Desire

by Louise Bagshawe

  As Lisa talked, Sam sensed her weariness. Not just with the drive, but with the story she was telling. What did he want to know? The months turned into one year, then two, and now Josh was asking her to quit the fake flower job and move in. His family and female friends hated her and let her know it. Would they hate any girlfriend? Maybe, she could not be sure. But she was outside the box, even styled by Josh. She ate red meat, she swore and she drank; she was pretty, but not stunning; she was utterly incapable of feigning interest in charity balls or trophy wife fashion shows in aid of the cause of the week.

  Josh himself, she drifted in and out of love with. At least, she thought it was love. Maybe it was just attraction and gratitude. He never denied her anything, and when he started spending time away from home, Lisa thought he was just giving her space. The rumours were there, about actresses, hookers, but she chose to ignore them. Sam could judge her if he liked, she said. Life was comfortable and she was settled. It was tough mustering up enough outrage to rock the boat.

  Plus, her rebel side had sprung to the fore. The American tabloid press adored her at first, when she was the beat-up waitress rescued by the prince on the shining charger. Only they expected Josh to dump her too. When he didn’t, and Lisa wouldn’t talk to them, they turned; all of a sudden she was a sponge, a gold-digger, a loser. Why was some no-talent Limey walking off with Hollywood’s hottest bachelor? What was wrong with Elizabeth? Or Mariah? Or Elise? Lisa Costello wasn’t that hot, and she had no past. They didn’t like her. They printed his female friends’ comments, off the record, of course, slamming everything about her from her eyebrow wax to her language. And at home, Josh’s mother and sister, both divorcees, both living off Josh, made it clear to Lisa that they just wanted her to go away. When Josh was supposedly catting around, they smirked; they waited for her to cry, to flounce out.

  So she dug in her heels, even after the relationship was dead.

  And two months after that, her mogul actually proposed.

  He changed, Lisa told Sam, once the ring was on her finger. It was a heavy rock, an eight-carat flawless diamond set in platinum and white Welsh gold. Always dominant, he had started to watch her much more carefully, to prescribe her outings, to send his assistants around to chaperone her. It was like marrying into the royal family or something, she said. She was to be Mrs Steen now, the only one he’d actually married, and there was no pre-nup, because to Josh that meant he’d conceded defeat - something he never did. As a result, his control grew stronger, his grip tighter. The things he used to love about her now bugged him. Lisa wasn’t to swear, she wasn’t to drink.

  It threw her. She wanted to marry him - she wanted to be settled, wanted a family. Wanted some standing to back her up with those hanger-on bitches from his family. She’d wanted to stick it to the press. She blushed when she said that, but Sam nodded; it was a petty motivation to marry, sure, but wasn’t that what all people were like, how all people thought?

  Nobody was pure. And Lisa was honest.

  So, she went on, what could she do? She got angrier, and time went on, and now he was having her do interviews and booking the estate in Thailand, and all of a sudden Lisa was scouring her old cell phone to find numbers for friends she’d left behind, all those years back. Just so she wasn’t totally alone. It was terrifying, she said, when it came down to it, how she’d dropped all her American friends when she hooked up with Josh and hadn’t kept up with the English ones. Yeah, she knew she was to blame. But it wasn’t intentional. It just happened. Living with Josh Steen was like falling into a river; you could doggy-paddle a little, do whatever you wanted to do, but the current swept you forwards inexorably.

  The wedding was the end, though. His control-freakishness moved into high gear. She felt bullied, harassed and trapped over all the arrangements, from the venue to the minister. She had already decided to leave him. The press interest was nuts; she was turning into a cartoon version of herself, and it sucked. She had even considered going back to England.

  ‘So why? Why didn’t you give him back the ring?’

  Lisa tossed her head. ‘You want a nice pat answer? There isn’t one.’

  ‘Try for a complicated one. I need to know. A prosecutor would ask.’

  ‘The wedding got closer, he was spending all this money. Everybody was going out there. His partners. The studio boss. All his friends, their wives. People like you, hacks on the payroll.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Cap fits,’ she said cruelly. ‘And I didn’t want to do that to him. I owed him, you know? He saved me, he hired me, he looked after me. He was the only long-term guy I’ve ever been with. But I knew he was cheating. I was going to go through with the wedding and divorce him, after a decent interval, let’s say six months. Nothing humiliating.’

  ‘That changed on the day?’

  ‘Yeah. It did. He fucked Melissa. And she was one of my fake friends. The wife of a studio exec who did a lot of business with him, so somebody he’d send round to the house to work out with me or get our nails done. Man, I didn’t like Melissa. She wanted him and she was blatant about it.’

  ‘But she was married, you said.’

  Lisa laughed. ‘Sam, she wanted to upgrade. And I was going to leave Josh anyway, so none of it would have mattered. But he did it in the open, on my wedding day, and he let people see and they laughed at me. I don’t know. That day I felt I’d have been better off in the goddamn diner. I was enraged. The stupid wedding - I was doing it for him, going through it only for him. And then he pulls this crap.’

  ‘You wanted to hurt him?’

  ‘By making a scene. Nothing in the world he hated more. Hell, remember how he picked me up in the first place. She made a scene, and all of a sudden she was just gone.’

  ‘So no stabbing?’

  ‘Drunk, short girl, one hundred and thirty pounds; tall, sober male, two hundred pounds. You tell me.’ Lisa exhaled. ‘So that’s it and that’s all, the saga of my life. Did it help?’

  Sam thought about it. ‘Yes. But I’m going to need more. Not about you. The mother and sister, the business partner.’

  Lisa’s shoulders tensed up against the seat.

  ‘Tomorrow will be soon enough,’ he said.

  He’d have to get more out of her. Somewhere in her life there was the clue. The person who’d hired the killer. Sam was nowhere near finding that guy yet. And the more the whole thing percolated through his mind, the more he sensed the terrible danger Lisa was in.

  The assassin had assumed Lisa would take the fall. Only she’d gotten away. And she could make a case that she was innocent. That meant they’d start looking elsewhere. If I was the killer, Sam thought, I’d want her gone. No trial - just execution. Lisa didn’t have any of Josh Steen’s money or resources. And she was being hunted, right now. By far worse people than Interpol or the FBI.

  She was brave, and she was smart. That’s how she’d gotten away. But nobody could run for ever. If Sam couldn’t save her from this man, these men, she was also dead.

  It would do no good to hammer her more tonight. She was exhausted, and he was tired himself. He needed to be alert and focused on what she was telling him.

  The sign in front of them read Trentino. There were other things in Italian. Servizio. She murmured to herself, trying out the words.

  ‘You want to stop?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and the word was a long sigh. ‘We’ve been doing this for hours. I want to get out, stretch my legs.’

  ‘It’s real late. I won’t take you over the border. We’ll stop, get into bed. There’s a motel coming up here.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I want you to act sloppy, like you’re a little drunk.’

  She nodded, and Sam had to stop himself from reaching across the car, putting his hand around the back of her neck, and kissing her, deep and hard. He was sorry for the dead movie guy, but he was one hell of a fool.

  ‘And you have to be all over me.’ He laid it out for her, as detached as he c
ould manage. ‘Maybe not a hooker, just some drunk chick I picked up on the road. They won’t ask questions. Don’t be obvious.’

  ‘Be all over you without being obvious. Sure.’

  ‘Smartass,’ he said. ‘Think about the kind of people they get in motels. It ain’t husband and wife and two point four kids. It’s truckers and students and hookers with johns. You want to be just one of them. You do not want to be noticed.’ He looked at her. ‘You’ve been thinking about this stuff on the road, am I right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then just keep it up.’

  The sign for the motel came up ahead of them, bright yellow and neon blue in the darkness. Sam turned the car into the lot easily enough, and got out. He swung his suitcase into his left hand and locked her backpack in the trunk.

  ‘Hookers don’t have luggage,’ he explained. ‘You can borrow some shit from me.’

  ‘OK,’ Lisa agreed.

  She followed him through the parking lot. Stumbling like a drunk was easy enough; her legs were cramped from hours in the car, and she clutched at his strong arm like he was the only thing that could save her - which, of course, he was.

  ‘Baby,’ she murmured in his ear.

  ‘Cara,’ he said, and chuckled. ‘Just like that. Great. You wearing perfume?’

  She blushed. ‘Just the shampoo scent on my hair.’

  ‘It smells great. Come on.’

  He led her forwards into the lobby of the motel. It was clean enough, maybe, but the paint was dingy, and the receptionists were smoking, and she could see stains on the carpet.

  ‘Vorrei una camera, per favore.’

  The night clerk leered at them. ‘Matrimoniale?’

  Sam laughed. ‘Una doppia, allora.’

  The clerk turned and went to the back wall. Little keys were hanging on hooks, the old-fashioned kind that used locks, not swipe cards; Lisa could already imagine just what this room would be like.

  ‘Trentacinque.’ He took the notes, then paused, looking at Lisa suspiciously. Her heart leapt into her mouth, her pulse started to race. She could feel Sam Murray’s strong hand tighten around her waist; he splayed his fingers across her ribcage, just to calm her, she thought, to remind her of her part.

  She had to hide the fear. She buried her face in Sam’s neck, licking and kissing at it.

  ‘Non è italiano?’ the guy was asking. Oh God. He was going to want ID. Her ID. The one that was stopped by Interpol.

  ‘Sono americano - e ho appena incontrato questa ragazza stasera.’ She could feel Sam fumbling around with his wallet. ‘Ho fretta - ecco, dieci per Lei.’

  ‘Bene.’ The rasp of the metal key slid across the desk.

  ‘Come on, baby,’ murmured Sam, ‘let’s get you inside, get you into something more comfortable. Like the shower.’ He was laughing lasciviously, and she stumbled behind him, still kissing, running her hands up his back, afraid to take her face away from his neck and shoulder.

  Pity she couldn’t hide like that for ever. The thought came to her that hiding away for ever would not be that bad, if she was buried in Sam Murray’s skin . . .

  God almighty, stop that. She hadn’t known the man a day. Last week she was engaged; her husband was a brutalised corpse. Ashamed of herself, she pulled back. They were standing in a corridor, dark-brown carpet, torn paper on the walls, heading towards a fire escape.

  ‘It’s here.’ He stopped outside Room 35 and opened the door deftly. ‘After you, sugar.’

  Lisa rushed in. Sam was behind her; then he shut the door and put the chain on the lock, throwing his suitcase on the bed. Lisa looked at the chain doubtfully. It seemed very fragile, like it would give with a single push from a strong shoulder.

  ‘You’re right. It sucks. But we won’t be staying here, and I paid in cash. The only way they know we’re here is if you were trailed from Rome. Which I doubt, since then you’d be dead or in jail.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ She sat on the end of the bed and shivered. Sam unzipped his case and busied himself with the clothes; he handed her a T-shirt and a pair of men’s boxer shorts.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m sorry I don’t have any gowns. Wanted to travel light.’

  ‘Me too,’ Lisa said, and tried to smile.

  ‘Hey.’ He moved around the cramped little room. The double bed took up almost all the space; there was a wardrobe with its door a little loose on its hinges, and a small space between that and the shower room, and that was about all. ‘Don’t shake like that, eh? I preferred it when you were kissing me.’

  She lifted her eyes, but his expression was unreadable. Thank God he doesn’t know what I’m thinking, Lisa told herself. The idea that he should read her desire was unbearable.

  She ran a hand over her forehead. It felt weird with her long nails cut short; better. At least she wasn’t catching her hair any more.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she muttered. ‘I got a bit carried away with that whole disguise.’

  ‘Don’t be. You were perfect.’ He opened his mouth to say something else, then trod on it. What? That she was born to do it? Was Sam Murray scared she’d take offence if he implied she was a gold-digger?

  ‘I’m under a lot of stress,’ she said.

  He smiled. ‘That I can believe.’

  ‘Josh and I hadn’t had a good relationship for quite some time.’ Why the hell was she explaining herself to this man? ‘It wasn’t just that he fucked Melissa. There were others . . . I thought. On our wedding day, we hadn’t had sex for almost two months. He didn’t push it and I was bitter. Besides, I knew he was getting it someplace else.’

  ‘Otherwise he’d come to you?’

  ‘Josh was never shy about that. He loved me, in his way - at first. But in the same way you love your favourite horse, or the best painting in your art collection. He loved me like a thing he owned. Sex was part of what I was for.’

  Sam sat on the other corner of the bed and regarded her mildly. She was somewhat impressed. The guy didn’t buy a line of bullshit very easily.

  ‘It’s part of what every woman is for.’

  ‘Not every woman.’

  ‘Not a nun. But every married woman. I don’t think you can hang the guy for that.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ she snapped.

  Sam lifted his hands. ‘Figure of speech, ma’am. So did you ever go to him?’

  Lisa blushed. ‘That’s a little personal, isn’t it?’

  ‘Hey, you started it.’ A shrug. ‘Want my advice, you should talk it all out. Something might come up you can use to catch who did this. I mean, you’re kind of past modesty at this point.’

  She swallowed painfully. ‘Uh - yeah. OK. No. I never went to him. He did it all.’

  ‘Why not? Didn’t you desire him?’

  ‘With Josh, it was always a performance test. I tried not to say no to him. He was a hard guy to turn down, whatever the question.’ She paused. ‘Maybe I didn’t really desire him. His power, his wealth . . . I’d never had a serious boyfriend . . . you know, I felt who was I to turn down the knight in shining armour? Cinderella doesn’t get to say, you know what, I think I’ll skip the ball.’

  Sam laughed aloud. ‘You’re a funny chick.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said drily. ‘I think I’ll go take a shower. Quit while I’m ahead.’

  She picked up his T-shirt and boxers and took them with her towards the bathroom. There was no question of concealment if you relied on an Italian hotel towel, usually no bigger than a bathmat and just about as scratchy. She’d towel off and get dressed inside. With a sense of relief, she moved into the small bathroom and bolted the door.

  It felt dangerous to be in the same room as Sam.

  He sat on the bed, watching the little white door that she had closed. There was the sound of water hissing into the shower tray, and it was easy to imagine her peeling off those clothes, standing there nude, rinsing away the dust and strain of the journey.

  Damn. Think about something else.

&nb
sp; It was harder than it sounded. Sam could not get that memory out of his head. Her lips, so soft, round, pressing against his skin. Her slim frame leaning on his back, his arm. Her heart pumping. Fear? Or something else as well?

  Was she attracted to him? He was just a beat-up guy fooling himself. This girl was used to the finest of everything. If she did get cleared of this murder, somehow, she’d be famous, a world celebrity; she’d be an innocent victim who could have any guy she wanted.

  But his blood told him she wanted him.

  Maybe she did. But that was natural. This was a high-octane situation. She was exhausted, and she’d been sick of Josh Steen before he died. If that was the truth about two months . . . wouldn’t she be craving a man?

  Girls weren’t like men, though. They could go without it. He was ready to go down the gym and smash the hell out of some punchbag with frustration . . .

  Look, Sam, if you touch this girl, you’re a dead man walking. You know what fucking her would do? It would give the cops a motive for aiding and abetting. He shook his head, and winced a little at the idea. Lisa Costello wasn’t like that, she wasn’t some easy lay, some one-night stand. Men did not forget a chick like her. Sam had dated seriously a few times in his life; various women, always pretty, always clever. He’d blown it every time. They thought it was because he didn’t like them; it was really because he didn’t much like himself.