Chapter Thirteen

Monday morning, Faith resisted the urge to sit daydreaming about her weekend with Kent and focused all her attention on her goal. She phoned The Palm Beach Examiner and asked to speak with Leesa St. James.

“St. James.”

“Good morning, Ms. St. James. I have an explosive story I believe you’ll be interested in hearing. Is there a possibility you could meet me for lunch?”

At the stroke of noon, Leesa St. James walked into the restaurant. Faith signaled her, and the reporter sat.

“Sorry, but I can’t stay long enough to eat. You said you wanted to discuss an explosive story.”

Her spirit buoyed by hope, Faith crossed her fingers in her lap and pulled in a deep breath. “Would you be interested in writing an article about a prominent Palm Beach businessman who is actually a rapist and has gotten away with his crime?”

“That depends. Who is he? And do you have proof?”

“Victor Telemann, CEO of Emmeline’s Department Store chain. Yes, I have proof.”

Leesa pulled a pen and notebook from her shoulder bag, placed them on the table, and sat forward. “Telemann. Rape. Hm…what kind of proof do you have?”

“My mother’s diary, and the page from the night that he raped her.”

“Will your mother swear an affidavit that her claim of rape is true?”

“She can’t, she’s dead.”

Leesa twisted her mouth and shook her head. “Then you don’t even have proof a rape occurred?”

“I’m sitting here. I was conceived that night.”

“It’s an interesting angle, but I can’t print an unsubstantiated accusation. I’d need DNA to prove he’s your father, and an expert’s opinion that the diary is—how old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“— at least twenty-five years and nine months old and not in your handwriting. Were there any witnesses? Police reports? Any proof you’re not being spiteful and making this up?”

Faith’s hope began to fizzle. “No.”

Leesa sighed and put away her notebook. “I hate to see criminals escape punishment. If you can get me something with more teeth in it, I’ll be happy to write the story, but I can’t do much with the little that you’ve told me. I’d be slapped with a libel suit, and my editor would kill me.”

“I understand. I’ve been trying to find more proof, and I’m not giving up until I do.”

Leesa handed Faith her business card. “That’s the spirit. You never know when you’ll find the key piece of information and the situation will burst wide open. That’s my private cell number and email. If you get anything else, call me right away.”

“I will.”

Faith sighed and watched the reporter walk away. Plan C wasn’t a complete bust yet, but neither was it looking good.

…

On Wednesday, Faith reviewed her latest download of Victor’s emails. The first two were the online equivalent of phone sex, pornographic invitations from his mistress that she closed quickly after reading the first sentences.

She thought of making love to Kent and how much she wanted his hands on her body again. Desire quivered low in her abdomen and her cheeks burned hotter. How pathetic could she get? Her inexperience had probably killed his interest. He wouldn’t want a repeat performance.

She considered wandering over to the financial department and locating Kent’s desk. He wouldn’t be there because he’d said he’d be out of town until Friday, but she could see where he sat, touch his chair, find out what personal items he treasured and kept close at hand.

A smile curved her lips, and she rolled her eyes. Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t go around acting like a love-struck schoolgirl.

The yearnings that hovered beneath her exterior barricades were bad enough. She ached to hear his voice, was starved for his smile, could barely keep from grinning like an idiot every time she remember the wonder of lying in his arms. She needed to pull herself together, stop daydreaming and wishing her phone would ring.

Reminding herself she had to concentrate on finding evidence against Victor, she shifted her focus back to the list of emails. The next one was from Quick Fox Messenger Service. The subject line read delivery appointment. The text of the message was cryptic and confusing. It was signed by someone named Brody.

She closed that email and opened six more in succession. Most were business related, mundane, and boring. To her disappointment, nothing seemed incriminating or pertinent to her cause.

She closed the email program and double-clicked the icon for the Work Control monitoring software. The list of Internet sites Victor had visited was short. He’d browsed luxury cars and checked out a resort in the Cayman Islands.

She cleared the incriminating records from her monitor screen. Exasperation forced her breath to huff out of her lungs. If only she could dig into his bank account and credit card records. Any illegal activity would surely leave a money trail. She gritted her teeth. As tempting as the idea of searching his finances was, she had to draw a line somewhere. Hacking into a bank was probably a federal offense and could land her in jail.

A shiver rippled up her spine. He was supposed to be the one who ended up in jail, not her. She’d already bumped the border between right and wrong far enough.

Her brain was still churning through facts about Victor, but she appeared to be diligently working when Ronnie popped into her office doorway.

“Are you going Friday night?”

“Going where?”

“The opening of the dinner theater.”

She remembered the notice and envelope she’d found in her office mailbox. “No, do you want my tickets?”

He frowned and shook his head. “It’s a royal summons, woman. Not at all smart to refuse.”

She shrugged. “Is there something more to this than I know about?”

“Definitely. This dinner theater is partly financed by Victor Telemann, and his girlfriend just happens to be starring in the lead. Reading between the lines, I’d say we’ve been sent tickets to make sure the place is sold out the first night. And the boss isn’t going to look kindly on any corporate employee who dares not to go.”

Her mind went back to the day in his office when he’d treated her like a peasant. “I’m just a lowly temp. He won’t care.”

“Maybe so, but come anyway. It’s free and could be fun.”

She dreaded an evening pretending to be light-hearted and outgoing while actually feeling like a wallflower, and the prospect of seeing Victor’s mistress on stage after the scene she’d heard in his office made her stomach roll with nausea.

Maybe she could bear going if she’d be with Kent.

Doubt crept out and poked her in the chest. Even if he was here, what right did she have to assume he’d want to go with her? She’d slept with him, and weren’t all men simply after sex? Once they scored, the game was won. If he cared about more than a one-night stand, wouldn’t he at least have thought about her, wanted to hear her voice, found a minute to call?

The silence of her phone took on a new, devastating meaning.

Ronnie tapped on the corner of her desk. “Hey, snap out of it, woman. Earth to Josie.”

Shifting her attention back to him, she stalled. “Are you taking a date?”

“No. A bunch of us are going stag. We’ll share a table and have some laughs.”

She didn’t want to sit home alone mooning over Kent. She didn’t want to sit in her apartment depressed that her fourth week of seeking evidence had been as fruitless as the first three, but she was even less anxious to go out in public and bump into Victor. Logic told her to go. The theater opening might be a good opportunity to observe him from a safe distance. Maybe she could learn some useful bit of information.

She drew in a deep breath. “Okay, count me in.”

…

Friday afternoon at three, Kent glanced out the window at the familiar turf as Emmeline’s corporate jet taxied onto the ramp outside their private hangar at Palm Beach International. He thought about Josie’s sense of fascination when she was on the boat and wondered if she liked to fly. Picturing her sitting beside him as he kicked the rudder in his little acrobatic-rated Pitts over hard and snapped through a four-point roll, a smile tugged at his lips. His pulse rate sped up, and he realized he was unusually excited about coming home.

He glanced across the aisle at Jack. Carrie would be waiting for him, excited to welcome him and hear about his trip. If Jack could settle down and find happiness with one special woman, maybe it was possible for him to find a soul mate too. Maybe Josie was his chance at a different, more meaningful life.

He let the thought spread and grow while the jet rolled to a stop. Then the pilot announced, “Welcome home to West Palm Beach.”

Kent erased the idea of finding wedded bliss from his mind. That kind of life might be right for Jack, but it wasn’t right for him. He wouldn’t get sucked into believing in anything as stupid as love.

He quickly scrolled through the last messages on his smartphone, decided the rest could wait, turned the unit off, and stuffed it into his briefcase.

As he and Jack prepared to disembark, he nodded at the perky flight attendant. “Thanks, Angie. Everything was perfect.”

She flashed him her usual I’d-love-to-have-you-call-me smile. “You’re welcome, sir. Have a good day.”

Kent descended the steps from the cool interior and slammed into a wall of ninety-degree afternoon heat. The suffocating stench of baking tarmac and jet exhaust depressed his mood and reminded him of his next destination. He hung the strap of his laptop bag over his shoulder and turned to Jack. “Carrie will probably be glad we got home early. After we grab the bags, you can bolt. I have to go by the offices and see Victor.”

“No argument. I’ll take Carrie and Christian over Victor any day. What’s he want?”

“I don’t know. I just got an email from Peg asking me to stop by.”

Daydreaming about taking Josie sailing tomorrow, and then making love to her all night tomorrow night, he drove the Mustang to Emmeline’s. Careful not to have a sappy grin on his face, he rode the elevators up to Victor’s penthouse office.

“How’d it go?” Victor asked.

Kent sunk into a chair, crossed his legs, and smoothed down his tie. Annoyance warmed his blood. Was he here for some kind of inquisition about his current project that was motivated by the problems with his last deal? Or did Victor have a new game? “Good. The operation looks promising.”

Victor nodded. “Keep following up on it then.”

“I intend to.”

“Good. Good.”

Kent sensed his trip wasn’t the reason he was here. “You didn’t want me to stop by to talk about Bob Brandt.”

“No.” Victor picked up a remote on his desk, pushed a button, and the wall panels slid back to reveal his fifty-inch video screen. “We’re placing a couple new ads on channel twelve. This is the late night.”

The screen lit up and trumpets vibrated from the speakers. The thirty-second commercial featured a long-legged woman sprawled on a satin-sheeted circular bed and draped only in furs and diamonds.

“This is for the dinner hour slot.”

Another thirty-second bit rolled by, this time featuring a fake celebrity exiting a limo and strutting down a red carpet in a Jacques Bouchard gown and glistening Whiteside diamonds. The closing scene showed her dragging a fur casually behind, then casting a come-hither look over her left shoulder.

Kent shrugged. “Pretty good stuff. The new agency?”

Victor nodded. “They’re proposing something similar for every market where we acquired in the last couple years. Meyerson will be calling you for input.”

“Right.”

The image on the screen flicked to the living room of Emmeline’s corporate-owned beach house, then went to a split display of four rooms.

Kent frowned. “What in the hell is that?”

Victor grunted and the screen zoomed in on the bedroom image. A woman Kent recognized as Victor’s mistress was parading around the room naked.

“I’m sure you’ve seen tits and cunt before.”

“I thought the beach house was leased out for the season.”

“A slight fib to prevent your mother from stumbling into an embarrassing situation.”

The woman pulled a blue dress from the closet and held it front of her while studying herself in the mirror.

Kent glared at Victor. “Since when is that place for you to have a sleazy rendezvous or stash other women? And who put in the cameras?”

“You wanted me to be discrete. I am.” Victor gave him a smug grin. “I had a video surveillance system installed for security and to keep an eye on my property while I’m not there. I don’t like to share.”

“Does she know she’s being watched?”

“Not at the moment. Once in a while she tapes some hot stuff for me to view later, but right now she thinks she’s shut the recorder off. Actually, it’s sound and motion activated. I know everything that goes on inside and outside that house. Pretty neat, huh?”

Kent’s stomach rolled over in disgust. He stood. “It’s been a long day, and I’m not going to sit here watching like a peeping Tom. You want anything else?”

Victor shrugged, hit a button on the remote, and the video screen went black. “I understand you’re stopping over for a cocktail with your mother later?”

“That’s the plan. Should I mention your guest at the beach house?”

“You won’t do that.”

He clenched his jaw. True. He wouldn’t. Telling her about Victor’s bimbos would only cause her pain and humiliate her more than she’d been humiliated already. As much as he wanted her to divorce Victor, he wouldn’t be the one to rub his stepfather’s infidelity in her face.

“I’m busy elsewhere tonight,” Victor said. “Tell her I got tied up and won’t make it home for dinner.”

Kent narrowed his eyes. “I heard about the dinner theater opening and the free tickets you spread around to all the employees. I won’t be your lackey. Make your own excuses.”

“I’m only thinking of your mother’s feelings. The explanation will be better coming from you.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m part owner of the club. This opening is strictly business.”

“Right, and I’m Santa Claus.”

The intercom buzzed. Victor leaned across his desk and hit a button.

“Your masseuse is here, Mr. Telemann,” Peg said.

“Good. Send him in.” Victor released the button and looked up at Kent. “You should try this guy’s Swedish treatment. In half an hour, he works out every one of my kinks. His foot and calf massages are the best. If you go to his shop, he’s got a seven towel hot lather shave and cleansing with caviar balm.”

Kent fisted his hands, turned, and stormed from Victor’s office, almost colliding with the masseuse who was pushing a portable cart toward Victor’s door.

He boarded the penthouse elevator and switched cars on the fifth floor. Being with Victor had left a sour taste in his mouth. Contact with a good person might wash it away, but in this situation, a few minutes with his mother wasn’t the solution. He got off the second elevator on Josie’s floor. Just for a few minutes he needed to be with someone who could help restore his hope for mankind.

At her doorway, he stopped short and huffed out his breath. Her office was closed and locked.

He raked his fingers through his hair. Maybe he should have called during the week. He could have at least called this morning, let her know he’d be home tonight, and made arrangements to see her. Assuming she’d be available had been stupid.

Now it was too late to call and expect her to jump at a moment’s notice. Maybe she had other plans, like going to the dinner theater opening.

Confusion battered his brain. He hadn’t called because he didn’t want to admit he cared, but this feeling of disappointment at not seeing her was evidence he did care, and it scared him to his core. He was definitely getting attached.

…

Faith handed the doorman her ticket and stepped into the ornate, dinner theater lobby. She licked her lips and clutched her purse. Her dress was cut too low for comfort, and she felt as if every male eye was glued to her cleavage. Darn it. Why had she ever promised Josie she’d dress the part?

The lobby was crowded with people chatting and laughing. Voices of every tone and pitch echoed off the floors and walls and merged into one ambient roar. Anxious to join a group where she could blend into the background and stop feeling so conspicuous, she searched the crowd for Ronnie or any of the women who worked in her office area.

She spotted the back of a head with dark, wavy hair on the far side of the lobby. Hoping it was Ronnie’s, she shuffled through the crowd stretching onto her tiptoes occasionally to keep the familiar locks in sight.

Ronnie turned, their eyes met, and he smiled as she approached. “Just in time. We were getting ready to go in.”

She nodded to the women standing with him. “Hi, Rose, Bev.”

Bev raised her eyebrows and fanned her face with her fingers as if suddenly hit with blazing heat. “Hey, Josie. Wow, that’s some sizzling dress.”

Faith adjusted the spaghetti strap of Josie’s crimson mini and wished she’d had the choice of wearing her navy blue shirtwaist. “I think I should have brought a sweater. It’s freezing in here.” She scanned the clothing of her companions and smiled at Rose. “You better watch out. I might steal that beautiful, warm-looking jacket.”

Now that she was with people she knew and could feel relatively safe, she noticed individuals in the crowd. Many people held cocktails. Women were dressed in tight revealing dresses and flirted openly with ogling men. Nearby, a burly man who looked out of place in an expensive black suit had his hand resting low on his date’s hip. Few of the people fit her image of patrons of the arts. They looked more like gangsters or the audience she’d expect at a wrestling match.

She swallowed her uneasiness. The crowd and atmosphere were out of her comfort zone, but Josie would probably feel right at home. At parties, she loved to wander from group to group, and she’d be laughing and joking with people in a matter of minutes. She may have met new friends, but no one remained a stranger.

Faith released a pent-up breath. Josie could blend in anywhere. And she was supposed to be Josie.

As she scanned the room, she met the eyes of a gray-haired man about ten feet away. She gave him her best Josie smile. He smiled back, then turned away. The fleeting contact felt good and gave her courage to try friendliness with someone else.

“Come on, our table’s ready. The rest of the group can find their own way,” Ronnie said, taking Faith’s arm.

The gesture seemed odd, not at all fitting with his normal behavior, but she shook off the thought and walked with him. A huge poster on the wall beside the entrance to the dining room caught her eye. The image of a beautiful woman was sandwiched between the words Opening Night: Temptation starring Melinda Hart.

Her brain put the woman’s face with the dress, legs, and feet she’d seen from her hiding place in Victor’s bathroom closet. A drop of disdain trickled down her spine.

Faith pulled her gaze away from the poster and focused her attention back on following the waiter.

“Faith, honey!”

A woman’s voice calling her name. Who? She turned to look behind her. Then froze.

No. Don’t.

Mortification stabbed at her throat. She couldn’t look. She was Josie to the people she was with. She had to ignore the woman and keep walking.

“Faith. Yoo-hoo, over here.”

She held her breath, put one foot in front of the other. How could anyone who knew her be here tonight? Mouth suddenly dry and palms suddenly moist, she scanned around her searching for an exit. Maybe she could escape before she was cornered in front of Ronnie.

No exits. She contemplated ducking under a table, but threw out the idea. She might evade the person who recognized her, but she’d never be able to explain her actions to the group from Emmeline’s. Feeling like a rabbit watching a trap spring shut on her leg, she eyed a red fire alarm lever on the wall two feet away. Was keeping her identity a secret worth causing a stampede for the doors and the risk of someone getting hurt?

Squeals of delight rose behind her. “Suzie-Q! It’s been ages.”

“I thought that was you, girlfriend. Wow, you look so fab.”

She recognized the original woman’s voice.

The breath whooshed out of her lungs. The woman had been calling to someone else who just happened to share her name.

Still beside Ronnie, she maneuvered through a maze of furniture before the waiter stopped beside a table for ten located about fifteen feet from the stage.

Ronnie held her chair, while the waiter held chairs for Rose and Bev. Then Ronnie sat at her right.

“May I take drink orders?” the waiter asked.

Ronnie ordered a draft beer, Rose asked for the house wine, Bev got a margarita, and Faith ordered a large Coke hoping to moisten her dry throat.

After the waiter left, Ronnie craned his neck, looked around the room, and said, “Just about everyone from the corporate offices is here.”

Faith scanned the faces at the tables, looking for one in particular. Just about everyone, yes. But no Kent. She sighed and disappointment weighed on her shoulders.

…

Their drinks came. Five more colleagues arrived and took seats at the table. Faith slipped off her pointy-toed shoes and wiggled her feet under the table as she listened to Ronnie and Bev debate the qualifications of the candidates in the upcoming mayoral election. The room slowly filled with the smells of perfume and beer. Dozens of loud voices competed with the sounds of clinking glasses, laughter, and background music.

Her Coke was two-thirds gone when the lights dimmed, the band drowned out the room noises with a flourish of drums and trumpets, and a master of ceremonies in a blue tuxedo took center stage. The room grew quiet. He welcomed the crowd and introduced the pre-dinner entertainment.

Applause filled the room as lively music blared from the orchestra pit and four scantily clad women pranced onto the stage. Sequins adorned their outfits and glitter sparkled on their stunning bodies and long shapely legs. Suddenly conscious of her own imperfections, Faith slunk lower in her chair.

For the first few minutes, the dancers’ routine seemed artistic, then the tone subtly changed. Faith had never been to a strip club, but she guessed the dancers there would be similarly dressed and have similar moves. When the dancers spread their legs wide and undulated in a sexual pantomime, she felt her face heating and wished she could slip out of sight.

She wondered about the play scheduled to start after dinner. Was it equally risqué? If so, could she manage to leave without drawing attention to her departure?

Ronnie whispered, “Wow, they’re really pushing the envelope with this stuff. I hope the place doesn’t get raided.”

Keeping her eyes low to avoid seeing the lurid dance moves, she glanced his way.

She blinked. The napkin spread in Ronnie’s lap was tented in the middle. Ronnie was sexually aroused from watching the women on the stage, but how could that be? He was gay, he was supposed to be attracted to men.

Faith swallowed and averted her eyes. Who was she to question why a gay man became aroused. Maybe his imagination had substituted a friend he found attractive.

After what seemed like an eternity, the music exploded in a grand finale. As the dancers slinked off the stage, the audience applauded with much more enthusiasm than she could muster. As waiters began weaving between the tables serving salads, she breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God that embarrassing episode was over.

Sitting up straight, she looked around and searched for Victor in the crowd. If she wanted to slip out early, she should gather any information now.

She located him holding court at the head of a long table next to the stage. The huge cigar stuffed in his mouth belched beastly smoke. As she studied his face, he turned and their eyes collided. Her stomach somersaulted. Cold sweat slicked her hands. She jerked her gaze away.

For several seconds she sat torn between an urge not to look and an equally strong urge to stare. The man was her father, yet all she knew about him was what she had seen in Steve’s reports or read on the Internet. She’d formed a horrible impression based on her summons to his office. But he was sitting right across the room. Maybe tonight he’d show a better side, be relaxed and different. If so, this might be the only chance she’d ever get to glimpse his true colors.

Unable to resist, she looked back. He wore a suit that probably cost several thousand dollars. The people seated around him at the table seemed to hang on his every word, and his chest was puffed out and his chin held high as he lapped up the attention.

She studied him, searching for any tiny clue that would indicate he was a good man. Grinding her teeth, she watched his eyes, his expressions, his body language. Inside her head, she muttered a prayer.

Please let him do something admirable, something virtuous. It doesn’t have to be anything magnanimous. I’ll settle for something merely polite.

He snapped his fingers at a waiter, spit out a few words he punctuated with a sneer and an eye roll.

Faith swallowed and dropped her gaze to her hands clutched tightly together on the tabletop. Fighting against a smothering wave of dejection, she wished she’d never read her mother’s diary, wished she could still believe the fairy tale that her father was a decent person who died a hero. Wished that she didn’t have to wonder how many of her genes came from a man who reminded her of the Devil.

…

When the entrée dishes were cleared away, Rose said, “I can’t wait to see Melinda Hart. I hear she’s even more gorgeous in person. I’ll tell you one thing, if I was Mrs. Telemann, I’d be livid. I’d kill my husband for doing something like this tonight.”

Faith thought of the night in Victor’s office. A mental tape replayed the sordid sounds of clandestine oral sex. She wrapped her arms around her midsection and forced the memories away. Her mind’s eye pictured her safe little apartment, and she desperately wished she was there, curled up in bed, reading a good book, alone and free to be herself.

Bev said, “Maybe Mrs. Telemann doesn’t know. You know what they say about the wife.”

Ronnie added, “She must. He’s been running around with other women for years. I heard a rumor he paid for Melinda’s breast implants and that hers aren’t the first set of boobs he’s financed.”

Faith leaned back and filed away the information, suddenly glad she’d come. Gossip wasn’t necessarily reliable, but might give her some clues about where to continue her research.

Rose said, “I wish some of his generosity extended to his employees. I don’t need boobs, but I could sure use a raise.”

Ronnie wiggled his eyebrows. “Melinda got free boobs, plus he’s paying for this extravaganza. I guess she’s doing something you’re not.”

“Well, I got rid of my ex quick when he started paying too much attention to his secretary,” Bev said. “Mrs. Telemann would be smart to give old Victor the heave-ho. He’s nothing but a skirt chaser.”

Ronnie inclined his head toward the doorway. “Speaking of skirt chasers, here comes the prodigal son.”

Victor had a son? How could Steve Zurich’s reports have been so useless and incomplete they’d left out that fact?

Curious, Faith strained to see who Ronnie was talking about.

Bev said, “Don’t pick on him, he’s a sweet guy.”

“I’ll give him that, but he’s still following in the old man’s footsteps. His charm just makes him more successful.”

“You’re just jealous because Kent isn’t gay, and you don’t have a chance.”

Kent? The name hit like a sucker punch.

She didn’t know his last name.

The blood gushed from her face. She forced her cold lips to move. “K…Kent?”

Ronnie pointed. “Over there in the expensive-looking gray suit and signature Hermes tie. Kent Telemann. Haven’t you met him yet?”