Hot Legs

  Moving some papers on her desk, she glanced at her e-ticket. “Jeez.” She looked at the clock. “Three fifty. I thought it was five fifty. That barely gives me time to go home and pack. And I have to call Liv and cancel.”

  “I’ll take you.” They’d driven Cassie’s car in this morning.

  “If you want to use my car while I’m gone,” she said, folding the e-ticket and reaching for her purse. “Feel free.”

  “Thanks, but Joe can keep me company.”

  She grinned. “I’ll be jealous.”

  “And I’ll be jealous of Bill Spencer.”

  “Don’t be. I’m yours.”

  He was caught unaware, not sure whether it was her words or her smile that felt like a punch in the gut. But he recovered quickly because he was glad she was his. “Then I’ll keep the home fires burning,” he said with a grin. “Let me know when to pick you up at the airport.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  AS CASSIE’S PLANE WAS FLYING HIGH ABOVE Nebraska, Bobby was enjoying the sun on the St. Croix. He’d made it an early day, not in the mood to do Arthur any favors, and with a cold beer in hand, he was lounging on the deck watching the boats go by. Another beer and he’d walk over to the dock-side restaurant, eat supper, then come back and wait for Cassie’s call. She said she’d phone him once she was settled in her hotel room.

  The sun was warm, the day balmy, and his mood less sullen now that he knew she’d be back soon. He couldn’t remember when he’d waited for a woman with such anticipation. Never, actually. Which might have been real unnerving had he not been mellow after three beers. Which might have been more than a little disconcerting as well had he known of the phone call Arthur had made to Bill Spencer not more than an hour ago, reminding Bill to keep Cassie busy in Houston for at least a week.

  And he would be way the hell more than disconcerted if he’d been aware of the machinations leading to Cassie’s trip to Houston.

  But he didn’t.

  And for the moment, ignorance was bliss.

  He ate Minnesota walleye for supper, the martini menu was extensive, the restaurant overlooking the St. Croix river busy on a spring evening, and he enjoyed the view and his martinis and the buzz of conversation around him.

  The sun was low in the sky as he strolled down the marina dock, mentally checking off the hours from the three-day clock in his head. He’d survive, and someday he’d pay Arthur back. After several martinis, that thought brought a smile to his face. As Cassie had pointed out at their initial meeting, Arthur had his share of enemies—himself now included. But he wasn’t in a rush for retribution. In a way, Arthur’s whole life was a form of retribution. He was juggling a helluva lot of balls in the air, working up a sweat and not making much progress.

  The two crewmen were gone for the night. Bobby had assured them as he’d left for supper that he didn’t want the boat taken out that evening. He’d encouraged them to go, finding the idea of being alone when Cassie called appealing. Jesus, what the hell was that all about? Next thing you know, he’d be buying Hallmark cards.

  He was on the gangway when he heard the phone ring and softly swore, cursing himself for not watching the time more closely. Sprinting, he leaped up the stairs to the second deck and, just as he reached the balcony off the bedroom, he heard a familiar voice purr, “I’m so sorry, but Bobby’s busy right now. Would you like to leave a message?”

  It was as if Wellington’s battle plan for Waterloo had been laid out before him—after the fact.

  Or the blueprints for the first nuclear bomb were suddenly a brilliant visual in his brain—disaster blinking like a detonator counting down.

  And there was Arthur’s voice coming through bright and clear from some recording library in his brain saying, “William Spencer called me this morning. He’s insisting Cassandra come down.” Like hell! Like bloody fucking hell!

  He’d strangle Arthur. He’d sell the fucking Rubens and give the money to charity. He’d take Arthur’s world apart with his hands, piece by piece.

  “Darling, how nice to see you.” Claire stood in the open glass-fronted bedroom doorway.

  But first, he’d strangle Claire.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled.

  “I just love when you sound all ferocious and male. And I’m not doing anything,” she said with wide-eyed innocence. “I just stopped by for a drink.”

  “You answered my phone,” he said with a dangerous softness.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “It sure as hell is.”

  “I’m sure whoever it was will call back,” she said, over sweet and smiling.

  He doubted very much whoever it was would call back. Not after the grilling he’d undergone in the car after Flora’s party. Not after all of Cassie’s questions about his relationship with Claire. He could almost guarantee whoever it was wouldn’t call back until hell froze over, and maybe not even then. “Why don’t you get the fuck out, Claire,” he snarled. “Get on your broomstick and fly away.”

  “My goodness, that’s not very friendly. I brought you a very nice bottle of wine. A ’56 Margaux.”

  “Listen,” he said, ultra softly. “Just go. Stay out of my life. And whatever you gave Arthur for this, I hope like hell he chokes on it.”

  “Really, darling, you’re overreacting,” she said, her model’s smile in place. “There’s no Machiavellian motive behind my visit. We haven’t seen each other for a long time. I thought we could have a glass of wine and chat.”

  “Chat?” His voice sounded explosive in his ears, and he forced himself to inhale and exhale, told himself Claire wasn’t worth the aggravation, and said, “I don’t chat, and if I did, I wouldn’t with you. You and Arthur are playing some game, and I don’t want to be a part of it.”

  “No one’s playing any game. It’s a beautiful evening. You’re alone. I’m alone. Why can’t we have a drink and talk?”

  “Look, Claire, I don’t know how to put this politely, but we’re divorced for a reason—for a whole lot of reasons—and I’m not interested in picking up where we left off.”

  “You looked interested that first day at Sarah’s.”

  “I was surprised to see you.”

  “Are you sure that was all?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” He’d had time since then to see her in action again, to sort out his feelings, their conversation at Flora’s party reminding him of her blatant selfishness and her ungenerous nature. And now this flagrant manipulation. Jesus, did she think he was a complete moron? “I’d like you to go.”

  “It’s because of her, isn’t it—that Cassandra.”

  “No. It’s because you and I don’t have anything left to say.”

  “We could talk about the weather,” she playfully murmured. “And drink this great Bordeaux while the sun sets.”

  It was amazing how his reaction to her had changed since he’d first seen her getting out of that cab. She wasn’t any less beautiful. In fact, she was dressed for seduction in a low-necked, short-skirted dress and high heels. He was sure she could turn on most of the men on the planet. But just not him. “I’ve had enough to drink tonight. Please go.”

  “Good Lord, Bobby. Lighten up. It’s just a drink.” She moved from her languid pose in the bedroom doorway and began walking toward his bed.

  “I’m serious, Claire. Go or I’ll call the cops.”

  She turned and gave him a pouty look. “You needn’t be melodramatic. I’m just going to check out your bed.”

  “I don’t know how fast the cops show up here, but if you don’t want to do a lot of explaining, I suggest you get your ass in gear.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “In a fucking second. Breaking and entering. I think my Piaget watch is missing.”

  For a taut moment they did the equivalent of a Mexican standoff north of the border.

  Her cool blue eyes had turned icy. “I think you’re losing your mind.”

  “Just go.”

  She l
ifted her chin faintly. “I don’t have to.”

  He took a step forward, and something in his face changed her mind. Brushing past him, she stalked away, moving down the narrow staircase with remarkable speed considering her spiky heels. He watched her stalk down the marina dock, quickly ascend the stairs to the river bank, and disappear behind one of the repair sheds.

  And then he sat down on a deck chair and stared out at the river, racking his brain for an explanation Cassie was likely to listen to. Hoping like hell the bedroom phone had caller ID. Thinking maybe he should just fly down to Houston and talk to her in person. Shocking the hell out of himself that he would consider such a dramatic gesture. Which resulting tumult caused him to stare at the busy river for several minutes more while his brain stopped short-circuiting. Jesus, how deep was he in this—he hesitated on the word relationship and finally gave up—what the hell . . . relationship? Deep enough to ruin his very comfortable life? Deep enough to make him forget the disaster of his marriage? It was frightening in a way that he was even thinking about such bizarre possibilities after having been unlucky enough to experience his ex-wife in all her deluded glory.

  Maybe he’d have another beer to relax.

  You know, put everything into perspective.

  Then he’d check out the caller ID. If there was one.

  Otherwise, he’d have to call Emma. She’d made the reservations. She’d know the name of the hotel.

  There.

  He had time.

  He didn’t have to rush into anything. It was always better not to rush into any serious decisions.

  Although in hindsight, delay might not have been a good idea.

  It might be construed as indifference.

  But consider, his world was being rocked.

  Seriously.

  THIRTY

  WHEN HE CHECKED THE PHONE, IT DID HAVE caller ID. Punching in the number, he counted the rings, hanging upon ten with a sigh. What did he expect?

  But intent, he called back, then called again and again until Cassie finally picked up.

  “Let me explain.”

  Click.

  At least she’d answered. He was encouraged.

  But she didn’t answer for—he lost count—but redial was easy, and he wasn’t about to give up. Sort of like when his team was behind by two touchdowns and he’d keep throwing those passes. Besides, he had plenty of cold beer, and getting to work early tomorrow wasn’t on his radar. After his talk with Arthur, he’d temporarily shut down the radar. So—redial. He watched the numbers dance across the screen, listened to the first ring, the second, the third—lifted his beer to his mouth and almost choked when Cassie picked up.

  “Whatever you have to say I don’t want to hear,” she said, clipped and curt.

  Thank you, God. He felt like a hostage negotiator who finally got through to the kidnapper. “Listen for ten seconds before you hang up.”

  “One one thousand, two—”

  “This is all a setup, your trip to Houston included, and Arthur’s getting something for it.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Claire’s gone,” he quickly said.

  “You must be tired.” Sarcasm dripped from every word.

  This was one of those times when “Screw you” wasn’t going to work. “I came back from supper and she was here. Thanks to Arthur. Like your trip was thanks to Arthur. He planned this.”

  “Why?”

  Bobby took a small breath, knowing the dicey part was coming up, the part about Claire. “He and Claire made some deal, I’m guessing.”

  “You’re guessing?”

  “I didn’t talk to her. I just told her to go when I found her here.”

  “She answered your phone.”

  He exhaled. “Yeah. I know. I was a second too slow.”

  “Or you would have stopped her and pretended she wasn’t there?”

  The truth wasn’t going to be helpful here. “I’m not sure.” Would ambiguity move them on to something less fraught with disaster?

  “Not sure you would have stopped her, or not sure you would have pretended she wasn’t there?”

  Shit. He wasn’t going to get out of this one. “To be honest,” he said, making one of those figurative Hail Mary passes of candor and frankness, “I wish I’d come back from supper earlier and sent her home before you called. Then you wouldn’t be mad, and I wouldn’t be trying to figure out how to make it up to you. I don’t want to say she’s nuts because she isn’t, but she’s—”

  “A malicious bitch?”

  At least Cassie was talking, although the heat in her voice still gave him pause. But he knew how she felt because he’d been ready to strangle both Claire and Arthur not more than three beers ago. “Yeah,” he said. “She is.”

  “And now what, Bobby?” She was so pissed she dared put him on the spot.

  There was a scary question, especially when it was uttered in that clipped, crisp tone. But he’d always more or less faced the various crises in his life so he said, “Why don’t you come back? Tell me what you want.”

  “I can’t come back and possibly irritate Arthur. I need my job.”

  “I’ll run interference for you.”

  “Maybe you’ve done too much of that already.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means I’m going to stay down here and authenticate Spencer’s collection as instructed, and when I’m finished I’ll return. Whether Claire and Arthur have some deal going has nothing to do with me. Claire’s your problem. When you return to your life, I’ll still have bills to pay and Arthur to placate if I want a relatively peaceful work environment. We can’t all be independently wealthy.”

  “So when will you be back?” This time his voice was clipped and crisp.

  “Four or five days. The collection is huge.”

  “And Spencer’s nice, I suppose.”

  “Hello. He’s married with children and grandchildren.”

  “So that means he can’t be nice to you?”

  “I don’t like your tone. For your information, he’s pleasant, I’m pleasant. Everyone’s pleasant.”

  “And I know how pleasant you can be,” he silkily murmured.

  “Unlike you, we don’t all jump into bed with anyone at all,” she snapped.

  “You could have fooled me.”

  The line went dead, but he didn’t care because he felt like ripping the phone from the wall anyway. Pleasant, my ass. He’d met Bill Spencer. And he’d met Bill Spencer’s girlfriend, or at least current girlfriend, one night at an intimate little bar on the Upper East Side. God almighty, Cassie was naive.

  Or maybe she wasn’t.

  Maybe she was in the running for Bill Spencer’s newest girlfriend.

  Shit. Lifting his beer to his mouth, he walked outside and stared at the darkening sky, too resentful to notice the evening star and the beauty of twilight.

  Claire was to blame, of course. But regardless of the dynamic behind this travesty, Cassie could have been more understanding. It wasn’t as though he’d done anything wrong. Hell, he’d been an innocent bystander. And if Cassie had really wanted to, she could have told Bill Spencer to stuff it and taken the next flight out. Spencer couldn’t have argued; he knew the whole setup was a sham. But no, she was going to stay down in Houston and finish her bogus assignment.

  What the hell was going on with that?

  As if he didn’t know when the hottest piece of ass he’d ever seen decides she needs to placate Arthur.

  As if Arthur needed placating when he’d been exposed for a fraud.

  What the hell could he do to her?

  Obviously she had other things on her mind besides bills that needed paying.

  She had another Bill to pay, although he guessed that payment would be one of those mutually satisfying expenditures. It looked as though she was moving on; he might as well.

  Hell, he’d just gotten rid of one bitchy wife, he sure as shit didn’t need another woman complicating his
life.

  He’d meet with Arthur in the morning and settle up.

  THIRTY-ONE

  AT THE FOUR SEASONS IN HOUSTON, HER current posting thanks to Bill Spencer’s largesse, Cassie was waiting for room service with a kind of suppressed panic. She really, really, really needed the chocolate torte and chocolate malt and chocolate mousse if she was going to retain her sanity, because she was this close to losing it. She hadn’t actually cried yet, steeling herself against giving way to her tears until the room service guy left so she wouldn’t have to answer the door all red-eyed and puffy faced.

  That first sound of Claire’s cool voice answering Bobby’s phone had precipitated anger rather than tears anyway. She’d contemplated more physical responses to his ex-wife—all of which were forbidden by the justice system, of course. And realistically, for someone who stepped over ants on the sidewalk and fed the racoons when her neighbors shot them with BB guns, her revenge fantasies were not too likely.

  Then her anger had shifted to the real culprit—the man who made women swoon all over the world—and she’d been able to sustain that anger for maybe a whole five minutes because he made her feel soooo good. Okay, she admitted it; she wasn’t rational about Bobby Serre. Her actions of late a case in point.

  That’s why she’d finally picked up the phone, half hoping he’d have a perfectly reasonable explanation for why the black-haired bitch had answered his phone on the houseboat. But no, he’d blamed Arthur and Bill Spencer, and in the end, she was getting the idea she was at fault. Figure that. It would be a cold day in hell when she slept with Bill Spencer. Not that she hadn’t been propositioned about ten minutes after meeting him, but she knew how to deal with men like him. She’d had lots of practice with Arthur.

  But old guys and their egos aside—seriously—was life unfair or what? Just when you think you’ve found someone really nice and really, really fantastic in bed, they turn out to be a grade-A jerk. On the other hand, she might just have been super-gullible like a teenage rock-star fan with starry eyes and no sense who can’t separate the stage presence from the man. But either way, she was sad and blue and half in the mood to belt out a Patsy Cline song if she’d actually ever listened to a Patsy Cline song. But she knew the singer was all about heartache and despair and losing your man, and she was feeling it big time. In fact, if she wasn’t so depressed, she might have had the energy to find the country music channel on cable, scroll through it, and find Patsy to sing her to sleep.