A Killing in the Valley (43 page)

“Any toiletries you’ll need should be in the bathroom. If not, just call the desk and they’ll take care of it. If you need a change of clothes for tomorrow, order from the shop and put it on the room bill.”

“Thank you.” He was being extremely generous, even though he was probably trying to butter her up because of whatever troubles she might be bearing for his son.

“I’ll have you picked up tomorrow morning, a little before ten,” he said. He smiled—his teeth were dazzling. “Unless there’s a problem, in which case I’ll definitely call you,”

The evening was over. “Good night, Kate,” he said. “Again, I’m sorry about the inconvenience.”

“Not me,” she replied honestly. “This has been one of the nicest evenings I’ve spent in God knows how long.” A real date with a real man.

“Me, too.”

You’re laying the charm on too thick, she thought. This man was a Hollywood powerhouse, and he was attractive to boot. He could have any woman he wanted, and probably did. His being free tonight had been an accident. She wasn’t going to kid herself about that.

“That’s sweet of you to say, but…” She let it drift.

“I’m serious,” he told her. “I spend all my time with people who do what I do. It’s refreshing to be with someone who has a life that’s different from mine. Real problems and real people, not made-up ones.” He smiled. “I make shows based on people like you. I talk the talk, but you walk the walk. I admire that.”

I’ll trade you places, she thought. Make me an offer.

She could feel the awkwardness between them. It’s always hard to say good night, she thought, especially under circumstances like this.

She took the initiative. “Good night, Warren. Again, thank you for a very special evening.”

They looked at each other for a moment. He smiled, and turned to go—then he turned back, and they lunged for each other.

And
he’s a good kisser, she thought deliriously, as their lips and tongues ate at each other. One of his hands was on the back of her head, cradling her, while the other cupped her ass. She pressed up against him, wanting him to feel her breasts on his chest. Their legs parted so they could push up against each other.

Still locked in their embrace, they stumbled across the room, falling onto the bed. She kicked off her shoes. He kneeled above her, straddling her. He leaned down and unbuttoned her blouse from the bottom, at the same time kissing her stomach, his tongue fishing into the crease of her belly button. Her mind flashed haphazardly on what was going on, like lightning skittering across a dry field. If I had known this was going to happen, she thought, I would have worn sexy underwear.

She arched her back so he could reach behind her and unsnap her bra, which he tossed onto the floor. A hand caressed her nipple. She moaned, a deep animalistic growl. His mouth worked its way down her body to her vagina. She writhed under him as he serviced her, feeling an incredible surge of heat all over her body, splotches of red blooming on her chest and legs.

She came in waves, thrusting herself hard against his mouth. She lay there for a moment to catch her breath. Then she grabbed his erection, pulling her knees up and spreading them to take him. “I’m in the middle of my cycle,” she whispered. “You’d better use a condom.”

“I don’t need one,” he whispered back. “I had a vasectomy years ago.”

She laid back again and guided him in. They rocked slowly, kissing deeply, her hands roaming his back. His mouth was on her eyes, her neck, her ears, her mouth again. She grabbed his ass and pulled him even tighter, like she wanted to pull him into her, all of him, to live inside her.

The orgasm was even more intense this time, she could feel a river of blood rushing to her head. She was afraid she might faint, she was so dizzy with fucking.

He came in one long thrust, then a bunch of smaller ones. She held onto his ass for dear life, pushing her mouth against his.

They collapsed against each other, breathing hard like marathon runners. His mouth was against her neck. His breath was hot and dry. The quivering slowed, then stopped. They lay motionless, one spent creature.

He propped himself up on an elbow and looked at her, his eyes searching her face. “Are you all right?” he asked her.

Are you insane?
“Yes, I’m wonderful.” Beyond wonderful.

“I never push this hard the first date. I don’t know what came over me.” He grinned boyishly. “Besides you, of course.”

“Me, neither.” Meaning, I’m really not that easy a lay. Would he think she was a tramp in the morning? It was too late to worry about that, and she didn’t care anyway.

They stood in the open doorway. “Sleep well,” he told her. “I’ll see you in the morning.” A shadow crossed his face. “I hope things go well with Peter.”

“I’m sure they will,” she said. What she meant was, she
hoped
they would. She didn’t want this to be a one-night stand.

One last, lingering kiss. She watched him go until he was gone around the corner, then she closed the door.

She lay on the bed, idly stroking her body where his hands and mouth had caressed her. That was extraordinary, she thought. It was also the most unprofessional thing she had ever done. She had made love to the father of a man who could be a critical witness for or against her client, who, she had to remind herself yet again, was facing a charge of murder.

It had happened. Fate, something you can’t avoid. Or more simply, plain human desire. She hoped when the dust settled this wouldn’t blow up in her face.

Sandals in hand, Sophia tiptoed across the floor to Juanita’s bedroom. All the lights were out in the house; it was after midnight.

She stood at the door. Under the crack between the door and the floor she could see that the room was dark. It had been over an hour since they had said their good nights. The old lady had to be asleep by now. She put her ear to the door. Nothing.

She went into the kitchen and slipped her shoes on. Being careful not to make any noise, she opened the door, making sure she left the lock off. She waited another moment, to make sure Juanita hadn’t heard her. Then she was outside, running to the stable.

Steven was by the stable door, waiting for her. He was wearing Levi’s, a T-shirt, and flops. In one hand he held a lit joint; in the other, a can of Coors. She ran up to him.

“I was beginning to worry you weren’t coming.”

“I wanted to make sure she was asleep.” She looked at what he held in his hands. “Should you be doing that?”

“No,” he said. “But I’m going batshit here, I’ve got to do something to relax. I only do it late at night. No one’s going to know.” His smile was easy and bold. “Unless you bust me.”

“I don’t care,” she said, trying to be casual. This was reckless of him, she thought. What if his grandmother caught him? Or the cops?

“Where do you keep it?” she asked.

“In a safe place. This is a big ranch. Plenty of room to hide almost anything.” He held the joint up to her. “Want a hit?”

She hesitated—she was nervous already, she didn’t want to fuel her edginess any more than was already happening naturally.

“Come on,” he cajoled her, holding out the joint. “It’ll loosen you up.”

She took it gingerly and sucked in a small amount of smoke. It burned going down her throat. She held her breath for a few seconds, then exhaled with a hack.

“Strong,” she wheezed.

“Killer shit,” he agreed. “Could paralyze an elephant.” He handed her the beer. “This’ll help.”

She swigged down a mouthful. That was better. “Want some more?” he asked, holding the joint up again.

She shook her head. She was already feeling the effects. “I’m cool.”

He took one more hit, then wet his thumb and forefinger and extinguished the joint, putting the roach into the pocket of his jeans. “It’s cold out,” he said, taking her hand. “Let’s go inside.”

The little room he was sleeping in was cozy. They sat side by side on the rough blanket on the bed. He reached over and took her hand in his, stroking it gently. His calluses felt like sandpaper on her smooth skin.

She wasn’t wearing anything under her nightgown. It slid off over her shoulders. He was out of his T-shirt and jeans. He, too, wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

He caressed her body as they kissed. She moved easily to his touch, as if they had been lovers for a long time. “Is this your first time?” he asked her.

She’d thought he might ask that, and she’d debated about lying. She had broken her membrane years ago in gym class, so she could fake it if she wanted to. But she wanted him to know he was the first.

“Yes,” she answered.

“I’m honored.” He hesitated. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Positive.”

He picked his jeans up off the floor, reached into a pocket, and pulled out the small package. Deftly, he tore it open and pulled the rubber out. She watched as he unrolled it down the length of his penis.

“You look big,” she said. “Are you bigger than average?”

“How would you know?” he teased her. “I thought you were a virgin.”

She blushed. “I’ve seen pictures.”

“It’s bigger than normal,” he confirmed modestly. “It’s not that big that it’s going to hurt you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I don’t care if it does. I’m expecting it to.”

She laid down. He hovered above her for a moment. Then he guided himself into her with a long, slow thrust.

It did hurt. She winced. She could feel her muscles tightening, which made it hurt more. Try not to be tense, she told herself. Every woman since Eve has done this.

He was on his elbows, pumping up and down, his eyes open, staring into hers, which stared back. She started to feel better, more relaxed. She put her arms around him and drew him closer to her, feeling his rhythm, starting to move with it. His finger massaged her clitoris. Her body rose up to meet it.

The orgasm was better than when she did it to herself. Stronger, and longer. The muscles of her vagina contracted without any effort from her, it was a force of nature.

He came shortly after she did, a series of strong thrusts. He pushed up on his elbows again and looked at her. “Was it all right?” he asked with concern. “Not too painful?”

“It was fine.” She smiled. “Better than fine. Better than I thought it would be.”

It had been good, very good. Some of her friends, describing their first times, had said they’d felt unfulfilled, as if there should have been something more. The earth moving, or some other cliché. The earth hadn’t moved for her, but she hadn’t expected it to. This had been as good as she’d thought it would be. And the next time would be better.

T
HE DRIVER WAS WAITING
in the lobby. He was a young man, dressed in a freshly pressed oxford button-down shirt and khakis. “Mrs. Blanchard?” he asked politely.

“It’s Ms.,” Kate said between clenched teeth.

Her exasperated correction sailed right by him. “I’m Nate,” he identified himself cheerfully. “Mr. Baumgartner sent me to bring you to the house. You’re all checked out. Do you have any bags?”

“Just this.” She handed him a small overnight carry-bag. Earlier that morning she had bought a T-shirt and a pair of knee-length shorts from the hotel shop (she had hand-washed her undergarments in the sink after Warren left), along with this small duffel to stash her dirty clothes. When she tried to pay for the items, the clerk had informed her that all of her expenses had already been covered. Given that carte blanche, she’d been tempted to buy a swimsuit so she could take a dip in the pool, but the least expensive one was over a hundred dollars, and even on a millionaire’s money that was too rich for her blood for one half-hour swim.

Her only regret was that there hadn’t been someone to share it all with. It would have been blissful to wake up next to Warren Baumgartner, but that was too much to ask for. Maybe, if his son Peter turned out to be clean, they would see each other again. If not, it had been a great one-night stand.

Before she’d left her room to go to the lobby she had phoned Angela Baumgartner to confirm the appointment they had made before she came down. The reception she got from Peter’s mother was chilly—Angela had forgotten about the meeting. This would mess up her timetable. Couldn’t they do it another time?

What was with this family and their laissez-faire attitude about appointments, Kate had thought with a flash of anger. It was her status, that was obvious. This woman didn’t think of her as an equal, not close.

She had almost rudely rebuffed the woman. She wasn’t going to make another trip down here to accommodate someone who wasn’t thoughtful enough to remember their meeting, particularly since her reason for wanting to cancel was so trivial. After venting for a moment, Angela had agreed to meet her at the Starbucks on San Vicente Boulevard, in Brentwood.

Nate the chauffeur pulled in front of the house. As Kate got out of the car, she spotted a silver BMW convertible parked in the driveway. She was conflicted that Peter was here. She had been half-hoping he wouldn’t be, so she could have more time with Warren.

The housekeeper was more cordial when she opened the front door this time. “Mr. Baumgartner is waiting for you on the back patio. Please follow me.”

Although she was happy about the prospect of seeing Warren again, she would have to be firm with him about his not being present when she interviewed Peter. Afterwards, they could talk. She knew Warren would have questions for her, but she needed to deal with Peter first.

She followed the housekeeper to the rear of the house, where a covered patio overlooked a large expanse of manicured lawn, beyond which there was a black-bottom lap pool and a large stone-and-tile barbeque area. On the other side of the pool there was a pool house in the same architectural style as the main residence. She knew that the pool house would be fancier than her home. This morning, that didn’t bother her.

“Would you like something to eat?” the housekeeper offered as she opened the French doors that led outside. “Coffee or juice?”

“No, thanks,” Kate declined. “I had breakfast at the hotel.” Room service: Orange juice, yogurt with fruit, English muffin, coffee. Twenty-four dollars. She had signed for it, and had left a generous tip.