The Jaguar was to be offloaded from the Michigan air transport at noon. Allowing for delays and paperwork, Lewis estimated it would be cleared and ready for him at Sky Harbor Airport by two o’clock. He scheduled interviews through the lunch hour, conscious of the volume of work in front of him.
He finished the morning interviews with Robin’s. She was as cool and savvy across the desk as the poker table. Her respectful responses erased the lingering distaste from his encounter with Lily. He made notes of Robin’s ideas for improvements and skipped most of the standard evaluation questions. He shook her hand when the time was up and thanked her. She cocked her head to one side and looked at him quizzically through her thick lenses.
“When you’re on the outside,” he said, “it’s hard to get invited to the parties. There’re a lot of things I’ll never hear from behind this desk.”
“Oh, that.” She shrugged. “Any time.”
Very nonchalant, but Lewis knew she’d gotten the message. He had needed an opportunity for informal exchange with the personnel, and she had opened the door. It was help of the sort that could not be demanded, only volunteered. He wouldn’t forget she’d been the one to offer it.
* * * *
MacIntyre was obviously curious when Lewis told him to meet him at the back door with a vehicle but he restricted himself to inquiring whether Lewis wanted the Jeep or the Mercedes. Lewis told him that he needed a ride to the airport and wasn’t particular about the vehicle. MacIntyre looked momentarily happy at the prospect of his leaving.
It was the first crack Lewis had witnessed in the man’s impassive facade. Somebody else could have driven him, but he knew MacIntyre had been part of the follow-up investigation team and he wanted somebody who could point out the Oxenburg house. Lewis also wanted somebody who would drive without talking. He needed to think through what he would say to the Oxenburg woman.
As MacIntyre eased the Mercedes out of the garage, Lewis rolled his head back against the seat. The sun would be relentless in a few minutes but right now, the heat trapped in the seatback felt good against the tightness in his shoulders. MacIntyre’s dull, hazel eyes met his. The man had something on his mind. He was practically mute on the subject of Lily, but his silence was twitchy.
Lewis felt sure MacIntyre had listened to his conversations with Bliss and Lily. He wouldn’t have had to try very hard to overhear him shouting at the girl. Something there all right, something MacIntyre had not put in the reports. Spit it out, man, Lewis told him silently. Save us both some time. I’m gonna bury you, one way or another.
They rode the three miles to the pavement in silence. Lewis rolled his shoulder and clenched and opened his right hand steadily. MacIntyre’s face was closed and set. He was absorbed by his own thoughts. Lewis ignored him, thinking instead about the E-Type and Suzanna Oxenburg.
Driving the car on these roads would at least be a mental health break from the intensity of the audit. He relaxed his arm and shoulder, wishing for half a second that Rick was handy. Then he remembered the kid’s mouth and decided he could do the exercises just as well by himself.
He concentrated on Suzanna Oxenburg. He’d talked to many reluctant people over the years and found they usually listened if you said what they want to hear. What did she want to hear? Some explanation, real enough to be convincing and vague enough to be meaningless.
When they reached the pavement, Lewis diverted MacIntyre onto the west road, away from the city. He intended to retrace the route he had walked and run and crawled during one long, rainy night.
MacIntyre kept his objections to himself until he’d made the turn and they were passing under the white steel gateway of Águila Arroyo. “Do you want me to drive right up to the house?” His incredulity matched his reaction when Lewis had told him he wanted to see Henry. “There’re about thirty houses in this development and the one you were in is out on a little bluff with a long driveway. It’s off by itself. We’ll be noticed, driving around in there in the middle of the day like this.”
“I’m going to be noticed in a big way in about an hour anyway,” Lewis said, impatiently. “They’ve probably seen a strange car on the road before.”
As they cruised past the driveway, he stared up at the house. Her silver Volvo was there, under the open carport. He’d thought he would recognize the place and he did. He’d needed to be sure and now he was.
* * * *
The Jaguar was in a rental agency slot in front of the main terminal, surrounded by a small group of admirers, including the air cargo manager. MacIntyre hustled the man inside to his office to clean up the paperwork while Lewis drove out in the car. Within a mile, he knew he was going to have trouble with the tiny foot box. The car hadn’t been designed for somebody his size.
Ten miles of freeway put him back on the four-lane highway. He took the cut-off marked Gillespie Dam, the road she had used, and was pleased when it rejoined the divided highway twelve miles later just east of Flannagan Ranch Road. He could have turned there and retraced the route MacIntyre had used, but instead, he held to the four-lane, watching for the tavern where she had turned. There it was: the Wagon Wheel, looking quiet and sleepy in the afternoon, with no neon showing.
He pushed the car, enjoying the tricky little road while he planned his approach to her. It was a risk, but what wasn’t?
He had decided sometime last night, in the interludes between sleeping and waking. The more he searched his memory for her words about the car, the more certain he was that the conversation had been about money — not just the car and the hundred and forty thousand, but money in general. He couldn’t pin it down and the more pressure he applied, the murkier it became.
Two things felt right: She wanted the car back, and she would be reluctant to tell anybody about him once she was in his debt.
The Volvo was still under the carport and he slid the Jag in beside it. He was on the top step when the door swung open and Suzanne Oxenburg appeared, carrying a purse and a laptop case. She stopped short, one hand going to the deck rail.
She looked every inch the polished professional. The drenched and bedraggled woman he remembered had been transformed by the business suit.
“You,” she said.
“Lewis,” he said carefully, keeping his distance, feeling the tension grip his chest. If she was going to panic, now was the time.
“I remember your name. Why are you here?”
“To see you, talk to you.” He glanced at the case. “If you have time.” He urged her silently to give him one minute. He ignored the need to flex his shoulder and ease the cramp in his chest. “I just want to talk, clear up a few things, explain myself.”
“Now you want to explain? Why not when I was trying to help you? Why not the truth when you were here before, instead of a story about being a wingman and getting shot by somebody’s ex-wife?”
He shifted on the step, choosing his words. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. And I was afraid of you.”
“Why? You had no reason to be afraid of me.”
“Worried then. About whether you were in on it. I didn’t know who you were.”
“I told you who I was.”
“Yes. But now I know who you are.”
“I see.”
Her expression contradicted her words. She did not see. But every second she let him stay expanded his field of opportunity. He waited on the step, holding still, giving her space, willing her to give him an opening.
“So you know who I am. Can you read my mind now? You thought I’d call the sheriff or somebody before. What makes you think I won’t call them now? You may know who I am, but nothing’s changed for me. I still don’t know who you are.”
He stepped up onto the deck and glanced over her shoulder through the open door, checking for company. “I’m someone who pays his debts. That’s why I’m here, to thank you, and if you’re interested, I’ll explain. It’s up to you. You say go, I’ll go. Either way, I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I never thought you intended to hurt me. You kept taking me by surprise, like you weren’t in your right mind.”
“I don’t make a habit of getting shot but they tell me that’s how a human would react to one of these.” He slipped the dart from his pocket and held it out to her in his palm.
She stared at the object. Her gaze moved to his chest, then back to his face. “You had that in you when I found you?”
He nodded.
“No wonder it made such a mess. What is that thing?”
“It’s the jacket of a dart, the kind they use to tranquilize animals.” He smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid it had the opposite effect on me.”
She studied him, considering.
“When I was here with this,” — he flipped the dart, caught it and pocketed it — “I thought you had your own stake in it. If you know who I am, you’ll understand why I might think like that.”
Her expression was disconcertingly open and intelligent, frankly questioning him, looking for the lie. Smart, he thought. Too smart to pick up strangers, unless they’re dying. Too smart for that now, too.
“You’d better come in,” she said.
He followed her inside and waited while she closed the door, careful to keep distance between them. Then he crossed the open kitchen and continued into the living room. She hesitated for a moment after setting down her case, facing him across the two rooms. After a moment she followed him. He watched her, evaluating her expression and the way she moved purposefully toward him. “We need some air,” she said, reaching past him to slide the doors open.
Lewis moved away. It was natural for her to want an escape route. He examined the room, willing himself to relax.
The house was both strange and familiar. He remembered the objects but not the dimensions. The telescope still sat behind the dining table. Even the angle was the same. Maybe he’d ask her about that. The bookshelves were longer and wider, same books, same pale leather, same colorful blankets and Navaho and Hopi pottery.
Today the fireplace was cold and blank. It was a big room, much larger than he’d recalled. He wondered about that, remembering it had been foggy and raining. Today the sunlight opened it up. She caught him staring at the picture of her smiling husband with the Jaguar.
“I have to make a call,” she said.
Simple reflex fired his adrenaline when she lifted the phone. He watched her, ready to pounce. She saw his expression, hit the speaker button and replaced the receiver. “Hilton, Conwell and Smythe Law Offices,” the female voice announced over the speaker.
“Duncan Smythe’s office please,” Suzanna said, while he stared at her, regretting his reaction and wishing she’d pick up the handset.
“Mr. Smythe’s office.” Another female voice.
“This is Suzanna Oxenburg calling for Duncan Smythe.”
“Oh, yes Mrs. Oxenburg, Mr. Smythe is with a client right now. I have you down for four o’clock today.”
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling. I’m afraid I won’t be able to make that appointment. I’ll call back to reschedule.” There was a pause from the other end. Suzanna winced. “Mrs. Oxenburg, Mr. Smythe rearranged his whole week so he could see you today.” Another pause. “His schedule is so full. I’ll need to check with him to find another opening to reschedule you.”
Lewis strode across the room and plucked up the handset. She raised one hand in a defensive gesture. He put his other hand on her shoulder to keep her from backing away and handed it to her.
He went back to the open doors at the deck, trying not to listen to the murmur of her conversation. Her view of the desert was startlingly vibrant and alive with the lush growth down along the river’s course. He wondered whether her genius husband had picked the building site.
Finally, she hung up the phone and he heard the coffee grinder. He crossed to the sofa and settled himself where he could watch her in the kitchen.
“Black, right?” she said when she brought the coffee. She sat down warily, not touching her cup.
Lewis thanked her, then began to weave a convincing narrative. “The group I work for has a name, which I can’t tell you. Actually we go by the initials, but I’m not going to tell you those either.” He paused. “Neither the name nor the initials would mean anything to you.” He tried the coffee.
“I take it the initials are not UN?”
“No.” He almost smiled, wishing he could leave it there and they could just talk over the coffee. He pushed himself on.
“We’re an information-gathering organization, probably what you might call an intelligence organization. However, the word intelligence implies government agencies with long-term, ongoing snooping and hostility against other countries. We’re not engaged in those things; we’re politically agnostic, not the stuff of spy novels or movies. We’re not the NSA or the CIA or any other public agency. We’re private; we work under contract on specific projects.
“Essentially all we do is locate and connect the dots about information — information that’s purposefully hidden. We don’t have to hurt anyone to get it. Most of it’s findable with diligent research in the right places, knowing where to look and what to look for. The challenge is that it’s not easily recognizable.”
She had been holding her cup with both hands as though to ward off his words. Now she set it down with an angry little click.
Okay, he thought, now she’ll ask: What is this information you don’t have to hurt anyone to get? And how do you get it? And you can tell her: Oh, we steal it and extort it. She’ll be bound to see the distinction there.
“You expect me to believe you’re some kind of glorified librarian? You’ll have to do better than that, Lewis. So far, you do seem like someone out of a movie. You had a gun last time, and you’re wearing one now. Why do you need a gun? Who shot you and why did they use that dart thing? What exactly happened to you before I found you?”
He tried the coffee. The pause gave him time to think. “It’s a violent world. Things happen. Jobs go bad and people aren’t who they seem. Information that is worth something to our clients is almost always of interest to others. Like any other business, ours has risks. We don’t have an information base to secure, we’re independent. The only assets we have are our people and unfortunately, sometimes, our protection is inadequate.”
“What kind of people work for your organization?”
He felt some of the tension ease. She was into it now, and he would no longer need to probe for a way in. Soon, he would find the hook to satisfy her.
“All kinds of people. Specialists. We work in teams of experts we need for a particular job. Surveillance experts, software engineers, translators, linguists, researchers, accountants. Whatever we need. It depends on the job.”
“Do you work within the law?”
“We’re a big, tax-paying corporation,” he said, smiling, “strictly on the up and up. I have a license to carry this weapon.” And actually, he did have a license, as a private investigator from a tiny county somewhere in Delaware. He’d never had to test the merits of that license, but as long as he had the Group’s legal department behind him, he had every confidence in its respectable authenticity.
“And what kind of specialist are you?” she asked, her expression steady and watching him.
“Currency.”
“Oh.” Her gaze shifted to the bookcase. After a thoughtful moment, she said, “Tell me something you’ve done. A job. What does currency mean exactly, and why do you need a gun to do it?”
“A few years ago, I tracked down about three hundred million of the Marcos family’s ill-gotten fortune.”
“You did it, or you had other people do it?”
“I had a team. I could have done it myself, but it would have taken years for one man.”
“I see, three hundred million. What’s the overall worth of that family?
“About ten billion.”
“So, you found a relatively minor chunk?”
“We find what we’re contracted to look for. We don’t freelance, go off opportunistically.”
“What did you do with it?”
“We didn’t do anything with it. We never touched it. We were paid to find it. We found it. We compiled the proof and delivered actionable information to the client. That’s what we do.”
“How is that dangerous? Where did you find it?”
He smiled. “People lie, cheat and kill to keep what isn’t theirs. Where is stolen money hidden?”
“Probably in those banking systems that guarantee secrecy. Am I right? Where was it?”
“Where doesn’t really matter. When you’re tracing missing assets that someone wants to keep secret, whether it’s Russian oilmen, African politicians, or drug cartels, whoever gets in bed with them is a dark player. Even the Swiss banks with the Holocaust accounts tried to keep them quiet. We tend to deal with the worst of the lot, people who will use violence to maintain control of the funds and their secrets. We’re vulnerable while we’re searching. Once we’ve found what we need, the heat’s off. There’s no point in going after us after we have evidence, the proof, the how and the where that satisfies our client.”
He spread his hands and leaned toward her. “But while the job is in motion, while we’re in play, we’re vulnerable. We have a reputation; we couldn’t hire the talent we need if we didn’t protect our assets.”
“So you’re doing one of these jobs here? Somebody shot you within a mile or so of my house because they didn’t want you to find something?” She put down her coffee cup and walked to the open doors where the Alsatian waited on the deck, ears cocked. She smoothed his head absently.
“You’re assuming I was shot here. Don’t make assumptions, Suzanna. The kind of people I deal with are perfectly capable of shooting someone, then driving out into the desert to dump the body. This location is no distance from Vegas or LA, for example. The details aren’t important. It’s over.”
She released the dog and stepped back into the room, closing the doors. “I was thinking you’d come back because of something you thought you might have said. You were in and out of consciousness. Do you remember everything that happened when you were here?”
“I remember,” he said soberly. “Not every detail but most of it. A lot of the time, I was reliving every bad experience I’ve ever had. I know I was tough on you.”
“Did you think I’d shot you?” She settled back into the chair. “You said you know who I am now. What do you know about me?”
“Let’s just say I’m not afraid of you anymore.”
She shook her head. “No, whatever you know, I want you to tell me.”
He frowned and looked past her for a moment, recalling the file. “Suzanna Melanie Reyburn. Birthday March 1st. Born in Jacksonville, Florida. Computer Science Degree from Florida State. Employed in IT at Sun West Insurance. Married to Richard Allen Oxenburg. Your father was with the city police and your mother was a nurse.”
“Doesn’t add up to much, the way you put it. I think you left a few things out.”
He nodded. “I may have.”
“It doesn’t matter, I just wonder if it was worth your time. Lives are complicated. You could dig around in my life for a long time and miss things, like about my father, for one thing. Tell me what you found out about him.”
“Why don’t you tell me? Then I’ll feel like I have a right to know.”
“He was a SWAT lieutenant. I guess you know that much.” At his nod, she continued. “He had dyslexia or something similar.” Her expression was far away. He waited, thinking about a man with a handicap in a dangerous, high-pressure job.
“He had to have things read to him — police bulletins, gun legislation, evidence statutes, budgets, regulations, everything. My mother or I would read them to him over and over, until he memorized them. It was tedious. For him, I mean. Because, of course, he couldn’t retain it all. We’d have to read the same things repeatedly. Anyway, that’s why I knew about your Walther.”
“Not a common weapon in Jacksonville.”
“No,” she agreed, “but my father believed in research, in being prepared for anything, in staying ahead of the curve.” She smiled at him. “He always wore his gun, too.”
He realized he was smiling back. She had a nice smile, but what did it mean? Acceptance? At least a peace offering. He set down his cup. “I have something for you. A small token of our appreciation.” He palmed the key and held out his hand.
She hesitated and then extended her hand, palm up. He dropped the Jaguar key into it. She turned it over, to the snarling gold cat on its base. “This is Richard’s,” she said, disbelief in her voice.
“No, it’s yours,” he said firmly, although he’d had both names replaced on the registration.
“You found the Jag? I don’t believe it.” She stared at him, her frown dissolving. She laughed. “If you wanted to impress me, you’ve succeeded. How did you ever pry this car away from that determined little man from Michigan?”
“Money,” he said dryly. Amusement was not one of the reactions he’d anticipated. It changed things, her laughing. He stood and felt the tension drain out of his shoulders. “I’m starving. Come and have dinner with me. We can take your car.”
She dropped the key onto the end table carelessly as though it were a trinket. She was standing too. “Why did you come back?” she said.”
“To thank you.”
“And have dinner with me?”
“An afterthought. I’m on a business trip. I’ve been eating with terrible company.”
“So I’m going to rescue you again?”
He looked at her for a moment, feeling it again. She was unchanged, with the same calm, and measuring deep blue of her eyes. He’d been there all of twenty minutes, and it was all coming back.
“If you like,” he said.
* * * *
Suzanna ran her fingers lightly along the long swell of the fender when she saw the car. “A well-traveled car,” she murmured while he held her door.
Lewis saw her watching his hand on the shifter as he reversed but she was silent until they were out of the development and into the first set of switchbacks.
“Have you recovered?” she asked. “Does it still hurt?”
“I know it’s there,” he admitted.
“You’re very lucky,” she said.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been told that, but he didn’t agree. He didn’t believe in luck. He believed in thinking and planning, doing the work and manufacturing the luck. Whatever he was, he wasn’t lucky. He had a hole in his chest because MacIntyre had the imagination and incentive of a slug. So Christ, forget MacIntyre for an hour.
“I can’t believe this car,” she said and smiled at him quizzically. “How did you find it? Wait.” She gestured with a slim, brown hand. “I take that back. Just tell me how long it took.”
“About four hours.” And then, to match her mood, he added, “Actually that’s from when I submitted the request until I had the paper in my hand. Say, thirty minutes to find it.” He paused while he shifted and the throaty engine noise drowned his voice. “How can you be sure it’s the same one? I can’t see a mark on it.”
“Oh, little things, like right here.” She pointed to the side of his seatback. “I dropped my lipstick. You could see the stain if the top was down.” She withdrew her finger and folded her hands in her lap. “Richard was furious.”
Lewis glanced at her profile. She must have ridden in the car hundreds of times just like that; tucked into the seat like the prim and proper wife. He wondered how she’d react to the film of her fastidious husband amusing himself on another continent.
His hands tightened on the wheel. He’d be damned if he was going to drive fifty miles with her folded and tense, thinking about that son of a bitch. He pulled over on the next straightaway.
“Look,” he said, “it’s your car and your town. Why don’t you drive?”
She shook her head. “Not in this skirt.”
He considered the long, tight skirt, seeing instead her legs going up the stairs. He remembered insisting she change her dress, but in the end, she hadn’t. Something to think about there.
“Besides,” she was smiling again, “you do it better. You hate my driving, remember?” And then, to his complete surprise, she touched his jaw with gentle pressure, turned him toward her. “But as long as we’re stopped . . .” She leaned across the console and kissed him lightly on the corner of his mouth.
For an instant he felt only astonishment, but then he was caught up in her closeness and his own response. When she lingered, he turned into the kiss and slid his fingers into the curls behind the comb.
He expected the hair clip to slide but soon realized his mistake as his fingers and then the buttons on his sleeve were caught in her hair. She drew back, laughing, one hand holding his arm while she released the clip. He swore under his breath at the awkward confinement of the car as she freed his sleeve. “Only the bloody British would build a car like this,” he said, amused.
He waited while she replaced her hair clip and flicked down the little visor mirror to fix her lipstick. Her motions were automatic, as though she’d recovered from many kisses in this car. He felt a sharp little dig of impatience at himself and the car. Just give her enough cover to eliminate your mystery, turn yourself into a flat nothing, and make sure she’s nobody important. And never mind how that felt.
When they rounded a curve and the lights of the city appeared, he asked where she wanted to eat.
“What do you like?” she asked.
“Anything but steak.”
“But you’re in cattle country,” she said, amused.
“So I noticed.” He remembered Bliss in his boots and hat, looking more like a movie extra than anybody outside Hollywood.
When he said nothing further, she glanced at his suit and said, “We’re not dressed for it, anyway. How about upscale French Bistro?”
“Fine,” he agreed promptly. It was immaterial where they went or what they ate as long as she came away convinced that he was ultimately harmless and forgettable.
She continued to look at him, studying his profile. After a few minutes, she said, “Lewis?”
He waited, then looked over when she did not continue. “Yes?”
“Is that your real name?”
When he didn’t reply, she said, “It doesn’t really matter, I just wondered if you use it all the time. Do people know you by that name? When I say it, does it mean anything to you or is it just a word?”
This time she waited for his answer while he pondered what she was after. It was going to be a long night if she ran this far ahead of him. “Do you mean if I’m in an airport and they’re paging someone with that name, do I notice?”
“Yes, I guess.”
“I notice.”
She didn’t respond for a minute. Then she asked carefully, “So, should I call you Lewis? Say, for the next hour while we’re in the restaurant?”
“You can call me anything you want. Lewis is fine. It’s the name I use.”
“Good. That’s how I think of you anyway.”
“Right,” he said, wondering. Definitely a few details had disappeared into the gaps in his memory. They were early for dinner and had their pick of the tables. The restaurant was large and arranged in the French provincial manner with the tables offset, each enclosed within its own circle of high-backed wing chairs. They sat against the windows, a placement Lewis would normally have refused, although these windows were banked on the outside by high hedges. He rated the exposure minimal and allowed his usual caution to be tempered by hunger and the cloistered seating.
Eventually, the menus and wine list were removed. He felt the tension and strain return across his chest. It had been a long day, he was tired and hungry, and he had no idea what they were going to talk about.
Suzanna seemed to be having the same thoughts. Finally she asked, “Where do you live? Approximately.” She rearranged her water glass. “Can I ask you that?”
Lewis thought it the one topic of reasonable safety.
“Mexico,” he replied, and after a tiny pause, “Mexico City, actually.”
She admitted that she had never been to Mexico, so he told her about the city, taking time to describe the traffic, the crowded downtown areas, and the fine, old villas in the suburbs. He did not go into the filthy, choking layer of pollution that smothered the center of the city day and night or the millions of disenfranchised Mexicans who endured lives of poverty and desperation within the city. His political views, like almost everything else, were off-limits. He gave her a city tour; he knew it well and liked it.
When he compared the boulevards and walled gardens with European cities, they discussed Europe; where they had visited and when. That brought them to the revelation that they had attended the same Grand Prix, in Monaco the year of her marriage. Monaco runs in May and his brain recycled her file and presented him with her wedding date: April 29th.
“So,” he asked, “are you a big racing fan?” Remembering as he spoke that he had been on a honeymoon of sorts himself at the time. He could not recall the girl’s name, but she had been French and stunning.
Suzanna shook her head. “It was all right, I guess. I enjoyed it at first. Until the driver was killed.” She grimaced, “And then it all made me sick, the way the crowd reacted, everybody suddenly so excited. Because there’d been a wreck and he was dead.”
“Formula One is a blood sport, Suzanna. At least, there’s always that risk, you must know that. It’s man against man, man against machine, man and machine against the road. That’s what it’s about. Pushing the envelope. The crowds come for the spectacle but the drivers only care about racing. It’s really like everything else in life; a few do the driving while the rest are spectators.”
“I see,” she said slowly, “just two kinds of people; drivers who don’t want anything to block their view of the road, and all the rest, spectators on the sidelines.”
In the slanted light from the window her eyes were very blue probing his. He wondered that he had ever thought them black. “Is that just men or women, too?” she said. “Where do they fit in your view?”
Before he could respond a large group of patrons began a noisy exit past their table. One of the couples detached themselves and drew aside to allow a waiter to pass. The male was lean and tanned, well-dressed in business clothes. He was looking at Suzanna and didn’t strike Lewis as threatening in any way. He didn’t glance in Lewis’s direction. Business associate, Lewis guessed.
The man leaned around the high back of Suzanna’s chair to touch her arm lightly. “Suzanna,” he murmured, “I saw the car.”
She obviously recognized him and smiled. “Hello Lloyd.”
The man returned her smile and then withdrew his hand and straightened. Very discrete, Lewis thought, wondering if it was for his benefit.
The stranger’s companion had noticed the little exchange. She was a pretty, brittle woman obviously sensitive to her exclusion. Her gaze flicked over Lewis without interest, then she was past Suzanna’s chair and turning to examine her. “Suzanna, darling,” she cooed, bending toward her. “How lovely to see you! It’s been so long. I was just telling Lloyd the other day, we must have you for dinner. Mustn’t lose touch with your friends, darling, just because you’re on your own.”
Suzanna’s smile had thinned. “Hello Carol,” she said, when the woman paused for breath.
The woman turned her attention back to Lewis and smiled at him. “And speaking of friends, darling, who is this? I thought we knew all your friends.”
Lewis had been observing. “I’m only an acquaintance,” he told her with a chill in his tone. “I’m a travel writer. Suzanna kindly agreed to make a reservation at this restaurant and join me for dinner as a favor. She’s known here, and dining with a regular is one way for me to stay under the radar. My livelihood requires a low profile. You’re stepping on that right now.”
The woman stared at him, flushed, and drew back. Lewis saw that her escort had been watching and now took her arm to propel her toward the group waiting at the door.
When they were gone, Suzanna raised her eyebrows slightly. “So nearly true,” she said.
“Why the attitude? Does she work with you?”
“No, but he does.” She smiled. “It’ll be an interesting drive home for Lloyd.”
He liked her smile, couldn’t resist smiling back. He signaled for the check.
* * * *
Outside, a wind had come up and Suzanna held her face up to the night sky. “It’s going to rain again,” she predicted.
“Is it?”
“When you live in the desert you become very interested in rain. And it has the most amazing effect when it comes. You crave it.”
He shook his head. “It’ll be a while before I’ll want to get caught in the rain again.”
“No,” she agreed, “you wouldn’t.”
When they reached the car, he turned her lightly into his arms and kissed her, tracing her lips slowly and without insistence. Her mouth was sweet from the wine and, in a perfect reflection of her personality, cool and delicious.
He realized he’d been waiting for this. Her kiss in the car had ignited something that had flared, in the face of his better judgment, with every move she’d made. When she’d slipped off her jacket, he’d been intensely aware of her bare arms and the silk of her blouse. Each time she’d crossed her legs, he’d been reminded of their tanned perfection going up the stairs. The brush of her lips on the dessert fork had had him reaching for his wineglass.
He savored her along with the food, while his cynical mind ridiculed his reactions. She was hardly his type. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have drawn a second look — not that it hurt to look, or for that matter, to return the kiss. Important not to insult the lady. Don’t make her mad; don’t make her anything. She likes to be kissed in sports cars — kiss her. Then take her home and forget her.
Her taste and scent were familiar. Expectation played those tricks. He liked the lean, supple challenge of her body against his. His hands released her shoulders and slipped under the jacket to cover the swell of her ribs. Her heart was leaping under his palms. He realized she was trembling.
“Are you afraid of me?” he said, caught between surprise and the urge to kiss her again.
Her face tilted up to him, her expression lost in shadow. She didn’t reply. After a long, questioning minute, he released her and opened the car door.
So, she was afraid of him. Just weeks ago, he’d expended a lot of energy impressing her with the prudence of fearing him. Not long ago, he’d doubted his success.
They drove in silence until he turned off the four-lane. When the car began the final, twisting climb, she turned to him. Her voice was subdued. “We have an expression in the insurance business — deep pockets.”
He said nothing, unwilling to engage in this line of conversation.
She continued. “This car, it was incredibly generous of you, but I can’t accept it. Please take it with you.” She had been speaking to his profile. Now she sighed and stared out the windshield. “Richard will be wild at me for selling it in the first place, but I can’t even think of a word to describe his reaction to me getting it back this way.”
“What way?” Lewis said carefully. “You did me a favor. Now I’m doing you one. He’ll never know.”
“He will if he ever looks at the date on the registration,” she said. “Better that I tell him.”
“Do you really think that’s necessary?” he pressed.
“Do I think it’s necessary for wives to tell their husbands the truth? Yes, I do.”
So there it was and no way to get around it. The knot was back in his gut and he wished he’d taken the director’s advice and stayed clear of this woman.
“Do you have any idea what it cost to get this car for you?” he snapped. “I could have just given you the cash. Think how hard that would be to explain. If you don’t want the car, sell it again. I know a man who’d really like to get it back. You’ll find it’s appreciated nicely. I don’t give a damn what you do with it, just leave that husband of yours out of it. You don’t understand what you’re playing with here. Just keep the car, accept it with my thanks, and forget where it came from.”
“Why did you come back? Why take me to dinner?”
“I came back to thank you. Dinner was an afterthought, for company.”
“Why did you kiss me?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Why does any man kiss a woman?”
“I don’t care why any other man would do it. Why did you do it? What do you remember about being here before?”
“Christ. I remember jerking you around, threatening you, strangling you. What do you want from me, Suzanna? Do you want me to apologize for every bruise, every word? Would that satisfy you?”
“That’s all you remember?”
“If I had a choice, I wouldn’t remember any of it. I’ve got enough useless memories without those miserable hours with you.”
“Why don’t you forget them, then? Just go away, and take this car with you.”
Lewis wanted to shake her. He ground the car to a halt under the carport. She opened her door and was out, letting the heavy door fall shut behind her before he could extricate himself. He caught up with her at the foot of the stairs.
She turned to him in the glow of the night lights. “Thank you for dinner.” She held out her hand. “Goodbye, Lewis.”
He pressed the key into her open hand and closed her fingers around it.
She twisted her hand free. “Doesn’t anybody ever say no to you?”
“Absolutely. Damn near everyone I saw today before I came here. I thought you were a new trend. Look, the car’s yours. Your name’s already on the registration.”
She set the key on the railing. “You must think I’m a fool,” she said firmly. “If you came back here to give me that car, you’re a bigger one.” She turned to start up the stairs. “It’s raining. I just felt a drop. You’d better take your car and go. Unless you’re planning to walk somewhere in this.”
“It’ll be returned in the morning,” he said.
Her only response was the sound of her heels punishing the stairs. He checked his impulse to go after her. Better to let her go. She was stubborn and unreasonable but not stupid. She liked expensive restaurants and good clothes; she’d find a use for the car.
He had planned to call MacIntyre to pick him up, but that was before he’d had the ridiculous impulse to have dinner with her. He wasn’t about to ask to use her phone now.