Love Lies Beneath (14 page)

Both limo and sedan are now nothing more than blurry rear ends, heading away from my home. I can't believe a stupid wrong number has put me so ridiculously on edge. I make my way into my office, a windowed nook tucked behind the kitchen. Normally the 180-degree vistas, coupled with one of my favorite paintings hanging on the glass-free wall, uplifts me. Not today.

Today I go over to a small bank of monitors, flip the switch that turns on the security camera system. I haven't used it since Finn left. He was paranoid, not me. But, hey, it's here, and offers some small sense of safety, even though what I really want is invincibility.

Finally, I call a locksmith to install a remote entry system so I can control who comes and goes through the downstairs door from the relative security upstairs. The whole time he's working, I keep my eyes on the monitors and the pepper spray within easy reach.

For the next couple of days I plunge myself into busywork, most of it centered around a spring fund-raiser—a black and white ball at the Fairmont. There are lots of nitpicky details to fuss over. Appetizer menus. Liquor selections. Centerpieces. Finalizing the jazz band's contract. Invitations.

Most of that time is spent sitting, so I invest thirty minutes, three times a day, alternating treadmill, stationary bike, and gentle stretches, plus hefting five-pound dumbbells to keep the breasts in proper place and ward off arm flab. Despite what should be a maintenance routine, every time I happen past a mirror, I see a fat girl looking back at me. And despite every effort to the contrary, that zips me straight back to Idaho.

Mom's boyfriend at the time was a mechanic, and one mean SOB, even if he was pretty great at keeping the old Ford tuned up. His relationship with Mom was volatile, but that was nothing new. What I hated most about him was how he always referred to me as Chunk.

Yeah, I was a chubby kid, but what can you expect when you're fed a diet of Kraft macaroni, Spam, and Frosted Flakes? I was heavier than my sister, mostly because I always cleaned her plate of whatever she didn't finish. She was a nervous eater.

Lester never missed an opportunity to remind me of my size. “Hey, Chunk, how's it going today?” “Hey, Chunk, bring me a beer.” “Hey, Chunk, you're looking mighty fine. I like your hair that way.”

His attention escalated, not that Mom seemed to notice. One day I came home from school and he was there alone, watching TV and guzzling a Schlitz. “Where's Mom?”

“She had to go pick up your sister. The bus broke down.” Mel was still in elementary school, and I'd moved up to junior high.

I went into the kitchen to do my homework.

“Hey, Chunk, bring me a beer.” Nothing new. What was new was that when I offered the can to Lester, he grabbed my hand and pulled so my face came very close to his. “I bet I never told you how much I like fat girls, did I?”

Something in his eyes told me this was bad. Very bad. But I knew better than to challenge him. I looked away. “No, you never did.”

“Come here and let me show you. Want some beer?”

I shook my head. “No thanks.”

“Sure you do.” He tipped the can into my mouth until the beer ran down the front of me. “Aw, what did you do that for? I think you need a spanking.”

He yanked hard, and I went over his knees and before he gave me a single swat, I could feel his dick grow hard against my belly. “Please no!”

“Don't worry. It won't hurt much. What's a fat butt for?”

Down came his hand. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. The pain was awful, but the embarrassment was worse. I started to cry. Sob. “Please.”

“There now, see, you're begging me for it. Just like the fat, little whore you are. And that ain't right.” He paddled me until my ass throbbed and he came, soaking his underwear and the belly of my shirt. Then he pushed me roughly to the floor. “Go clean up before your mother gets home. Say one word and I'll give you the rest next time.”

I knew better than to tell Mom anyway. She wouldn't believe me, or she'd blame me. But I made damn sure there would not be a next time. And that very afternoon, I mostly quit eating, nibbling only enough to keep me from passing out and filling up the rest of the way on water. Another mother might have noticed. Not mine. Not until I'd lost twenty pounds and needed pants that wouldn't fall down.

I've kept control of my weight since, although I've learned to do it with exercise, only resorting to a highly regulated diet when necessary. Like now, since I can't fight intake with output. I'll eat less and do my best to work out more.

I wean myself from the harder meds, managing the pain with ibuprofen. By day three, I can even handle the stairs, though not at a sprint. Still, every now and then, I make a mistake and my knee reacts in a most horribly unpredictable way.

I despise how that makes me feel. Like my right leg has wrested control of itself. Like my body isn't always listening to my brain.

I'm still not completely mobile, so I spend several hours searching online for my guy Friday. I mean, I guess I'll take a girl, if her résumé and hourly rate merit. But if I can find an attractive young man who'll fetch my groceries and mail, and maybe massage the stress from my shoulders, hey, why not? I'll interview a half dozen—five men, one woman—on Monday.

This is New Year's Eve, and while a large cross section of America will be out partying somewhere, I'll be alone at my computer, drinking champagne. Good champagne, but drinking it solo always makes me a little lonely. I consider calling Cassandra but change my mind. She always goes out on New Year's Eve. I went with her last year, and while we had fun, the logistics were a nightmare. Parking is always trouble in San Francisco, but tonight it will be impossible, and I can't possibly walk any distance. Nope. No partying for me. God, I hope this isn't a glimpse of my near future.

I cycle through e-mails, and then click over to my favorite news source. Might as well keep tabs on what's happening in the world. But it isn't international headlines that catch my eye. No, it's one much closer to home:
SENATOR JORDAN LONDON UNDER INVESTIGATION
. Jordan London. My ex-husband, the politician with very deep pockets.

There's a short video clip, with Jordan standing beside a gorgeous Porsche and an even more gorgeous young blond. Jordan looks composed, but I can detect a subtle nervousness in his voice when he speaks into the reporter's microphone. “I don't get too worked up over information leaked from anonymous sources. If and when this person chooses to step forward, I'm happy to respond to her—or him—directly. Until then, I've got nothing to say.”

I research a little deeper and find that a nameless tipster alerted the press to some rather large gifts that Jordan failed to disclose. Over the years, according to this supposed close acquaintance, those alleged bribes have amounted to several hundred thousand dollars.

That, I believe. One of the reasons I wanted to distance myself from Jordan was that I'd witnessed things that could have easily sent him to prison, and I wasn't about to go down with him. I'm surprised, really, that he's gotten away with it for this long.

Now his words sink in. “I'm happy to respond to her—or him . . .” As if he believes a woman turned him in. Does he think it was me?

You shouldn't have fucked with me.

Could that have been Jordan?

No, it wouldn't have been him.

But maybe somebody he hired?

Like some creepy little man in a beat-up sedan?

I halt that internal conversation. This is ridiculous. I haven't gotten another threatening text, nor seen the car in question cruising the neighborhood again.

Suddenly, my cell, which apparently I left on vibrate, dances on my desk. My hand jerks forward instinctively, but I pull it back until I can see the caller ID. Oh. It's Cavin. “H-hello?”

“Everything okay?” His voice is melted cheddar.

“Much better now.” Which somehow sounds like an admission, rather than the compliment I meant it to be.

“I was just sitting here watching it snow, and thought I'd wish you a Happy New Year. You doing anything fun?”

“Drinking a little champagne . . .” Trying to drown my paranoia.

“All by yourself?”

“All by myself. I'm not a huge fan of public New Year's Eve revelry, but even if I were, I wouldn't be going out dancing. Not this year.”

“I understand. How's the knee?”

“I've been working it. My range of motion is improving, and it doesn't hurt as much. It's definitely not right, of course.”

“Even surgery might not make it one hundred percent.”

“I'll settle for ninety-nine point five.”

He snickers. “We'll do our best. Anyway, I wanted to let you know I'll definitely be coming through the city next week. Still want me to stop by?”

Delicious little shivers prickle the back of my neck. I want to see what this man is made of. “Absolutely.”

“No plans I might be disturbing?”

“None at all. But even if there were, I'd invite the disturbance.”

Now he laughs outright. “That's very good to hear. I'll probably be there early afternoon on Wednesday. Does that work?”

“Perfectly.”

“Should I bring dinner?”

“I believe I said I'd cook for you, didn't I?” A quick mental inventory of the freezer's contents makes me wonder if it's possible. Hopefully by Wednesday, I'll have hired someone to buy fresh ingredients, however. “Tell you what. You can bring dessert.”

“Wine?”

“I'll let you choose a bottle or two from my cellar. No worries about driving after. I've got a guest room. Three, in fact.”

He lets that sink in, and then he dares, “What if I prefer the master?”

I let
that
sink in. “Then I guess you'll just have to be persuasive.”

After we say good-bye, I open my laptop and e-mail Mel:
Guess who just called to wish me a Happy New Year. Did you guess Dr. Gorgeous? There's something special about this guy, and I'm not just talking an incredible bedside manner. He's coming to dinner next week. Wonder if I can get a leg transplant by then. This one is damn ugly.

Her reply comes sometime later:
Don't be impetuous. You can always keep your clothes on! Let me know how it goes with Dr. Gorgeous.

Impetuous? Me? I've got days to plan. As for my clothes, I suppose I could keep them on, sister dearest. But where's the fun in that?

The first Monday in the New Year dawns a particularly dreary gray, great fists of fog smothering any sense of view. Claustrophobia threatens, despite the interior spaciousness, and I find myself longing for a long walk beneath vibrant blue sky. Even if the mist burned off and my knee was willing to cooperate, however, it couldn't happen today.

I scheduled the personal-assistant interviews at sixty-minute intervals. All six candidates were students, so none of their résumés suggested particularly outstanding job performance. Still, the position I'm hiring for requires neither a degree, nor even high-level intellect. I did request references, and despite the holiday weekend managed to contact most of them. Not that you can always count on the recommendations of friends and family members, if that was, indeed, who they were.

I also did quick background checks through an Internet service, however reliable that might be. One of the guys had an overabundance of traffic violations. No way I could let someone like that drive one of my vehicles, and since his might very well get impounded, I crossed him off my list. He wasn't particularly happy when I let him know not to come, and why. “Fucking tickets?” he stormed. “You call that a good reason?”

“Maybe not. But your reaction is a pretty good indicator that you are not what I'm looking for.” Had he calmly offered a rational explanation, I might have changed my mind.

And then there were five.

The first arrives at ten o'clock sharp. I made it clear that punctuality is a requisite, so he draws no demerits there. I sit at my desk, eyes behind the video screen, watching him approach the door. He wears casual dress-to-impress, and his stride is confident. When he reaches for the intercom button, he looks up, and when he notices the security device in place, he smiles for the camera. It's a nice smile, on a very nice face—boyishly handsome is the phrase that comes to mind.

The buzzer rattles.

“Good morning. Your name?”

“Charlie Bent.”

It matches the one at the top of my list. Still, I request the password I gave him in a semi-inebriated fit of caution.

“Misbehave.”

Good word, as long as I'm the one doing the misbehaving. “Thank you. I'll let you in. Please come straight up the stairs to the second floor.”

I punch in the code to unlock the door and bolt it behind him once it closes, and by the time he crests the top step, I've made my way through the kitchen to greet him. Like most people do the first time they take in my living room, Charlie stops dead in his tracks to assess what he sees. “Wow. Amazing place. Your neighbors must be very jealous.” Bonus points.

We sit and talk for a half hour. I ask a long list of questions, all of which he answers quite reasonably. But I'm as interested in his body language and diction as in what he has to say. He's a business major at UC San Francisco, and his schedule can accommodate the ten hours per week I'm asking for. He enjoys shopping, is familiar with some interesting bakeries and butcher shops, and often frequents the city's varied farmer's markets.

“I'm a native San Franciscan,” he finishes. “I'll never leave, even though it's hard to afford a place of my own.”

“You have roommates?”

He nods. “Teddy and Ron. But they're not really roommates. More like my landlords. They're an older couple with plenty of money. It makes them happy to help out poor, starving students, so my rent is more than reasonable. It's pretty much subsidized.”