Before she could move, he was on top of her. She could feel the hard rod pulsing against her thigh.
“Charity,” he said huskily, “I’m going to take you now, from behind, and I’m going to scream in ecstasy. Up on your knees.” She obeyed. “Spread your thighs.” She did. “I’m coming in.”
He held her hips and slowly, inch by inch, drove in. She began to sway from side to side, letting his penis scrape the inner walls of her vagina. He pistoned forward and back, occupying her body. One hand let go and gave her bottom a light slap, then moved up to roll her nipple between thumb and forefinger. Her orgasm flicked at her, beckoning her down the slippery slope to nirvana. She ran joyously, unrepentantly, toward it.
“I’m coming, Charity. I’m coming,” he panted. He fell to one side, her breast still in his grip.
When she’d caught her breath, she said, “You didn’t scream.”
“Next time. Next time we’ll both scream.”
“What did you do with the food?”
Rancor, who was busy suckling one of her breasts, said, his voice muffled, “Left it on the kitchen table.”
“Was it hot?”
“Not as hot as I was.” She heaved him off and stood up. A wave of vertigo hit her, and she stumbled. He sniggered. “Blood must be concentrated elsewhere.”
She started to pull the muumuu over her head but dropped it and instead got a long black lace negligee from her closet. As she tied it, he murmured, “Much better. Come here.”
“Not now. I’m hungry.” She went in search of the bag. It held three plastic cartons. In the first she found a large salad. The other two contained a brochette of grilled shrimp on a bed of wild rice and filet beans, and a bacon cheeseburger with fries. “Which one’s mine?”
“The fattening one.” He came out of the bedroom pulling on his pants to find her pinching a shrimp off the skewer. “Hey!”
“What?”
“Women.” Grumbling, he stuck the roses in a glass and filled it with water. “You’re welcome for the flowers.”
“Thank you.” She aimed for meek but only managed mild. I’ll try again after I’ve eaten. She finished off the shrimp, sat back, and patted her stomach. “The roses are lovely. Now, where have you been?”
He blew out his cheeks. “It’s been hell. I’ve spent the last four days with Isabella hanging onto one limb or another. She’s like a limpet.”
Charity liked what she heard. “Goddesses can be so cloying, can’t they? Is that all you were doing?”
“As I assumed you knew, we were trying to track Finney down. No dice. Very vexing. Each time Isabella located him, he had just flown the coop—no, that’s not right. He’d…uh…what does the fox do? Go to ground. He’d gone to ground. That’s it.”
“You’re sure it’s not ‘going to the mattresses’?”
“Don’t be absurd, only humans do that. Well, if you want to call mobsters human. Animals don’t have mattresses…Where was I?”
“Hunting.”
“Yes. You know, it’s curious how often and quickly he managed to elude us. It was almost as though…no.”
“What?”
He doused the French fries with ketchup. “Almost as though he were watching us or had some kind of GPS to keep him one step ahead of us. We got wind of him in New York at the Princeton Club, but by dinner time he was gone. Isabella picked up his trail on Amtrak—she knows the webmaster—but he disappeared from Union Station in Washington. He popped up at various spots in the District, then just as we homed in on him, he went off the screen.”
She took a swig of beer. “Are you trying to do all this from here?”
“Well, yes. I don’t have the money—and neither does Isabella—to go traipsing all over the mid-Atlantic.”
Charity had a vision of a red Lamborghini and begged to differ. She tried a different tack. “Have you decided yet what you’ll do with him when you nab him?”
Rancor stopped, a French fry dangling from his lips. “Um. Er.”
“Let me ask you this: can you prove he stole your manuscripts?”
“Um. Er.”
Exasperation coloring her voice, she ground out, “Are you sure he was even in all those places?”
He swallowed the French fry. “Isabella—”
“Huh. It’s just possible that Isabella is using you. Maybe she’s in it with Finney.”
“Are you nuts? Number one, she’s out of a job because of his shenanigans. And number two, he’s this little rabbity cat with all of three strands of bleached hair and a nose that could suck up the Indian Ocean.”
“Women aren’t as fixated on looks as men are.”
“Oh yeah? Then what do you see in me?”
She started to laugh, then noticed the rather hopeless look in his eyes. Rancor Bass with low self-esteem? Nah. She opened another bottle. “Actually, you’re a passable writer. I like that in a man.” She knew—as all writers do—that such a compliment was more gratifying than anything else she could have said. Besides, with a personality that needs so much work, it’s the only good quality I can dredge up.
His eyes crinkled with pleasure. “Bless you.” He reached over and stole the last bean. “So what do we do now?”
“I propose we leave the lamentable Finney aside for now. You have another job.”
“I already serviced you. You want more?”
“Maybe later. First, you must get back to the ghost book. According to George, Mr. Mickenbacker is about to explode. He had set a release date of March 1.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Maybe not, but how do you plan to break the news to the boss?”
“I’ll give Arlo a call. Fill him in on the spectral occurrences in London. Soothe the savage breast with visions of Volume Two—Phantoms in London Town.”
Charity drained her glass and reflected that it really wasn’t her problem. “Good luck with that. Say, did you hear the police have closed the case on our skeleton?”
Rancor stared at her. “God, I hope not.”
“They are positive it’s Biddlesworth, killed by Calvin Hagen.”
“What sealed the deal?”
“He had had his wisdom teeth removed prior to death. That, and the missing person report. Oh, and the fluid in his lungs.”
“All circumstantial. Lots of people have their wisdom teeth out.”
“The yacht found empty, floating in the bay?”
“He could have fallen overboard and drowned. The idea that Hagen would drag him out and bury him elsewhere is daft.”
“Nonetheless, the Sarasota sheriff has washed his hands of it.”
“Nitwit.” He stood. “Where’s your phone?”
“Over there. Why?”
“I’m going to call Aunt Gertrude.”
“It’s a bit late.”
“Doesn’t matter. Auntie is one of those who eats supper at five, then stays up until midnight complaining about the younger generation. Although…” He checked his watch. “It is almost nine o’clock. Another one of those old-fashioned rules that sticks with you.”
“No telephone calls after nine?”
“That’s the one. I guess”—he dropped an arm on her shoulders—“we might as well wait until tomorrow morning. Ready for another round?”
She wiggled out from under him. “How about a nice walk on the beach?”
He sighed loudly. “All right.”
She threw on a shift, and they took the stairs to the beach. They strolled south, listening to the waves slap on the sandbar and pointing out constellations to each other. Rancor pulled a protesting Charity down on the sand, and they sat in the surf, letting the water ripple over their feet. She asked idly, “So what is the delightful Isabella doing tonight, and how did you disencumber yourself from her clinging arms?”
He stiffened. “We…um…had a slight tiff.”
Charity perked up. “Oh, too bad.”
“She heard the Finney man had spread his wings and flown to Albuquerque. I said, ‘Wha
t rubbish,’ and she said, ‘Oh yeah? I’ll just go down there and find him myself,’ and I said, ‘More power to you,’ or some less idiomatic and more imaginative expression. She flounced out of her hotel room.”
Charity, who had dozed off during the recital, woke up at the last words. “Rancor, were you staying with her?”
“Me?” He laid a virtuous hand on his breast. “Of course not. I’ve been enduring endless wet, empty, cold nights in Hernando’s hideaway.”
“Sleeping on the beach again?”
“I spent all I had on tonight’s dinner, if you must know. The last of the bail money.”
“What?”
“Oh,” he remarked much too casually, “turns out they returned the five hundred when the charges were dropped. I felt it necessary to retain the cash to cover my expenses. I will pay you back.”
“Rancor, I’m not made of money, you know.”
He took her ear between finger and thumb. “No, ma’am. You’re made of warm, quivering, sucking flesh. Thank God.”
“Why didn’t you borrow some from Isabella?”
“I told you—she’s as broke as I am. And if you’re wondering about the Lamborghini, it’s a rental.”
Sure. And I’m Dorothy of Oz.
He stood. “Shall we hence?”
Not in the mood for a fight, she took his hand and they went home. The rest of the evening played out rather athletically.
The next morning Charity woke to hear Rancor talking. “Yes, Auntie, it is indeed me again. No, Auntie, I did not reverse the charges. Yes, Auntie, I am now gainfully employed. Aunt Gertrude? I had another question about my grandfather, if you can answer it…Yes, of course you know everything there is to know about your father…Yes, the Basses are indeed fortunate to have someone as dedicated to maintaining the family history as you are…Yes, I’ll wait while you finish your toast…”
Charity pulled her robe on and stood by the door listening.
“Are you comfortable? Properly fed? Great. So, did Grandfather have all his teeth? No, I didn’t mean it as an insult. Yes, I’m aware we were well enough off to afford good dental care…you do? I never would have guessed. They look so natural. You’re welcome. About Grandfather…ah. Thank you. Yes, I’ll be up at Christmas. I love you too.” He hung up and turned to Charity. “Robert Bass III had his wisdom teeth removed when he was a sophomore in college.”
Chapter Twelve
There’s One in Every Family
“So what?”
“So, it’s idiotic to halt the police investigation when there’s at least one other possible victim out there.”
“Your grandfather.” She touched his cheek. “You’d love to have that cleared up, wouldn’t you?”
“I admit it would be a consolation to my family to know that Robert Three was not a deadbeat.”
“Would it be better to know he was murdered?”
His mouth twisted in a wry grin. “Well, I guess when you put it like that. After all, his wife is no longer alive. She’s the only one it would really affect.” He walked out to the balcony and leaned his elbows on the railing.
She followed him. The gulf lay calm and collected under the hot sun. A great blue heron stood at the tide’s edge, staring intently, taut with hunger. In a lightning-quick move that made Charity jump, he stabbed into the water, coming up with a minnow that flashed in the sun. “It would wipe out the stain on your family’s honor.”
“Yes.” He smacked his palms on the balustrade. “I’m going to Maine.”
“Now?” So soon? “You just got home…I mean here.”
“Aren’t you coming with me?”
“Rancor, apparently unlike you, I have to show up at my job. I can’t keep prancing around the globe whenever I feel like it. Isn’t Publix expecting you to appear one of these days?” When he didn’t answer, she added, “Come to think of it—you have another responsibility, and the big boss is getting antsy to see something.”
“Arlo? I gave him a buzz before I called Aunt Gertrude. He’s sanguine.”
“What does that mean?”
“Check your dictionary. Oh, you’re not asking about the word itself? Arlo’s fine. I told him Atalanta was making noises about switching publishers for her military romance series, and he couldn’t get off the phone fast enough.” He went back inside. “Hmm…I’d better take that one good jacket. Aunt Gertrude is quite formal.” His handsome brow furrowed. “Now, how to devise the best approach to get her to buy me some clothes?”
“What about your parents?”
“My parents? They couldn’t talk her into anything…Oh, ask them? No good. As the sixth of six children with their hands perpetually out, my father has become immune to advances, and my mother would be devastated to discover my current financial difficulties. She’d only cry. On second thought, you’d better not come.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good, then we’re agreed. I can schmooze Gertrude better alone.”
“And what about the frabjous Isabella? Is she still in Albuquerque?”
“No. Evidently it was a false alarm. Finney must have a doppelganger. So she hared off to New York to visit Guttersnipe.”
“And that’s how you came to have all this time with me?”
He looked at her gravely. “I sent her.”
“Oh.”
He picked up her cell phone and waved a hand at her. “Get us some breakfast, there’s a dear.” He started to dial.
Blessing him for making it easy to watch him go, she made eggs and toast for herself. When he entered the kitchen he looked around, puzzled. “Where’s my food?”
She pointed mutely at the eggs, bread, and juice container sitting on the counter.
“Ah, I see. The silent treatment. Just because I’m going to abandon you for a day or two. I’ll make it up to you when I return. Let’s see…” He went down on one knee. “I could propose.” He stood up again, grinning. “Nah. I’ll save that for when you’re really mad at me.”
Charity, completely confounded, couldn’t think of a suitable reply, so she concentrated on her eggs. After a while, he said, “Can you take me to the airport in an hour?”
“Sarasota-Bradenton?”
“No, St. Pete. I’m taking Allegiant to Bangor.”
Sigh.
She saw him off and took the long way around so she didn’t have to brave the Sunshine Skyway Bridge a second time. The bridge, soaring high over Tampa Bay, was indeed a remarkable piece of engineering but terrifying to drive over. Charity felt completely exposed to the wind, positive that at any moment a gust would push her little car right off the road and down, down, down the nearly two hundred feet to the cold depths below.
By the time she got home, it was late afternoon, so she picked up a grouper sandwich from Milton’s and settled down to a movie.
She should have tossed and turned all night, but instead she awoke restored and reinvigorated at nine the next morning. She watched several news programs, went to the beach for two hours, and took a nap. No word from Rancor, but she didn’t expect to hear from him until he needed another ride.
Sunday, she was up bright and early and walked to the Planet offices.
“Have a nice break?” George was in a good mood. “Mr. Mickenbacker called to say Bass was off doing research and not to bother him until he has enough to start writing.” He ran a hand over his bald head. “That man is the biggest fool on the planet.”
“Which one?”
“Take your pick. What are you working on?”
“Well, I thought I’d write up the conclusion of the police investigation on the skeleton.”
George rubbed his chin. “I think they’re being a bit hasty, but I guess it’s no big deal since the crime is over eighty years old.”
“He was still murdered.”
“Good point. Do you want to start a campaign to have the case reopened?” His eyes shone with the fervor of a true crusading publisher.
“Not really.” Charity went to wor
k on the article, tossing it on George’s desk three hours later.
“Excellent. Now this evening, I want you to cover Our Lady Queen of the Sea’s Spring Ball.”
“Okay. Any dress requirement?”
“I believe it’s a Roaring Twenties theme.”
“Great. I can finally pull my fringe dress out of mothballs.”
“And you might want to cut off that braid and have your hair bobbed.”
Charity went home and fixed herself a sandwich. According to the church’s website, the dance didn’t start until eight o’clock. At loose ends, she wandered the apartment. What to do? Rancor’s shirt, neatly folded on the bureau, caught her eye. That’s it. I’ll look up this Finney person. Get some background. It would keep her occupied while she waited for word.
She booted up her computer. “Let’s see…what was his first name? Can’t remember.” She typed “Finney publisher” in the search box. A list came up. Sprinkled among the ads, the coupons, and the death notices were three publishers—one in New York, one in Boston, and one in Seattle. She clicked on the New York link.
Xavier Finney, multimillionaire publisher of pornography. Assets include a television production studio (located on Fire Island, MA), and Alternate Routes, a magazine dedicated to LGBT and BDSM literature. A small book-publishing operation produces five titles a year, including such best sellers as Men Are Drones and Two Years Tied to a Mast. He has published two novels by the well-known erotica writer Atalanta L’Amour under the pen name Vic Whippersnapper.
It gave the address of the headquarters as 44 Lexington Avenue, New York, New York.
“Hmm. Could be him. There’s at least one connection.” She clicked on the next name.
Wagstaff Finney, 2 Copley Plaza, Boston. Publishes The Nose, a magazine dedicated to fine wines and their owners. Known to his friends as Waggles, Finney is a ninth-generation Boston Brahmin and lives in the house on Beacon Hill his great-great-great-great-grandfather Artemis Crowninshield built. The surname of Finney still elicits some misgivings among the establishment, but the family claims they adopted it two generations earlier as a gesture of goodwill to Mayor Curley and to ensure diversity in the class of 1932 at Harvard. The Finney family continues to be a leading light in the Massachusetts Democrat Party.
The Pit and the Passion Page 17