Sweeter Than Revenge (15 page)

“Where did you park?” she asked as the doors dinged open.

“Uh…” Looking wildly around the rows of cars and concrete pillars, he tried to remember. With relief he spotted the Audi and pointed. “Over there.”

They walked to the car and got in. Her perfume, subtle but glorious, filled the car and his brain, and the memories surged again, refusing to be ignored. Praying for strength, he started the engine, pulled out of the garage and immediately succumbed to yet another delicious recollection.

“Touch me, David,” she begged, panting, running one hand over her breasts, which were still encased in the cups of her red sundress.

“Look at you. I think red is my new favorite color.”

“So, what’ll happen when we get to Anastasia’s?”

“I want it all, David,” she whispered. “Everything you have to give me.”

“David?”

David jerked. Someone had stopped the car at a light. Must’ve been him because he was in the driver’s seat and his hands were on the wheel. Maria touched his arm and he turned to see her watching him with worried eyes.

Feeling his cheeks flame, he cleared his throat. “I, uh…what did you say?”

“What’ll happen with the interview?”

Pulling through the intersection, he turned onto the expressway’s on-ramp and tried to think, a difficult task while driving, fantasizing and being half-aroused. Well, okay. Fully aroused. “Well, you know Anastasia, ah, had that media training session yesterday afternoon, and she’s an old hand with interviews anyway—”

“Right.”

“So I’m hoping there won’t be much for us to do except watch. The paper is sending Joan Fielding to do the interview. It’ll be a nice spread, with photos, and it’ll run in a couple days.”

“Oh, she’s good,” Maria said. “I’ve read some of her articles.” She lapsed into a thoughtful silence. “I’m a little worried about Anastasia, though. She’s sort of a wild card, isn’t she?”

“You have no idea,” David muttered.

“Do you think she’ll behave?”

“I’m hoping. I’m counting on you to help me manage her, since she hates me and loves you. Okay?”

“Okay.”

They lapsed into silence again as the car sped along Columbia Parkway, which snaked parallel to the river. David’s brain immediately reverted to its favorite activity: thinking of Maria.

He saw Harper whisper something in her ear and Maria’s answering smile, saw the fat diamond ring the size of a goose egg on her finger, saw Harper lovingly stroke his fingers across Maria’s bare shoulder.

Tension knotted around his throat, as though some invisible hand had taken his necktie and pulled it tight. But then his thoughts shifted and another memory appeared.

“You smell like lemons.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

His fingers flexed, bringing her up hard against his straining arousal. She stifled most of her moan.

“Why did you come down here?” he demanded, low, against her ear. “Don’t lie again. I heard Jane on the phone with you earlier. She told you Ellis was in Chicago. Youknew he wasn’t here before you came down and pretended to look for him.”

“I came because it’s been thirty-one days since I saw you and I couldn’t make it to thirty-two.”

David’s blood roared, thick and hot, through his veins, heating him until he felt a fine sweat break out across his forehead. Why was it so hot in here? For God’s sake, why couldn’t he breathe? Cursing, he flipped the air-conditioner knob up to highwith enough force to break the thing off.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

No, he wasn’t freakin’ okay. He was trapped inside this damn car with her,the instrument of his torture, and he wanted to crawl out of his skin. He wanted to bang his head against the side window, and then he wanted to throw himself out of the car as it hurtled along at sixty miles an hour. See if maybe either of those things would get her off his mind for ten lousy seconds.

“Yeah,” he snapped. “I’m just peachy.”

He could feel her reproachful stare boring into the side of his face, and that was another in the long list of things he just couldn’t deal with right now. “I’ve got a surprise for Anastasia,” he said to divert her from his ongoing rudeness. “Molly has picked Blue Endearmentfor her book club.”

“Molly?”Maria squealed. “Of ‘Live With Sturgis & Molly’?”

“The very same.”

“That’s wonderful.”

Yeah, he thought so. Funny, though. He’d been excited when the show’s producer called and told him the news a little while ago, but nowhere as excited as he was now, hearing Maria’s enthusiasm. His mood darkened even further. Luckily, they’d arrived, so he could at least get out of the car and get some fresh air into his traumatized brain. Fresh air. Yeah. That’d be good right about now.

He turned onto a hidden drive and drove past half a mile or so of white fencing and lush green lawn, rolling the windows down and catching the fragrance of fresh-cut grass on the breeze. He started to feel marginally better as he parked the car, but then Maria bent down to pick up her purse off the floor and revealed a healthy portion of her plump, satiny breasts in their lacy black bra. Once again his groin tightened and he wished he’d thrown himself out of the car while he’d had the chance.

Once he’d adjusted his jacket flaps to cover his fading and doomed erection, they started up the walk to the monstrous house, which was almost an exact replica, or so he’d read, of Southfork from Dallas:white with black roof, boxy main structure with second-floor veranda, smaller wings to either side. Apparently, Anastasia had built the house to her very unusual specifications when her first novel hit the best-seller lists a thousand years ago.

“So, we’ll go in, prep Anastasia for the interview, tell her about the ‘Sturgis & Molly’ gig, then get out of here by one or so,” he told Maria. “Sound good?”

“Sounds good.”

They stepped onto the porch, walked past the white columns and pressed the button. For a moment he thought he’d heard wrong, but no, the bell did, indeed, play the Dallastheme song in gonging, pretentious chimes.

He looked to Maria, whose horrified expression surely matched his own. “That’s just wrong,” he muttered, and she laughed.

Staring at her, waiting for someone to answer the door, and sharing the first spontaneous, lighthearted moment with Maria in years, David experienced a stunning moment of clarity as brilliant and clear as a full harvest moon sitting right on the horizon. The sign he hadn’t even known he was looking for was right here in front of his face, and all he had to do was see it.

For the first time in four years, he looked. And saw.

Chapter 13

Anastasia’s heavy leaded-glass door swung open, revealing a pleasant-faced, thirty-something brunette in a purple polo shirt and black pants. Embroidered in white thread on the left side of the shirt, where a name should have been, were the words Anastasia’s Personal Assistant.

“Hello,” the woman said brightly. “Come in.”

Exchanging discreet sidelong glances, Maria and David stepped over the threshold, through the foyer and into the bizarre world of Anastasia Buckingham, where there was evidently more money than taste or good sense.

If Prince had been the set decorator for Dallas,Maria thought, thiswould have been the result. Amethyst walls, gleaming black-lacquer furniture, and cream-colored sofas with embroidered violet pillows graced the huge living room. A massive oil painting of Anastasia clutching a smooch-faced Pekingese and looking imperious, glared down at them from over the mantel. Plush handmade carpets, garish and expensive, with flaming purple lilies and untold other purple flowers lined the floors. Floral arrangements and tchotchkes in mauve, magenta and more variations of purple than Maria knew names for dotted every conceivable surface. She’d never realized that a color could make a person’s eyes hurt, but apparently it could.

“Maria, darling.”

The booming voice announced Anastasia’s arrival at the other side of the room. Maria and David looked around to see her sweep in from the kitchen, her fancy, purple-flowered kimono flowing behind her. Today’s wig was a sleek auburn model sporting a heavy fringe of bangs and straight sheets of hair on either side of her face. In her hand she clutched a crystal champagne flute with what looked like orange juice inside it, but the woman’s slightly unsteady gait told Maria she’d been drinking mimosas or, God forbid, screwdrivers. Apparently, Anastasia had started the party without them, and had been at it for a while.

Uri, in black again, trailed in her wake. Maria had begun to suspect that Uri’s black suit and shirt was his uniform, sort of like Archie Bunker’s ubiquitous white shirt and dark pants. Ah, well. At least Uri wore Armani.

Maria plastered her best smile on her face, determined to keep it there no matter what weird thing happened this afternoon. That something weird wouldhappen sooner or later was inevitable; in thishouse, with thesepeople, weirdness was the order of the day. Stepping into Anastasia’s outstretched arms, Maria accepted her air kiss and gave one in return.

“You look beautiful,” Maria cried, adopting her enraptured lackey routine and hoping it would keep Anastasia happy long enough for the woman to remain pleasant for the rest of the morning. “Wait till Joan sees you. I’m soexcited. This article will sell thousands of books. You’ll see.”

At this mention of the reporter from USA Every Day, Anastasia frowned and sniffed.

“I’ve decided not to do the interview,” she said, flapping an enormous bejeweled hand in dismissal. “You may cancel it. Would you like a mimosa?”

Maria, who’d turned to Uri and kissed him, froze in horror. Steps away, David made a strangled noise, and Maria did notlike the sound of it. If David and Anastasia bothdug in their heels, she and Uri would have to run and hide in a basement bathtub to wait while the storm passed.

“Ah, Anastasia,” David began.

Anastasia, who hadn’t yet greeted or acknowledged David and apparently expected him to keep quiet until she did so, glared down her nose at him. One heavily lined black brow arced up and disappeared underneath her fringe of bangs.

“The thing is,” David continued in a perfectly pleasant tone though his eyes flashed, “that we have worked very hard to get this interview for you. Lots of writers would kill to have their work featured on the front page of the Lifesection of a national newspaper with a circulation of over two million people, not including hits on the Web site.”

Anastasia’s chest, which already jutted like a ship’s prow, expanded with her harsh, angry breathing and threatened to lash across the room and take David out. Her lips thinned into nothingness.

“Joan is already on her way here.” David checked his watch. “She should be here any second. Maria and I would like to spend a little more time prepping you, so if you—”

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me,” Anastasia said, her fake English accent turning perhapsinto pah-hapsand hearinto hee-ahh, “but I am notdoing this interview.”

David’s stony expression lit a fire under Maria. Hurrying past him, pausing only to place a reassuring hand on his arm and shoot him a let-me-handle-thislook, she took Anastasia’s elbow and steered her to one of the sofas, where they sat.

“Oh, Anastasia,” she said, screwing her face into worried lines and infusing her voice with deep concern, “I had no idea you had problems with the interview. Is there something I can do to help or—”

“Joan Fielding,” Anastasia announced sulkily, taking a deep swig from her glass, “is a git.”

Uri, who’d been hovering at Anastasia’s shoulder, patted her back in a supportive gesture before drifting away; David snorted.

“I…see,” Maria said.

Maria had, luckily, read enough Harry Potter books to know that git,roughly translated from the British vernacular, meant jerk.Though she didn’t know Anastasia well, she suspected that the woman latched on to hatreds and name-calling with the same frequency that people worldwide bought Big Macs. Whatever. All Maria cared about was making sure this interview went off without a hitch. Her mind spinning furiously, she turned to David, whose eyes had squinched down to narrow slits of rage.

“Well, David,” Maria said, twisting at the waist to catch his gaze and dart him a significant look, “I guess we’ll need to call Joan on her cell phone and cancel. We can’t expect Anastasia to give an interview to a…git.”

“What the—?” David barked; Anastasia and Uri exchanged triumphant smiles.

Just then, a new minion, a young woman with African-knotted hair, marched in from the kitchen carrying more champagne flutes on a gleaming silver tray. Her purple polo shirt, sure enough, was embroidered with Anastasia’s Personal Chef. Anastasia thunked her old, empty glass on the tray, snatched up a new glass, and drained it. Maria gratefully selected a flute and took a sip. Lord knew she needed a little fortification to deal with this diva.

“So, David,” Maria continued, putting her glass on the table and picking up the leather folio and pen she’d brought with her, “I guess we’ll need to send back Anastasia’s gift basket and send a note—”

Anastasia’s eyes widened. She put a restraining hand on Maria’s arm. “A…giftbasket, did you say?”

Acting surprised at the interruption, Maria looked up from her note-taking and nodded. “Oh, yes. I think the paper wanted to thank you for giving your first major interview to them.” She turned back to David, who was watching Maria with narrowed, speculative eyes. “David, what was in that basket Joan sent to the office for Anastasia?”

David froze, his mouth dropping open. “Er,” he stammered.

“I just got a quick look at it,” Maria said, “but I thought I saw some lotions and creams, and I could’ve sworn I saw a Tiffany’s box in there somewhere. One of the little blue ones? Well. It doesn’t matter now, does it? We’ll just send it back when we cancel—”

“Wait, darling.” Anastasia, now brimming with sweetness and light, fluffed her wig. “Perhaps I was too hasty.” She looked to where Uri now sat on another fluffy white sofa, managing to look like a spider atop a scoop of vanilla ice cream. “Uri?”

Uri shrugged and managed half a rueful smile.

“Yes,” Anastasia said, nodding somberly. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

Silence fell while Anastasia screwed up her face and—Maria supposed—examined her momentous decision from every conceivable angle.

Maria risked a quick glance at David, who rocked back on his heels and managed to look very serious as he tried not to laugh.

At last, Anastasia stood and beamed at them all. “Why not?” she cried. “I’ll do it.”

“Wonderful!” Relieved beyond all reason, Maria laughed and clapped her hands for effect. “I’ll just go—”

“Bring in the basket.”

Maria’s heart lurched. “Excuse me?”

“The basket.” Anastasia smiled sweetly, the essence of civility and patience now that she thought she was getting fine jewelry for free. “You may bring it in.”

Maria had, alas, used up all her lying and manipulation skills for the morning. Time to call in the cavalry. “David?” She turned to him and adjusted her earring with a fidgety hand. “Did you, uh, remember to put the gift basket in the car?”

David’s poker face never slipped. “Ah, no,” he said, a twinge of regret in his voice. “I’ll have it sent right over, though.”

Anastasia blessed him with a benevolent nod of her auburn head as she resettled herself on the sofa. “That will be fine.” Reaching for her flute, she seemed to realize for the first time that it was empty. At her slight frown, Uri leaped to his feet and scurried to the kitchen, snapping his fingers to catch Anastasia’s Personal Chef’sattention.

David, a warm gleam in his eye, took advantage of the distraction to wander over and whisper in Maria’s ear. “Nice work slaying the dragon, Ree-Ree.”

As always, the nickname, spoken by that man in that deep, velvety voice, traveled into her ear, made a beeline for her chest and exploded into a throbbing ache around her heart. His praise, in the business context, meant more to her than she could ever possibly say. One compliment from him gave her the morale boost to work more, work harder, work her fingers to the bone—to do anything necessary to earn another one.

Flushing furiously, she ducked her head. “Thanks.”

He leaned closer, to her thrilled dismay. His delicious smells did the most agonizing things low in her belly. Starch, linen, deodorant, essence of David…all drove her wild, and all broke her heart. Even so, she couldn’t force herself to move away any more than she could force herself to grow two inches taller.

“There’s no gift basket, is there?”

Catching his wry gaze, she held it while she laughed. “Of course not. We’ll have to get one, won’t we?”

David laughed, too. “Clever girl. Remind me to give you a big fat kiss later.”

The words, which rolled so naturally off his tongue and reminded her so clearly of the way things had once been between them, made her want to find a quiet corner here at Southfork and bawl until her eyes shriveled up like raisins. Looking away from those laughing eyes, she gave herself a swift mental kick right in the butt. Just because they’d laughed together once or twice today didn’t mean that she could rewrite the miserable end of their affair. What a fool she was for still wishing she could.

She felt David’s intense, unreadable gaze on her face although she tried her best to ignore it. When she couldn’t stand it any more, she jumped to her feet. “Anastasia,” she said as the awful Dallasdoorbell thundered in the distance, “David’s got some great news for you. He’s been working really hard to get this opportunity lined up for you. Wait’ll you hear.”

“Really, darling?” Anastasia sipped from her newly refilled champagne flute and smiled with polite curiosity.

David nodded, brimming with excitement. “Yes. Molly from ‘Live with Sturgis & Molly’ chose Blue Endearmentfor her book club. Obviously, this is huge.The last book she chose shot right to the top of the best-seller lists and sold two million copies—”

“Really?”said Anastasia again, looking shell-shocked.

“So we think this is huge. Huge.”

Before Anastasia could respond, Anastasia’s Personal Assistantmarched in. Behind her was Joan Fielding, a short, plump, middle-aged woman with a heavy, dreadlocked ponytail trailing down her back, and a photographer with a huge bag of equipment slung over his shoulder.

Chaos reigned. Introductions were made, chairs rearranged, drinks filled and Anastasia’s hair fluffed by, yes, another lackey, this one sporting the title Anastasia’s Stylist. They’d just finished with the pictures and settled into chairs when Joan Fielding asked Anastasia the very first question on the record.

“Anastasia, you must be thrilled about the book club selection, huh?”

Anastasia lowered her bottomless mimosa glass from her lips and sneered, her nostrils flaring as if she’d just entered a slaughterhouse and was trying her best not to breathe in the foul air. “I suppose, darling,” she drawled. “Although I’m not certain all the little popular fiction readers who watch Molly and only read romance novels will be able to follow along without a dictionary on hand.”

Following an afternoon of frantic phone calls between himself and the producers of “Sturgis & Molly,” who were understandably furious and determined to dump Anastasia’s book from the book club, David left the office. Instead of heading home to Ellis’s, though, he drove out to the secluded site of his new house, which was now almost finished. This was only his second house and the first one he’d had built, so he needed to keep a close watch on things to make sure the crew hadn’t put the garage on the wrong side or painted anything the wrong color. More importantly, today he felt drawn to the place where he planned to settle down and spend the next thirty years or so.

He desperately needed to think, and to plan.

The crew had already gone for the day, but they’d left a trail. The enormous wooded lot on top of a hill was a mess, with a backhoe at one end, a temporary gravel driveway, layers of dried mud instead of grass, and bricks, stones, planks and other construction debris strewed about. But the house—an enormous Mediterranean-style villa—looked great, and they’d started on the fountain since the last time he came.