Million Dollar Road (29 page)

Besides, he'd earned it. Opening the bottle was always easier than closing it anyway, and so Con did just that, shaking another two tablets onto the desk and washing them down with the cold coffee.

Leaning back in his chair, Con closed his eyes, envisioning the end of the long game he'd been playing, the true beginning of his life with Lireinne. He was thinking about the Plaza Athénée's huge marble bathrooms that were the size of an ordinary suburban bedroom, those deep soaking tubs you could almost swim in, the floor-to-ceiling, gilt-framed mirrors everywhere, the towels thick and soft as fox-fur coats from Norway. He was imagining Lireinne in one of those bathtubs, clothed only in a fragrant cloud of bubbles, blowing him a kiss and sipping the Taittinger from a crystal flute. “Happy, my love?” he'd ask. Not stopping to wrap herself in a towel, Lireinne slipped out of the tub and into his embrace, her lithe body warm and wet and real next to his skin.

It was an erotic, blissful image, and that image and the Vicodin coursing through his veins delivered Con into sleep's arms instead of Lireinne's. His mouth going slack, his head lolled in loose abandon against the back of the chair.

When Lireinne returned to the office, he was past nodding and deep in slumber, his red hair rumpled, his bandaged left hand dangling between his knees. The bottle of Vicodin was open and lying on its side, a scatter of white tablets strewn across the papers on his desk.

“Lireinne,” Con mumbled, lost in his dream.

 

At first, Lireinne wasn't sure what it was Mr. Con had said. Her boss was asleep in his chair again, something that was happening with an alarming frequency since he'd come back from the hospital. His un-pressed shirt was pulled halfway out of his khakis, he'd forgotten his socks again, and he needed a shave.

It seemed like Mr. Con was taking a
lot
of those pills, Lireinne worried. They made him drift off like a tired child who'd stayed up past his bedtime, and while she didn't have any real experience with painkillers, Lireinne knew it couldn't be good for him to take so many, not with all the pressure he was under. Though he was trying hard not to let on, she could tell Mr. Con was way behind on his work, and while he never complained about his hand, he must be hurting a lot. It was because of the pain, his taking too many drugs. That woman he was married to should be looking after him. Lireinne pursed her lips in disapproval. But Mrs. Costello had thrown him out of the house and now he was all alone at that humongous apartment complex down on the highway with nobody to care about him—nobody but her.

If Lireinne hadn't felt responsible for Mr. Con's accident, she wouldn't have cared so much about his drug use, except . . . once Bud had told her about a man on the loading dock who'd gotten hurt on the job. He'd ended up addicted to drugs just like these, hooked like any other pill-freak. But come on, be real, Lireinne told herself uneasily. Mr. Con wasn't going to end up like that friend of Bud's, serving three years when he'd tried to buy his dope from an undercover cop. Rich people like Mr. Con always went to rehab instead of jail, didn't they?

Her boss snored abruptly, again muttering something she couldn't quite make out. Disquieted, Lireinne sat at the table and tried to get back to work on the EPA documents, but a couple of minutes later he spoke once more. There couldn't be any doubt about what he said this time.

“Lireinne, honey.” Mr. Con sighed deeply, smiling in his sleep.

She gasped, her mouth falling open. No way she'd really heard him say that, did she? God, like she was in his
dreams
?

All those times Lireinne had looked up to find him watching her when he was supposed to be working, all the times he'd touched her that she'd tried to convince herself were no big deal—all of it had been in his eyes since the very beginning. She'd been a moron for trying to make all that other than what it really was. Lireinne couldn't deny what she knew to be true any longer.

Mr. Con had a . . .
thing
for her. It was the reason he had given her the job, it was the reason for the money, the car, and the promise of a trip to Paris. He might not have grabbed at her like Harlan had, but that was the only difference between Mr. Con and every other creep who wanted to get in her pants.

Rubbing the scar at her eyebrow, Lireinne slumped in her chair, overwhelmed.
Now
freaking what? She crushed a stray piece of paper into a wadded ball. So what in the hell was she supposed to do with this unwelcome, dangerous knowledge? So what was the big plan now, huh?

So there wasn't a question about it, a newborn determination told her in a voice as cold and hard as arctic ice. Get a grip, it said. There'd never be another chance for her to get to Paris, and nobody, not even Mr. Con and his . . . his wanting her that way, was going to stop her from taking this trip. Nothing was going to stop her.
Nothing
. It was a conscious decision, narrow-eyed and calculating, heralding a sudden change within on a level deeper than she'd ever felt in her life.

And with this decision came the understanding of what a narrow, careful line she was going to have to walk. No way, Lireinne thought, there was no way she'd ever sleep with him—God, no—but Mr. Con didn't have to know that. Not yet. She'd go to Paris and then . . . manage the situation. Somehow, anyhow, she'd make it happen because she'd never wanted
anything
as much as this trip.

Setting her jaw, swallowing past the dry lump in her throat, Lireinne picked up the phone and dialed the Plaza Athénée's number. She waited through the series of transatlantic beeps, twisting the phone cord in her nervous, trembling fingers. It seemed to take a long time before she was connected.

Paris
. The hotel operator's banal greeting in her ear shivered a fierce thrill of joy through Lireinne's entire body. A real, live French person was talking to her! Stealing a glance at Mr. Con sleeping at his desk, Lireinne cleared her throat, forcing her lowered voice to be calm and weighted with an authority she didn't really feel.

“
Bonjour
. I need to make a reservation,
s'il vous plaît,
for Monsieur Con Costello.”

The operator smoothly transitioned from French to English. “Of course—his usual suite,
mademoiselle
?”

“No sir, on this trip Monsieur Costello will need a suite with
two
bedrooms.”

There was bound to be a lock on the door, and Lireinne planned to use it.

Five minutes later, the reservation confirmed, she got up from the conference table, girding herself to go down the hall to accounting to remind that bitch Jackie to arrange her expedited passport, whatever that was, before Wednesday. Lireinne was taking no chances. Let Jackie think whatever she wanted about her going with Mr. Con on a business trip to Paris; let her tell the whole damned farm if that would make her miserable ass happy.

Lireinne's step was light as she walked down the hall, but her mouth was set in an uncompromising line, her backbone straightened with a resolve like forged Swedish steel.

Paris
.

L
izzie couldn't deny it: when she turned sideways, she was positive she could detect a thickening of her waistline in the long mirror's reflection.

“Oh, hell!” she exclaimed. She turned again, running her hand over the front of her silk tunic. Even though she was only two months along, she could
see
it, the pregnancy, a half-imagined, intrusive presence lurking like a feral cat under the house. A couple of hours from now on this Monday afternoon, Liz would be having her first dinner date with Skip Binnings. Tonight was the first night in ten days that Skip hadn't been on call and he'd wasted no time asking her out. Gratified by this evidence of his determined pursuit, she was ransacking her closet for clothes that could disguise the almost invisible bulge besieging her previously flat-stomached, high-waisted figure. This loose-fitting ivory charmeuse tunic from the back of her closet hadn't done a thing to flatter her before she was pregnant, Lizzie thought in heavy discouragement, much less
now
.

And these days, instead of the constant nausea of morning sickness, she was so hungry all the time she couldn't seem to stop eating her head off. This raging appetite wasn't helping her waistline either, that was for damned sure.

Heaped clothing draped the armchair in the bedroom; another pile of discards was piled in a mound of expensive, lush fabric on the bed. Lizzie impatiently shrugged out of the tunic, tossed it on the chair, and headed back to the closet—roomier now, thanks to Con's departure—to continue the hunt. First dates were so important and this dinner with Skip was going to be
major
. What kind of impression would she make? Liz fretted as she limped out of the bedroom.

At least she was in a walking cast now, and good riddance to the crutches consigned to the back of the garage with the rest of the crap she and Con had managed to amass over the past two years: snow skis, water skis, life-preservers, croquet mallets, pool toys, tennis rackets, a kayak, the lawn furniture too beat-up to leave out on the patio, the collection of ice chests, a big cardboard box full of Mardi Gras beads, and poor Lima Bean's crate. The new black Kevlar boot wasn't much of an improvement over her plaster cast, fashionwise, but it was one hell of a lot better than stumping around on crutches, and Lord, it was heaven to be able to shower again like a normal person. The orthopedic surgeon had told her she was healing beautifully, that she'd be free of the walking cast in another three weeks. Once that was out of the way, Liz thought, she'd finally be herself again.

Except for being pregnant.

Lizzie had been forced to admit that this inconvenient situation wasn't going to go away on its own, but every time she picked up the phone to dial her gynecologist for an appointment to discuss . . . the alternative, she found herself putting it down again, unable to make that call.

And why was that? Liz wondered, impatient with this inexplicable, uncharacteristic procrastination. It wasn't like she was actually going to
have
this baby, she thought as she pawed through her sweater drawer, looking for the black silk-blend Ralph Lauren. Of all the times to be pregnant, if ever there was one, this most certainly was not it. Lizzie yanked the sweater over her head and returned to the bedroom mirror. Really, it was just one little procedure and then she'd be shut of Con for good—except for the settlement and alimony, of course. The very idea of being a single mother,
plus
having to continue to put up with him and his shit, wasn't merely absurd: it was out of the question.

A baby, Lizzie thought, would only make her miserable. She was sick of being miserable.

She smoothed the sweater over her hips. This combination would do, Liz decided, as she revolved in front of the mirror, looking at herself from all angles. Black, at least, was slimming, and coupled with the pair of charcoal skinny pants she'd managed to squeeze into, she looked better than she'd dared hope. Maybe not up to her usual standards, but still damned good. This sweater had always been a favorite, playing up the caramel and gold lights in her hair, accenting her natural high color. Lizzie put on her diamond earrings, too. Their sparkle would draw Skip's admiring gaze to her face, away from the unwelcome roundness at her middle and the cumbersome walking cast. In any case, it was the best she could do with what she had to work with.

Tonight's outfit seen to, Lizzie scooped up the discards and piled them all on the floor of the closet for Consuelo to put away when she came in tomorrow. The arrangement with CoCo Hannigan had dwindled to the maid's coming in every other day, but Liz felt sure she'd have one of her own soon. Con was in no position to insist on her keeping the house, not anymore, and so there was no reason not to do that for herself. After she got in touch with her gynecologist and . . . took care of things, Lizzie planned to return to work. Her old associate's salary, added to the cash she'd get out of Con, would ensure plenty of money for whatever she wanted.

Finally free of housework and all that damned cooking, Liz would be happy if she never saw a copper pot again. As if in answer to that thought, her stomach growled like a pit bull. Suddenly, she was almost faint with hunger. She couldn't
wait
for dinner.

That was probably because she was eating for two.

It was another disconcerting thought, so Lizzie dismissed it in a hurry. Okay, rather than having a big meal tonight, she'd give in and have something to eat beforehand. A little snack now, and she'd be able to order just an appetizer and a salad later tonight. That would be a dainty meal, consistent with the way she wanted Skip to view her, a glamorous, ethereal creature living on small, exquisite plates and heirloom lettuce leaves. Cheering up at the thought of food, even lettuce, Liz decided she'd have a glass of wine or two with dinner—since she was going to make that appointment soon. With a last critical glance at her reflection in the bedroom's long mirror, Lizzie went into the kitchen to find something to appease her stomach's insistent grumbling.

The big stainless-steel refrigerator reflected Con's absence in much the same way the closet did: its insides were largely bare. Liz hadn't gone grocery shopping or made a meal in many weeks. Consuelo's dinners might be pretty basic, but they definitely beat having to cook. Too bad there weren't any leftovers, Liz thought as she glumly surveyed the empty fridge. Right now the lack of groceries on hand was damned inconvenient. She could hardly make a meal out of a can of Diet Coke and a loaf of stale bread. There wasn't anything to make a sandwich with either, only a head of cabbage in the vegetable crisper and a handful of elderly carrots. Liz shook her head, disgusted at the state of affairs in her refrigerator. What could she do with just cabbage and carrots?

Coleslaw! her gnawing hunger promptly responded. Lizzie had always been fond of coleslaw. Her mother, not much of a cook herself and given to homely staples like meat loaf and tuna casserole when feeding her large, always-hungry family, had nevertheless made a great coleslaw. Now, where was the mayonnaise?

Gathering the ingredients, Liz got down to business with the chef's knife on the expansive marble island's cutting board, slicing the cabbage into a chiffonade, scraping the carrots and slicing them into slivers, and then mixed it all together in a big blue mixing bowl with half a jar of mayonnaise. As a crowning touch, she seasoned the mixture lavishly with basil, fresh-ground black pepper, and salt. During the preparations, Lizzie's mouth watered. Feeling as though she would perish of hunger before she could taste the first generous spoonful, she wanted coleslaw now with an almost mindless yearning for all that creamy, green crunchiness.

Done stirring, with happy anticipation Liz pulled up a bar stool to the island and sat down with the blue bowl, a big spoon, and draped a dish towel around her neck to protect her black sweater. And then, methodically as a backhoe, she set to work.

Lizzie ate to the point where she had to unbutton the waistband of her skinny pants. She ate until the bowl was nearly empty, leaving just a bare cup of cabbage swimming in the watery dregs of mayonnaise, flecks of pepper, and basil at the bottom of it. Now that she was uncomfortably sated, she couldn't remember ever having been so famished. She'd eaten
so much
. Coleslaw, of all things. What the hell had gotten into her?

Lizzie slumped against the back of the bar stool, confounded and more than a little dismayed. She never ate like that, never. She'd been obsessive about her weight ever since she'd gained that damned freshman fifteen, back at LSU. It had taken what seemed like a thousand hours on the treadmill in the gym and months of calorie-counting to lose the pudge encircling her hips and thighs. After all that grinding torture, Liz had sworn she'd never gain a pound again, knowing even then that the kind of man she'd been determined to marry—whoever he turned out to be—wouldn't want a wife carrying any extra weight at all. They never did. Con certainly hadn't.

But this out-of-control binge was something different from those midnight forays to the vending machines, scarfing bags of corn chips, cookies, and guzzling chocolate Yoo-hoos. This binge had been almost, well, like a crazy sickness.

No, not a sickness. With a shiver of dread, Liz understood that this had to have been a . . . a . . .
craving
. Pregnant women got cravings. Abruptly humiliated by her own gluttony, she hurried the rest of the bowl of coleslaw to the sink, stuffed the remains down the garbage disposal, and flipped the switch to get rid of the evidence. She left the bowl in the sink for Consuelo to wash the next day.

There was a sliver of carrot and a dribble of mayonnaise on the soft black sleeve of her sweater, and she'd need to redo her mouth before Skip arrived in thirty minutes. Liz rubbed her lips roughly on the dish towel. What if Skip had seen her chowing down like that? He'd have thought she was insane, or worse, a woman who'd turn into a hog on a moment's notice. She hadn't told him about her pregnancy, sure it would spell the end of the attraction she hoped he felt for her. What kind of man would be so infatuated he'd be okay with taking
that
on?

The coleslaw episode confirmed it. Lizzie was going to call her gynecologist tomorrow, no matter what.

 

By the time Skip Binnings arrived at the front door, Liz had won the struggle to get her skinny pants zipped again and, as the faithful mirror informed her, she'd cleaned up better than any woman who'd just consumed practically an entire bowl of coleslaw had any right to expect.

And the admiration in her date's eyes was a flattering confirmation. “Lord, Lizzie,” Skip said, taking her in with a sweeping glance, from her shining hair to her ballet-slippered toe. “I never knew any woman who could carry off a walking cast like you do. You're positively gorgeous.”

That reassuring compliment eased her mind. It was a good thing she had to wear a flat shoe anyway, Liz thought. The top of this man's head barely came to her shoulder as it was, but at least he had good hair—thick, dark, and sleek as sheared mink. She stepped out onto the porch, shutting the front door behind her, and slipped her arm in Skip's.

“You're not so bad yourself,” she said with a big smile. Skip, wearing a blue sport coat, a pinstriped shirt, and a pair of dark jeans, grinned in return.

“Shall we go?” he asked.

“Let's,” Liz replied, giving his wide shoulders a discreet glance of approval. They walked together down the steps to Skip's car, a Mercedes S–Class coupe. Nice car, but nothing less than she'd expected: plastic surgeons had piles of money, everybody knew that. He had good taste in music, too, for when Skip started the car the tenor sax of a light jazz arrangement surrounded them, pouring through the Mercedes's impressive sound system.

“I thought I'd take you to the Lemon Tree,” Skip said. “If that's okay with you. We can go anywhere you want, but Covington isn't exactly New Orleans. If you want a decent meal without crossing the lake, our choices are pretty limited.” He glanced at her in the passenger seat. “I might be rushing things a bit, but I'd like to make sure you have a good time tonight.”

Oh,
great,
Liz thought, not the Lemon Tree again. But she smiled and said, “That sounds wonderful. I love the food there.” Actually, Lizzie hadn't been back to the restaurant since that night, nearly two months ago, when she'd thrown champagne in Con's face. Since her accident she hadn't been remotely interested in going out to dinner, not on those damned crutches, and especially since she couldn't have a drink.

“That's good,” Skip said. “They do a pretty respectable filet there, and a fantastic crème bruleé.”

As soon as the words
crème brûlée
came out of his mouth, though, a dull knot twisted in Liz's stomach, just above the bulge. Her hand went involuntarily to her waist, pressing against that roiling sensation. She stifled an impressive belch.

That damned coleslaw, Liz thought uneasily. God knows she'd bolted it like a starving horse. She belched again.

“How's the plastic surgery business going?” she asked, trying to deflect her date's attention. It was almost always a successful gambit to ask a man about his work, and Skip proved no exception. During the drive to the restaurant, he told her a great deal more about plastic surgery than she'd ever had any desire to know. And, too, Lizzie's increasingly querulous stomach was proving to be a major distraction, making it tough going to feign an interest in his current cases—nose jobs, boob jobs, face-lifts, and the odd trauma patient like Con. Summoning a grim determination to master her gut's loud complaints, she maintained a rapt attention, keeping the conversation lively to cover the growls coming from her midsection.