Malice

by Danielle Steel

  “No,” she said angrily. “But why the specimen? I've never been in trouble for drugs.”

  “You been in trouble for murder. You been in the joint. And you're on probation. I got a right to ask you for anything I think is called for. I'm calling for a urinalysis. Okay with you, or you gonna refuse? I can send you back to the joint for that too, you know.”

  “All right, all right.” She stood up, holding the cup, and headed for the door to the hallway, thinking what a bastard he was.

  “Normally, my secretary would have to watch, but she left early today. Next time, I'll have it observed. But I'll give you a break this time.”

  “Thanks.” She looked at him with barely hidden fury. But he had her by the throat, just the way everyone had for years, her parents, Frank Wills, the police in Watseka, the guards at Dwight, even bitches like Brenda and her friends, until Luana and Sally had rescued her. But there would be no rescuers now. She had to rescue herself, and hold her own against vermin like Louis Marquez.

  She came back five minutes later with a full cup, and balanced it precariously on his desk, with the lid barely closed. She was hoping he would spill it all over his papers.

  “Come back in a week,” he said casually, eyeing her again with obvious interest. “And let me know if you move, or find a job. Don't leave the state. Don't go anywhere unless you tell me.”

  “Fine. Thanks.” She stood up to leave, and with a leer, he watched her slim hips and long legs disappear out of his office. And a minute later, he stood up and poured her urine out in his sink. He wasn't interested in doing a drug test. All he wanted to do was humiliate her and let her know that he could make her do anything he wanted.

  Grace was steaming when she took the bus back to her hotel. Louis Marquez represented everything she had been fighting all her life, and she wasn't going to give in to it now. She wasn't going to let him send her anywhere. She would die first.

  She checked the Yellow Pages that night for all the modeling agencies in town. She had liked the woman's suggestion to try them, but not for modeling. She thought maybe she could work as a receptionist, or someone in the office. She had a long list of places to try, and wished that she knew which one was the best one. But she had no way of knowing. All she could do was try them.

  She got up at seven the next day, and she was still in her nightgown and brushing her teeth when she heard someone pounding on her door, and wondered who it could be. It had to be a hooker, or a john, maybe someone who had the wrong room. She put a towel around her nightgown and opened the door, with her toothbrush still in her hand, and her dark coppery hair cascading past her shoulders. It was Louis Marquez.

  “Yes?” For an instant, she almost didn't recognize him, and then she remembered.

  “I came to see where you live. A probation officer is supposed to do that.”

  “How nice. I see you got an early start too,” she said, looking angry. What did he think he was pulling? It was her father all over again, and just thinking about that made her tremble.

  “You don't mind my coming by, do you?” he said smoothly. “I wanted to be sure you really lived here.”

  “I do,” she said coldly, holding the door wide. She was not going to invite him in, or close the door behind him. “And whether or not I mind depends on what you have in mind to do here.” She looked at him without flinching for an instant.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. Why did you come here? To see where I live? Fine. You've seen it. Now what? I'm not planning to serve breakfast.”

  “Don't get smart with me, you little bitch. I can do anything I want with you. And don't you forget it.”

  But the way he said it made something snap deep inside her, and she took a step closer to him, and put her face close to his with a look of fury. “I shot the last man who said that to me, and tried to act on it. And don't you forget that, Mr. Marquez. Are we clear now?” He was fuming, but he was also out of line, and he knew it. He had come here to see just how much he could get away with, and how scared she was of him. But Luana had taught her well, and she wasn't buying.

  “You'd better watch what you say to me,” he said in a malevolent tone as he hesitated in the doorway.

  “I'm not going to take any shit from some little punk kid who shot her old man. You may think you're tough, but you won't know what tough is till I send your skinny little ass back to Dwight for another two years, and don't think I won't do it.”

  “You'd better have a reason before you try, Mar-quez, or I'm not going anywhere, just because you show up at my hotel at seven o'clock in the morning.” She knew exactly why he was there, and so did he. And she had just called his bluff, and he knew it. Actually, she had surprised him. He had thought she would scare more easily, and he was more than a little disappointed. But it had been worth a try, and if she ever looked like she was weakening, he was going to pounce on her just like a little cockroach. “Anything else I can do for you? Want me to pee in a glass for you? Happy to oblige.” She looked at him pointedly, and without saying another word, he turned and hurried down the stairs of her hotel. It wasn't over yet. She was stuck with him for two years, and he had plenty of time to torment her.

  After he left, she put on the black suit with the pink collar and she was particularly careful when she did her hair and dressed. She wanted to look just right for the modeling agencies. She wanted to look cool and sure and well dressed, but not so flashy she competed with the models.

  The first two agencies told her they had no openings, and they hardly seemed to notice her at all, and her third stop was Swanson's on Lake Shore Drive. They had a luxurious-looking waiting room and big blown-up photographs of their models everywhere. The place had been designed by an important decorator, and Grace was more than a little nervous when they called her in to one of the offices for Cheryl Swan-son to meet her. She met all their potential employees personally, and so did her husband, Bob. There was a definite look to the Swanson employee. Their models were the best in town, for runway and photography, as well as commercial. And everything about the agency suggested success and high style and beauty. Looking around the office where she waited for Cheryl, Grace was particularly glad she had worn the little Chanel knockoff.

  And a moment later, a tall, dark-haired woman walked into the room with a long stride, and a neat bun at the back of her neck. She wore huge glasses and a sleek black dress. She wasn't pretty, but she was very striking.

  “Miss Adams?” She smiled at Grace, and sized her up immediately. She was young, and scared, but she looked bright, and she had a good look to her. “I'm Cheryl Swanson.”

  “Hello. Thank you for seeing me.” Grace shook her hand across the desk, and sat down again, feeling her asthma start to fill her chest, and she prayed she wouldn't have an attack now. It was so terrifying walking in cold, asking for interviews, and then trying to talk them into hiring her. She'd been at it for almost a week, and so far there was no hope yet. And she knew that if she didn't get a job by the following week, her probation officer really would give her trouble.

  “I hear you're interested in a job as a receptionist,” Cheryl said, glancing at a note her secretary had given her. “That's an important job here. You're the first face they see, the first voice. Their very first contact with Swanson's. It's important that everything you do represents who and what we are, and what we stand for. Do you know the agency?” Cheryl Swanson asked, taking off her glasses and scrutinizing Grace more closely. She had good skin, great eyes, beautiful hair. It made her wonder as she looked at her. Maybe she was just trying to get in the back door. Maybe she didn't even have to. “Are you interested in modeling, Miss Adams?” Maybe that's what this was all about, and it was all a ploy, but Grace was quick to shake her head in answer to the question. That was the last thing she wanted, guys pawing all over her, thinking she was easy because she was a model, or photographers chasing her around in a bathing suit, or less. No, thank you.

  “No, I'm n
ot. Not at all. I want a job in the office.”

  “Maybe you should look beyond that,” she glanced at her note again, “Grace … maybe you should think about modeling. Stand up.” Grace did, reluctantly, and Cheryl was very pleased to see how tall she was. But Grace looked like she was about to cry, or run screaming from the office.

  “I don't want to model, Mrs. Swanson. I just want to answer the phone, or type, or run errands for you, or do whatever I can … anything but model.”

  “Why? Most girls are dying for a modeling career.” But Grace wasn't. She wanted a real life, a real job, a real family. She didn't want to start her new life chasing rainbows.

  “It's not what I want. I want something … more … more …” she groped for the right word and then found it,“… solid.”

  “Well,” Cheryl said regretfully, “we do have a job open here, but I think it's a terrible waste. How old are you, by the way?”

  Grace thought about lying to her, and then decided not to. “Twenty. I have an AA degree, I can type, but not very fast. And I'll be good, and work hard, I swear it.” She was begging for the job, and Cheryl couldn't help smiling at her. She was a sensational girl, it was just such a waste to have her answering phones behind a desk. But on the other hand, she certainly set the right tone for what Swanson had to offer. She looked like one of their models.

  “When can you start?” Cheryl looked at her with a motherly smile. She liked her.

  “Today. Now. Whenever you like. I just came to Chicago.”

  “From where?” she asked with interest, but Grace didn't want to tell her that she was from Watseka in case she had heard of her father's murder two years before, nor did she want to say she'd just come from Dwight, in case she knew about the prison.

  “From Taylorville,” she lied. It was a small town two hundred miles from Chicago.

  “Are your parents there?”

  “My parents both died when I was in high school.” It was close enough to the truth, and vague enough not to get her in any trouble.

  “Do you have any family here at all?” Cheryl Swan-son asked, looking worried about her. But Grace only shook her head.

  “No one.”

  “Normally, I'd ask you for references, but with no prior experience, there really isn't much point, is there? All I'd get is a nice letter from your high school gym teacher and I can see what you're made of. Welcome to the family, Grace.”

  Her new boss stood up and patted her arm in warm welcome.

  “I hope you'll be happy here for a long, long time, at least until you decide to start modeling,” she laughed. They had offered her the receptionist's job at a hundred a week, which was all she wanted.

  Cheryl took her out into the hall, and introduced her to everyone. There were six agents, and three secretaries, two bookkeepers, and a couple of people Grace wasn't quite sure who they were, and at the end of the hall, Cheryl walked into a sumptuous office done in gray leather and suede, and introduced her to her husband. They both looked as though they were in their mid-forties, and Cheryl had already explained that they had been married for twenty years, but had no children. The models are our kids, she had said. They're our babies.

  Bob Swanson sized Grace up from behind his desk, and looked at her with a warm smile that really did make her feel part of the family, and then he got up and walked around his desk to shake her hand. He was about six feet four, very rugged-looking with dark hair and blue eyes and movie star handsome. He had been a child actor in Hollywood as a kid, and a model, of course, as Cheryl had been, in New York. And eventually, they had moved to Chicago, and opened the business.

  “Did you say ‘receptionist,’ “he asked his wife, “or new model?” He beamed down at her, and Grace felt as though she was home at last. They were really nice people.

  “That's what I said.” Cheryl smiled at him, and it was obvious immediately that they liked each other, and worked well together. “But she's a stubborn one. She says she wants a desk job.”

  “What makes you so smart?” he laughed as he looked at Grace. She was really a pretty girl, and his wife was right She could have done well as a model. “It took us years to figure that out. We learned the hard way.”

  “I just know I'd never be good at it. I'm happy behind the scenes, making things work.” Just like she'd run her mother's house, and made the supply room hum at Dwight. She had a knack for organizing things, and she was willing to work long hours and do anything she had to, to get the job done.

  “Well, welcome aboard, Grace. Get to work.” He sat back down at his desk again, waved at them both as they left, and sat staring at them going down the hall for a few minutes. There was something interesting about the girl, he decided as he looked at her, but he wasn't sure what it was yet. He prided himself on having a sixth sense about people.

  Cheryl asked two of the secretaries to take Grace under their wings, and show her how the phone system worked, and the office machines. And by noon, it seemed as though she had always been there. Their last receptionist had quit the week before, and they'd been making do with temps in the meantime. It was a relief for everyone to have someone efficient on hand, to take calls, make appointments, and register their bookings. It was a complicated job, and required a lot of juggling at times, but by the end of the first week, she knew she loved it. The job was perfect.

  When Grace reported to Louis Marquez at the end of the week there was nothing for him to complain about. She had a good job, a decent salary. She was leading a respectable life, and she was planning to move as soon as she could find a small apartment. She would have loved to live closer to work, but the apartments around Lake Shore Drive were unbelievably expensive. She was scouring the paper, looking for one, when four of the models were hanging around one afternoon, waiting to hear about a go-see. Grace was always overwhelmed by how beautiful they were, and how exquisitely put together. They had fabulous hair, perfect nails, their makeup always looked like it had been done by professionals, and their clothes made her stare at them with envy. But she still had no desire to do the kind of work they did. She didn't want to trade on her looks, or her sex appeal, or draw that kind of attention to herself. It was too much for her, emotionally. She couldn't handle it, and she knew it. After everything she'd been through in her life, her survival had depended on her ability not to attract attention. And even at twenty, it was too late for her to change that now. She liked nothing better than not being the center of attention. But the models always included her in their conversations. This time they were talking about renting a town house they'd seen. It sounded fabulous to her, but also way out of reach, they were talking about a thousand dollars. It had five bedrooms, though, and they only needed four. Maybe even fewer since one of them was thinking about getting married.

  “We need someone else to come in with us,” a girl called Divina said, sounding disappointed. She was spectacular-looking, and she was Brazilian. “Any interest?” she asked Grace casually, but she couldn't imagine living with them, or being able to afford sharing a rent they could manage.

  “I'm looking for a place,” she said honesdy, “but I don't think I can afford the kind of rents you'd want to pay,” she said glumly.

  “If we cut this one five ways, it's only two hundred apiece,” the twenty-two-year-old German model, Brigitte, said matter-of-factly. “Could you afford that, Graze?” Grace loved her accent.

  “Yeah, if I stop eating.” It meant giving up half her salary, which wouldn't leave her much for food or fun, or any other needs she might have. And she hated to dip into her savings, but she knew she could if she had to. And maybe living in a nice place, in a good neighborhood, with decent people, would be worth it. “Let me think about it.”

  One of the two American girls laughed and looked at her watch. “Great. You have till four o'clock to make up your mind. We have to go look at it again, and tell them by four-thirty. Want to come?”

  “I'd love to, if I can leave by then. I have to ask Cheryl.” But when Grace
asked, Cheryl was thrilled. She'd been horrified to hear that Grace was living in a fleabag hotel while looking for an apartment. She had even invited her to stay in her apartment, with her and Bob, on Lake Shore Drive, until she found something, but Grace hadn't accepted.

  “Thank God!” Cheryl exclaimed, and practically shoved Grace out the door with the others. They were nice girls, and she also thought that maybe if Grace lived with them, she might decide to become a model. Cheryl hadn't given up on that yet, but on the other hand, she had discovered that Grace's unfailing sense of organization was a godsend.

  The town house turned out to be spectacular. It had five good-sized bedrooms, and three baths, a decent-sized kitchen, a patio, and a sunken living room with a view of the lake. It had everything that each of them wanted, and they signed the lease that afternoon. For a long time, Grace stood there and stared at it, unable to believe that this was her home now. It was partially furnished with a couch and some chairs, and a dining room set, and the other girls all claimed that they had enough stuff to fill it. All Grace had to do was buy a bed, and some furniture for her own bedroom. It was incredible. She had a job, she had a home, she had friends. As she stood and looked at the lake, tears filled her eyes, and she turned away and pretended to check out the patio so they wouldn't see them.

  Marjorie, one of her new roommates, had followed her outside. She had seen the emotional look on Grace's face, and she was worried. Marjorie was the mother hen of the group, and the others always teased her that she fussed over them too much. She was only twenty-one, but she was the oldest of seven children. “You okay?” she asked. Grace turned to look at her as Marjorie walked up to her with a look of concern, and Grace sighed and smiled through her tears. It was impossible to conceal them.

  “I just … it's like a dream … this is everything I ever wanted. And a lot more.” She only wished she could have shown it to Molly. She would never have believed it. The poor, beaten, miserable creature she had been had flowered, even in the dismal barrenness of Dwight Correctional Center over the past two years. And now she had a new life, a new world, it was like a dream. David and Molly had been right. If she hung on long enough, the ugliness of the past would be behind her forever. And now, finally, she was past it.