Foxy Roxy (22 page)

“No,” Roxy said, just as harshly. Then, “I figured if I didn’t stick to any one specific guy, it would be better for her. I guess I hoped she’d never catch on.”

“Unless she’s slower than I think she is, she’s known about your sex life for years. And she still loves you, no matter where you unzip your jeans. Or,” he added, “where you make your money.”

Roxy glanced up and met his steady gaze.

“Hey, don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not calling the cops. But I heard you’re maybe going to work for Carmine.”

Neighborhood gossip moved fast. “Since when do you get an opinion about my life?”

“Since never, and you know it. Consider this a friendly suggestion. You need to be careful. I heard Carmine wants to cut you in. But Sage is going to need you now more than ever. If you go to jail for whatever, what happens to her?”

“I’m not going to jail. Not unless you and your battalion of misfits start blabbing all over the neighborhood—”

“Shut up,” he said.

“Just because I come to you once doesn’t make you her father, you know. So don’t butt into my life.”

He didn’t argue.

Roxy dropped her fork, suddenly not hungry, but annoyed for reasons that were just beyond her grasp. “I gotta get going.”

“I thought you wanted information.”

“I got enough. I’m going home.” She headed out. She should have delivered the pregnancy test to Sage long ago anyway.

“Hey,” he said when she reached the door. “Don’t go off and do something stupid because you’re upset about Sage. Or mad at me.”

“What the hell do you think I’m going to do?”

“We both know each other’s weaknesses,” Flynn said.

“I take care of myself.” She pushed out through the door and didn’t look back.

She stormed down the alley away from the restaurant. She was mad, yeah. And feeling unsatisfied after her encounter with Paxton. Probably too distracted to make any kind of smart decision. And letting down her guard with Flynn had been a mistake. It never paid to get emotional.

She should have gone home right then. Or gone to find Adasha to talk it through. But sometimes girls just wanna have fun.

The college kid who had been taking a leak in the alley earlier was hanging around her truck when she got there. He had his hands cupped around his face and he peered in the window, looking to see if she’d left the keys in the ignition.

“Oh, hey,” the kid said, leaping away from the window. “This your truck?”

He had the name of his college printed on his shirt in big letters, and his haircut—blond tufts carefully combed back from a widow’s peak—had cost his mommy a pretty penny. He was still drunk, but just a little. She guessed he was twentyish. Old enough.

“Yeah, baby, it’s my truck.” Roxy pulled the keys from her pocket and looked him up and down. Nice body? Check. Brainless, too? Very likely. The perfect man. For tonight, anyway.

“Must get lousy gas mileage.” He smiled.

Roxy smiled, too. “You need a ride somewhere?”

With a blink, the kid said, “Sure.”

Inside the truck with the kid, Roxy dug a condom out of the glove compartment. She tossed it into his lap. “Put this on, baby. Let’s see what kind of mileage you get.”

She began to peel off a few layers of clothes, ready to rock and roll.

The kid laughed nervously, but he had his shirt off a minute later, and they wrestled a little. The truck’s windows began to steam up, and the kid proved he was very teachable. Nothing like a little love with the perfect stranger to take a girl’s mind off her troubles.

15

At the crack of dawn, Henry took another browbeating phone call from Dorothy Hyde. A call that reminded him how much he preferred his client comatose.

“Call me when you find my Achilles,” she said after a tirade about his lack of progress. “Or you can polish up your résumé, Henry. I haven’t got long to live, and I want that statue.”

So he swallowed a Rolaids tablet with some coffee, showered, and dressed while watching a little
SportsCenter
and thinking up a new plan. Trouble was, he kept thinking about Roxy Abruzzo instead. And how he’d somehow lost a round with her. It made him feel uneasy. The sex was great. The afterglow, unsettling.

Revived by the caffeine, he went outside into the sunshine. He’d left his BMW parked outdoors in the brick courtyard between the great house and the stables instead of parking it inside the carriage house with the other vehicles that belonged to the estate.

Outside in the cool October air, Monica Hyde galloped up on a black horse the size of a rogue elephant. She wore jeans, boots, and a red fleece jacket, and she looked like a girl. Her blond hair danced in the breeze, and Henry wondered if maybe she had intentionally worn it loose, just for him. The horse’s hooves clattered on the bricks, and the noise echoed against the tall walls of the nearby house, very
Masterpiece Theater
. The scene needed only Helen Mirren to be perfect.

Henry might have tossed Monica a gallant compliment, but the damn horse was snorting and stamping, and he looked capable of biting Henry’s arm off.

“Good morning, Henry!” Monica sat happily on the enormous animal and seemed unconcerned by the beast’s antics. “You’re up early!”

“Good God, Monica, be careful up there!”

Monica laughed. “Isn’t he amazing? I’d completely forgotten Dorothy still kept the horses here.”

“Just two. I pay their feed bills. They eat like—well, horses. The vet and the farrier cost a fortune, too.”

“Worth every penny,” Monica declared. “Do we still have a membership in the hunt club? I’d love to ride this Saturday, if they’re going out.”

“They have archaic rules, but I’m sure they’d bend a few for you.” He kept his distance from the horse. “Unless you think it might be inappropriate, Monica. How are the arrangements coming along for Julius?”

“Quentin’s working on the funeral. Several business leaders have expressed interest in attending. And the Dow inquired about paying respects, too. It’s quite a fraternity. I had no idea. But there’s some awful business about releasing the body, you know.”

“I see.”

The television news was still full of Julius’s death, the investigation into his murder, and the plight of the poor homeless chap who was still the prime suspect. But there was plenty of media speculation about the family, too. Lots of recycled photos of Monica in handcuffs, Quentin’s CEO portrait, and Trey looking silly in a scuba suit. Someone had found a picture of Julius’s children all gathered around a polo pony.

Thankfully, Quentin had managed to control the family, it seemed. Not one of them made any statements or teary appearances on camera. Quentin’s daily press releases were predictable and succinct: The family appreciated the public outpouring of condolences and had nothing further to say.

Most everyone else on the local television stations burbled briefly about Julius’s good works before plunging into tawdry talk about his private life. Some intrepid reporter found Kaylee Falcone’s high school photograph, mortarboard and all. Henry expected the fraternity of CEOs all wanted to know the circumstances of Julius’s death before hopping on their jets and putting themselves in front of any cameras on his behalf.

Monica seemed unconcerned. She patted her horse’s neck. “Have you had any luck finding Samson?”

Damn. Henry had wanted to avoid the subject of Monica’s dog. He’d found his attention thoroughly distracted by Roxy Abruzzo.

Before Monica noticed his involuntary flush, however, they were interrupted by the arrival of a large black Mercedes that barreled through the gates of the Hilltop estate and came roaring down the tree-lined alley that led straight to the garages. Fallen leaves blew attractively behind the car, and the sunlight glinted off the immaculately waxed vehicle.

It would have made an ideal automotive commercial except for the scowling man who sat behind the wheel.

“Quentin,” Henry said. “What’s he doing here?”

Monica put her gloved hand to her forehead to shade her eyes from the morning sun. “Oh, dear, he’s early.”

“Early for what?”

“We’ve scheduled a meeting with Dodo this morning.”

“You’re seeing Dorothy?” Henry knew he was sounding like a fool, but the news that Monica and her brother-in-law intended to visit Henry’s client suddenly made him wish he’d put a few extra Rolaids in his pocket. “What for?”

The Mercedes rocked to a stop nearby, sending the black horse into another frenzy of snorts and bucking.

Quentin got out of the car and slammed the door. “Monica, have you forgotten? Or do you intend to ride Kensington over to Fair Weather Village?”

“You’re early, Quen.”

Irritated, Quentin checked his watch. “Now we’re going to be late. You know how Mother feels about punctuality. Good morning, Paxton.”

“Hello, Quentin. I didn’t realize you were seeing Mrs. Hyde today. I’ll get my briefcase and join you.”

“There’s no need for that.” Quentin spoke gruffly. “My mother is perfectly capable of talking to me without counsel.”

“It’s no trouble. I’m happy to tag along.”

“This is purely a family visit.”

Henry ground his teeth. There was no telling what Quentin had up his sleeve. Or what Dorothy might be plotting. Which one had called the meeting? he wondered. And how did Monica fit into their plans? He tried again, saying, “Well, I can certainly drive separately, if you’d rather have time alone with Monica. I can be there in case Mrs. Hyde wants something done, you see. I’m always happy to help her in any way.”

“We’ll be having a private discussion, Paxton. Can I say it any plainer? You won’t be needed.”

From astride her horse, Monica said sweetly, “It’s not that we don’t appreciate your services, Henry. Of course we do. But we need to talk about Julius, you see, and what’s to be done.”

“Well, if I can provide any—”

“We’ll muddle through without you this morning,” Monica said. “But thank you, Henry.”

The rear door of the Mercedes opened, and a person who had been invisible in the backseat climbed out of the car.

“Arden!” Monica cried. “How nice to see you!”

Henry’s insides contracted with a force he hadn’t experienced since a bout of dysentery in Portugal.

Arden Hyde wore large black sunglasses. She was skinnier and paler than he remembered, and her hair looked both fashionable and dreadful. She yawned. “Hi, Monica. Hello, Henry. How’s life treating you?”

“Hello, Arden. Very well, thank you.”

Henry endeavored to keep his voice neutral, but he must have failed. Quentin came alive like a dog on point, and Monica sat up straight and glanced from Arden to Henry and back again.

Henry said, “How was Jerusalem?”

“Florence,” Arden replied. “I was fired. For encouraging the Italian government to return artwork to its rightful owner.”

“How interesting,” Monica cried, not noticing Quentin’s wince. “I can’t wait to hear about that!”

Arden said, “How’s your rash, Henry?”

“All gone,” he replied. Quentin’s head looked as if it might explode all over the courtyard. “Nothing serious. Just an allergic reaction.”

“Too bad,” Arden said. “It was kinda cute.”

Quentin took charge of the moment. “Monica, we’re wasting time here. Get down from that animal, and we’ll leave immediately.”

“I have to put Kensington back in the stable.”

“Let Paxton take care of him.”

“Me?”

“Hurry up, Monica.”

Monica slid down from the saddle and tossed her horse’s reins in Henry’s direction. Was her manner slightly cooler than it had been before Arden’s arrival? She said, “I don’t know why you’re in such a hurry, Quen. It’s not as if Dodo’s going anywhere.”

“I don’t like to keep her waiting. Besides, I have other appointments later.”

Monica remained cheerful. “I’m very curious to find out what you have planned. Are you staging a family coup? A corporate takeover?”

“I’m taking care of the day-to-day matters, as always. Dodo likes to be kept informed. Let’s go, shall we?” He took her elbow and pulled.

“I should change my clothes—”

“Never mind about that. Paxton, you understand.”

“Of course.” You greedy bastard.

Henry wanted to warn Monica. He wanted to pull her aside and tell her to be careful or Quentin would hang her out to dry. She was just one small obstacle in his plan to get as much of the Hyde fortune as he could for himself and Hyde Communications.

Monica threw a smile over her shoulder at Henry. “Take Kensington down to the stable for me, will you, Henry? You’re such a dear. Jerry’s there. He can take care of Kensington properly.”

Arden gave him a flat expression. Then she got back into the Mercedes and slammed the door, the memory of a single unfortunate indiscretion obviously clear in her mind.

Henry got a tentative grip on the extreme ends of the reins and tried to keep a safe distance between himself and any part of the horse that might kick or bite. Meanwhile, Quentin hustled Monica into the Mercedes, and a moment later they were roaring up the driveway and headed for the nursing home.

To himself, Henry muttered, “I wish there was a way to prove Quentin killed his brother.”

Kensington gave a declamatory snort and tossed his head.

Henry said, “And he’s setting her up for a murder charge.”

And what the hell was Arden doing back in town? What role did she play in Quentin’s plan?

The horse must have decided to throw in with Quentin, too, because he suddenly yanked the reins out of Henry’s hand, spun around on his haunches, and took off running across the lawn. Before he disappeared from sight, the horse kicked his heels in Henry’s direction—as if he were making a final editorial comment on the situation.

Henry watched the animal gallop away—probably a quarter million dollars on the hoof. At least he was headed for the stable. Didn’t all horses have some kind of homing instinct?

Henry stood for a moment, weighing his options.

That damn statue. If he could lay his hands on it, a lot of things would fall into place. Long enough, perhaps, for him to help Monica inherit Julius’s share of his mother’s fortune. And maybe need a younger man for a husband.