Sassa shooed Kyle off her massage table and began folding it up. "Just the ones I worry about." She leaned the folded table against the hallway wall and reached for her satchel, her air of lightheartedness suddenly gone.
"What is it?" Kyle asked, hugging the robe closer to her body, longing for the hot shower she always took after one of Sassa's sessions. She glanced at the masseuse's frowning face and felt a trickle of irritation. "You're giving me the creeps."
The older woman waited a moment before speaking. "It's that man McFarlin, the one you are seeing. He's always in the papers. This party, that party... with a tall woman on his arm..."
"His wife?" Kyle gave a harsh laugh. She ran a hand through her tousled chestnut hair. "He doesn't love her any more than she cares for him. It's just convenient."
"Then it is convenient also that he has your warm bed, eh?" Sassa glanced up quickly, hoping she had not overstepped her bounds with her best-paying client. To her relief, she saw that Kyle's countenance remained serene. The therapist bit her lip and continued. "I have a bad feeling about him. I've warned you before..."
"I know," Kyle interjected, trying to keep her tone light. "You think he's using me. I wasn't born yesterday, Sassa, and I'm not some silly twenty-year-old who's gaga over him and his billions." She paused and tilted her chin in defiance. "I enjoyed what Foster could give me, it's true, and I liked the `no strings attached' nature of our relationship. It worked for both of us." She glanced at her perfectly manicured nails and frowned. "I used him as much as he's used me, if you want to know the truth."
"You talk almost as if..."
"As if it's over between us?" Kyle gave a quick grin, raising her expertly arched eyebrows. "Yes, you little Swedish worrywart. I'm finished with Foster McFarlin, and he knows it. We had it all out last night." She rose and reached for a soft leather clutch, one of the few items out of place in the immaculate room, and opened it. Handing the masseuse a check that included a generous tip, she smiled again. "Here you go. You'll have to find something else to pester me about next week."
Sassa Jorgensen smiled. So then it isn't too late, she thought, trying to dismiss the feeling of foreboding she'd possessed since entering Kyle's condo. She nodded briskly and picked up her massage table. "I am glad," she said simply, moving down the hallway to the door. "Until next Monday, then."
Kyle locked the door behind Sassa and padded down the hallway, past the carefully chosen furnishings. She paused before an exquisite cut-glass bowl filled with water, inside of which swam a solitary goldfish.
"Hey, Buddy. How many laps are you up to today?" The scales on the fish flashed brilliantly as the little creature completed another circle, seeming to swim even faster with an audience. "Don't overdo it, huh?" Kyle opened a drawer and pulled out a small box. Was it her imagination, or did Buddy seem to notice that it was lunchtime? She pinched a small amount of the flakes and sprinkled them on the surface. Immediately, the fish streaked to the food, gobbling up a slowly sinking morsel or two and darting back down, only to repeat the process until all of it was eaten.
Kyle chuckled and replaced the box in the drawer. She'd purchased Buddy when she moved into the condo, going on two years now, and was amazed at his longevity. No fancy aquarium, no special water, and yet he seemed to be thriving in the simplest of environments. He's got straightforward-but expensive-taste in property.
The bowl had been one of her grandmother's most treasured possessions, one of the few things she'd managed to remove from her elegant Warsaw apartment while fleeing the Nazis. Kyle imagined the elderly woman's delighted expression if she'd lived to see her Lalique crystal inhabited by a goldfish. "She'd have welcomed you with open arms," Kyle said to the busy creature, who seemed to slow his swimming to ponder Kyle's words.
Warm-hearted Grandma Anna was without a doubt the biggest influence in Kyle Cameron's life. When she was five, her mother disappeared after going on a particularly long drinking binge, and in her place appeared a silver-haired angel who announced she was Kyle's grandmother. She took the entranced child to her apartment at the Sunshine Senior Home in Sarasota, Florida, and made her a snug little room out of an oversized closet. The presence of a precocious little girl, along with the excitement of duping the Sunshine staff (there were rules about roommates, and grandchildren were totally forbidden) buoyed Anna's and all the rest of the residents' spirits immeasurably. Kyle grew up surrounded by dozens of loving grandparents, always eager to assist with her homework, teach her Canasta, or read her a story. Despite her mother's disappearance and her lack of knowledge of her father, Kyle's was a blissful-if somewhat unorthodox-childhood.
Sighing at the memory of Anna Slivicki, Kyle turned on the shower and reflected on the rest of her day's schedule. Her Esperanza Shores open house at noon was first and foremost on her agenda. Following that, she had several appointments, as well as a cocktail party on the very chic St. Andrew's Isle, home of the PGA's leading golfer. She stepped into the steaming shower and pondered her wardrobe, knowing there would be no time to change once she left her condo. Professional attire was needed for most of the day, with something classy for the party. She pictured her navy blue suit with the pencil skirt. If she paired it with a cream-colored sleeveless cashmere shell and pearls, she could remove the jacket at the party and look properly elegant. I'll bring my new Marc Jacobs clutch for the cocktail party as well, she decided, beginning to wash her hair.
Everything she needed for the open house-business cards, flyers, several signs-was already stashed in her Miata. Idly she wondered who would show up on a hot July Monday. Open houses always brought out curious neighbors, eager for free food, as well as the `ladies who lunch' crowd looking for a peek into the Sunshine Coast's finest properties. On occasion, they brought out true home buyers as well, making the work, expense, and lost time worth the effort. Not only is it excellent publicity for the project, Kyle reminded herself, but it will give me something positive to report to Foster.
Kyle rinsed her hair and let her thoughts drift back to the previous night's breakup with the developer of Esperanza Shores. Neither one of them had seemed truly surprised, nor were they overly regretful. Their affair had run its course, the passion and intensity waning over the weeks as both realized there was nothing more to be gained than an hour of illicit pleasure once or twice a week. Even if he had been single, Kyle was not interested in marrying Foster McFarlin. After being wined, dined, and eventually seduced by the man, Kyle had nothing more to gain by continuing the liaison, and had gently initiated the discussion following a hop to Miami for dinner in Foster's private jet.
McFarlin had taken the news well. He seemed to share Kyle's feelings that it was time to end the relationship. He had achieved his conquest of the desirable and driven Kyle Cameron, and with that mission accomplished, had acted only too happy to part romantic ways. He agreed we'd keep our professional relationship cordial, and today will be the test.
Months before, she'd secured his business, chiefly several extremely lucrative real estate projects for which she, Kyle Cameron, was the exclusive agent. Those are what I need to safeguard at all costs.
Half an hour later, Kyle had put all thoughts of Foster McFarlin out of her mind and was dressed and ready to leave. Her makeup was expertly applied, the navy blue suit clung perfectly in all the right places, and her new purse was ready for its evening tour of duty. She glanced critically at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Her chin-length bob looked chic and smooth. But something was needed to offset the pearls ...
Her jewelry box yielded nothing satisfactory and Kyle was about to give up when she noticed a small box tucked behind some beads. With a stab of recognition, she opened the velvet lid and removed the ring inside. It was an unusual little piece: antique rose gold with four sapphires set two on either side of an old European-cut diamond. The design was unique. Rather than a circular setting, the sapphires formed a long oval that accentuated Kyle's tapered fingers. It was striking-old-fashioned, yet strangely modern
too-and never failed to elicit compliments.
Kyle slipped the ring on her little finger and thought once more of Grandma Anna. This had been her treasured cocktail ring, one of her favorite pieces of jewelery. She sighed and closed the box. Moments later she gathered up her PDA, clutch, and briefcase, and strode out the door.
Her blue Miata waited outside the condo, and Kyle noted with annoyance that it needed a wash. No time for that now, she thought as she revved the engine and sped down the streets of the develop ment. She glanced at the neighboring properties with the practiced eye of a real estate agent. Green, well-kept lawns, pedestrian-friendly sidewalks, pleasantly curved landscaping, and ample street lighting-it all added up to a feeling of well-being and security. Somerset Sound, one of Foster McFarlin's earliest projects, was aging well.
Passing by the Somerset Sound gatehouse, Kyle waved to the uniformed man on duty, who gave a friendly smile and waved back. She sped out onto the two-lane highway, cruising past a few small shopping centers, relieved to see that the late morning traffic was light. Driving through several small beach towns, she went over a causeway and onto Serenidad Key, passing a few offices and the town's post office. She smiled as she drove by the office of Near & Farr Realty. Her appointment with the firm's owner was later in the day; "cocktail hour" as Helen Near called it, and Kyle knew there would be some sort of frothy-and alcoholic-beverage waiting when she arrived.
Esperanza Shores was at the end of the key, tucked onto a gently curving swath of waterfront land McFarlin had purchased twenty years ago. Construction was nearly complete, but the project was not the blazing success its creators had hoped. Out of forty-eight condominium units, only a dozen were sold and occupied. Esperanza Plaza, in the center of the development, boasted several boutiques and a four-star restaurant-none of which were finished, much less open for business. Kyle tried not to think of the many lawsuits against McFarlin and whether she, also, would come under investigation. What was the point? Better to focus on staying positive. "Don't let your mind dwell on bad thoughts," Grandma Anna would have said. Kyle turned into the model unit and began unloading the Miata. Perhaps today's open house would mark the end of Foster McFarlin's streak of bad luck.
A House to Die For (A Darby Farr Mystery) Page 27