B004183M70 EBOK (34 page)
Authors: Rosemary Stevens
Pierre lifted the almost empty bottle of
champagne from the ice bucket, poured the remainder into his glass, and drank
it down.
"Then there was her other
boyfriend—you know, Jeff Granford, the guy who followed Suzie to New York from
Omaha."
"That madman!" Pierre declared.
"True. But can you blame him? He told
me at the memorial reception that Suzie was promised to him. They met whenever
they could and talked about their plans to get rich from Suzie's modeling, then
return to Omaha and raise a family. Come to think of it, Gloria mentioned
Suzie's meetings with Scott and Jeff."
Pierre pounded his fist on the table.
Bradley rose.
Evelyn stood too. I heard her say,
"You're not paying any attention to me." Then she slapped Bradley
across the face and stormed out of Sardi's. Bradley sat down and ordered
another drink.
I had to keep my focus. I put a hand to my
heart. "You knew about all this, didn't you, Pierre? Gosh, I hope I
haven't said too much."
Pierre's right hand balled into a fist.
"I knew."
"You fought with Suzie about her
boyfriends, I'm sure."
"Yes, but I couldn't stop her
cheating. Then Williams came along. I thought I would lose her forever,"
Pierre said, his expression clouded with anger. "I bought her a
four-carat-diamond engagement- ring. Never had I married before, but I felt if
Suzie were my wife, she would be faithful."
"Gloria told me Suzie didn't accept
your ring during that Friday night at dinner. Gloria said that you were never
engaged," I said softly.
"Gloria has a big mouth," Pierre
said with contempt. "Suzie would have said yes had it not been for
Williams." He turned and glared at Bradley, who saluted the photographer
with his martini glass.
Pierre had just admitted he'd lied at
Suzie's memorial, when he declared to one and all that Suzie had been his
fiancee. I reached across and took Pierre's hand. Holding it tight, I said,
"You must have been awfully hurt when Suzie turned down your proposal.
After all you'd done for her, all you'd put up with from her."
He whirled to face me. His eyes blazed with
anger. "I made Suzie a star. Scott Roberts could never have done that for
her. Suzie should have been grateful, been loyal, obeyed me."
"You're right. You fought about it
during that Friday-night dinner when you proposed."
"Yes," he said, his voice
inflamed with passion. "We argued all evening, especially about Williams.
Then we made love, and when I woke she was gone. She had the Mustang
assignment, and Ford had hired their own photographer."
I lowered my voice. "You loved Suzie
dearly. She was the most important woman in the world to you. You desperately
wanted her to marry you, give up Mr. Williams."
"Yes," Pierre said, shaking with
emotion, dragging his hand away from mine. "Suzie called me late that Saturday,
and told me she was exhausted, and felt a cold coming on. She said she was
going straight to bed."
I coughed. The same excuse she'd given
Bradley the night before. "But you couldn't stand being away from her,
could you? Late Saturday night, you went to her apartment, and you found her
awake and nude. Did she tell you it was Mr. Williams she was with? That he'd
gone out and would be returning?"
"What?" Pierre demanded.
"Pierre, don't you know that if you
want me to trust you, then you must trust me? Knowing Suzie was with another
lover, after you had made your beautiful marriage proposal, surely threw you
over the edge."
He looked at me, a mixture of shock and
anger twisting his features.
"You're a passionate man. Suzie had
hurt you again. This time she wasn't going to get away with it. You reached for
the scarf and wrapped it around her neck—"
Pierre leaped to his feet, upsetting his
chair. His nostrils flared with fury. "How dare you even suggest such a
thing?" French curses fell from his mouth for everyone to hear.
I saw Bradley stand.
A hush came over the room. People were
staring.
Pierre walked around to my side of the
table, his eyes black and thunderous. He bent and spoke right in my face.
"Suzie told me you were in love with Williams. I couldn't fathom a playboy
like him having any interest in a piddlin' girl from the South. You're trying
to clear his name by accusing me."
"No, I—"
"You are dead to me, as is your
agency." He pitched his napkin over my cheesecake, and stalked out of
Sardi's.
Talk resumed in earnest across the room.
Trembling, I finished the last of my
champagne, peeking over the top of the glass at Bradley. He was seated again
and giving orders to a waiter.
A feeling of total failure washed over me.
A different waiter appeared at my table and righted the empty
chair. He held a small silver tray with a single glass of champagne.
"Miss, the gentleman over there," he said, indicating Bradley,
"sends this with his compliments. He asks if he may join you."
"Thank you," I said, accepting the glass. "He
may."
The waiter nodded at Bradley, who picked up his martini
glass, sauntered over, and sat in Pierre's chair.
Taking a sip of my drink, I realized it was not champagne.
"Why, Bradley, how did you know Canada Dry is my favorite?"
"Just a lucky guess, kid. Nice rocks around your neck.
Pierre give them to you?"
"What difference would it make to you if he had?"
Bradley sipped his martini. "You just told me the French
lecher didn't give them to you. I must be paying you too much if you can buy
them on your own."
"They're Darlene's," I said, leaning across the
table.
Bradley's blue gaze met mine. "You've got that perfume
on again."
"What are you going to do about it? Break into my
apartment and steal the bottle?" I narrowed my eyes at him.
He ran his fingertip slowly around the rim of his martini
glass.
Suddenly I felt uncomfortably warm. I drank the cold ginger ale.
Tension had filled me when I questioned Pierre. Now another kind of tension
began to build while I stared at Bradley.
"Louis certainly likes to brag about his
conquests."
I rolled my eyes. "He disgusts me."
"So you didn't like kissing him?"
"None of your business."
"Will you be living at your apartment much longer?"
Bradley asked. "Holding hands with New York's most famous photographer in
one of New York's famous restaurants. The society pages will be all over the
story. Won't you have to marry Pierre to protect your reputation?"
"I most certainly will not marry Pierre," I hissed.
"And don't you talk to me about my reputation."
His gaze roved lazily over the bust of my dress.
I looked down and felt heat burn my cheeks. The heavy beading
at the top of the dress had pulled it down when I leaned forward. I sat up
straight, bringing a slow smile to Bradley's lips.
The waiter returned. "Would you like anything else,
miss?"
"Yes, a glass of champagne, please."
"And you, sir?"
"Nothing for me, thank you."
"You haven't eaten anything," I said.
"I don't like dining alone, and you've already had
dinner."
"Guess you'll have to make yourself a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich when you go back to your bachelor's lair."
"That's right. You were at my town house once. Pity I
was already occupied. By the way, what did Gloria mean at Debbie Ann's shoot
when she said that you couldn't 'get anywhere' with me?"
I turned my head to the side, but I knew it was not enough.
The red of my skin probably started at my toes and went to my hairline. I
flipped my hair in a gesture of unconcern and turned to face him. Avoidance of
the question seemed best. "You might as well know, I couldn't get a
confession out of Pierre," I said, and sighed.
Bradley threw back his head and laughed. Then, looking at me,
he said, "You tried your hardest, though. I watched you work, kid. I have
to admit, it was impressive."
"Are you laughing at me? Here I am, trying to
save—"
The waiter reappeared. He placed my champagne in front of me,
and discreetly put a closed black booklet at my elbow.
Oh, dear God! Pierre had left me with the bill.
I took a big swallow of champagne.
Bradley slid the bill over to his side of the table with one
fluid move of a slim finger. He opened it and signed his name. "I'm sure
you were discussing Ryan business. The agency will take care of this."
I tried not to appear relieved. "Actually, we did
discuss business."
Bradley slanted his body toward me. He placed his right hand
over my champagne glass. "What about when Drew flirted with you? He wants
you in Chicago with him."
"I love New York."
"I suppose you do. You've made a lot of close friends
since you moved here, like the guy who groped you right outside my office this
morning."
"That was Stu, Darlene's boyfriend, and he didn't grope
me; he gave me a hug!"
I tried to push his hand away from my champagne glass. To
further my mortification, I succeeded only in knocking the glass and the
contents onto the white tablecloth.
Bradley stood. "Let's go, Bebe."
I got to my feet, feeling woozy. Bradley wasn't going to know
about it, though. He might try something with me.
Or I might try something with him.
I giggled.
The maitre d' said, "Good night, Mr. Williams."
"Good night," Bradley said.
Outside, I shivered without a wrap.
Bradley put his arm around me. He kissed the side of my head.
"Come on, Bebe, we're going home."
Home? Home to his house?
A black car pulled up, and Bradley held the back door open
for me. We entered, and I immediately missed having his arm around me.
"Much better than a regular cab," he murmured in the darkness.
"Comfortable," I said softly. Why didn't he touch
me?
I couldn't bear being alone with him like this.
I loved Bradley. He might be sent to prison! His uncle might take away Bradley's job and give it to Drew or someone
else. Hadn't he threatened to do just that if Bradley didn't clear his name in
ten days? Tomorrow would be the tenth day since Suzie's murder.
"Are you still cold? You're rubbing your upper
arms," he said.
I loved his voice. "I'm fine, Bradley."
The car rolled to a stop.
"We're here."
I glanced outside. Harry lounged on the stoop of my apartment
building. Bradley wasn't taking me to his house for a night of love after all.
Damn him!
"If you'll excuse me, Bradley, you are sitting in the
seat closest to the curb," I said, trying to keep my voice emotionless.
"Thanks for the ride."
He didn't budge. "I couldn't let you go home by yourself
wearing that necklace, kid."
"You're such a gentleman," I said, then began to open
my door, anxious to get away.
He leaned across me. He took my hand from the door handle and
held it in his, staying very close to me. I looked at his lips, mere inches
from mine.
He put his hand in my hair, and gently pulled me to him.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Bradley and I turned toward his window.
Harry's face peered inside. Though muffled, his voice came
through. "Hey, mister, what are you doing with Miss Sweet Face?"
Bradley eased back into his seat. "This is your wino, I
believe." He opened the door, and we both got out. But Bradley only
whispered, "Good night," before reentering the car, which drove
away.
Harry scratched his head. "He wasn't the one, was
he?"
"Yes, he was," I said, handed Harry two quarters,
and went upstairs.
Trying to keep myself from going insane over Bradley, I
thought about Pierre. Something he'd said niggled at me, but I couldn't think
what it was.
Wednesday morning, I entered Ryan, put my purse on my desk,
and went directly to the coffeepot. My mouth tasted like yesterday's dishwater,
my eyes were full of sand, and my body might have been run over— twice—by a
garbage truck.
That's the way I felt after last night's
failure with Pierre, the champagne I'd consumed, and about four hours of sleep.
Earlier this morning, while dressing in my apple-green suit, I'd told Darlene
everything.
"Honey, from all you've told me, I
still think Pierre's the killer," she had said.
"I do too, if only we can prove it. I
guess I'll go by Jeff Granford's at lunchtime to make sure we've covered every
base."