-heel, magenta leather mules, festooned at the toe with a bouquet of lemon- yellow flowers, click-clacked against the purple bougainvillea-draped coral stone and marble loggia that adorned the rear facade of her palatial Palm Beach mansion. The Atlantic Ocean, its breakers rhythmic and muted, slapped lazily against the pristine beach just beyond the walled-in perfection of the lawn, and the steady offshore breeze was refreshing in the summer night's steamy torpor.
Arielle, however, took no solace from her grand estate with its manicured gardens. Tonight, the luxurious trappings of her life seemed to her no more than a stage set for a tragedy. A Boodles gin with tonic in one hand and a thin brown cigarillo in the other, she paced restlessly from one end of the columned loggia to the other, pausing occasionally to run long, tanned fingers with magenta-lacquered nails through her platinum- streaked hair.
Catching sight of her reflection in an enormous mother-of-pearl-framed mirror, she saw how tousled her hair was. The candlelight was flattering, and she was pleased with what she saw. Her long hair had that sexy just-had-a-roll-in-the-hay look that so many women spend small fortunes to achieve but that for Arielle seemed just another of her many desirable, if not altogether natural, assets. Her face was perfectly made up, as usual. Her heavily mascaraed eyes were thinly lined with black and shadowed with a honey hue accentuating the shards of amber that streaked through the topaz brown of her irises. A terra-cotta blusher accentuated her high, prominent cheekbones, and glossy magenta lipstick adorned her full, sensuous, and cosmetically enhanced lips. Bee-stung lips, she thought, and sexy as hell, with a come-hither look.
She turned from the mirror and resumed her nervous pacing, puffing on her cigarillo, secure in the knowledge that, if nothing else, she looked appropriately beguiling. Then one of her heels caught on the weathered marble, and she lurched forward, just managing to catch herself before she fell to the hard stone.
Shit! she thought, looking down at herself. Just my fucking luck. She'd slopped gin and tonic onto the sheer orange silk blouse that she wore unbuttoned to the waist, where it was tied in a lavish knot. Somehow, she'd managed to miss all that lovely exposed flesh.
I must be getting a little drunk, she thought. No, not drunk, she amended. Just getting a buzz on. She quickly click-clacked to the big marble table where trays of liquor and mixers stood in attendance. Putting down her drink and cigarillo, she grabbed a napkin, dabbed it with club soda, and began brushing her blouse vigorously.
There, she thought after a few furious strokes, that's better. She tossed the napkin onto the table, picked up her drink and cigarillo, and went over to a chaise longue, where she spread out, kicking off her mules and making herself comfortable. She picked up the latest issue of French Vogue and idly flipped through its glossy pages, but lost interest after a few minutes and tossed it to the marble floor with a sigh.
Where is the son of a bitch? she wondered, taking a sip of her drink. He should've been here for dinner ages ago. She took a long draw off her cigarillo. Now, of all times, he's decided to disappear on me. Maybe I should call the club.
She smashed out her cigarillo in the ashtray at her side, then pulled another one from the pack that lay there, lighting it with her gold Cartier lighter. Yes, she decided, that's what I'll do. I'll call the club. She was reaching for the cell phone on the table when she heard his distinctive heavy boot heels on the marble. She looked up as he sauntered toward her from the French doors that led out from the drawing room. He was still in his polo gear and looked sweaty and dusty.
"Lolo!" she cried, sitting up. "I've been worried sick about you. Where the hell have you been?"
Lolo's darkly tanned face lit up at the sight of her. Then his dark brown eyes became concerned when he heard the distress in her voice. "What is it, Arielle?" he asked in his heavily accented English, rushing to her, the sound of his heels resounding off the loggia's stone floor and walls.
"What is it?" She glared up at him malevolently. "You're late!" she cried. "And just when I need you, Lolo!"
"I'm on Spanish time," the handsome young man joked, his teeth sparkling white against his dark skin. He put one hand on each side of her face and leaned down and kissed her lips. "You know how Argentinians are."
She grimaced at his attempt at humor. "Why're you so late?" she asked, patting the chaise longue next to her and scooting over to give him room to sit down. She leaned back again, looking up at him.
He eased his muscular body down next to hers, and shrugged his massive shoulders. "I was out at the polo grounds till dusk," he said. "Like I told you I would be." He leaned over and kissed her lips, a hand moving to one of her easily accessible breasts, taking great pleasure in the feeling of her nipple as it began to harden under his touch. After a moment, he sighed with satisfaction and sat back up. "Then Palmer Johnson wanted me to look at some new polo ponies of his, so I went over to his place—"
"Oh, fuck Palmer Johnson," she said.
"Arielle," he said softly, looking into her eyes, "don't take your anger out on me. I've done nothing wrong. I'm just a little late. Whatever it is that bugs you—"
She sat up and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him to her tightly, relishing the feel of his hard, sweaty body next to hers. "Oh, it's not you, Lolo," she said contritely. "You're right. I'm sorry. It's that horrible Wyn." Her eyes became flinty with hate. "I could kill him, Lolo. I really could."
Lolo heaved a sigh. "What's the asshole done now?"
"It's the same old story," Arielle said, removing her arms from around his neck. "He hasn't signed the damned papers yet, and he knows good and well I can hardly make ends meet on that stupid temporary allowance the court decided on."
"Did it come today?" he asked casually. "The check, I mean?"
"No," she said, gritting her teeth.
"Jesus!" Lolo spat. "I'd like to go to New York and kill the son of a bitch myself. And I mean it, Arielle."
"I wish you would," Arielle countered, assessing him, wondering if he really did mean it. "That would solve all of our problems."
She paused and took a sip of her drink. It certainly wasn't the first time she'd thought about killing Wyn. "If I thought you could get away with it," she said, "I'd ask you to do it. I wish I could do it myself. I hate him." She tapped a fist against Lolo's chest. "I hate him, hate him, hate him!"
Lolo took her fist in his hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it. "You know, Arielle, he's stalling just to torture you," Lolo said. "To torture both of us."
"Yes, I know," she replied. "But knowing that doesn't help, does it? The torture just goes on and on."
"He'll sign soon," Lolo said. "He has to. Don't worry." He put a finger under her chin and lifted it, looking into her eyes. "Then all of our troubles will be over. We'll have everything we need. Everything. You'll see." He leaned down and began planting kisses on her beautiful face, first her forehead, then her nose, eyes, each cheek, and chin.
Arielle responded to his tenderness, her lips and tongue brushing over his neck, his ears, and face, until their lips met. They hungrily began kissing, their hands roaming over one another's bodies. Lolo gently pushed her back down against the chaise and drew himself up next to her, grinding his loins against her perfect body, moaning aloud at the feel of her sweet, soft femininity against him.
Arielle ran her hand over his chest and down to his thigh, then around to his hard bubble butt,
reveling in his masculine odor, his sweaty riding gear, the dusty skin-tight polo jodhpurs and boots. "You're soaked," she murmured, almost shuddering with desire.
Lolo drew back. "Maybe I'd better go shower and change," he said, knowing that she wouldn't want him to.
"No, don't. I like you like this."
He laughed softly. "And I like you like this." He ran a hand inside her blouse again, rubbing a nipple between thumb and finger.
"Ummm," Arielle murmured. "That feels soooo good."
Lolo brushed his lips against hers. "Let's make this last a while," he whispered. "Let me get us both a drink? Huh?"
"Ummm . . . ," she murmured again, pulling him to her. "I think that's a great idea." Then she gradually released him. "Let me do it for you," she said, looking into his eyes. "I want to make a drink for my Lolo."
She swung her legs off the chaise and got to her feet, then slipped into her mules and click-clacked to the marble drinks table, casting a kittenish smile at him over her shoulder. She got two clean glasses, put ice cubes into them, then poured in healthy portions of Boodles. Finally, she added a tiny splash of tonic and a squeeze of lemon to each.
She walked back over to the chaise, putting a little extra swing in her step. "Here," she said, smiling. "Just the way you like it."
Lolo's eyes traveled up and down her body before he took the proffered drink. He held it up and Arielle clinked hers against it. "Salud," he said.
"Salud," she echoed, then took a sip of her drink and let out a breathy sigh.
"Suddenly you don't sound very cheerful," Lolo said, running a hand up her leg.
Arielle slumped down onto the chaise and stared into her glass. Lolo was right. She didn't feel very cheerful. Thoughts of Wyn and the nasty divorce had crept back into her consciousness, like an irritating itch that wouldn't go away. There'd been a time, back in the beginning of their marriage, when she'd thought she was the luckiest woman alive. With all the women Wyn had—and there'd been a lot—he'd chosen her above all the rest. She'd never forget the blonde that was determined to have him, then left brokenhearted when Arielle had won out. What a bitch she was, Arielle thought. She'd taken a special pleasure in seeing that one leave, crushed by the weight of what she'd lost. But the triumph Arielle had felt then gave her little comfort now.