Love Lies Beneath (2 page)

She is direct, and I like that. The last thing anyone needs is a backstabber in friend's clothing. Speaking of clothing, hers is expensive. Impeccable. We frequent the same stores, preferring the sweet little boutiques on Chestnut or Fillmore to shopping-mall standards.

“Sorry. I got delayed at the gym, and traffic was unusually ugly.”

Cassandra sips her drink. “Delayed
at
the gym, or after?”

She and I actually met at that gym, and we chose it for similar reasons.

Cassandra was in the middle of a divorce and looking for no-strings play. When the dissolution was finalized, she moved to Pacific Heights and found a new place to work out, closer to home. The trainers, she tells me, are equally qualified. “Hold that thought. I need one of those.” I nod toward her drink and then signal a nearby waiter. “Blood-orange sidecar, please.”

As I wait for my drink, I give her the lowdown on Nick, Penelope, and his possible others. I don't inform her that when I got home I called the gym twice. The first time, I canceled my membership, due to inappropriate behavior on the part of my trainer. The second, I asked to talk to the yoga instructor. Our conversation did not include class times.

“Ah well,” I finish as the sidecar arrives. “Nick was spectacular in bed, but not exactly husband material.”

Cassandra looks at me incredulously. “Surely you're not in the market for another husband?”

“Why not?” I take a long swallow of deliciousness, which burns just enough to remind me my stomach is empty. “Hey, are you hungry? I haven't eaten a thing since breakfast, and then it was only granola and yogurt.”

“Go ahead and order something, but don't change the subject.”

“What was the question again? Oh, yeah. Husbands. I know ‘three' is supposed to be the charm, but it didn't quite work that way for me. Why shouldn't I want another one?”

“Are you kidding me? Your life is perfect: a brilliant home on Russian Hill; a BMW, Corvette, and whatever that big thing is—”

“Escalade. For the snow, you know.”

“Right. Your once-a-year ski trip or whatever.”

“I try to get up there at least a couple of times a season,” I correct. “In fact, I'm leaving day after tomorrow for a week. December doesn't reward the Sierra with this much snow very often, so I called Melody and she was free and—”

“Stop avoiding the issue! It's not like you need a husband for a satisfying ski trip, either. God, Tara. Your time is your own. Even your fund-raising stuff happens when you feel like putting in the effort. You have no problem getting laid when you want. And besides, the ink is barely dry on your divorce papers. I take it your attorney prevailed?”

“Well, of course. Finn left
me
for the Barbie doll. I didn't leave
him.
Besides, he'd do just about anything to avoid controversy right now. He founded his company on quote-unquote Christian principles, not that I ever once saw him go to church. It was just a way to tap into loopholes that freed him from certain government intrusions. He's decided to go public. He stands to make a whole other fortune and the settlement was a drop in the proverbial bucket. Plus, now he can show off his token brat, legitimize his heir-to-be. Apparently the girl's pregnant.”

Cassandra looks amused. “Well, that's something you weren't ever going to be, right?”

“Certainly not. I made sure of that a long time ago.” Allow some alien being to grow inside me, stretch my body into an unrecognizable shape, scarring my skin irreparably with fat silver marks? And as if all that isn't bad enough, nurture that child (and perhaps a sibling or two) into adulthood? Call me selfish. Call me scared.

But being a parent was never a goal.

Since we're talking offspring, I probably should inquire about
her
kid. “How's Taylor doing? School going okay?”

It's a staccato conversation.

New school, the Athenian.

Expensive school but worth the tuition, especially since her ex is paying it.

Boarding school, so she only sees the kid every other weekend and holidays.

Competitive school, and so far he's maintaining a 4.0.

I do my best not to yawn.

Finally, our waiter stops by, inquiring about a second round. “That gentleman over there would like to buy it for you ladies.”

He points to a decent-looking man, sitting alone three tables away. When we glance in his direction, he lifts his hand as if saluting. I reward him with a smile and mouth a silent thank-you. He responds with a subtle flick of his tongue.

“I think you've impressed him,” says Cassandra.

“The cut of his trousers impresses me.”

“Like you can see that from here?”

“Have I never told you about my superpower? Able to discern the size of a penis across a crowded room.”

It's not that funny, but Cassandra laughs anyway, almost snorting out the last of her drink. Luckily, the waiter arrives with two more.

“See?” says Cassandra. “Complete strangers buy you drinks. Bet you could sweet-talk him into dinner, too. Why on earth would you consider matrimony again when you can have the fringe benefits without giving up your independence?”

It's a fair question. “Companionship. I really hate living alone. But since a proposal is not on the table, I'll settle for the fringe benefits.” My eyes settle on our benefactor, the invitation, I hope, apparent.

“Get out! You're not seriously considering hooking up with that man?”

“Why not? He's good looking, isn't he?” Who needs Nick de la Rosa, anyway?

“Serial killers generally come in attractive packages, you know.”

I assess the man carefully. Expensive suit. Silk. Tailored. (Do creepers wear Armani?) Meticulously styled salt-and-pepper hair—he has an excellent barber. Perfect teeth, at least they look that way from here. Predatory eyes, but they meet mine straight on. I don't think he has a whole lot to hide. Besides, I kind of like carnivores. “Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself. Anyway, I hear serial killers give great head.”

“Jesus, Tara, you're insane. Oh, lovely. Here he comes.” Cassandra turns slightly toward the window.

I, on the other hand, rotate in the direction of the approaching stranger, crossing my legs into the aisle to give him a better look, one he seems to appreciate.

“May I join you ladies?” The rasp in his voice is sexy as hell.

“Well, I don't know. What do you think, Cassandra?”

She glances at her watch, stands. “I think I should go. I've got an early morning and, besides, three's a crowd.”

“Aw, don't go,” he says. “Sometimes three's just right.”

But Cassandra tsks disgust. “Only when the third is an
invited
guest.”

She stalks off without saying good-bye and Mr. Uninvited watches her go.

“Too bad.” Then he turns back to me. “Well, then. Are
you
inviting?”

I gesture for him to take Cassandra's vacated seat. “It's the least I can do. Thanks for the drink—er, two drinks, I guess. Can't let a great sidecar go to waste.”

The man sits, placing his own drink on the table. From the smell, I'd say it's decent scotch, but on the rocks. Waste of good whiskey, pouring it over ice cubes.

“Sidecar? What's that?” he asks, and when he brings his eyes level with mine I notice they are neither brown nor green, but somewhere in between. Gold. Reptilian.

“Cognac—good cognac, by the way, and I'm afraid your bill will reflect that—Cointreau, and in this case, blood-orange juice in place of lemon.”

“May I taste?” He points to Cassandra's glass.

I shrug. “Help yourself. It's your drink, really.”

He takes a sip, and I can tell he wants to hate it. But that, of course, is impossible. “Nice.” It's a long sigh. He indulges in a deeper swallow, then says, “So, I'm Ben. And you are . . . ?”

I could lie, but why? The truth is easier to remember, and what's to worry about my name? “Tara.” My voice is thick with cognac, and I remember I haven't eaten. Ordering food will slow things down, however. Do I want to linger with Ben, or will inebriated sex do? I glance at my watch. Seven thirty. “Would you mind if I have something to eat?”

He looks vaguely disappointed, which only makes me more determined. “Excuse me? Waiter? Would you please bring an antipasti platter?” I offer Ben a semiapologetic smile. “Happy to share. I'm starving, and this will give us time to chat.”

Impatience shimmers, and he's quite obviously assessing his chances. Keep on guessing, Ben. I like confidence in a man, but not when it bloats into conceit. “Of course,” he says finally. “Wouldn't want you to pass out on me.”

Game on. “Highly doubtful, unless you're concealing roofies somewhere?”

He displays teeth and, indeed, they are artificially perfect. “No need to coerce. I aim only to please. Are you a local, or traveling?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really. I come from Phoenix.”

“As opposed to Mars?”

His laugh is genuine. “As opposed to Lansing, where I was born and raised.”

“Is Lansing home to many serial killers?”

He barely twitches, and I think that must be a good sign that he isn't one. “Not that I'm aware of. Why do you ask?”

“Something to do with an earlier observation.”

“About me?”

“Who else?”

Bluntness can be the key to reading the stranger across the table. I watch his reaction—a slow rise of humor creasing the corners of his chameleon eyes. “The last thing I purposely killed was a fifth of Glenfiddich 21. Great going down, but I paid for it the next day, and it probably worried my ulcer just a little bigger.”

Well spoken. Drinks decent liquor. I see no wedding ring on his finger, no shadow indicating he wears one most of the time. “Anyone waiting for you back in Lansing?”

“Only my mother, and she suffers from dementia, so she's never quite sure who I am, let alone where I am or when I might show up for a visit.”

Pretty sure he's serious. “How about in Phoenix? Someone there who might be stressing over what you're up to tonight?”

“Nope. You?”

“Not at all.”

The small talk is interrupted by the antipasti's arrival. The waiter inquires about another round. Our glasses are almost empty. Ben has finished his scotch, plus most of Cassandra's sidecar. If he truly has an ulcer, it must be screaming.

I nod. “This one's on me. Scotch or sidecar, Ben?”

“Sidecar, since you appreciate the taste. And thank you.”

“The pleasure's all mine.”

“Oh, I hope it's not
all
yours.” He winks. “Maybe we could make it a contest.”

On another day, his certainty of the evening's outcome might very well leave me—and so, him—cold. But this afternoon's disappointment, plus three very good drinks and Ben's overall charm, has chipped away at any resistance. Our bills come and I notice he signs his to his room.

“You're bunking here, then?” The verb, a sliver of a past I've worked very hard to leave far, far behind, makes me cringe.

But Ben grins amusement. “ ‘Bunking' is apropos. I prefer the Four Seasons, but my company booked the reservation, and since a top-floor pencil pusher approves my expense account, I didn't think I should complain.” He gives my legs a long, lustful appraisal. “Looks like it was a fortuitous choice.”

The last sentence is more question than statement, and it inches my answer closer to the affirmative column. One-night stands can be fun, but rarely are they fulfilling. So if they're not fun enough, what's the point? “How early do you have to be up in the morning?”

He shrugs. “My meeting's at eleven. That much I planned on my own.”

I decide to be direct. “My orgasm ratio requirement is three to one, in my favor. Can you accommodate that?”

“Huh. I wouldn't have pegged you for an underachiever.”

I can't help but laugh. “Is that a yes?”

“Better than that. It's a promise.”

Ben's company, at least, booked one of the nicest rooms this particular Marriott has to offer—a smallish suite with a very nice view. Outside the big window, the night-engulfed city has blossomed with lights. An anonymous couple of them belong to my house. My home. One I'd never invite a stranger into.

As unfamiliar men go, Ben seems decent enough. I watch him hang his jacket in the closet, appreciating the care he takes, both with his clothing and with what I can see of his body beneath the loose cling of his shirt. Broad shoulders taper to a trim waist and solid hips. He works out, but not obsessively.

He goes over to the minibar. “Nightcap?”

“No, thanks. I don't want to get sloppy on you.”

He laughs warmly. “I thought that was the whole point. Mind if I have one?”

“Be my guest. Just don't forget about my requisite ratio.” I slip out of my own silk jacket and lay it gently over the too-prominent office chair. “I'll be right back, okay?”

I take my purse into the bathroom with me, not because I'm worried about Ben inspecting its contents, but because it contains an emergency hygiene kit. Most of it I don't need tonight, but I prefer my breath not carry a hint of salami, so I spend a couple of quality minutes with a toothbrush and mouthwash. Then I free my hair from the confines of the chignon I was wearing, releasing gardenia perfume to fight the masculine scent of Ben's own cologne, hanging heavily in the too-small lavatory.

Lavatory. Good word. Comes right after “laboratory” in the dictionary, and let's face it, most lavatories would make interesting laboratories, at least if you could stomach such experiments.

By the time I've finished, Ben has made himself quite comfortable on the sofa, shoeless and shirtless but for a tight sleeveless undershirt that showcases his beefcakeyness quite nicely. He stands as I come into the room. “Good Lord, look at you. Your hair is amazing.”