Extreme Danger (33 page)

Davy gave him a swat on the back that just about broke three of his ribs. “No way, dude,” he said cheerfully. “Get used to it.”

Chapter
18

B ecca circled the Crystal Ballroom slowly. The banquet was a black tie affair, and the women in evening gowns glittered and shone.

So far, so good. No job-threatening disasters loomed on her horizon yet. The Meet-And-Greet in the Sunburst Room had gone smoothly, the jazz trio was playing a sentimental tune, the sommeliers and wait staff were doing their appointed jobs, the trays of lime sorbet to follow the fish were starting to circle, the big band was set up and ready to go for the dancing, everyone was in place, everyone knew what time it was.

Fifteen more minutes, and it would be time to start mobilizing the coffee and dessert, and get ready for the speechifying. The sheer volume of details to keep track of made it almost possible for her not to think about Nick. But oh, wow. She was going to see him tonight. The consciousness of her secret date gave her a constant toe-curling pleasure, like a wild coffee high.

She was so absorbed in trying to quantify the feeling, she almost ran right into the guy as he strode through the room. She reeled to the side, turning her head away with a gasp. Oh, God. The Spider’s guest. Zhoglo’s mysterious business partner. The country club guy.

She turned, slowly, and ventured another peek, just to be sure.

He was in profile, looking trim and good in his tux, sliding into his seat with what looked like a murmured apology at one of the big VIP tables, next to a handsome blonde woman with a tight smile. He lifted his glass of red wine in response to something that she said.

She remembered him lifting his glass, on the island. Those glittering eyes fixed on her. The clink of glasses. Wine the color of blood.

To beauty. And desires fulfilled.

A sinkhole opened in the bottom of her mind. Beneath it yawned a hellish abyss.

Becca stumbled across the room, putting distance between them. She grabbed the edge of a table, fighting nausea. A wave of nasty faintness jangled through her body. Her ears roared, her eyes went dark. Cold sweat. Icy hands. She wanted to double over. Staying conscious was a struggle.

The reality of what had happened on the island just a few short days ago came smashing back. It had been lurking there all along, ready to pounce, destroying her fragile new equilibrium.

She could not faint. Could not. She had to get a grip. Had. To.

“Becca?” Marla’s voice was sharp. “What on earth is the matter with you? Are you ill?”

Becca wiped her clammy forehead, and peeked again. His glance swept over her without snagging on her. Thank God for the shorter, fluffier hair and the face-concealing, black-framed glasses.

Becca put her back to him. “Marla?” she whispered. “The guy behind me who just sat down at the VIP table? Six-two, black tux, late forties, gray temples? Next to the old lady with the dowager’s hump and the diamonds? Who is he?”

Marla’s eyes narrowed, and her finely shaped brows snapped together. “Becca. This is hardly the time for—ouch! Hey!”

Becca had seized her wrist, and was gripping it with furious strength, heedless of her fingernails. “Who is he?”

Marla jerked her arm away, scowling. “That’s Dr. Richard Mathes. He’s a famous thoracic surgeon. He’s giving the farewell speech for Harrison tonight! You knew that, Becca! He was late, because of some medical emergency.”

Becca pressed on her mouth with her hands. “Oh, God,” she whispered. She was going to heave her guts out. “Gotta run. Going to be sick,” she squeaked, through the hand clamped over her mouth.

She bolted towards the ladies’ room, caroming into tables, elbowing one of the catering staff who was carrying a tray of full sorbet dishes, all of which toppled, dumping themselves right onto the unfortunate woman’s crisp white blouse.

Becca fled, leaving shouts of outrage in her wake. She couldn’t stop and apologize, anyway. If she opened her mouth, “I’m so sorry” was not what was going to be coming out of it. Barfing on club members in evening wear would not help her cause. Praise God, there was no line in the ladies’ room. She made it to the stall just in time.

The bathroom stalls in the club’s ladies’ rooms were little private rooms in their own right, made of peach-colored marble quarried in Italy. Each stall contained its own private sink with antique gold-toned fixtures and an enormous gilt-framed mirror. Hers reflected her own pitiful image when she finally dared to lift her head up from where it dangled over the toilet bowl. Oh, God. Very bad.

She was as white as a hospital lab coat. Eyes and nose streaming with tears, eyelids swollen and pink, mascara running copiously.

And sheer terror in her eyes. She shook all over.

Here? Why here, at one of her own events? What were the odds? Fate was having evil fun at her expense.

She lingered in the little room for as long as she dared, wiping off the toilet, cleaning up her face, adjusting hair, clothes and facial expression. She braced herself, and tried on a cheerful, professional smile. Oh, boy. Nix the smile.

She couldn’t fake or finesse this one. She didn’t even have her cell phone on her, to call Nick and bleat desperately for rescue. It was in her office, in her purse, way down the corridor at the end of this wing.

She tried to talk herself down. The man wasn’t going to stop chowing down on his poached salmon and take time out to murder her. Nor did he seem the type who would do his own murdering. He was, however, certainly capable of making a few discreet inquiries and then stepping around a corner to make a phone call. And that would be that for Becca Cattrell.

She would be, as Nick so expressively put it, so fucked.

She was not at all surprised to find Marla waiting outside, her taut rear end perched half-on, half-off the long marble vanity counter. Her arms were crossed, her brows knit. She looked furiously angry.

There were other women primping and washing, and Marla waited in stony silence for them to leave. Becca braced herself as the door closed behind the last woman, leaving them alone.

Marla lost no time. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”

Becca stared at the other woman blankly. That took her utterly by surprise, so beset was she by images of grisly death wounds and bullet holes. “Ah…huh? With who?” she floundered. “I—but I—”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” the older woman hissed. “I’m talking about Mathes. So that’s where you were all those days you didn’t come to work, hmm? The phone messaging, the slut lingerie? Did he give you a fake name, Becca? Did he not tell you he was married? Christ, what an innocent you are.”

Fuck a duck. Becca struggled to organize a coherent response. She just kept opening and closing her mouth as it sank in that the conclusion Marla had leaped to was a screamingly obvious one. Far more probable and believable than the awful truth.

Marla raged quietly on, her voice laced with suppressed anger. “That was his wife, Helen Mathes, beside him. Remember the tall blonde with all the bling? Big philanthropist, on all the charitable boards in the city? She attended the Mother/Daughter Tea you organized last year. With her nine-and twelve-year-old girls. Mouthy little blond brats, both of them. You don’t remember her?”

Becca shook her head. “I don’t remember her,” she whispered.

“I very much hope that you’re not thinking anything stupid, Becca. Like, for instance, that he’s going to leave his wife for you.” Marla’s eyes swept critically over her. “Please be realistic. You’re a very pretty girl and very sweet, but you’re hardly a femme fatale.”

“Marla, I’m not—”

“And now, damage control.” Marla dragged a handful of perfumed facial tissues out of the pink marble dispenser and shoved them into Becca’s hand. “I am very sorry that you’ve had not one, but two romantic disappointments in a single week. But this is an opportunity to show your true colors. I want to see how professional you can be.”

“But Marla, I—”

“Get out there and work, just like nothing ever happened. It’s the only dignified thing you can do,” Marla announced. “What’s he going to do? What can he do? Nothing, Becca. If he sees you, be classy. Smile. Pretend you’ve never seen him before. Smile big at his wife, too. Let him wonder what you’re capable of. Let him squirm and worry. He deserves it, the lying, cheating prick. But do not let him control you!”

Marla’s lecture was delivered in ringing tones that should have been accompanied by inspiring theme music. Becca stared at her boss’s stern expression, and found herself wishing desperately that she could do exactly as she was told. Just go with the flow.

After all. It seemed so lurid, so improbable. Maybe the whole episode had all been some sort of crazy hallucination. A bad dream she wanted so badly to forget. Or at least ignore. Maybe if she pretended…and hoped he didn’t notice her, or recognize her…?

No. Not an option. She’d seen what she had seen. She’d surfed on rivers of blood. She had to face it, own up to it, and deal.

“I cannot go back out there,” she said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

Marla’s face tightened. “You’re running out on me in the middle of one of the most important events of the year because you slept with the wrong guy? For God’s sake, Becca! Everyone’s done that a time or two! Get over it! Grow up!”

I didn’t sleep with that slimy son of a bitch. I would rather die.

She wanted to scream it at the top of her lungs. She swallowed the impulse down, and it bumped like a big rock in her throat.

She both liked and respected Marla. Despite her sharp tongue and her bitchiness, she was protective and supportive, even maternal to her younger employee. Becca genuinely valued Marla’s good opinion.

But at this point, she had two options. Marla could think that Becca was a weak-willed, scared slut, or else she could think that Becca was a deluded paranoid nutcase. Both options were painful.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” she said, meaning it with every cell of her body. “I have my reasons. I just can’t do it.”

Marla’s eyes narrowed, and opened her mouth. At that moment, another woman came into the bathroom and headed for one of the stalls. Marla waited until the stall door clicked shut, and then leaned forward and whispered savagely into Becca’s ear.

“I will give you five minutes to rethink that decision. If I don’t see you out in the Crystal Ballroom after that amount of time, I’ll consider that your letter of resignation, effective immediately. Goodbye, Becca. Best of luck in all your future endeavors.”

She left, heels clicking angrily on the gleaming marble tiles.

Becca clutched the marble sink, white-knuckled, as the shape of her world shifted. Hope, daydreams, expectations suddenly, brutally readjusted.

Fired. So. On top of rape, torture and murder, she got to worry about how she was going to pay her rent, too. And Carrie’s. And Josh’s.

She tried to comfort herself. It wasn’t as if she had anything to lose. There was unemployment. She’d stood on that slow-moving line before. If she didn’t go out and work the banquet, she lost her job, yes. But if she did go out, she’d get dead. Dead girls held down no jobs.

She shook with ironic laughter, doubling over with her hand on her still fluttering belly. Gee. Some comfort. A real winner, that.

OK. Getting fired was definitely her clue to scram. She squelched her fear and shock, and looked out the bathroom door, looking to the right and the left. No one. She sprinted on tiptoe down the corridor towards the administrative offices at the end of the wing.

A quickie trip to her office to collect her purse, cell and keys. She tossed her coat on. Put up the hood. God, how she wished she’d bleached her hair, as Nick had begged her. Why had she been so stubborn? Why was she such a fluff-headed dork? Why?

She lingered for one wistful moment in the office she had shared with Shay, Marla’s administrative assistant. Where she’d worked so hard for three years. All that effort, up in smoke. Marla wasn’t going to give her a reference after tonight. She was back to square one, professionally. Waitressing, catering gigs, temping. No benefits, no health coverage, no future.

Concentrate on staying alive, birdbrain. She pried the keys to the office off her chain, and left them on Shay’s desk with a note of explanation and farewell. She flipped off the lights, pushed the door open and peeked out into the hall.

She ducked immediately back inside, her heart thudding madly against her rib cage. He was there. Right there, less than ten yards from her office door. In the second it had taken to register who he was, he’d been too busy arguing with a woman to see the door crack open.

A dark-haired woman in a long raincoat. Not Helen Mathes.

She closed the door, very gently, and locked the knob. Trying to breathe, to think, over the deafening thumps of her heartbeat. Her insides were icy-cold mush, getting mushier with each successive adrenaline surge. She cringed against the door, tears squeezing out of tight shut eyes. Wishing she carried a gun like Nick. That she could snap necks, slice throats, blast off asses, if anyone messed with her.

Basically, she hoped they would just go away, and give her an opening to flee. Like the cowering crybaby that she was.

Click. A door opening. Click. Light suddenly flooded in from the adjoining office. Marla’s office. Her boss had left it unlocked. The connecting door between the offices was yawning wide open.