Sapphire moved beneath her, and Gus stroked the horse's neck, giving her a congratulatory pat for having made the jump. A musty smell rose off the restless, pawing horse. It was heat and dampness from the hard ride, but the pungency of it swept Gus back to another time. It was the caustic odor of her own clawing fear when she was locked in the root cellar.
A bird called from one of the oaks across the gorge.
Ruby looked up, but Jack didn't move.
Finally, unable to stand the suspense any longer, Gus cupped her hands to her mouth. "Are you all right?" she shouted.
The last word echoed sharply through the ravine. There was no chance he hadn't heard her. but he didn't respond. It had always made her nervous when people didn't answer her. Her mother had ignored nearly everything she'd ever said, fueling Gus's ever-present fears of abandonment. Even now when people went silent on her, she was stricken with the same sense of unworthiness.
Sweat broke out on her forehead and dampened her scalp.
She could feel the unsteadiness in her lips and knew she wouldn't be able to get the words out right if she spoke again. Fortunately she didn't have to. He reached around and rubbed the back of his neck, tilting his head back and forth.
"Culhane?" She thought she'd whispered his name, but it rebounded back at her as if she'd yelled it.
He glanced over his shoulder at her, and Gus had a bizarre reaction. She was tempted to wave. The only thing that stopped her was the malevolent expression in his dark eyes. The terrifying glint reminded her of the day he kidnapped her. Only this time he had murder on his mind. Cold-blooded murder. He would have broken her neck if he could have gotten his hands on her, she was sure of that... and one other thing. There was no point trying to convince him it was an accident. She might as well have had a smoking gun in her hand. He believed she'd led him to the cliffs on purpose.
"Pssst... Bridget. " Gus peeked around the doorjamb into the sunlit kitchen, careful to keep her voice low and conceal herself as she tried to get her niece's attention.
Bridget was polishing off the last of a chocolate cupcake and a glass of milk, but her attention was riveted on Poopzie Pomerantz, Pick Up Your Feet, a children's novel about ballet that Gus had brought back from a recent trip to New York. The precocious little thing had been reading since she was three, and once Gus had found her poring over an autobiography of the prima ballerina, Gelsey Kirkland, from the mansion's library.
"Did you know Gelsey and Misha fought all the time?" she'd asked Gus that day. "She screeched at him a lot, maybe even threw things. I didn't get that far. "
She had been talking about the very turbulent, very public affair between Kirkland and Baryshnikov. Gus had known Bridget could read, but not that well. Since then she'd been supplying her charge with plenty of children's books.
Now Frances was also sitting at the table, absorbed in a cup of hot mint tea by the smell of the wafting steam—and a midmorning scap opera—but Gus was being careful to stay out of the housekeeper's eyeshot as she waved at Bridget and made little psssst noises.
She was trying to get Bridget's attention to take her to a ballet lesson, but she didn't want to be discovered by anyone else in the house, particularly Lily, who she knew was furious because she'd borrowed Sapphire. Daniel, their twentyish stable hand—who Gus had long ago realized was Lily's personal errand boy—had been very huffy with her when she'd returned the sweat-soaked horse to him. Worse, Gus was terrified that Jack might show up at any time and confirm her worst fears, that he was going to kill her with his bare hands.
Gus hesitated as Bridget looked up from the book. Blissfully unaware that she was being hailed, the child popped the last piece of cupcake in her mouth and began to blot up every last crumb from the plate. The ones she couldn't nab with her fingertip she went after with her tongue, a little pink arrow that reminded Gus uncomfortably of the lizards in the desert. Some day she would have to tell Bridget about her stay at the health spa in Death Valley. She had no doubt the child would have loved the grisly place.
Dressed in her leotards, with her wispy blond hair swept up in a tiny knot on top of her head, Bridget looked like one of the dimpled figures on the front of a Mary Engelbreit greeting card. Gus felt a surge of love just watching her. She would have laid down her life for this child. Gus had not only been instrumental in raising her, she'd protected her like a mother lion, and from the cradle on had coached her on how to protect herself. But perhaps at the same time, she'd been overly indulgent. Bridget could be headstrong at times. Those dimples of hers camouflaged a will of iron.
Frances, who had risen from the table and gone to the refrigerator, was now hovering nearby with the carton of milk. "More?" she asked. But when she attempted to top off Bridget's brimming glass, the little girl clapped her tiny hand over the rim.
"I have plenty," she told the housekeeper matter-of-factly.
"Can't you see?" If the intelligence of some adults was in question in the five-year-old's mind, Frances was clearly one of them.
Frances mumbled something unintelligible and returned the milk to the refrigerator. But Gus winced at Bridget's tone. Much as she hated admitting that Culhane might be right, she did find Bridget just a touch imperious this morning. She'd never wanted the child to be rude, just tough, a survivor.
Gus glanced at her watch and realized she was going to have to make her presence known. She stepped into the doorway and waved. "Hi, Bridge Over Troubled Waters. "
"Gus-buster!" In Bridget's haste to scramble out of the chair, she sent it flying. She sprinted toward her aunt, arms thrown wide, preparing to fling herself. Gus steeled herself for the impact. It had become their ritual, this exuberant body-slam hello.
"Ooooophhh!" Gus said as the little girl hit her like a pint-size linebacker, then clamored into her arms. Much grunting, groaning, and general noisiness ensued as Gus hoisted Bridge in the air, pretending that she was too heavy to lift.
"Too much cake, Bridgemeister. We're going to put you on a diet." But even as she laughed at that prospect, Gus thought of Jillian's emaciated body and was sad.
Bridget rolled her sparkling blue eyes. "Yeah, right," she said with all the mordant air of a stand-up comic. "Bite me.
"Hey, you, I just might." Gus squeezed her and nuzzled her neck ravenously, as if she were going to chew her up, which threw Bridget into a fit of shrieks and giggles. The child had picked the expression up on the Roseanne show and used it regularly, even though Frances was strongly disapproving.
"Let's go, Bridge," Gus urged, setting her down. Not only was she concerned about getting out of the house, but she had an important luncheon appointment right after she dropped Bridget off. "You'll be late for your lesson. Put your dishes in the sink, quick! Then grab your practice bag, and we're outta here. "
A pink canvas bag stuffed with ballet paraphernalia— dance belts, ballet slippers, leg warmers, a sweater, and Band-Aids—sat on the floor next to Bridget's chair. The child looked sincerely perplexed as she reached to pick it up.
"Why do I have to put the dishes in the sink?" she asked. "Frances will get them, won't she? Isn't that what we pay her for?"
Gus's attempt to look stern failed miserably. "The dishes, " she said. "The sink. Now. "
The little girl complied, but with a look of perplexity that said it didn't make sense not to let Frances do her job, and Gus realized that a heart-to-heart about the concept of pulling one's own weight and sharing responsibilities was overdue.
Moments later, as she and Bridget were rushing out the back door to the guest garage, where Gus kept her car, she heard someone summoning her, loudly.
"Gus! I'd like a word with you. "
The shout had come from behind her, and it stopped her in her tracks on the white gravel driveway. Mr. Quiet-but-Deadly was back from his ride. She was reluctant to turn and look, but Bridget harbored no such fears. Her hand in Gus's, she twisted around and breathed out a soft "Wow. "
Gus turned on her heel and pulled Bridget
to her protectively, thinking she might have to defend them both. Culhane was coming from the stables, and he was striding toward her with the intent of mayhem. Gus could see it by the thunderbolts in his expression.
"Boy, he looks ticked," Bridget whispered.
You don't know the half of it, Gus thought. She was wearing the equivalent of a power suit for a business luncheon later that day, and little white pebbles crunched beneath her high heels as she anchored herself. She'd never been more aware of his size in relation to hers—and the child's. He was a big man, and he looked like an angry god descending on them. His jaw was set with granite, and his focus was honed on her to the exclusion of all other life-forms.
He was clearly ticked, but at the same time Gus detected the signs of arousal she'd seen at the stream. Diamonds still glittered in the darkness of his pupils, hot with desire. Primitive, Gus thought. She'd seen language on his computer screen too technical for her limited capacity, but on a physical level, he was utterly primitive.
"Gus, what the hell were you trying to—"
Bridget stopped his question by hugging herself to Gus's waist. "If you hurt my aunt, I'll... cry. "
Gus squelched a smile. Apparently Bridget had quickly thought through the more effective strategy with this man, screams or sobs, and she'd decided on the latter. That would have been Gus's move, under the circumstances.
Culhane hesitated, confused. It seemed to have dawned on him for the first time that there was an impressionable child involved. "No, hey, don't do that, " he said brusquely, obviously alarmed at the possibility. "I'm not going to hurt anybody. I just wanted a word with your aunt. "
His gaze shot to Gus. "One word? Now."
"No can do," she told him brightly. "Bridget has to be at her ballet lesson, and I've got a... date. "
"A what?"
"Lunch," she said, waggling her fingers at him as she steered Bridget around and hustled her off at a brisk clip. Gravel crackled and flew. Gus could feel his eyes drilling holes in her back as she beat a path to the garage, and knew she shouldn't have told him her meeting was a date. Still, the flare of dark emotion that had swept through him had been something to witness. What had she seen? Jealousy? Possessiveness?
The image was still vibrant in her mind a short time later as she pulled her classic red Mercedes SL onto the freeway. Distracted by it, she forced herself to concentrate on the road. The little convertible had been her one indulgence from her modeling income, and she loved it. Every other cent had been stashed away in mutual funds to help with the capital outlay for her magazine. The start-up costs alone for a national launch were staggering. They could run into the tens of millions, which was why she'd needed her trust-fund money. Now that she had it she could do all those things she'd been dreaming about, including pouring whatever profits the magazine made into Jillian's foundation. New magazines were rarely in the black for the first few years, but Gus was optimistic.
As she merged with the oncoming traffic, Gus was aware that Bridget was observing her curiously. She'd already reassured the child that it was only a little misunderstanding between her and Jack. Nothing serious. "What's up?" she asked now.
"I thought maybe you'd like to know why Gelsey picked fights with Misha all the time. Do you? Wanna know?"
"Not really, Bridge," Gus said, quite sincerely. "But you're going to tell me anyway, aren't you?"
"She didn't think Misha loved her, and she was testing him. "
"Fascinating." Gus resorted to a time-honored distraction. With one eye on the road, she wet her thumb with her tongue and rubbed a smudge of chocolate off Bridget's chin.
"Blecch!" Bridget said, grimacing. "You used spit! I hate it when you use spit. "
"Bite me. " Gus grinned.
Bridget scrubbed at her chin, but her focus was unwavering. "Is that the way it is with you and Culhane? Are you really in love with him, and you fight all the time because you don't want him to think you care?"
Gus's heart jerked out a slowed, stubborn beat. "Honey, his name is Jack, and he and I don't fight all the time. Couples go through a period of adjustment when they're first married, that's all. We're adjusting. "
"How long will it last?"
"The marriage?"
"The period of adjustment?"
"Long enough for you to start calling him Uncle Jack."
Bridget wrinkled her nose. "I like Culhane better."
Gus was just as glad Bridget had shrugged off the Uncle
Jack reference, since she was already regretting having said it.
They were right on time for the little ballerina's lesson when Gus pulled into the parking lot of the small insurance building fifteen minutes later. Knowing she would be late for her appointment with Rob, Gus nevertheless walked with Bridget to class, which was in the building's basement, and stayed to watch her for a while, her heart aching pleasantly as she watched fifteen cherubic totlets doing their warm-up exercises.
Bridget was standing at the barre, concentrating fiercely as she did a series of demi plies in the second position. One of her hands rested lightly on the bar, the other was extended out languidly to her side, and her back was gracefully straight as she dipped down again and again, with, surprisingly, only a minor wobble here and there. It was a lovely sight.
For Gus it was a wondrous thing to see such poise and accomplishment in a child she still regarded in her heart as "my baby. " The kid's got my sense of timing, she thought proudly, even though she knew that was impossible. Bridget wasn't a blood relation, and she was as fair as any one of the Featherstones. But Gus claimed her anyway, claimed her fiercely. Bridget was hers, not theirs.
An unnatural disaster. Gus didn't know how else to describe her first official lunch as the publisher of ATTITUDE. A cloud of hostile silence hung over the corner table at Lucene's where she picked at her black-pepper roasted tuna, and Rob stared glumly at his empty glass of chardonnay. The intimate Continental restaurant was still busy with the hangover lunch crowd, even though it was approaching two o'clock. Everyone hung out there, including the Hollywood contingent, and today was no exception.
Gus was secretly fascinated with what was going on at a prime window table where the British actor, Ralph Fiennes, was being discreetly hustled by a prominent female studio head, who was apparently trying to sell him more than her movie. At another table not far away, two of the famous
Baldwin brothers were doing stupid food tricks with their eating utensils and what was left of a heaping plate of squid pasta.
Lucene's had been Rob's choice. He'd convinced Gus of the importance of "looking successful" as they mapped out plans for the magazine. He'd made a point of introducing her to several powerful producers and studio people, and he'd taken calls all through their meal, apparently to make it look as if advertisers and publicists were clamoring to track them down for space.
Gus wasn't particularly comfortable with Rob's image-making efforts, especially since she was launching a magazine that would encourage people to shuck their facades and reach inside to discover who they really were. Still, she so badly wanted the project to succeed that she probably would have gone along with anything he'd suggested. Ironic that she would have to compromise herself in order to publish a magazine about being uncompromising.
But they had seemed to be making quite an impression, even on the jaded Lucene's crowd. They'd barely been seated when a hot young Hollywood ingénue had come up and said she'd heard the buzz about the magazine. She'd then teasingly hinted that she, herself, would make a good profile, "having done battle with the toilet seat and won, " she'd said, sotto voce. Gus had assumed she'd meant a bout with an eating disorder and had promised to contact her as soon as the magazine was up and running.
Today's lunch was intended as a planning session. Rob had brought the media kit and dummy magazine issue he'd had his people make up from Gus's ideas, and later this week Gus would be signing the lease agreement for the top two floors of a high-rise bank building on Wilshire. After that sh
e would start outfitting the rooms and hiring the rest of the magazine's staff. She'd already lined up most of the top editorial and administrative positions. Fortunately, her managing editor was considered one of the best. Gus had stolen the thirtyish wunderkind right out from under Harper's Bazaar by offering him a limited partnership.
He'd seen her idea as new and hot, a way to make a bundle. but to Gus it was far more. She was looking for financial independence and a way out of haute couture, but she also saw the magazine as a forum to encourage women of all ages, types, and sizes to throw aside their fears and live their lives boldly and audaciously. For personal reasons she'd long worried about the pervasive body image crises that stalked American women and the part she, herself, might have played in that problem as a model. To that end she particularly wanted to reach younger females whose sense of self might be undermined by the double messages from Madison Avenue and the fashion industry... young women like Jillian.
Gus was staking everything she had on ATTITUDE, but if today's meeting with Rob was any indication of her odds, she was in trouble. Everything had gone swimmingly until she'd made the mistake of telling Rob about the horseback riding fiasco. "You jumped the ravine?" he'd said, his voice so sharp and hushed that heads began to turn at tables in the vicinity. "Who were you trying to kill? Him or yourself?"
Gus had been startled at the change in him, especially in so public a place. Rob Emory, spin doctor extraordinaire, didn't seem to care that people were staring and that he was acting like a jealous husband.
"We were arguing," she'd explained. "I was upset. Sapphire headed straight for the gorge, and you know how she loves to jump. I assumed Culhane wouldn't be able to follow me, which was all I was thinking about at the moment. I just wanted to get rid of him—"
Rob's expression had darkened as he gazed at her, and she'd begun to flake pieces of tuna with her fork, aware that she was dealing in half-truths and not at all sure what the whole truth was. "What did he say that could have upset you that badly?" he'd asked, and she'd made the mistake of flushing.
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