Dangerous Ladies (54 page)

“You’re not there to think. You’re there to search. Please remember, Mr. Benjamin, what happened last time you tried to weasel out of this deal.”

Four ran his finger over the notch in his ear, and shuddered. “I remember,” he said faintly.

“I could hold the rest of your ear in the palm of my hand. Or a finger. Or . . . I could hurt someone you care about.”

Four found himself standing beside the bed, phone clutched to his ear. “What do you mean?”

“When a man’s as amiable—and useless—as you are, it’s hard not to care for people. Isn’t it? A man like you makes friends, and that gives a man like me . . . leverage.”

Four could almost hear the smile in Mr. Hopkins’s voice, and his mind made the logical connection. “Did you cut that steering fluid line?
Did you?
”

“Just keep searching, Mr. Benjamin. Keep searching, and no one else will get hurt.”

Four heard a soft click as the connection was cut. He stared at his hand holding the phone. If something happened to Devlin . . . Devlin despised him, but like a brother despised his weak-willed sibling. Yesterday in Amelia Shores, Devlin had put his hand on Four’s shoulder. For the first time since Four had screwed up so badly, Devlin had reminisced about the events that bound them in remembered hardship.

And Meadow . . . she was the most wonderful woman Four had ever met. Of course, she wouldn’t bother to give him a toss—women
never did when Devlin took an interest in them—but he liked her. He liked her.

And somehow Mr. Hopkins knew.

Someone here was watching him and reporting back to Mr. Hopkins.

He had to find that painting—before Devlin or Meadow or Four got killed.

“I like Josh and Reva the best.” Meadow shoved another pillow behind her so she didn’t have to crane her head to watch the fifty-inch television on the wall.

“They’re
old.
” Katie was sixteen, the youngest of the seven maids gathered in various poses around Meadow’s bedroom to eat Jordan’s hors d’oeuvres and to watch
Guiding Light.

“Hush up. They’re not old. They’re classic.” Rashida, forty, tall, black, opened her lunch bag, pulled out her sandwich, and used the bag as protection for her lap.

“Here, use the bed table.” Meadow took it off the mattress where she’d shoved it and handed it over. “It’s easier.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.” Rashida nudged Buzzy, next to her on the couch. “I told you she likes me best.”

Buzzy shoved her and laughed. “You silly old woman. She doesn’t know me yet.”

The two women were different ages and different colors, but best friends of long standing.

Meadow watched their camaraderie with envy. Her best friend was miles away in Washington, the daughter of Russian immigrants, and Meadow had far too little time lately to spend with Firebird. When the doctors said Sharon was completely well . . .

When Sharon was completely well, Meadow would visit the Hunters’ tiny home. She would be respectful of Konstantine, because he was a typical Russian patriarch—big, strong, and a little scary. She would tease Firebird’s brothers. Zorana would pack a basket full of
wonderful food, and she and Firebird would run off into the forest and have a picnic, and Meadow would tell her friend all about Devlin. . . .

“I like Gus and Harley, and they’re classic, too.” Katie sat on the Persian rug, a bowl of popcorn in her lap, an apple in her hand. “I love that she was wrongfully convicted of murder and suffered—”

“Is that Harley?” Meadow used a fistful of popcorn to point at the TV.

“That’s Tammy,” Buzzy said. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, do you mind if I use your phone to call my mother? She’s home alone, and I like to check on her during my lunch hour.” She added hastily, “I already asked Mr. Fitzwilliam if I could use the hotel line, and he said it was okay.”

“Of course I don’t mind.” Meadow handed over the receiver, then watched as Buzzy dialed.

As it rang, Buzzy told Meadow, “Mama watches
Guiding Light,
too, so we do the rundown during the commercials.” Her attention switched to the phone. “Hi, Mama! Did you see what happened?”

“Her mama has MS,” Rashida told Meadow in a low voice. “It’s tough for Buzzy, but they’re awfully close.”

Meadow nodded. She understood. Sharon’s illness had been a trial for everyone in the family, but the anguish and the worry had changed them—the family that had lived to celebrate life seized each moment more intently, showed their emotions more freely, and treasured the time given them.

She liked watching Buzzy talk to her mother, seeing the affection, hearing the warmth.

“Oops. The show’s back on, Mama. I’ll call you at break, okay? Love you, too!” Buzzy hung up and handed the phone back. “Thank you, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”

“Is she okay?” Meadow asked.

“Some days are better than others.” Buzzy used the kind of language that let Meadow know her mother was suffering.

Meadow swallowed. She hadn’t been away from her mother since
Sharon had been diagnosed. It was stupid to feel so anxious, as if a week away would make a difference to Sharon’s health . . . but the anxiety was there, growing with each hour.

She wanted to call her, but she feared Devlin was watching the calls that went out of her room. Of course, Sharon always said,
Where there’s a will, there’s a way . . .

If Meadow could just figure out the way . . .

The idea came in a lovely burst of genius. If all the maids made one phone call a day off her phone, that would be probably fifty phone calls, and that would surely confuse the issue. She sat up straight and announced, “You should all feel free to use my phone. Anytime! Long-distance!”

“You’d let us call long-distance?” Katie brightened. “Because my boyfriend’s in Wisconsin and my folks get mad when I call him, and make me pay the bill.”

“Mrs. Fitzwilliam doesn’t mean long-distance,” Rashida said.

“Really. Please.” Meadow flashed a big, we’re-all-one-happy-family smile. “It would make me happy to know you’re in touch with your boyfriend. And everybody, don’t forget your families!”

Katie stretched out her hand. “Please give me the phone.”

“I’m next,” Shelby said.

Meadow relaxed against the pillows and hoped her plan would work.

By the time the next round of commercials was over, Shelby had handed the phone to Rashida, who had called her brother in California.

When the show came back on, Teresa, their resident
Guiding Light
expert, pointed to the screen and told Meadow, “When Tammy was little she lived in foster homes; then her mama got married and she lived with her and her new daddy; then that daddy died; then her mama married a prince, but her real father kidnapped her—”

Meadow had already discovered that the wrap-up on these characters could take an hour, and ruthlessly interrupted. “So she’s a good person.”

Teresa’s perky golden curls bobbed as she nodded. “But so put upon, poor lamb.”

“I think she’s stupid,” Katie said. “Everybody could see that Jonathan was a creep, and she slept with him and set fires with him and—”

The outcry that followed caught Meadow by surprise.

“But he was cute—”

“He was just bad—”

“She’s better off now—”

Passions were running high when Devlin stepped through the door.

His arrival cut conversation as if with a knife.

His cool gaze surveyed the scene. “What’s happening here?”

Meadow lifted her chin at him. “The second cleanup crew is taking their lunch hour with me.”

He’d been enforcing her prescribed bed rest: standing by while she showered, taking her clothes and leaving her pajamas and a robe, having her meals delivered on a tray, shutting the curtains when he decided she needed sleep. Worse, he was always right. Somehow he knew when a headache threatened. Somehow he knew when she was tired.

He had been
observing
her.

Now she was ready to shriek with the need to rise, to search the hotel, to escape this place before . . . before he . . . well, before he made good on the promise to spend the night with her. Because she knew one thing for sure—this time she wouldn’t escape his bed unscathed. No woman ever had a
casual
affair with Devlin. It would be intense, desperate, passionate—and Meadow didn’t have time. She needed to find that painting. She needed to get back home. Her mother needed her. Her father needed her.

So why did this whole episode feel less like a mission and more like escape?

“You’re supposed to be resting.” He glanced toward the television and frowned.

He had better not try to chase out the cleaning crew. He had better not. Belligerently, she said, “I am resting. I have been resting for the last forty hours. See? I’m in bed, I have pillows, I have pain reliever, which makes me feel
just
fine.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him. “
Just
fine.”

“How does your head feel?”

“
Just
fine.”

“Vicodin,” Rashida told Buzzy.

“I can tell.” Buzzy’s jowls trembled as she laughed.

“When the second cleaning crew finishes their lunch, you’ll rest,” Devlin said.

“Of course I’ll rest. Just like I’m doing right now. Because the third cleaning crew is coming by for their lunch hour to watch Oprah. Oprah has Hugh Jackman talking about his new movie, and he’s going to sing . . .” Meadow allowed her attention to stray from Devlin, and as she did an image on the screen caught her attention: a gorgeous guy crouched in the bushes and holding a crowbar. “Wait! Who’s that spying on Tammy?”

“Oh, my God!” Teresa came to her feet and pointed. “Would you look at that? He’s back!”

“I don’t believe it!” Katie said.

“I told you so! Didn’t I tell you so?” Buzzy exchanged high fives with Rashida.

Devlin stood in the midst of the screaming women, a lone male awash in a sea of estrogen.

“Who?” Meadow sat on her heels, bouncing on the bed. “Who? Who is he?”

Devlin swam toward her, caught her shoulders, picked her up, and laid her flat on her back. He held her there until she stopped struggling. He locked gazes with her. And he said, “This is not what the doctor ordered, and I won’t allow you to hurt yourself out of pure obduracy. Now you can watch this soap, and you can Oprah, but only if you promise me you’ll rest afterward.”

He was so domineering. So macho. So . . . hot.

He made her want to lock her legs around his waist, bring him down on the bed with her, and show him exactly how rambunctious she felt.

How humiliating to discover that caveman behavior made her want to come right here, right now.

But she was very aware of the complete, riveted attention of the women of the second cleaning crew. Plus she had to face the fact that she couldn’t handle the power of coitus with Devlin. Not because she was fragile. Oh, no. Because everything about him—the way he loomed over her, the grip of his hands on her shoulders, his scent of citrus and sandalwood, and that overwhelming air of sexual competency—convinced her she would expire from joy.

And she was too young to die.

“Okay,” she said in a tiny voice, “I’ll rest afterward.”

He nodded once—the jerk never had a doubt she would do as she was told—and stood and faced the room.

Pink-cheeked, Meadow sat up.

“Ladies.” He nodded pleasantly and walked out.

Each head followed his every step.

When he had disappeared, Katie whispered, “Whoa.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Rashida’s brown eyes were wide and awed.

Everyone looked at Meadow with a kind of ripe envy. Nobody paid a bit of attention as the credits rolled on
Guiding Light.

Yep, Meadow needed to get away from the Secret Garden. Fast. She had to take the chance she had sworn she wouldn’t take.

She cleared her throat. “I was wondering . . . I would like to, ah, change that painting.” She pointed at a print of
Water Lilies
by Monet.

Really, what a boring painting. It
did
need to be changed.

“During my wandering around the hotel, I saw a painting, but I can’t remember where. . . . It looked like an oil of a Dutch domestic scene from the seventeenth century, a lady cooking while her husband taught the children their lessons. Have any of you seen it?”

Everyone shook their heads.

“Strong lighting effects, warm colors, a sense of tranquillity and contemplation . . .” She tried to express the elements that created a masterpiece.

Again the heads shook.

She had hoped that if she asked, someone would remember seeing the painting and she could be on her way. Instead, she now risked one of these ladies mentioning it to Devlin. Then he would be on his guard, and he had the resources to find the painting and the capacity to discover why she sought it. Disappointment tasted bitter in her mouth, and she lay back against the pillows. “If anyone sees that painting, would you let me know?”