He changes gear again. “I know.”
“No, you don’t know! You thought I was perfect.”
He threads his arm to the back seat and holds onto my hand. “Perfect for me, darling. You think I want Miss Goodie-Two-Shoes? That I could relate to someone like that with my fucked-up past? I know who you are, Arielle, maybe even better than you know yourself. You’re a contradiction, a paradox, a mix of all things messy and delightful. We’ve only known each other four and a half months but you are my media naranja – my soul mate – I knew that the second I laid eyes on you.”
“The other half of the orange?” I snivel, grabbing some Kleenex from my purse and blowing my runny nose. “That Spanish expression you wrote me in your love letter?”
“That’s right. We fit perfectly together. We’re two separate orange halves that make up one whole.”
I exhale with frustration but climb forward and maneuver myself into the passenger seat so we can have a more normal conversation. All Max’s love and forgiveness still doesn’t solve the Jenny problem. This is exasperating. I feel as if I have been left to bubble and boil in Jenny and Valentina’s witches’ cauldron. With Lucifer purring away, observing the whole crazy scene.
“Well, this is all a big shock for me, I can tell you,” I say buckling up, remembering Bette Davis’s line in All About Eve, ‘Fasten your seatbelt, we’re in for a bumpy night.’ “I mean finding out about Jenny being gay, being Valentina’s girlfriend and, oh yes, P.S. Jenny is married.”
“So? You think she’s the first gay person to be married? It helps her social status, not to mention fiscal benefits. In France, being single’s expensive. It’s way more cost-effective to have a spouse.”
I glare at him. “Is that why you want to marry me, to save on tax?”
“I file in America, darling. My primary residence is New York, in case you haven’t noticed. And no, I would never marry for financial reasons, you know that. Jenny’s different – she’s obsessed with money, as you are well aware.”
“I feel grossed out. I might as well have had sex with Jenny herself. I kissed Valentina. I let her whip me!”
He looks at me for a second, still vaguely amused. “And are you over it now? Cured of your bondage curiosity? Because don’t ask me to get the handcuffs out and spank you.”
I shuffle in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position that doesn’t chafe my tender butt. “Yes, I’m over it. It hurts. No more, thank you very much, my derrière is really sore.”
His lips curve very slightly. “Good. Now can we get on with our relationship, or do you have some more sniffing about to do?”
“Are you pissed at me?”
“What I had envisioned in my obviously very boring male imagination was a little kissing between two beautiful women, some light sexual entertainment, not my fiancée being beaten with a whip by my sister’s lover.”
“Yeah, well, I regret it now, that’s for sure.”
I suddenly remember all the dirty details that Valentina shared with me about her ‘ex’ liking hairy underarms. The ‘ex’ obviously being Jenny, the ‘tigress in bed.’
“It was an experiment,” I say, excusing myself. “I wanted to beat out those nasty memories of that fateful night – wipe out my past.”
Max takes in a deep breath as if to say, Good luck.
“What, you think that’s crazy?”
“Revenge is a dish best served cold,” he replies ominously.
“What are you trying to say, Max – what are you telling me?”
“Nothing, just quoting a rather fitting line from Shakespeare – or maybe not Shakespeare at all; perhaps it’s some old Sicilian proverb.”
Sicily. Yes, come to think of it I’ve heard that expression in The Godfather – Michael Corleone talking about how his father gave him that very same advice – Revenge is a dish that tastes best when served cold. I remember what Max said to me on the phone earlier about the footballers – that he’d ‘track those fuck-heads down’ – and then I wonder, is that what he did with his father – serve him up a cold dish of revenge years later? His father’s ‘disappearance’ – a cold payback dish that Max took out of the freezer, thawed and served up when his dad was least expecting it? I’m dying to ask, but every time I mention his father, he gets riled. Now is not the moment to press him.
The car breaks smoothly to a halt. I can see the private jets clustered together a way off – Van Nuys Airport isn’t a maze like LAX. “We’ve arrived,” Max lets me know in a serious voice.
“I’m not going to Vegas.”
“Yes you are.”
“I’m not getting out of this car.”
He laughs. “Do you want me to carry you in a fireman’s lift again?”
“I’ll scream and attract attention so you’ll let me go.”
“Not a chance. I’m keeping a firm grip on you until you’ve got that ring on your finger. I’ll gag you if I have to. You want a bit of rough play, a bit of bondage? – you’ve got it, baby.”
“What good will a dead wife be to you?” I shout. “Jenny will have me ‘topped off’ as Natasha put it. Yes, that was the expression she used.”
“Natasha and Jenny get on fine – this is all ridiculous, I can’t believe Natasha called you and said that.”
I fumble in my handbag for my cell. “Right, if you don’t believe me, I’ll play you the message!” I squeal.
He pretends he hasn’t heard. “Where shall we go for our honeymoon? Anywhere in the world – you name it, baby, we can go. Costa Rica or Bora Bora. We can leave straight after the ink’s dry on our marriage certificate if you don’t fancy hanging about Vegas.”
I want to scream. Why is he ignoring me? I grapple about for my phone in my oversize bag. Where is it? “Max, why are you not listening? Your nutcase sister is going to kill me and all you’re doing is laughing and in total and utter denial! She tried to kill Natasha! Where is my goddam phone?”
“Calm down, Arielle.”
I try to unlock my car door again, but he grabs my wrists. I stamp my legs on the floor. “I will NOT calm down!” Then I fish about in my bag again and finally locate my cell. Suddenly, a brilliant idea flashes into my brain like a torchlight. I take a deep breath and say. “Okay, fine, Max. I’m coming along. I’ll be quiet and behave, but please keep an eye on me until we have gotten the hell out of Vegas. I’m scared.”
“Good girl. And don’t worry, I won’t let you out of my sight. Ready now?”
“I think my cell fell out of the side pocket of my handbag,” I lie.
“What a bummer, there’s nothing worse than losing your phone. I’ll buy you another. That one was outdated anyway.”
“Never mind,” I grumble.
He gets out of his side and quickly dashes around to open my door. I generally love that about Max; he has such gentlemanly manners; always treats me with such respect, opening doors for me – except for now, throwing me over his shoulder like I’m a little girl – ignoring my plea. He’s so dominating it worries me. Do I want to marry this man? As things stand at the moment, no, I don’t. I can just see myself lying dead in a ditch somewhere in the suburbs of Vegas or in a dumpster with a bullet through my brain, or covered in liquid cement like some Jane Doe in a CSI Las Vegas episode. Max admitted Jenny was ‘eccentric’ but he still won’t stop her mad games. And now he’s putting my life in danger! I glare at him furiously.
He helps me out of the car and puts both his hands about my waist. “Christ, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs with hooded sex-eyes, raking me up and down as if he wants to eat me alive.
“Thank you,” I mumble, bowing my head to stop his burning gaze – loathing him and loving him simultaneously.
“You’re welcome,” he says, and then takes my face in his large hands tilting my chin up and planting a firm kiss on my mouth. My heart’s racing. His devastating good looks, his flashing green eyes, his soft, dark red lips...but more than all that, the adrenaline rush of what I’m about to do...
<
br /> I break the kiss. “I really need to go to the bathroom.”
“You can go when you’re on the plane.”
“Don’t we need to go through some sort of security though?”
“Lately they’ve got a little picky – sometimes they frisk you with the metal detector thing before you board.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” I say, thinking I have metal balls inside me jiggling away. But then I remember that I took them out.
He smiles wryly. “Why, have you got a pistol on you?”
“No, just...well, I’ve got my period. I would really like to use the bathroom now before we board.”
“You’re just saying that. You’ll try to do a runner.”
“That’s one of those British expressions, isn’t it?”
“I have a feeling you’ll try and slip away, Arielle.”
“Don’t be silly,” I assure him, holding his hand and leading him to the building where some double doors are. “I just want to freshen up a bit and those airplane toilets are so squished – even on private jets – you can hardly turn around. Anyway, we have to drop the rental car keys off, don’t we?”
“All I have to do is make a call and someone will come and pick up the keys.”
“But I need to use the bathroom to clean up.”
“Alright, but don’t dawdle. This is already taking far too long.”
We find the ladies room.
“Why don’t you drop off the car keys while I go to the toilet?” I ask, knowing he’ll say no.
“Some chance. I’ll wait here.”
Max hovers outside the door, watching me suspiciously as I go in. I rush inside to have a scout about. No windows.
I come out again grimacing. “It stinks in there – half the toilets are blocked up. I need to find another.”
“Come on, this is ridiculous, just go on the plane.”
“I have blood all over me,” I hiss at him.
I march ahead, desperate to bring my plan to fruition, but it looks as if I’ll be getting on that jet, like it or not. I find a new bathroom and do a quick check over. Bingo, there’s a tiny window high up. I go over and see if I can open it. Just. It’ll be a real squeeze, but I’ll try. I search in my bag and get out what I need. All my cash and my passport. I stuff it in my jeans’ pockets. I casually come out of the ladies room. Max is standing there, legs parted in his Alpha male stance, watching my every movement. I smile nonchalantly.
I edge up close to him, fingering the expensive material of his sharp, charcoal-grey suit jacket. “You look so handsome. How come you’re wearing a suit today?”
He strokes the knuckles of my hand. “I didn’t get a chance to change. I double-backed on that meeting in Montreal, remember? Chasing about after you, Ms. Arielle Watson. But not for much longer though,” he glances at his watch, “before I make you mine. You won’t be Watson any more. Arielle...” he says, rolling his tongue around the R of Arielle... “Knight. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”
“Can’t wait,” I answer sweetly. “Hold my handbag, will you? There aren’t any hooks on the back of the doors in there. Disgusting, I hate putting my handbag on the floor with all those germs everywhere.” I give him my bag and hug him closely, slipping my hand surreptitiously into his jacket pocket until I find what I need. I distract him meanwhile with a kiss, gliding my teasing tongue along his lower lip, and then I nip him there with my teeth. I lock my eyes with his. “I love you, Max Knight, whatever happens, remember that. You’d better call the pilot and tell them we’re on our way. I’ll be a while in there, though. I need to change my panties.” I hold a ‘fresh pair’ up at him (which is, in reality, a bunch of Kleenex scrunched in my hand with his car keys inside) ...but it does the trick.
“I’ll wait over there,” he says, awkwardly handling my bag, as if it were a bomb. Why is it men find a woman’s handbag so embarrassing? But he seems relaxed now, getting out his cell phone as he makes a call.
I race into the ladies room and make a dash to the window. I climb on the toilet seat trying not to make any noise and raise my leg up, twisting and contorting myself into yogi-like positions until I am able to squeeze myself through the window. Better this than dead in Vegas, I think. It’s dark out there, and it’s hard to tell where I’m going to land. All I have is the wad of dollar bills in my front jeans’ pocket with the car key, my passport in the back pocket. My cell and everything else is in my handbag with him. There’s no point bringing any of it – he could trace the movement on my credit cards and cell phone – and would. My heart’s pounding in my chest. I’m falling headfirst, now, and manage to twist my torso back around so I land on my feet the other side. My eyes dart around to fix my location. Luckily, this airport is fairly small, and I spot the position where we parked the Mercedes. I sprint like crazy until I reach it.
I leap inside, turn on the ignition, and drive like a bat out of hell.
12
KEVIN’S APARTMENT IS up on a hill, in a beautiful tree-lined street in Pacific Heights. He and Charles live in part of a stately Edwardian house, which has been divided into three condos. His is the first floor, sporting huge bay windows that look out over the city of San Francisco. It is light and roomy, decorated impeccably, with graceful feminine furniture and walls painted in robin’s-egg blue and whites that are not white but tinged with subtle tints of ivory – worthy of a spread in a designer magazine. There are two large fireplaces and detailed crowned moldings that run around the ceiling. Dead center, an elegant crystal chandelier hangs like dripping jewels – a ‘souvenir’ that he and Charles brought back from Venice, Italy. Which is where my eyes are fixed now, as I lie on the sofa in the living room, contemplating what I should do next. It’s nine a.m. – the morning after the night before, and I still haven’t gone to bed yet.
Charles, thank God, is visiting his parents in Napa Valley, so I don’t have to make small talk with him. I’m not in the mood to make an effort with my brother’s other half and am exhausted from last night’s long drive. I look like hell, too.
I drove without stopping. At every moment I half expected to hear a helicopter above me searching with headlights for a Ms. Arielle Watson, ‘belonging to’ a certain, Mr. Max Knight. But I made it through the night. I guessed he would have suspected that I got on a plane to Costa Rica. Sorry, Dad, next time. Besides, Jenny will be expecting me to be there, and I’m too freaked out to risk it – I want to stay out of her radar. Max has called here, of course, but Kevin did a great job of sounding shocked and worried. I feel terrible, thick with guilt, but what else can I do? Kevin seems to be enjoying all the drama but thinks I’m nuts not to have snapped up the wedding opportunity in Vegas. That’s what he says but his ironic sense of humor can have you easily fooled sometimes.
Kevin minces into the living room in his pink silk pajamas. I am still in a trance, staring at that flickering crystal chandelier, which is catching beams of morning light flooding through the bay windows. He brings in two large mugs of steaming drinks –coffee for himself and cocoa for me.
He sets the mugs on the coffee table, on top of a thick book about Renaissance Art. “Just hire a bodyguard, Arielle. Get the marriage over and done with,” he says carrying on with this morning’s no-sleep conversation. I still haven’t got any shut-eye at all.
I cover my yawning mouth. “Dead in a dumpster somewhere with a ring on my finger? What good would that do?”
“As long as I’m your next of kin and can inherit half of Max’s empire,” he jokes.
I glare at him.
“Seriously, Arielle, he’s behaving like a total, control-freak asshole. Of course you can’t go through with this union as things are right now. He can’t just abduct you into marriage, that’s insane. Even I get that.”
“Yes, well, he’s a man who’s used to getting what he wants.”
“To me it screams insecurity. A man who is so hooked-up on you, so obsessed with you that it’s scary. Like you’re his possession. It won’t be long befo
re he arrives here, or sends someone – I could tell by his voice on the phone that he didn’t quite believe me when I said you weren’t here. There’s probably someone watching the front door as we speak, waiting to pounce on you. Lucky the rental car’s parked in the underground parking, anyway. I’ll warn the neighbors not to say a word.”
“He’ll think I’ve gone to Costa Rica.”
“Nuh, uh, he’s already checked all the flights out of LA and has people on the case. He said so on the phone.”
I sigh. “I feel mean and guilty. I should call and tell him where I am.”
“I bet he already knows where you are.”
“How?”
“He has a whole team of private detectives working around the clock – that’s what he told me, or warned me, more like. If you stay here, he’ll be on the front doorstep any minute now throwing you over his shoulder again and riding off into the sunset with you on his galloping black stallion.”
“You make it sound so romantic.”
“Well, it is romantic, in a way. Who wouldn’t dream of a guy so in love with you that he’s willing to take you hostage? Especially one as drop-dead gorgeous as Max. However, this psycho sister shit is no joke and I totally see, Arielle, where you’re coming from.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, she sounds like a total fruitcake. And a dangerous one at that.”
“But he just doesn’t get it. He refuses to take it seriously, just tells me that she’ll ‘get used to me’. The fact that she wheedled her way into Billy Gold’s and my movie deal doesn’t faze him at all. Max acted like I was over-reacting, and P.S. he forgot to let me in on the fact that he knew about it.”
“It sounds as if he and Jenny are so close after what happened when he was a child that no matter what she does he will always forgive her and make excuses for her until the day he dies. Blood is thicker than water, and I’m sorry, Arielle, but you are the water and she’s the blood. He’s obviously crazy about you, but he wants to have his cake and eat it too. He wants you both in his life and is juggling everything to keep it so.”
My Dark Knight Page 16