“Sit,” he said, because she was still too nervous, too locked into old protocol perhaps, for her to take the initiative and use the offered side chair.
For a moment it was the sound of his father’s voice playing through her mind and she couldn’t budge. Then with an abrupt reminder to herself that this was Luke not Warren speaking, she wilted into the chair and took a breath. “Sorry,” she said, as she fidgeted with the hem of her shorts.
“You’re nervous,” he said.
“Silly, isn’t it?” She blushed beet red.
“How come?”
“I-I…” she stumbled trying to collect her thoughts. “I’m sorry, Luke. I’m afraid the memories of this place are, what? Overwhelming, maybe?”
“Yeah, they overwhelmed me too when I first walked in the door,” he confessed with an easy laugh. His mood was casual and matter-of-fact as he quickly described the years since they’d seen each other. “My mother insisted on the education, so I did my time, collected the Ivy League degree and might as well have dumped it in the trash for all the good it’s doing me.” He shrugged lackadaisically, “What does a man need with an education when he has all the money in the world?” – spoken like a rash teenager.
“Life’s a lot more than just money,” she interjected.
“And you’re as good with the platitudes as my mother.” He swiveled in the chair like a kid, and gazed around the room in a cursory manner as if he were trying to decide what to say next. “You know, there’s so much about you that’s as original as the paintings in this room, I shouldn’t make the comparison – certainly not with my mother.”
She was moved to blush, although she was unsure exactly what was meant by the comment. She thought of paintings, and looked up at the Chagall, which hung directly behind the desk and above the short bookcase. She’d seen it a thousand times, but it seemed entirely new with the grown up Luke Tatum commanding the room. Like his father, his personality filled the space even when he didn’t make a sound. The younger Tatum sat, shuffled his feet, mused, thought and sighed huge; just like this father. The air about him bristled with energy, much of it youthful testosterone she was sure. Her body responded with a steady pressure growing in her lower regions; not an unfamiliar feeling, particularly in these surroundings, though it was one that she hoped would not play a part in her visit. With no response to his claims, she waited for him to speak again.
Seeing Alexa’s eyes light on the Chagall, Luke looked back over his shoulder gazing briefly at the painting before he turned back.
“Not my favorite,” he grimaced. “It’ll be auctioned along with the others.”
“Others?”
“There’s a crate I pulled from the rooms upstairs. Plus, I’ve taken down a bunch for a second crate.”
“So you’re dismantling the house?”
“No at all. But the place looks like a mausoleum. Needs something fresher, bolder, edgier.”
“But the Chagall?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, big name in the world of art. Sorry, but I hate the thing. I’d rather have the bucks it will bring at auction than lay my eyes on it again. After all the times I was forced to stare at the vile thing, I’d take a knife to it.” He saw the horror in her face. “Hey, don’t worry. I’m aware of the value of the art I own. The Chagall’s going to pay for the yacht I’m having built. The bucks from the sale will allow me to buy the boat free and clear and pocket the change. A famous painting gets recycled. I get what I want. Everyone’s happy and I’ve done the right thing.”
Edgy. He’d used the word himself. It fit his character and his mood. Edgy – was that anything like the mounting tide of energy spilling from her hungry crotch? The wealth of memories colliding with Luke’s ferociously sexual personality had her practically salivating. Her crotch rapidly warmed, despite her efforts to tamp down her libido. Yes, these were sexual feelings, though not specific to the boy. It might have been any horny twenty-year-old in the room; the effect would be the same on Alexa Dupree. For six years, she aggressively worked to forget what had happened in this place, but all her efforts meant nothing once she stepped through the front door.
“Of course, you have every right to do what you want with the place,” she finally rushed in. “I always enjoyed your father’s taste in art.” One of the consolations, she would have added, but he wouldn’t have known what she meant. Then, because he didn’t reply right away, she asked the question foremost on her mind, “You must have some reason for asking me here?”
“Yes, and we’re getting to that,” he assured her. Removing his feet from the desktop, he sat up straighter, sitting squarely at the desk, as though it was his and not his father’s. His tone shifted too, no longer hesitant, but more focused with his attention entirely on her.
He made her nervous as he stared her down and she immediately shivered, feeling suddenly as if she’d been boxed into a corner with no way out. She hated the feeling, along with the realization that Luke was holding something back and dangling that unknown something before her like bait.
Suddenly, he was on his feet again, strolling around to her side. She chose not to follow him with her eyes, though her ears were tuned to his every step…and the pounding at her temples…the fire in her lower body…and even the fly in the room that buzzed them when their silent tableau was too still. The small black insect landed on her knee and stayed there, while Luke moved in close from behind. He didn’t touch her, though she thought he would. Instead, he shattered whatever fragile peace of mind she had managed with two simple words:
“Rebecca Wittendon.”
Her body chilled that instant, then her back knotted up as fear slammed her in the gut. Like a sudden summer shower, the meaning of the words trickled down through her hair, her shoulders, her breasts, her belly, all the way down to her quivering thighs. She drenched herself in the sound of her birth name, feeling uncertain and terrified to be hearing that name now – and from this unlikely source. She could hardly remember the incident years ago that shattered her life, and yet the vulnerable side of her being suddenly recalled in vivid clarity the whole fucked-up truth of the miserable night her father was murdered.
The boy remained motionless behind her just long enough for her to understand that something huge had just taken place. Moving back to the desk he sat down and placed in front of him a letter-sized leather folder he pulled from the top desk drawer.
“I’ve been here for nearly three months getting acquainted with the winery; seemed like a logical thing to do now that I own the thing free and clear of any restrictions. The old man was surprisingly generous with the cash. Except for an allowance for my mother, just a token really, and a few charitable contributions, which really weren’t particularly generous, he left all his assets to me. The whole of the estate was turned over to me on my twenty-first birthday, which, in case you don’t remember the date, was January 1 of this year.” He looked up, apparently requiring some response.
“A hard date to forget,” she said softly.
“I’ve been so busy that I didn’t get a chance to open the safe until about ten days ago,” he continued on with his explanation, while she simmered, silently dreading the awful truth he was bound to disclose. “I had no expectations of there being anything worthwhile in its contents, but a safe… a real safe!” He held out his hands in a gesture of surprise. “Can you imagine me with a safe! It’s like being a little kid again with a verboten prize suddenly mine for the taking – as if something even bigger and badder than what I’ve already inherited is locked inside. Does get the juices flowing, doesn’t it?” Such a nasty smirk. Did he even know what he was doing to her? “Imagine the thrill of getting those tumblers to click and the handle to move the way I’d seen the old man do it. I must have tried a thousand times to open the thing when I was young. You would have thought that I would have opened it as soon as I walked back through that door, but I actually forgot about the damn thing.” His laugh was a bit brittle, even twisted, just like that dreadfu
l smirk.
He tore her apart with this rambling prattle. It was all a show. She understood that clearly now; but she’d have to wait for him to finish, just as she often waited for his father to end some rambling discourse with a shocking announcement.
He laughed again. “I’ll bet you’re thinking, why the hell don’t I get to the point?”
She snickered a bit herself then cautiously replied, “Yes, maybe I was thinking that.”
This was a Luke Tatum she’d caught sight of in brief flashes during the boy’s childhood visits to the winery. For several months at a time, mostly during the summer, he lived with his father and was under Alexa’s care. She considered the role the one ‘sacred’ duty of her tenure in Tatum’s house; Warren viewed it much the same. Knowing what it was like to be the child of a prominent and egocentric male, she believed she could relate to his bouts of surliness, and the anger and depression that flashed like wildfire, interrupting the boy’s cheerful mood. She remembered it flaming dangerously for minutes, occasionally for hours at a time, only to disappear with an abruptness that left her staggering from the blast, but not surprised. He was a tricky child to understand, but Alexa understood his moods from years of personal experience with the volcanic eruptions that flared between herself and her own disagreeable father. Although, to give him credit, Warren had a much better disposition than Phillip Wittendon ever did. Though that did not mean he wasn’t often a controlling and difficult master.
With the stunning switch in his behavior, the boy became studied and focused. He spoke with the gravity of a lawyer giving his client bad news. “So to the point, Miss Alexa,” he began. “I won’t belabor this any further and I’m sure you’re curious.” Under other circumstances she might have laughed at the unnaturally mature tone, but not this time. This was not a child’s game, and she shivered as her eyes met his imperious stare. “I must say,” he cleared his throat, “I was surprised when I opened the safe and discovered this file.” He opened the leather folder to reveal a sheaf of papers and beneath them a number of black and white photographs. Although only the tips of the pictures were visible underneath the papers, Alexa immediately knew what they were without having to see them. She also knew what appeared in the documents, although it was a shock to know they still existed after all this time. “You must know about this?” He lifted his brows questioningly. She didn’t respond. “Amazing reading, and I never would have guessed. You and Dad managed a subterfuge that fooled a lot of people, including me.” An odd light appeared in his eyes as he gazed at her pale face, and as he studied her carefully, the grim set of his lips broke into an unsettling smile.
What exactly did he know?
His upper lip curled and his smile turned to lust – without question, what had begun as a casual reunion was making him horny. “You’re wondering, aren’t you? Did you really fool people all that much?”
“Luke, for god’s sake, why are you doing this? I’m sure it’s a shock…”
“I’m doing it because I can!” he silenced her with the vicious chill in his voice. “Because this is mine, everything about it is mine. I own it all.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm to include the house, the winery and every bit of his domain. “As long as it is mine, as long as it pleases me, I intend to let my inheritance give back to me the way all the money and power gave to my father. And just to satisfy your curiosity, yes, I knew about you and my father then – I eventually figured out that he had a thing for you. I assumed he was probably fucking you, but at the time, I couldn’t care less about my father’s sex life. Now? Now I know why you were so goddam compliant even when he was such an ass.”
The resentment that leapt into his voice made her sweat and her stomach sour and sent her mind racing to the far corners of memory bringing back scenes from the past she’d spent the last six years trying to forget. And the boy, he was not the sad-faced youth she’d seen grieving at his father’s funeral, vulnerable and afraid. Did she even know this young man at all, with all his posturing and grim talk?
“I always thought there was something a little odd about your being here. I just never knew what it was. Then on my last visit before he died, I caught him whipping my nanny’s bare ass with a switch until it was red with welts. Quite a picture to imprint in my brain at sixteen.”
She looked back in horror, her breathless ‘no’ a quiet whisper.
“Yes, nanny, I saw him whipping you. And I bet he buggered your ass when he was done.”
Her face turned beet red. “What was between your father and me was a private matter.”
“Which was exactly what I thought when I saw you.” He chuckled. “Don’t worry, I didn’t see much through the curtains. But your bobbing white ass turning bright red was hard to forget. I think it was the way you cried that moved me most. Too bad I was too freaked out to stay and watch. Always regretted that.”
“Oh no, please…” she shook her head in distress.
“A long time ago, nanny. Don’t worry, you didn’t damage my psyche. I assure you I was not a virgin at the time.” His dancing eyes lingered on her wretched face until he finally returned to the file before him. “That scene was the perfect finale to my winery days, but the questions it left unanswered have hounded me ever since. Then I find this in my father’s safe. What a coup! Everything is spelled out right here. I started reading it early in the evening and didn’t stop until after midnight. The answers to every question I’ve ever had about you leapt off the page like the plot of a really juicy novel. Shocking, nanny. So shocking, I had to read it again, and again… maybe a dozen times just to wrap my mind around what it says.
“I never would have suspected you could murder a soul, let alone your own father.”
She’d tried to be calm as the confrontation went on, but each word he spoke only added to her distress. “No, Luke. You have it all wrong. I DID NOT murder my father!”
She immediately regretted the outburst when she heard Luke laugh. “Right. And how, exactly, am I supposed to believe that when I have these documents, not to mention the pictures?” He nonchalantly leafed through the black and whites, looking strangely amused by the horrifying images of her dead father. She hadn’t realized until now that Warren even had the pictures. However, those of the crime scene were few. Beneath them in the thick stack were ones that Strickland took of her to show prospective clients. She’d been photographed in a variety of lewd positions and cheesecake poses, some scantily clad, some naked, all to attract the attention of men willing to ‘take her in’ was how the man put it. Luke looked her in the eye. “The only reason that you weren’t arrested, tried, convicted and sentenced to life was because of my father’s gracious intervention.”
“Gracious intervention!”
“Yes, ma’am, his gracious intervention,” he mocked her with his own affected drawl, and dug in even deeper. “You have another name for it? He salvaged your fucked-up life, but I suppose you want to turn him into a villain? What’s a few years of loyal service in fine surroundings like these compared to a life sentence in some dreary prison? I’d call that gracious invention.”
He spoke so contemptuously that she could hardly believe that this was the boy she nurtured and cared for. The one who hugged her voraciously when he was sad, who cried in her lap, whose tears she wiped away, scrapes she mended, cheeks she kissed when she tucked him in bed. She shielded him when he misbehaved so he’d avoid his father’s foul moods – their secret pact. She was on his side in every battle he waged with the man. Even when Luke no longer hugged her, he would come to her in an angry mood and she found a way to make him laugh – although maybe not at the very end of their relationship. It finally made sense why he was so strange to her during that last visit.
She could feel her emotions rising fast though she had no idea what to say.
“Alexa Dupree is nothing but a lie,” the boy spit out as if he were the injured party. “A big fat lie.”
As her anger boiled to the surface a violent “NO!” sud
denly ripped from her throat. Even she was surprised by the vehemence in her voice, though she didn’t stop. “I am not a lie, Luke. I’ve been Alexa Dupree for eleven years. I served my time with your father, doing his bidding at every turn. Since I won my freedom I’ve lived a quiet honest life…Alexa Dupree’s life. It’s the life I have and I want nothing more.”
Ignoring her outburst, Luke searched through the documents for something in particular. “Ah, yeah, this is it!” He held up the paper and looked her straight in the eye. “Says here that you were a concert pianist. A good one. A child prodigy, it claims. But a bratty, rebellious one who made a lot of deprecating, very public allegations about her genius father.”
“I was young and rash, like you are now.” She tried a conciliatory tone, but if she hoped to draw an apt comparison between their lives, it was lost on him. “I didn’t murder my father, Luke,” she tried one more time.
“You really expect me to believe that…?” He looked at her baffled. “I have the police report right here.” He waved it front of her face. “I guess this must have been filed after you’d already fled England.” He spread documents, photographs and news clippings across his desk so she could see it all. “The tabloids certainly had a field day with you. Although it looks as if they had plenty of ammunition to back up their case, not to mention the fact that you were quick to flee once the crime was committed.”
He sounded like a prosecuting attorney, the one she never faced. She squirmed miserably in her seat before she mustered the courage to look him straight in the eye and vow once again, “I didn’t kill him.”
Still, the message did not sink in.
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