“Okay, you get the bags while I get started at Hertz. We got a two hour drive to Crowley, so we’ll have plenty of time to talk.”
She caught him by the arm, spinning him into her grasp. Eyes locked for a moment, then they kissed, tongues fencing a passionate duel.
Fireworks exploded in his head. They slid apart, and she said, “Just remember that when we’re in the car.”
He laughed and headed for the rental counter.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Despite Keith’s promise, they talked very little during their drive East on Interstate 10, neither apparently ready to broach the subject of their future. The scenery was unexceptional… flat bayous rimmed by southern pine, cypress and small stands of live oak.
He set the cruise control at 70 once they past Beaumont and Lake Charles, and punched buttons on the radio until he found a station playing Country ballads. The white Jaguar four-door sedan he reserved was a terrific road car.
He leaned back, trying to relax, an impossible task because Nicole had managed to snuggle against him, despite bucket seats. The heat of her body and her busily prowling fingers agitated and aroused him almost beyond bearing.
Two hours after departing Houston, Keith pulled in front of a pretty little white ranch house on the corner of Magnolia and Acadia streets, in the heart of Crowley’s “best” neighborhood. The fieldstone walkway was bracketed by variegated ginger hedges, with two poised before the three-step stoop, leading to two nine-paneled French doors.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“I asked the mayor to rent a house for us. We’re gonna spend a lot of time down here, and this is more private.”
“Cajun country isn’t exactly my idea of the High Life, buddy.”
“Yeah, but nobody’ll bother us here. We can be as open as we want. Layfayette’s only forty minutes, and New Orleans an hour and a half, so there’ll be plenty to do.”
“Okay, but how are you explaining me to the local brass?”
“Told ‘em you’re my wife. You’re Nicole Easton here.”
“Now, that’s more like it!”
One arm snaked around his neck, she attacked him with her mouth, hands and body, sending him up in flames. Jumping from the car and dragging her after him, Keith hurried across the walkway, fumbling for his keys.
“We’ll get the bags later. I need you right now, or I’ll explode!”
Her throaty laugh said he wasn’t the only one thoroughly aroused.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Dr. Feldman plopped into the wooden chair, dropping the pile of thick books he had collected onto the long table. A young woman, probably a student, glanced at him, then returned to her reading. The Research Department at the Northwestern University Library was usually busier than this, but it was a Saturday, and the kids were probably all at the football game.
Feldman sighed, glaring at the books, then shrugged and withdrew his notebook from his briefcase. He found Jack Wexler’s note and list of suggested reading. Wexler offered to dig into the French history side, but left anything happening in England and America up to Feldman. The best he could do was suggest where the doctor might look.
Feldman crosschecked the volumes he’d pulled against Wexler’s list. He had all but one, but it was enough to get started.
He drew a thick one out of the pile, studying its name; “English & Scottish Royalty Lineage: 1200 AD – 2000 AD.” He flipped it open to the Index. Unsure how to begin, research never being one of his shining skills, he started with names.
Wallace seemed pretty common, and the most frequent reference was to the Scottish noble, William Wallace, depicted in the movie, “Braveheart.”
Working down the list was arduous, filled with references and cross references for a surprising number of Dukes and Earls. It took forty minutes to scrape his way down to the Wallace clan of Devonshire.
Goosebumps tripped down his spine at the discovery: the Earls of Devonshire. Ominously, the line expired in the year 1695, with the apparent death of Charles. He was without scions, so his holdings we returned to the monarchy after his death and that of his surviving widow, Clarice.
Feldman shook as he read, his brow beaded with perspiration. The names and dates jived with Ashley’s “memories,” but the cause of Charles death was not mentioned.
He slammed the heavy book shut, sagging back in his chair, trying to gather his thoughts. Was the lovely Ms. Easton perpetuating some sort of hoax? He shook his head, groaning softly. That was snatching at twigs while being swept away by a torrent of guilt. The story he was so eager to disparage was based on facts, and he, it seemed, knew more about the history of Charles, Earl of Devonshire, than this book.
Well, he had two more to dig through on English aristocracy, plus a “Who’s Who” for Ninth Century America. He glanced at his Rolex. Less than an hour left before he had to scurry home. They were expecting company for dinner. He may relish the distraction.
Fifty minutes later, he returned the books and replaced in his briefcase a yellow, lined note pad, filed with his scrawling. He’d made some other discoveries, none of which salved his fractured conscience, but he was on his way.
Departing the library, he formulated a plan. Time to visit with Anton Krause, and with his help, maybe begin his personal search of the past.
He was no detective, but he was eager to learn more… however damning it may be.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Ashley’s high heels clickity-clacked along the light gray tiled hallway. They cypress wainscoted wall ended at a stained, wood-paneled doorway. She paused, glancing at the card in her hand, then the gold leaf lettering on an onyx plaque on the door.
Mike McNeely
Private Investigations
Still she hesitated. Should she really do this? Were things so irretrievable that she should hire a detective to spy on Keith? She shrugged and sighed. This might be the only way she would know for sure. She had no hard proof he was seeing Nicole Phillips. Did it even matter anymore? Whatever drew them together (was it ever love?) had long since evaporated.
An image of Craig flitted into her head. She flushed, her heart skipping faster.
God! How did I confuse those shallow emotions for Keith with love, when Craig makes me feel like this!
Well, it was past time to learn the truth. Rumors of Keith’s infidelities weren’t enough. The facts, ma’am. Just the facts. Nothing meaningful could ever happen with Craig, if it came to that, unless she could put Keith entirely behind her. She’d stay locked in this loveless marriage if these accusations proved false. Fight through any other problems they might have, for their children, if for no other reason. Besides, she isn’t a quitter.
Better unrequited love for Craig than a future built on perfidy. They can still be friends, but that would be it. Wonderfully, Craig felt the same. She looked at the door again, and smiling wryly, squared her shoulders. Did she really doubt the detective would find any surprises?
Entering quickly, before she could change her mind, she found herself in a small paneled reception area. Two large painting… original, well-done oils, not prints… hung on adjoining walls: one a snowy mountain scene, and the other of a doe and a buck whitetail deer, grazing in a small meadow, surrounded by majestic oaks.
Goose bumps trilled across her neck at the memory of a similar place, recently discovered. A pretty thirty-something, dark-haired woman perched behind the desk dressed in a business-like but feminine suit: Lauren Thomas, according to the plaque in front.
“May I help you?”
“I’d like to see Mr. McNeely.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Uh, no. I never thought… Craig Thornton recommended me.”
She’d been so ambivalent about coming, it never occurred to her the man might have a busy schedule.
“That’s all right.” Her smile was friendly. “Have a seat for a moment. I think Mike’ll have time to see you if you’re a friend of Craig’s.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
<
br /> Five minutes later, she was shaking hands with trim, redheaded man with hawkish nose, bracketed by two nuggets of coal for eyes. Flame-colored hair like that could only be natural… pure Irish. The room was reminiscent of her father’s offices, paneled with dark wood… cherry, she thought… with an imposing desk in the same material, neatly ordered. Two buff-colored leather chairs and a sofa clustered around a small granite inlaid coffee table.
The detective, about five-foot ten, dressed in a smart, light tan wool suit and a preppy Yale tie, was a long jump from what Ashley had expected. A Mike McNeely should be a large, beefy red-faced man, champing on a stale cigar, in a wrinkled, ill-kept suit, the desk littered with papers and empty beer cans. So much for Hollywood stereotypes.
“Thanks for seeing me without an appointment. I didn’t think...”
“Not a problem, Mrs. Easton. Luckily, I happened to have some free time. What can I do for you?” He gestured her into one of the comfortable chairs and settled in the other.
“I’m… I’m not sure. It’s probably foolish.”
“I understand. You’re uncomfortable about this, whatever it is. That’s why people come to me… to prove to themselves that they have nothing to worry about. Many times, they’re right. Sometimes, though, their concerns are real. So, why don’t you tell me about it, and we’ll see if I can help.”
“It’s… it’s my husband.” The detective made no response, so she hurried on before her resolve deserted her.
“He’s out late most every night… we don’t have sex any more… he didn’t even call until several days after I had our last child.” It was all strung together and spewed out at a machine-gun clip. She blushed and studied her shoes.
“Was he away?” The voice was gentle and understanding.
She looked up, nodding.
“His company is building a factory in Louisiana. He was there.”
“Anything else?”
“I think he has a mistress.”
“Oh? Why do you think that?”
“A friend… the wife of one of his business associates… told me. Her husband knows the woman. Has seen them together.”
“Okay. What else?”
“I’ve seen her. She’s gorgeous.”
“Do you know her name?”
“Nicole Phillips. She’s an aerobics instructor at the North Loop Fitness Center.” He jotted notes on a yellow lined pad as she talked.
“I know the place. Is that where you saw her?”
“Yes. I wanted to see the competition. She flaunted herself at me.”
“Hmmm, interesting. You think she knew who you were?”
“Looked that way.”
He leaned back, steepling his fingers under his chin. “So, what do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know! I guess I want proof. Documented proof, with photos, maybe. So I’ll have what I need if I decide to file for divorce. If he’s really cheating on me.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. Maybe a week or two, if he’s in town.”
“But he’s in Louisiana. Been there all week.”
“So, it may take a day or two longer. I get $750.00 a day, plus expenses. Probably First Class tickets to New Orleans and a rental car. One or two nights in a motel.”
She paused. Should she really do this? It seemed so tawdry, but she had to know. Things had already dragged on too long. She sighed.
“Okay. That sounds reasonable.”
“Good. I’ll need a $2,500.00 retainer. I’ll bill you for the rest when the jobs completed. I’ll need any details you can give me, including an address in Louisiana.”
“Fine. A check Okay?”
He nodded. She withdrew her check book from her purse. It was an account she started two years before, one Keith didn’t know about. No need for him to see something that might make him suspicious, in case she was only being paranoid. Otherwise, it wouldn’t matter.
Fifteen minutes later, she was heading for home, feeling as if Injun had just been lifted off her back. She’d made the first move and would soon know the facts. Either way, she could get on with her life.
She was flooded with warm stirrings, visualizing a future with Craig Thornton, pretty certain of the results of McNeely’s investigation. If she were right, her conscience would be clear. She would be leaving Keith because of his actions, not her love for Craig.
She shook her head and grimaced.
How tawdry, happy my husband is giving me a solid reason to divorce him.
She couldn’t contain her grin.
Finally, something positive to look forward to.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Keith finally unloaded the car two hours after they charged into the house, their passions twice slaked, first on the carpet just inside the front door, tearing at each other’s clothing, two wild creatures in heat. That barely completed, he scooped Nicole up, staggering into the master suite, tumbling together onto the bed.
Over the next forty minutes, she teased and aroused him almost beyond bearing, then straddling him for a raucous gallop to an explosive finish. They collapsed together, unable or unwilling to move for the next quarter-hour.
Eventually recovered, they showered, and were dressing for dinner. They’d been together for months, but Keith still couldn’t take his eyes off this raven-haired Amazon. She was totally sensual, whether naked, in lingerie, or dressed. She’d slipped into a short, backless, flowered dress, accented by the wide belts she favored, setting off her delicious curves. She twirled slowly in front of him, arms held high.
“How do I look?”
“Stupid question. You know how you look.”
“Yeah, but a girl likes to hear it.”
“You’re gonna have all the guys drooling in the plates, and you know it.”
“Well, a girl’s gotta keep her options open.”
He drew her to him, his tongue caressing her neck. “I’m your only option.”
She purred. “Ooo, that’s nice. Problem is, I’m only Mrs. Easton when we’re out of town. What about that talk we’re supposed to have?”
“What talk?”
She pulled her ear from his lips and pushed away.
“The future. Our future.”
“Look, you know I can’t stand being without you. I’m never home until Ashley’s asleep. There’s a lot of things I gotta work out. We’ve got three kids, ya know.”
He wasn’t going anywhere without those trust funds, or at least without control over the kids’ assets. Ashley wasn’t likely to give any of that willingly, especially if she learned about Nicole, so he was stymied. Be perfect if she’d fall off that damned horse and kill herself.
Nicole studied him, hands on hips, lips pursed.
“Don’t pretend you care much about those kids, Keith. That’s, pretty obvious. So what’s the deal?”
He studied his shoe tops. “It’s not that easy. I just need some time to work it out. Meantime, I’m keeping you happy, aren’t I?’
She shrugged. “Yeah, delirious.”
“Okay. Let’s eat.”
He didn’t know what else to say.
After dining on a huge plate of shucked Gulf oysters, followed by a heaping bowl of fried crawfish tails, they found a bar with a Juke Box. Three hours past, drinking wine and dancing to the mellow refrains of “The Look of Love,” played repeatedly.
Retired now for the evening, Nicole lolled in bed, but couldn’t sleep. Keith’s steady breathing told her he wasn’t having the same problem.
Something was going on with the hot-blooded Mr. Easton. Something he wasn’t telling her, and she couldn’t figure it out. He’d been with her long enough to be totally hooked, and in turn, so was she.
Keith was the first guy she ever really wanted to marry. God, what a stud! And all that money, both his and his wife’s! This was the culmination of all her dreams. So, why won’t he ditch his redheaded bitch? There had to be something else holding him there.
Time to do some research when they get back t
o Chicago. She could be patient, but would only wait so long. Keith has to shuck Ashley, one way or another. She fully intended to see that happen soon. He was only a man, and she’d never met one she couldn’t get to do her bidding, if she were determined enough.
And by God, she was getting very determined.
The winds of Fate swirled around her as she finally drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Craig Thornton teetered on the edge of the big leather chair, sun-darkened hands clutching his knees, curled like the claws of some great bird of prey, ready to swoop down on an unsuspecting quarry. He glared at some invisible target above the other man’s head. The psychiatrist’s smile was filled with compassion.
“Sit back Craig, and try to relax. What’s got you so wired?”
“Ah, shit. She was out again all night, Bruce. No explanation. No excuse. Just acted as if nothing happened. The bitch.”
“You’re angry about that?”
“Damned right. And why shouldn’t I? My wife’s openly cheating on me!”
“That would appear to be true, but that’s been going on for years. There’s nothing new in her behavior, something that you’ve been calmly resigned to in the past. What’s changed, to make you so angry now?”
“I… I don’t know. Maybe I’ve just had my fill.” He slumped back into the soft folds of the chair, limp as a deflated balloon.
“You really think so? You’ve always accepted her infidelity as a price you paid for what you felt was marrying above your social position, especially since Toni doesn’t know you’re Jewish. This anger is something new. Stop dancing in the shadows. We can’t deal with it if we can’t see it.”
“You don’t think I have a right to be mad at my wife fucking anything with two legs and a dick?”
“You know I don’t judge those things. You’ve accepted her behavior all this time. What’s changed?”
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