Hideaway

by Alers, Rochelle

  “I hope not,” Parris replied. She didn’t want her association with Martin Cole advertised in the local morning newspaper.

  His dark eyes registered her distressed look. “Does it bother you to be seen with me?”

  Tilting her chin, she stared up at him. The hot Jamaican sun had burned his skin to a rich mahogany brown, accentuating the inky blackness of his hair and eyebrows.

  “No,” she said. What bothered her was that there was no valid reason to advertise their liaison to all of the citizens of West Palm Beach. Those interested in Martin Cole would discover soon enough that she was living with him even though she was less concerned with propriety than she was about having lies printed about her.

  A taxi pulled up to the curb and the red cap opened the rear door. Martin settled her on the seat, then waited until their luggage was loaded in the trunk of the car before giving the driver his destination.

  He pressed a bill into the red cap’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Bennett.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cole. And you have a good evening,” the elderly red cap said with a smile.

  Martin returned his smile. “You do the same, Mr. Bennett.”

  “Who don’t you know, Martin?” Parris asked when he was seated beside her.

  “You. I don’t know you, Parris Simmons.”

  “You know all you need to know about me. Where are we going?” Parris asked as the cab left the airport in the opposite direction from Martin’s housing development.

  “I have to pick up a car for you,” Martin explained. “If you’re going to live with me you’re going to need a car to get to work.”

  Parris glanced down at her watch. “It’s Saturday night, and it’s seven o’clock. Where are you going to buy a car at this hour?”

  “I didn’t say I was going to buy a car, Parris. I said I was going to pick up a car.”

  “Where?”

  “At my parents’ house.”

  “Martin!”

  He could hear the panic in her voice. “You look wonderful.”

  “I’m not concerned about how I look. I’m just not prepared to meet your parents. What are you going to tell them about me?”

  “I’ll tell them the truth. That we’ve been living together for over a month and that we’re in love with each other.”

  A flicker of uneasiness coursed through her. “You can’t come out and say that.”

  “Why not? It’s the truth.”

  Why not? she said over and over to herself as the taxi pulled into a circular drive leading to a large house designed in Spanish and Italian revival styles with barrel-tiled red roofs, a stucco facade and balconies shrouded in lush bougainvillea and sweeping French doors that opened onto broad expanses of terraces with spectacular panoramic water views. The magnificent structure was surrounded by tropical foliage, exotic gardens and the reflection of light off sparkling lake waters.

  Martin directed the driver to leave their luggage by the front door as he pushed it open and let Parris proceed him into an entrance with an African slate floor. Her professional gaze catalogued the Dutch ebony and gilt table dating to the eighteenth century cradling a Baccarat vase with a profusion of snow-white roses.

  She registered the sound of footsteps and turned to find a tall slender woman dressed in pink silk with short graying black hair staring at her. There was no mistaking who the woman was. She and Martin shared the same delicate features.

  The older woman’s surprise was short-lived when she smiled at her son. Her dimpled smile was Martin’s.

  “Darling,” she crooned, her voice soft and caressing. “It’s nice that you decided to share dinner with us. But you should’ve let us know that you were bringing company.”

  Martin gathered his mother to his chest and kissed her cheek. “We didn’t come for dinner. I came to pick up a car.”

  Marguerite Josefina Diaz Cole registered the “we” and arched her sweeping black eyebrows. Pulling away from Martin, she gave him a questioning look. “Can’t you stay for a few minutes? I was just telling Sammy that I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

  Martin grasped Parris’s hand and squeezed her fingers. “Mother, I’d like you to meet Parris Simmons. Parris, my mother, Marguerite Cole.”

  Parris managed a smile for the tall elegant woman. “My pleasure, Mrs. Cole.” Even though she and Martin’s mother were of equal height, Marguerite seemed to stare down her thin delicate nose at her.

  “Please call me M.J.” She turned her attention back to Martin before Parris could acknowledge her as M.J. “You don’t have to eat, Martin. Just stay a while and have some coffee. You know that Saturday nights are always informal.”

  Martin glanced down at Parris and she nodded. “Okay. We’ll have coffee.”

  He released her fingers and curved an arm around her waist. “Come, I’ll show where you can freshen up.”

  Martin led Parris up a flight of twin staircases and down a hall. She barely had time to note the furnishings which were predominately French. She saw a pair of Louis XVI wing chairs upholstered with Scalamandré silk and a bench of the same period covered in Bergamo silk in a sitting room off a second floor bedroom.

  “Even though I don’t live here any longer I haven’t removed everything from my apartment. This house has twenty-four rooms and four apartment suites,” Martin explained. “I think my parents planned on having six children, but stopped at four. I’m the oldest. I have two sisters and one brother.”

  “Do they live here?”

  “Only David. Nancy and Juliana are married and live in Palm Beach.”

  She followed Martin into a bedroom suite that was a startling departure from the other rooms in the house. Martin’s apartment was dramatically contemporary from the furnishings to the stark blacks, whites and grays of sofas, chairs and rugs. The suite contained a sitting/dressing room, a bedroom and an adjoining full bathroom.

  She had her answer in what period to decorate his home—a blending of contemporary with a few Art Deco and antique pieces.

  Parris examined her face over the lighted sink in the bathroom. Her cheeks were beginning to fill out again and the dark shadows under her eyes had disappeared. The week in Jamaica had darkened her golden-brown skin where it shimmered with a glow of good health. She unpinned her hair and brushed it then repinned it in a twist with a feathering of bangs across her forehead. Searching the depths of her handbag, she found a tube of burnt-orange lipstick and applied a coat of color to her lips.

  After washing and drying her hands she turned to leave the bathroom but ran into Martin. His hands went out as he steadied her.

  “Careful, darling.” He stared down at her face, his eyes moving slowly over her mouth. “You look beautiful,” he whispered reverently.

  She had barely caught her breath when he took it again as his mouth covered hers, his tongue pushing gently against her lips. Her lips parted and his tongue worked it magic as it searched, caressed and communicated delicious sensations of what she could expect when they returned home.

  Parris pressed her breasts to his hard chest, her arms going around his neck. “Home.” It was strange that she could think of Martin’s house as her home; she realized home wasn’t a structure of wood, slate or stucco but Martin. He was home. Being with him afforded her shelter, protection and security.

  Her arms came down and she pushed against his broad chest with both hands. “Martin,” she gasped. “Your mother is waiting for us.”

  Curbing the urge to kiss her again, he said, “You’ve met beauty and now it’s time you meet the beast. The beast is my father.”

  Parris didn’t know what to expect from Samuel Cole, but it wasn’t the tall, muscled man with a head of shocking white hair and a booming voice.

  Her smaller hand was lost in the huge one Samuel extended to her. “Welcome, welcome.” He pumped her hand vigorously. “It’s been a while since Martin has brought a girl home to meet us, but if you’re the reason for this auspicious occasion then you’re welcome here anytime.”<
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  “Thank you, Mr. Cole.” Parris felt the heat in her face when Samuel Cole stared openly at her.

  “Call me Sammy. I’ve made it a rule not to stand on ceremony in my home.”

  Parris smiled up at the man with the rich sienna-brown coloring. Looping her hand over his arm, Sammy led her out of the living room to a loggia. Martin followed, escorting M.J.

  The loggia opened out to a courtyard and beyond the courtyard gardens. Lighted overhead Spanish lanterns spilled golden light onto a table of twisted rattan set with dining for six.

  Martin seated his mother. “Who else are you expecting?”

  “David said he might come back in time to eat with us.” M.J. offered Sammy her attractive smile. “We’re ready, dear.”

  Martin moved to stand behind Parris’s chair after his father had seated her. The fingers of his right hand trailed lightly over her bare arm. The gesture was barely perceptible but neither of the older Coles missed its possessive significance.

  The two men retreated inside the house, leaving Parris with M.J.

  Sammy reached for a large wooden bowl filled with salad greens. “How serious is this, Martin?”

  He stared at his father, his gaze never wavering. “It’s very serious. We’ve been living together. And if she’d have me I’d marry her tomorrow.”

  Sammy crossed thick arms over his chest. “That’s serious,” he replied in awe.

  Sammy removed a large glass bowl of seafood salad from the refrigerator and several bottles filled with salad dressings. The two men were silent as they returned to the loggia.

  Martin was relieved to find Parris chatting amicably with his mother. He had found on occasion that M.J. tended to intimidate people with her formal presence. She had grown up as a member of pre-revolutionary Cuban aristocracy, and even after more than thirty years the breeding and privileges afforded her class had not faltered or vanished.

  “Parris tells me that she is a decorator,” M.J. said to her husband.

  “Who do you work for?” Sammy asked after he was seated.

  “Chadwick, Ferguson and Solis.”

  Sammy stared, his hand halting as he poured wine into crystal glasses. “They’re the most prestigious architectural and design firm in the country. You must be very talented to have secured a position with them.”

  Martin watched Parris as she filled her plate with a small serving of salad greens and another plate with a seafood salad of shrimp, lobster and crab. Both of them had eaten on the plane. He also noted that the glass of white wine at her place setting went untouched.

  “Are you originally from West Palm?” M.J. asked.

  “Yes.”

  Sammy reached over and covered M.J.’s hand with his. “Martin and Parris are living together.”

  Parris thought M.J. was going to faint as color drained from her face, leaving it a sickly sallow shade under her naturally burnished-gold complexion. Reaching for her wineglass, M.J. took a sip of the chilled liquid. Her hand shook when she put down the glass. “You’re too young to start living with men. I’m certain your mother…”

  “My mother’s dead,” Parris interrupted. “And I’m not too young to live with a man. I lived with a man when I was married.”

  Martin shifted his eyebrows as his parents turned their startled gazes on him. They wanted answers and apparently they were not prepared for the truth.

  “Why live together?” M.J. continued. “Why not marry?”

  “We’ll marry when it’s time to marry,” Martin replied, staring at Parris’s profile.

  “I agree with Martin,” Parris stated, smiling at him. “We’ll both know when the time is right.”

  Sammy and M.J. exchanged a subtle look of amusement when they realized their son had fallen in love, but what had surprised them was that Parris Simmons wasn’t the type of woman they had expected him to marry.

  Chapter 11

  “When is she going out of town again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I pay you good money to know.”

  “She’s been reassigned.”

  “What’s that suppose to mean?”

  “She won’t be travelling. It looks as if she’s going to work out of the West Palm Beach home office.”

  “Get her out of town. I don’t care how you do it, but I want her whacked.”

  “But, sir, what if I can’t…”

  “I don’t pay for can’ts and won’ts. Get her the hell out of Florida and away from Martin Cole.”

  The connection ended abruptly, and the man with the throbbing vein in his forehead swore savagely under his breath. He needed the money he was being offered to kill Parris Simmons, but getting her out of the state was more difficult than he first thought. If it was up to him he would follow her, then pop her when she was getting into or out of her car. One clean shot to the head with a hollowed-out bullet. Quick, clean and simple. He had to get her, and soon, because his gambling debts were adding up. Parris Simmons would be his ticket to freedom, because if he didn’t come up with enough money to cover his bets both of them would be found floating along the Intra-coastal Waterway.

  Parris woke up disoriented. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. The red numbers read twelve-thirty. She had been asleep for more than six hours.

  A deep-seated hunger gripped her stomach, reminding her that she had skipped lunch. Turning to her right, she shook Martin.

  “Wake up!” she whispered.

  He sat up, reaching for the lamp. “What’s wrong?”

  Parris laid a hand over her flat middle. “I’m starving.”

  He pushed his hair off his forehead. “You should be. You slept through dinner.” Reaching out, he pulled her across his lap. “What do you want to eat?”

  She ran her fingertips through the hair on his chest. “Lobster.”

  “What!” The word exploded from his mouth.

  “I have a craving for lobster.”

  Hooking a finger under her chin, Martin raised her face. His sweeping eyebrows lifted. “Are you certain you aren’t pregnant?”

  She laughed at his bemused expression. “Of course not. I just want lobster.”

  Martin released her and picked up the telephone. He dialed a number, then waited. “Frank, Martin. How late are you going to stay open? Yes, tonight. Good. I’ll be there within the hour.” He smiled at the expectant expression on Parris’s face. “Lobster. Thanks.” He hung up, saying, “Put some clothes on, darling. We’re on our way to Fort Lauderdale.”

  It was another two weeks before Parris thought about what Martin had asked her the night they drove to Fort Lauderdale for lobster. She had missed her period.

  Her forehead was furrowed in concentration as she sat at her desk staring at a calendar showing the past three months.

  She hadn’t had a menstrual flow since the beginning of October. But nothing in November. It was now the second week in December and she was very late.

  Her fingers beat a rapid staccato tapping on the desk. When? When could it have happened? Martin had always protected her except for the first time, and that was the end of September.

  How? When?

  The question screamed inside of her head until she was mindless with confusion. Ocho Rios!

  A gasp escaped her constricted lips as the realization washed over her like an icy shower. The night Martin had asked her to marry him; the night they had confessed their love for each other; the night their unbridled passions began a new life inside her body.

  Burying her face in her hands, Parris blinked back tears. She wasn’t ready to be a mother; she wasn’t ready to bear Martin’s child; she had too many other things to do with her life.

  Maybe she wasn’t pregnant. Maybe something else was wrong with her. Opening her appointment book, she looked up the number to her gynecologist. She was in luck. The receptionist reported that someone had cancelled and if she could be at the office at five-thirty the doctor would see her.

  Parris was numbed when she stumbled b
lindly out of the doctor’s office to her car. The doctor had confirmed her worst fear: she was pregnant. He had tactfully told her about the alternatives, but if she decided to see the pregnancy to term her baby was due the middle of July.

  She sat in the car, staring at the pamphlets the nurse had given her. Books explaining how her body would change and what to expect during each trimester.

  She laughed and the sound was strange even to her own ears. Laughing seemed to relieve some of the tightness in her chest. Martin had won it all. He had gotten her to live with him and decorate his house. Now he would also get a wife and child.

  Parris hadn’t decided how she would tell Martin about the baby. No matter how she would rehearse it she knew it would never come out right.

  I’ll give him a gift, she thought. Suddenly she couldn’t wait to see his face when he opened the tiny box with a pair of newborn booties.

  Twenty minutes later, Parris maneuvered into an empty parking space in a large mall. The parking lot was crowded with cars. The Christmas shopping season was in full gear.

  She opened the door to get out, but something held it shut. It wasn’t until she saw the outline of a man’s body and the barrel of a gun pointed at her that she began to shake.

  She couldn’t see the man’s face clearly, but she understood his raspy order when he told her not to move.

  Parris was frozen in place as the man opened the door and pushed her over on the seat, letting out a cry of pain when the gear shift on the console stabbed her hip.

  “Crawl over me and drive,” he ordered. “I’ll tell you where to go. And if you make any stupid moves I’ll blow your brains out where you sit. I’ve been paid to kill you, but I won’t because I have a soft touch for kids, even those who aren’t born yet. Yeah, I know you’re carrying Martin Cole’s kid. So if you don’t want him lying in a lake without a face you’ll do what I tell you to do. Do you understand me?”

  Parris nodded. How was she to drive when her hands were wringing wet. How did he know about Martin? How did he know about her baby?

  “Drive.”

  “Where?” Her voice was barely a whisper.