"Why did you do that, Wyatt?" she asked trying to keep the sniffle out of her voice.
"I told you why. And I'd do it again. You have to learn, Angelique. I don't demand much but I do demand that you not take risks with your safety."
"I'm your wife not a five year old kid."
"I believe I warned you about the painful lessons for both of us in the you-sure-won't-do-anything-like-that-again department. Quite clearly as I recall. Hopefully you are now sufficiently enlightened."
"I should leave you."
"I'd bring you back and spank you again for risking your safety by going."
"You know what really burns me up about this, Wyatt?"
"Well, yeah, I know what's burning you up, that's why I offered to go get the cream."
"It's my name!"
"What?"
"My nickname! May-May. It's the name of a character from a novel, a character who's the tai-tai, wife, of a rich businessman. And he spanks her!"
"Well... sorta prophetic then, wouldn't you say? I told you to stay at that restaurant --where you would have been safe and we would have gotten to you within minutes-- but you wouldn't do it. Something like that doesn't ever happen again, or Angelique, I'm warning you, you and this May-May character will again share sore butts."
She couldn't think of an answer for that because even in her pique the horrible, wretched, awful, humongous truth of it was that she knew he was right --she shouldn't have left the restaurant, and, she needed him to protect her. Somehow she knew that. And knew he knew it and knew she knew he knew it.
Damn it to hell!
"Angelique, I love you. I didn't enjoy doing that. But when I was up in that helicopter, helpless, watching those guys after you, knowing what Rashid wanted... I died a million deaths, baby. You have to understand that. Please. Never again."
"How'm I going to be able to sit down today?" she sniveled.
He heard the tiny inflection of forgiveness in her voice, petulant forgiveness perhaps but still forgiveness, and he carefully reached out to her. She didn't shoo him away so he slowly and gently pulled her toward him, rolling her onto her side and wrapping his arm around her.
"Could'a been a week," he mumbled with zero delicacy.
"Yeah? Why not?" she sniffed, furtively rubbing her backside quite grateful for any restraint he'd utilized.
"Something Johnson said, he pled your case to me. I'm going to go get the cream, don't worry about tomorrow, you can hang around and mope all day if you want. I'm taking the day off, I'll wait on you hand and foot." There it was, the concern.
The love.
Oh screw it she simmered, a rather magnificent understatement considering, and for some inexplicable reason she just felt herself beginning to write it off. And she had to admit, the next time he told her to do something, well, she maybe might give it a bit more consideration.
And then again she might not.
*****
A few weeks later, Angelique was on the phone. "Will you call?" she asked. "I don't mean right away, I mean after you get settled, I know you're going to be busy. Or send me an email."
"Absolutely, Ange! City-of-Lights, I'm gonna check out every one of them! The car's here! A stretch limo no less. I gotta go. You take care of yourself, Ange, if that gorgeous megalomaniac hubby of yours ever tries that again, I'm telling you --the nuts! Always go for the nuts! Bye!"
"Bye, Lexa," Angelique said clicking the phone off. She was going to miss Lexa, so far away in Paris and not even a definite date when she'd be back, it depended on her performance.
Lexa bounced down the steps of her apartment building.
"Hello, Miss" the driver, a burly mountain of a man smiled to her. "I'm Mr. Cochran's assistant, Donald."
"Hi, yes, I've seen you lots of times at the Center. Thank you for coming for me, I don't know where this airport is. I'm so jazzed to be flying in a private jet! My luggage is just in the foyer--"
"I'll get it, Miss," Donald held the car door open for her knowing he would be depositing her luggage in a locked cellar closet as soon as he got her into the mansion. Mr. Cochran would be letting her have only three things from it: her birth control pills, her brand of tampons, and one thing she could ask for as a reward. The latter he would eventually destroy in front of her for the pleasure of it --for one girl it had been her one hundred year old family Bible he'd thrown in the fireplace and made her watch burn. And that would be the signal that Mr. Cochran was finished with her.
And it was Donald's turn.
"Thank you, Donald," Lexa beamed.
"Oh it's my pleasure, Miss," Donald eyed her, his smile carefully in place.
Twenty minutes into the trip the car phone rang and Donald answered it. He knew the script by heart. After a lot of un huhs and yessirs, he hung up.
"Trouble?" Lexa asked.
"I'm afraid so, Miss. It seems a bulb has gone out on the jet's wing and it's illegal to fly the plane without it. They've sent for a replacement but it won't get here until early morning. I'm to take you to the mansion for you to stay there until we get the call the plane is ready. Mr. Cochran isn't there, but his housekeeper is, Margret, she'll look after you. Very sorry, Miss."
"Wow, the Cochran mansion! I've heard about it, it's more than a hundred years old right? It must be really interesting," she prattled on in her excitement.
"I'm sure you'll find it quite interesting," Donald said with a careless nuance of cruel determination Lexa didn't catch.
They arrived at the mansion and were met at the door by a somewhat stout, drab looking stooped woman in her fifties who smiled at Lexa while simultaneously avoiding her eyes.
Malcolm Cochran's mansion was large, made of stone, and Lexa got the feeling more of a fortress than a home. Shoot, she said to herself, if I were rich I sure wouldn't live in a place like this, out in the boondocks, still, one night would be fun.
She stepped over the threshold not knowing that nothing about to happen to her would be fun.
Not for her anyway.
"Your room, up stair," the housekeeper, Margret, said to Lexa in halting English with a strange, strained ambivalence, "you come."
Lexa drank it all in, the wealth, as she followed Margret up an impressive stone staircase to the second floor, down a richly decorated luxurious hallway, through a doorway at its end and up another staircase, much narrower than the first. At the top, she was led down a hallway also narrower than the one below (she thought she heard a door closing down below) and into a large suite. It was an invitingly comfy looking bedroom and Lexa smiled because it was painted in peach, her favorite color. The bed was king size, with a large intricate brass headboard, the furniture a deep plush velvet couch with cozy looking overstuffed arm chairs, and a nearby table covered in a peach colored lace tablecloth with two chairs. There was a splendid scenic window through which Lexa saw a deeply green lawn and darkened forest beyond.
"Bathroom," Margret pointed to a far door.
"Thank you," Lexa smiled warmly.
"You look," Margret said.
"Oh I'm sure it's fine," Lexa smiled appreciatively.
"You look," Margret repeated, disquieted.
Wanting to be obliging, if the housekeeper wanted her approval of the bathroom, Lexa would certainly give it. She walked across the room and stuck her head in the bathroom. It too was huge, beautiful, all gleaming white tile, two sinks, a gigantic claw bathtub, with a large shower with numerous faucets and showerheads. Thick peach colored towels were folded carefully on a white marble vanity. Lexa turned to give Margret her approval but saw Margret had her back to her and was hurrying from the room. And as Margret exited she quickly scooted past the imposing figure of Malcolm Cochran entering the room.
"Mr. Cochran," Lexa exclaimed, still not detecting her increasing danger, "they told me you weren't going to be here. There was a problem with the plane."
Lexa's eyes drifted past Malcolm Cochran to the doorway where Donald was standing. Just standing, filling it. Why wasn
't he bringing her luggage up?
"Give me your purse," Malcolm said.
"What? No, I need--"
He hit her, the blow landing hard, right across her face, she went flying backward landing sprawled on her stomach on the carpet. Stunned, she remained still, seeing two black shining shoes standing near her face.
"Get up," Malcolm commanded brusquely pouring cold contempt over her. He offered no assistance.
My God, Lexa's mind churned in jumbled disarray, why is he so angry, what does he think I've done? She got to her knees staggering to her feet, staring at him repellently.
"Mr. Cochran," she blinked uncomprehendingly, winded, holding her stinging face, "I... " She saw his expression. He wasn't angry at all. He was smirking, arrogance personified. For a moment she thought he was about to smile.
He enjoyed a pause before he responded.
"Lexa," he purred derisively, "I've so wanted to meet you." He had her purse, he handed it to Donald. Her cell phone was in that purse.
"I will let you get acclimated. I will be back later, we will have dinner." In almost a military gait he turned and exited the doorway shutting the door behind him. Fighting back hysteria Lexa flew to the closed door. It had no doorknob. All there was to indicate a door even existed was a crevice so tight even a piece of paper couldn't be slipped into it.
The shock of his blow was wearing off as a piercing fear swept through Lexa. She was on the third floor. If she broke the window, could she make it down? She reached for an intricately etched metal vase containing a large bouquet of flowers on the fireplace mantle to hurl it through the window. The vase didn't budge. It was bolted down. She picked up one of the table's chairs and hurled it at the window. It bounced off.
Below, in his study, Malcolm idly watched her on his monitors, amused. He wouldn't be able to starve this one he realized, she was already too skinny, she had no reserves. Pity. He could get an entire afternoon of enjoyment tying them to the bed dangling succulent bits of food over their mouths, eventually letting them desperately eat from his fingers. But no matter, he had other plans.
"Hi, Daddy," Tinka said waving to him as she walked past his study and he flicked off the monitors. "How was your day?"
"Just fine," he said. "I've closed off the third floor though."
"Another infestation?" Tinka rolled her eyes, "I don't know how the mice do it."
"Persistent little buggers," he said, "dinner?"
"I can't, did you forget? This is my week to go up to the lake. I've got to get going."
"Oh yes. I forgot."
"Will you be bored?" she teased.
"I have some diversions planned."
"Good," she said scuttling away to her room to grab her suitcase and go. The house had an ominous feel to it, like it always did when those darned mice got into the third floor, she could feel Margret's and Donald's tension --she would make a point of extending her lake visit.
Until Daddy told her the problem was eliminated.
*****
As Tinka vamoosed, Angelique was at home eating supper with Wyatt.
"But I don't understand," Angelique said, "what is it?"
"It's a check I've made out to you for five million dollars. Take it," Wyatt urged pushing the check at her across the table.
"But why would you want to give me five million dollars?"
"I told you, it's the reward the Saudis had on that guy's head. They paid it to me but it should have been paid to you, you're the one who sounded the alarm on him." Wyatt scowled. Angelique's view of money was unfathomable, she viewed it as merely a tool that if she needed, she went out and earned some. If she didn't, she did as she pleased and if that meant walking around without a penny in her purse that's what she did. It drove Wyatt crazy.
"Why do you look like my sounding the alarm on that guy was wrong?"
"That's not why I'm frowning. Do you know what it was like having to convince all those government agents that you picked that man out in the restaurant because he looked 'creepy'?"
"Well he did."
"No, baby, he didn't. That guy was a professional at not looking 'creepy.' At not looking anything. He was a man who could slip in an out of just about any country he wanted to, including this one, and no one, not even very experienced security and intelligence agents specifically looking for him would be able to spot him. But you did. And it wasn't exactly like I could tell them my wife has talents." He looked at her hopefully, like maybe an explanation might finally be forthcoming.
"They never talked to me."
"That took every lawyer I've got to pull off, Angelique. Plus a doctor who signed a very expensive affidavit that said you were 'too traumatized' for them to question. Plus Johnson pulled a few strings from his past life."
She snorted.
"Well I don't want it. It's blood money."
"You're taking it. It's yours and that's the end of it."
Angelique paused, like she was remembering something.
"Wyatt, if it's my money, then I can do anything I want with it, right?"
Oh shoot, he flinched.
"Yes. Within the law," he added hastily. "What do you want to do?"
Her face clouded as she sipped her small glass of wine --he was introducing her slowly to wine but only when they were home by themselves. She was after all, still underage. Wyatt saw that she was making some kind of decision about him. Holy Mary Mother of God, he thought, she was actually going to tell him something, something about... whoa!
What Wyatt didn't have in knowledge he certainly did have in hope.
"Wyatt, the day this all happened, do you know where I was going?" He saw that the depths of her eyes were suddenly shrouded with hidden secrets.
"No, you artfully ducked the question when I asked that morning."
"Maybe I should begin at the beginning," she said in a soft insinuating voice almost like after, there'd be no reprieve.
She definitely had his full attention. He reached out and held her hand, caressing her knuckles.
"Whatever it is, Ange, you know I'm right here. Not going anywhere."
She smiled at him. Yes, she knew that. And loved him for it.
"Robert told you about me waking up in a hospital when I was eleven, I know that."
"Is that where this all starts? When you lost your memory?"
"Yes and no. I was confused. There was a man standing over me, you've heard his name. Father Wadzniak."
"The priest you got the restraining order against."
"You did do your homework, Wyatt. Yes, him. Well, he was a priest and y'know... in that kind of a situation you just automatically sort of trust a priest."
"What did you say to him?"
"It's not what I said, it's what I did. I had certain... talents and I let him see."
"Talents I've seen?"
"No."
"Give me a hint, Ange."
"In the telekinetic family. Let's just say back then you'd never have wanted to play a game of pool with me. You would have lost."
"And now?" he prompted, amazed he'd struck this fertile stratum of honesty.
"No, not now. I've... grown out of a lot of things. But the priest, he saw. And he thought I could do magic. A lot of Catholics believe in magic."
"Well what's so awful about that?"
"They believe magic comes from only one place, Wyatt."
"Where?"
"Think horns, pitchfork and tail."
"He thought you were possessed?"
"By the big D himself. I'd been clinically dead you see, and they'd called the priest in, but then... I was brought back. So he figured that while I'd been dead--"
"You got possessed. What did he do to you?"
"He took me. To his church. Or rather the basement of his church. Or rather the sub-basement of his church. A through-a-trapdoor root cellar kind of thing. And he kept me there. He performed exorcisms on me. Oh he never hurt me physically, just the mumbo-jumbo. It was his chance to take on the devil himself, like th
rowing red meat to a Rottweiler. But he didn't believe in wasting money, when he'd leave he'd turn off the light, leave me in the dark. Lotsa spiders in that place, lotsa other scary crawly things too and they came out in the dark, in my hair, in my--"
"YOU WERE ELEVEN!"
"Yeah well, not the best of times. I fought back the only way I could. I stopped eating. But even then he didn't carry me out until I was nearly in a coma. And he didn't bring me to a hospital --that would have raised a few questions seeing as how he'd gotten himself made my legal guardian-- he brought me to a convent."
"Why a convent?"
"Because in the Catholic church, Wyatt, nuns are supposed to do what priests tell them to. He counted on that. Told them to fix me up and he would take me back. But he didn't think, nuns are women. And women are mostly hard wired to protect children. The nuns took one look at the shape I was in and by the time they were finished with him he was saying his masses standing in the mud under a tarp in Indonesia --a Moslem country! And the nuns let me stay with them. They took care of me for two years, until I was thirteen."
"What happened when you were thirteen?"
"He came back. Took him two years to do it but he did. And I... I sorta didn't react too well to that."
"What did you do?"
"Let's just say that after, the nuns held a private meeting in which they voted whether to give me all the cash they had so I could run --which meant they'd pretty much be living on bread and water for the next six months-- and the vote was unanimous."
"And that's when you became a runaway," Wyatt said.
"Yes. But he pursued me. He had the legal papers so he could get the authorities to help him."
"And that's why you accepted Ira Silverberg's offer when it came along. To get this priest off your back."
"I was desperate, Wyatt. I wanted a life. I wanted to stop running. I didn't want to end up in that root cellar again. So yes, I cut that deal with Ira, if he'd get me legally freed from Wadzniak, make sure Wadzniak couldn't come near me, I'd help him in his Singapore deal. I didn't know anything about you, I'm sorry you got hurt."
"But what's this got to do with where you were going that morning? Or this check?"
"I was going out to the convent, Wyatt. To visit the nuns. They're having a tough time. The convent is on a large piece of land, pastoral land. Very valuable land. They don't own it, it was willed to the Catholic Church over a hundred years ago but with the provision that the nuns could live there as long as they could support themselves. And they have, they make cheese and wine. But they haven't been able to keep up, technologically I mean, and the place is falling down and the operation is falling apart and they are going to lose the convent and it's their home. Mother Superior has lived there for the last fifty years, it's all they know, they don't have anywhere else to go really. The Church won't help them, it wants them to fail, 'cause then the Church gets the land and can sell it to developers."
Angelique Rising Page 12