by Sandra Hill
“No problem, sweetheart.”
She smiled and wobbled away from him.
When she got back, Gabe remarked, “He watched your ass when you walked away.”
“Pfff! Everyone looks at my ass.” Her butt might be the bane of her life, but Simone wasn’t above using it when necessary.
Now, it was time to put their plan into action. She and Gabe had already discussed this possible scenario. What would make Pitot think that she and Gabe would go for their group antics? Well, one thing would be an interest shown by either of the married partners in other men or women. That’s where they would start. Gabe got up and went to the bar, leaving her alone. Soon he was chatting up a woman, clearly establishing that he was a man with interests beyond his wife.
To her surprise, Pitot’s mistress came over and sat down beside her. “Hello. I’m Caroline Bannon.”
“Hi. I’m Diane Storm.”
Caroline put a hand on Simone’s arm. “I saw you sitting alone and thought I’d keep you company till your husband returns.” She let her hand remain when Simone made no protest at the familiarity.
“How nice of you! We’re new in town and don’t know anybody.” Simone gave a little moue of girlish disappointment.
“Well, that’s easily fixed,” Caroline said and motioned for the waiter, ordering two glasses of wine, whatever Simone had been drinking.
They both took several sips.
Simone glanced over to Pitot’s group and saw that the man was watching them. Clearly, he had sent his mistress over.
“That is your husband, isn’t it?” Caroline glanced at the diamond wedding band on Simone’s finger and then over to the bar where Gabe had his hand on some woman’s ass while he whispered in her ear.
“Yes. That’s my husband, Larry. He has a wandering eye . . . um, hand.” She giggled and put a hand to her mouth. “I’m a little tipsy.”
“And you don’t mind . . . the wandering?”
“No. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me.” Simone leaned over as if to tell Caroline a secret. “Sometimes he brings women home, to our bed.”
“Wow! Does he ever bring men home?”
“Oh, Larry’s not gay.”
“I meant for you.”
Simone pretended to blush. “Not yet.”
Caroline tilted her head. “But he wants to,” she guessed.
“Oh, yeah.”
“You say you’re new in town . . . Where you from?”
“Chicago. Larry’s a cardiologist, and he’s joining a practice down here. We got tired of all the cold.”
“And you don’t know anyone here?”
“Oh, Larry has some relatives here, but they’re out of town for several months. We’re staying in their house till we can find a place of our own. We’re looking for a condo. Do you know any good Realtors?”
“I do. The man I’m with owns a building just outside the Quarter, but I don’t know if there are any empty units,” she said. “Any kids?”
“No!” she said emphatically. “Not for at least five years.”
“Listen, I gotta go, but let’s do lunch. You free tomorrow?”
“Yes, that would be wonderful.” Simone wrote the number for her disposable phone on a napkin and Caroline did likewise with her number. They agreed to meet the next day at Galatoire’s at noon.
Caroline went back to her group and Simone noticed that she was imparting some information to Pitot. As the three couples left, Pitot paused by Gabe at the bar, said something, shook hands, and then the two of them exchanged several words.
A short time later, Gabe came back. “Pitot introduced himself. Said he understood I was a doctor new to the city and wanted to give me a warm Nawleans welcome. How about you? What did the babe say?”
“Casing me out,” she said, taking a long swallow of her wine. “We’re having lunch tomorrow.”
“That’s settles it. We’re staying tonight, right?”
“Right.”
Gabe said he would do some legwork in the morning, tracking down women who’d been known to participate in Pitot’s perverted activities, not just in the sex club. And he would visit Pitot’s apartment building as a prospective tenant. Simone was going to use her police connections to see what they had on Pitot. Cops knew stuff!
Even though she hadn’t done anything bad or even witnessed anything bad, yet, she felt smarmy just having been around such people. So she took a really long shower. Once she climbed into bed, Simone checked the bedside clock. Twelve thirty-three a.m. Surely too late to call Adam, as she’d promised.
But then her phone rang.
And it was Adam. And he hollered, so loud she had to hold the phone away from her ear. “Where the hell are you?”
Call me maybe . . . when you’re in a better mood . . .
At first, Simone was angry. What right did Adam have, taking that tone with her? But then she was suddenly concerned. “Is someone hurt? Oh, Lord, did someone die?”
“What? No.”
“Why are you yelling at me, then?”
“Because it’s after midnight!”
“And . . . ?” Does he think I’m some kind of Cinderella?
“I don’t have a frickin’ clue where you are.”
Not at the ball, Prince Charming. “And . . . ?”
She heard a sigh before he said in a calmer, but still irritated, voice, “I’ve been worried about you for the past three hours.”
Aah, how nice! And no glass slipper to give you a clue.
“Please tell me you haven’t been out trolling for creeps in a bar all this time.”
Trolling? That’s how you categorize my work? Not so nice! “Yes, I’ve been working, Adam. Yes, I was in a bar for part of the evening . . . a wine bar, if that makes any difference. And no need to worry. As I’ve told you before, I can take care of myself.”
“No, you can’t, Simone. Not all the time. No one gets a safe card for all situations all the time.”
“I’m a cop, Adam. Or I was.”
“Sorry if I overreacted. You said you’d call, and when you didn’t, I began to imagine . . . well, I was worried.”
“I was just about to call but decided it was too late. Can we start over?”
He hesitated. “Sure.”
“Hi, Adam. Just got home and was thinking about you. What kind of day did you have?”
“Busy.” He explained that his work day had been spent mostly in the office, meeting with clients and doing legal research. He’d eaten at home where his father did most of the cooking. Tonight it had been fried green tomatoes with remoulade sauce, one of his favorites, and homemade mac and cheese, one of Maisie’s favorites. Video watching and jewelry making.
She liked picturing him watching The Little Mermaid and his big hands making tiny bracelets.
And he went on to complain about the never-ending pool party preparations. “You will be coming, won’t you?”
“I hope to,” she said. It was about two weeks away. Surely this case would be finished by then and she could be more clear about her schedule.
“How about you?” he asked. “What did you have for dinner?”
She had to laugh at his obvious ploy. “I started with a Jackson salad. Yummy quail eggs and bacon and—”
“Arnaud’s? You’re in New Orleans?” he guessed.
“Nice try, Adam. I was just kidding.”
“You can’t blame me for trying.” He paused. “I kept thinking about you today.”
“While you were so busy?”
“In between. Thoughts of you kept nagging at me.”
“Like a bad toothache?”
“Or some other ache.”
“Uh-oh! Are we about to have phone sex?”
“I didn’t know that was an option.”
“It’s not. I’m too tired to think of anything creative.”
“Oh, well, same old same old is just as good sometimes.”
“You an expert on phone sex then?”
“Hardly. But
I’m willing to give almost everything a try.”
“You’re not going to start with that old cliché, are you?” She made her voice all male and husky. “What are you wearing, baby?”
He laughed. “No clichés? But have a little mercy, sweetheart. That wiped out ninety percent of my repertoire.”
“You have a repertoire?”
“I’m thirty-five years old, Simone. Just for the record, though, I’m naked and lying here like a regular sex god waiting for action.”
“Really? You’re naked?”
“Don’t I wish! No. Not with a five-year-old daughter in the house. But I can pretend.”
“Okay, I’ll pretend, too, then. I’m wearing the same red high heels I had on this afternoon with black stockings, a black thong, a garter belt, and a black lace demi-bra.”
“To sleep in?”
“If sex gods can be naked, then sex goddesses can wear whatever they want to bed.”
He laughed. “What do sex goddesses do when they can’t sleep?”
“Read a book.”
“What kind of book? Something boring, like War and Peace?”
“No, something sexy.”
“Do sex goddesses masturbate while they’re reading sexy books?”
“Hmmm.”
“What are you doing, Simone?”
“Hmmm.”
He laughed and said, “Hmmm.” A short time later, he said, “Well, that was good for me. How about you?”
“I think I can sleep now.”
Chapter Thirteen
How does one dress for an orgy? . . .
At eleven a.m. the next day, Simone was ready for her noon luncheon with Caroline Bannon. She wouldn’t leave for another half hour or so since it was only a fifteen-minute trip into the city. Gabe would be dropping her off in their rented BMW.
Gabe had been a busy beaver already, having gone out at nine this morning. She’d spent the morning turning herself into an upper-class trophy wife. A white, nubbed silk, mid-thigh designer suit (with the label cut out) and black Manolo Blahnik slingback pumps, the first being an upscale thrift-shop find from two years ago, and the latter a guilty-pleasure indulgence she’d been unable to resist when passing a Chicago boutique window last winter and which she’d conveniently labeled “My Christmas Present to Me.” Her brown hair, still glistening from her hot-oil conditioning several days ago, was upswept into deliberate disarray. Simple pearl stud earrings and her diamond wedding band. No blouse under the suit jacket which gave a clear view of her no-bra cleavage, just enough to tease but not enough to be slutty.
All this had taken more than two hours. How—or why—did women waste so much time doing this? And some of them did it every day!
She was standing at the kitchen counter talking with Gabe, who was drinking a bottled water he’d taken from the fridge. She was drinking nothing, afraid to spoil the effect of her make-up.
Gabe was going for the casually affluent look today, too. Dark brown pleated slacks, a golf shirt with a Palm Springs Polo Club logo on it, and loafers that probably cost as much as her Blahniks. When she’d raised her eyebrows on first seeing him this morning and remarked, “Expensive tastes!” he laughed and told her, “I raided my dad’s closet upstairs.”
“Tell me more about your morning,” she prodded him. He’d already mentioned some “research” he’d done just by chatting up some folks who had businesses in the vicinity of Pitot’s offices, on the supposition that he frequented some of them. He did. Including a jewelry store that loved him for his generosity to his wife. Yeah, right. It wasn’t his wife he was buttering up with expensive trinkets.
Then there was the outdoors store where Pitot bought a lot of rope, Gabe had told her.
Rope? She didn’t want to know.
Gabe had told her, anyway. “Thin, flexible rope, that easily works itself into slip knots. And harnesses. He also favors harnesses, the kind mountain climbers use and men who like to see women in . . . gear.”
Eew!
“I also cased the apartment building that Pitot owns about a half block from his offices. He wasn’t there, but his property manager will undoubtedly mention my having dropped by. I get the feeling that Pitot keeps a close hand on all his projects.”
“That’s why he’s so rich.”
“Probably. There aren’t a lot of people who can afford $5,000 a month rent, and that’s only for a one-bedroom.”
“Just how wealthy is Pitot?”
Gabe shrugged. “Billionaire, I figure.”
“No wonder Saffron is willing to pay us so much for the deets on Pitot if it ensures that she gets a share if—when—he dumps her.”
“What does she look like? I mean, why so insecure? Is she a dog?”
“Hardly. Saffron isn’t bad, for her age. But no woman, no matter how beautiful, can compete with youth. Caroline, or females like her, will always be younger versions of themselves.”
“I guess.”
“If Pitot is such a hard-nosed businessman, I wonder how closely he checks up on people before inviting them into his close circle. What if he finds out you’re not a doctor?”
“Simone, my family is brimming with doctors, all over the country, and abroad. There has to be a Storm cardiologist somewhere. As long as there’s no photograph when they Google my fake name.”
Just then, they heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.
“Uh-oh! Your parents?” she inquired of Gabe.
“Nah. I talked to my mom last night. They won’t be coming back until October.”
They went through the hallway to the front entryway and opened the door to find Caroline Bannon exiting a shiny silver Jaguar, which made their rented BMW look like a rustbucket. Oh, well. Money talks.
“Caroline!” Simone said, walking out the door to the front steps.
“Diane!”
For a moment, Simone forgot that she was supposed to be Diane Storm. But then she extended her hands and Caroline responded with air kisses on both sides of her face. The scent of some expensive perfume wafted from her. Joy, Simone guessed.
Simone’s favorite since she was a teenager was Diorissimo, a much cheaper scent than Joy. But she’d forgotten to bring any perfume with her. As a result, the only thing wafting from her was olive oil and the Caress soap that had been in her guest shower. “I thought I was meeting you at the restaurant.” Simone frowned with confusion. Maybe last night’s wine had been more potent than she’d realized.
“You were, but I was in the neighborhood and thought I would save you the effort.”
Yeah, right. More like Pitot had sent her to see if they really did live at this upscale address.
“How nice of you!” Simone said. “Especially since we have only the one rental car here, until our vehicles arrive next week. Right, sweetheart?” she said to Gabe.
“Right,” Gabe agreed. “Now, I won’t have to drive you into town, honey. I can check out a few golf courses since I already had my meeting at the hospital this morning.” Then taking Simone’s cue, he turned to Caroline and stepped forward, extending a hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Lawrence Storm. You can call me Larry.” He gave the woman a manly scrutiny, designed to show that he appreciated her beauty.
And beautiful she was in a jade-green, sleeveless sheath with pale green alligator pumps, both of which were undoubtedly designer quality. Her diamond earrings, if they were real, could provide a down payment on most people’s houses.
Caroline gave Gabe an appreciative once-over right back. “And I’m Caroline Bannon, but you can call me Caro.” Gabe had released her hand, but she let her fingertips trail over his wrist.
Signals . . . it was all about signals. I like what I see. I’m willing. Are you?
“Did your meeting go all right at the hospital?” Caroline asked with seeming casualness.
“Yes. If I decide to open a practice here, I’ll need hospital privileges. Just a technicality.” He made a fake grimace of distaste at the need for such an i
nconvenience.
Simone was more and more impressed with Gabe’s ability to come up with impromptu details.
On the way to the French Quarter, Caroline talked about all the places she thought Simone might be interested in as a newcomer to the Crescent City. Beauty salons. Can anyone say olive oil? Catering companies. Mothers . . . the Cajun version of catering companies. Home cleaning agencies. I wield a mean toilet brush. Only once did she shock Simone, or rather catch her off guard, when she asked, “Do you wax?”
Simone thought about joking with, “What, furniture?” But she knew exactly what Caroline meant. “No. Larry likes me better with a neat trim down there. Reminds him of a golf course. The man does love golf. Of course, he would go for getting my pubes de-haired if he could watch me screaming my ass off.”
“You’re probably right to go that route. Frankly, so many women go bald today that I’m thinking the trend will go back. And bedazzling! Who wants jewelry pasted on your landing strip? I’ll take my diamonds around my neck or on my fingers, thank you very much.”
Simone was beginning to like Caroline. She wasn’t at all the bimbo that she’d imagined she would be. “How did you get to . . . um, be with your friend?’
“Be his mistress, you mean. No need to beat around the bush, ha, ha, ha. I’ve been with Marcus for more than a year. Before that I was a call girl.”
Whoa! Shades of Tante Lulu and her hall gal reference! “Why . . . I mean . . . oh, never mind.”
“Ask me anything. I graduated from college with a teaching certificate and I worked two years trying to pound English literature into brain-dead high school juniors for a pittance. One day I decided to reevaluate my life. I asked myself, what do I like to do? And the answer was sex. I like sex. All kinds. And I’m good at it. So why not get paid for my services?”
“Well paid if this car is any indication,” Simone said.
“Right. And I have enough money stashed away that if I get too old to attract a desirable partner—I’m very selective—or if decide I want to do something else, I can.”
“So, you’re not looking for marriage?”
“Hell, no!”