The Arrangement (6 page)

He unzipped her garment bag and drew out the ankle-length black jersey gown that appeared shapeless on the hanger, but clung to every curve on the female body. It looked particularly good on a leaner figure like hers.

Once he’d disappeared into the bathroom, she breathed a sigh of relief and took advantage of the time alone to make a quick cell phone call. She keyed in the same number she’d been calling for days, but again got no answer. Concern weighed heavier on her heart with every attempt. She was going to have to rely on Andrew’s help, after all. Promising herself she would come up with a better plan, she turned off the phone. Right now, it was too risky to go herself.

She took a furry, animal-print throw from the back of the chaise and went to lie on the bed. Sleep had been her escape since the accident, but she couldn’t imagine drifting off in this situation. She had pills with her, but if she took one now she’d never wake in time for dinner.

The shower came on full force in the next room. He’d left the door partially open, probably for ventilation. Clearly, he was more comfortable with their accommodations than she was. But that didn’t stop her eyes from going straight to the crack in the door. Only the sink and mirror were in her line of sight, but that was enough to present what seemed like an irresistible opportunity.

Moments later the water abruptly stopped and the shower door banged open. He appeared at the sink, which allowed her to see him lather up and shave. He’d knotted a white bath sheet around his hips, and her eyes were unavoidably drawn to the knot. But his arms were the sexiest part of his body. She could have watched the play of his triceps, the ripple of cords and veins, for hours. God help her. This was not the distraction she needed.

She closed her eyes, but the memories came flooding back, anyway. She remembered so vividly when she’d first become aware of him in the periphery of her life, the wild infatuation and hero worship, the falling in love from a distance and never believing it could be reciprocated.

Was this the same man she’d felt all those things for? If she couldn’t answer any other question about her life, she wanted the answer to that one. She wanted to know if he’d hurt the other woman in his life—and if he meant
her
harm.

Her feelings for him were massively conflicted. She flinched when he got too close, yet a part of her still wanted that, and she couldn’t explain why. Or maybe she could. Maybe what she missed was the slow-burning dream, the wondering what it would be like with him. She wanted the Andrew Villard she’d fallen in love with from a distance.

Tony Bogart printed his name in block letters in the motel’s guest registry. He was in Mirage Bay unofficially, but he had no desire to hide his presence or his intentions. He wanted people to know he was investigating the murder of his brother—and possibly a second murder associated with his brother’s death, though he had no actual proof of that yet, just a telephone tip from his anonymous snitch.

“I got a room with a partial view of the water, special for you,” the aging female desk clerk said, sliding an old-fashioned brass door key across the counter to Tony. Disco music throbbed at low volume from the clock radio on the rusting metal file cabinet behind her.

“You gonna want more than one of these?” she asked.

The woman’s too-quick smile revealed a missing back tooth and skin like fine red fishnet, yet she wasn’t above flirting. Her wink sent a flash of annoyance through Tony. She wanted something, probably a tip, but she’d done nothing to deserve that except BS him, and badly at that. Tony despised lazy con artists. They insulted their mark’s intelligence.

“I worked at this motel when I was a kid,” he said. “Every room has at least a partial view. Most have full views.”

“Yeah? You worked here, at the Sand Castle?” She turned the registry around to read it. “Tony Bogart?”

She tilted back, inspecting him with a gimlet eye. “Are you related to Vern Bogart? I went to high school with him.”

Tony nodded. She’d made no excuses about the view. That got her points for being ballsy. “Vernon is my dad.”

A quick, sly grin appeared, as if she were remembering. “Your dad was a handsome man,” she said. “Tall with real narrow hips, and sandy-brown hair, cut close to his head, a lot like yours. Nice pair of ears, too. A man’s got to have good snug ears with short hair.”

She tapped her long sparkly fingernails to the theme from the movie
Flashdance
. “What’s Vern doing with himself these days? Probably married with a pack of grandkids. How about you? You married?”

She cocked an eyebrow, and her sexual boldness made Tony feel sick to his stomach. But she was clearly a long-term local, and might know something. No harm letting her think she was seducing him while he pumped her for information.

“Dad moved away a few months ago,” he said, “after my brother, Butch, died.”

“Butch Bogart? That kid who got himself stuck with a pitchfork was
your
brother? The whole town was talking about that. Happened last winter, right? Hotter than hell that day, Santa Ana winds, electrical storms?”

“Stuck
seventeen times,
” Tony corrected. “Not very likely he did it to himself.”

“Oh, right, sorry.” She wrinkled her nose. “How awful for Vern—and you, too.”

“Yeah, well, life goes on. You do the best you can.” And sometimes you make a mess of it, like Vernon Bogart had, but Tony didn’t feel like telling this woman that his father had failed miserably with his children. He’d been too hard on Tony, probably because of the grief he couldn’t express, and too soft on Butch. He’d coddled and overindulged the latter to the point that Butch didn’t think anyone else’s rules applied to him.

“Did they find out who did it?” the clerk asked. “The last I remember they thought it was that local girl, Marnie something. She vanished, right? Did they ever find her?”

“Not
yet.
” Marnie Hazelton had been everyone’s prime suspect back in February, but Tony wasn’t so sure now. He had another lead, but he still had every intention of hunting down Marnie. Last February, he’d paid a visit to Josephine Hazelton, the crazy old lady who’d raised Marnie. She sold vegetables and odds and ends at the flea market, and people seemed to like her, but Tony’s gut had told him she was holding back. So he and Gramma Jo would go another round as soon as he was settled in.

After that, he had a social call to make on a cheating ex-girlfriend.
That
should be interesting. What Tony didn’t have was a solid motive for any of his suspects, except that his brother had been a classic bully who enjoyed harassing anyone weaker than he was, women as well as men.

“You tell your dad I asked about him,” the clerk chirped. “You never said whether he was married or single.”

“Single since my mother died over twenty years ago. He’s not the marrying kind.”

“Well now, that don’t matter. Don’t need to be married to have a cup of coffee, as far as I know.”

Tony nodded, trying to be polite, which was more than his dad would have been. Vernon had never cared about anything except riding hard on his two boys and fly-fishing on a river, any river. He wouldn’t have given this toothless floozie a second look, but then, he probably wouldn’t have given Pamela Anderson a second look. He wasn’t a big fan of the fairer sex. He thought women talked too much and did too little. “Whiny, conniving liars, all of them,” he was fond of saying.

The clerk shut off the CD player. “I wonder if I knew your mother. She probably went to school with Vern and me.”

“Mind your own fucking business.” Tony’s voice dropped to a whisper. He brought his fist down on the counter with enough force to knock over her empty coffee cup. “There is
nothing
you know or need to know about my mother.”

The clerk’s eyes widened. She stepped back from the counter, eyeing the phone that she’d just distanced herself from. “I didn’t mean nothing. I was just being nice.”

Tony flashed his agent’s badge. “You and I are going to be fine,” he told her. “Just make sure I get fresh sheets once a day. Fresh, not flipped—and don’t ever mention my mother again.”

A
lison was swishing with peppermint-flavored mouthwash when she heard a tap on the bathroom door.

“Can you help me with this tie pin?” Andrew called to her.

She gurgled for him to wait as she spat out the stream of blue, then blotted her mouth on a towel. With nothing on but panties, she grabbed her dress off the hanger on the door. A bra wasn’t possible because of the halter-top cut of the gown, but at least it should be quick and easy to slip into.

“Did you say something?” He knocked again.

Before she could answer, the door opened, and there he was, forcing her to turn away and quickly shimmy into her dress. She pulled the material up and tied the jeweled halter strings. No time to do up the back.

“What do you need?” she asked, tugging various things into place as she turned around.

He seemed amused at the speed with which she was moving, twisting and tying. “Can I help?” he asked.

“It would
help
if you’d respect my privacy.”

“I thought you said to come in.”

She heaved a sigh. “Just tell me what you want. I need to finish getting ready.”

“This.” He pointed to the onyx tie bar that hung lopsided on the diagonal pinstripes of his tan-and-white tie. “I’m going cross-eyed trying to get it straight.”

“You don’t look cross-eyed.” She gave herself a moment to look into his eyes and wonder about the soul that resided in those dark windows.

“Did I buy this tie for you?” she asked him.

“No, it was a gift, but not from you.”

“Good,” she murmured, “otherwise, I would have been questioning my taste.”

“What’s wrong with my tie?”

She stepped back, ignoring his mock indignation. “The tie bar is straight. Now, let me see the whole look.”

She twirled her finger, and he turned around, his smile sardonic. “Do I look fat?”

His sand-colored blazer and slacks looked fabulous, as always. He was a meticulous dresser no matter what he wore, but the dark shimmer of intrigue that resided in his eyes, and his windblown hair, banished any notion of fussiness. He could have been a blood-and-guts hooligan on a soccer field, except that his sport was sailing. Instead of scars, he had a year-round tan and a certain unkempt elegance.

She straightened her bare shoulders, trying to hold the dress in place. The halter ties had loosened, and the back of the dress was gaping open.

“Let me help you with that.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said, a stern note to his voice. “Turn around.”

She did, and felt his fingers purling down her spine as he fastened the buttons. She steeled herself against any desire she might have to shiver—and prayed the splotches wouldn’t return. But the featherlight contact was wildly stimulating, and no amount of control could stop her pulse from becoming fast and thready.

Was this why he’d chosen the dress? So he could help her with it? If so, it must be part of the happily married couple act—and he was damn convincing. No one watching them would have known that before this trip he couldn’t stand to look at her, much less touch her.

The buttons went down to the small of her back. When he’d done them all, she turned and saw that he’d taken the gold mesh belt off the hanger.

She was still vibrating as she reached for it.

He didn’t release it. “You didn’t buy the tie, but I did buy this dress,” he said. “And I insist.”

“You bought the dress?” She knew nothing about that. He must be talking about before the accident. “I really am able to dress myself,” she said. “I can handle the belt and the rest of it, thanks.”

He touched her hair, and she froze. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he said.

“Don’t kiss me, don’t even think about it. It’s not happening.”

The look of disbelief on his face gradually transformed into a faint smile. “Actually, I
was
thinking about it.”

“Well, think about my knee kissing your balls. Think about that.”

The belt hit the floor. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

She touched the sink to steady herself. For a moment it was hard to breathe. What
was
wrong with her? She just couldn’t do this. She couldn’t casually play this lover’s game, and she hated that he could. None of this was affecting him the way it was affecting her. He wasn’t vulnerable, wasn’t shaking inside the way she was.

“I came here with you,” she said. “I agreed to that, but I never agreed to make out with you.”

He nodded slowly, as if he was just coming to understand some things about her. “You don’t even want me close to you, do you?”

“I guess it must be hard for you to grasp that a woman exists who wouldn’t want
you
close.”

“Jesus, Alison, I’m just trying to get clear on
what
you want.”

“Don’t take it personally,” she said. “Let’s do what we came to do and leave this place. I don’t want to be here.”

There was a moment when she thought he was going to say something, do something besides pick up the belt and drop it on the counter.

“You’re calling the shots,” he said as he left the room.

She shut the door behind him, wondering why she couldn’t have talked to him in civil terms, why she’d had to be so cutting. And why she was so angry still. The solution was simple. If they had to act like lovers in public, that was one thing, but there was no reason to keep up the pretense in private. She didn’t want sham intimacy from a man who was pretending not to be repulsed by her.

It was five after seven when Alison and Andrew walked out onto the terrace off the living room. The slate deck swept out over the ocean, and in the distance the horizon was as silvery bright as the setting sun.

The terrace was beautiful, almost beyond Alison’s ability to describe. Billowing ferns and banana trees shaded the wrought-iron furniture and the ornamental arches. Fountains splashed from deep pools of mosaic tiles set in swirls of blue and green. But Alison had no idea whether she was supposed to remember it or whether it was part of her mother’s massive renovation.

Only Rebecca was there to greet them, and she seemed flustered as she rushed over. “Julia’s running a little late,” she explained. “Can I get you a pisco sour? We’re having Peruvian food tonight, and the sours are luscious. They’re made with grape brandy and lime juice.”

“Make mine a virgin,” Andrew said.

Rebecca looked surprised, but he didn’t explain.

“Make mine a double,” Alison said, surprising her again.

As Rebecca went over to the bar, she gestured toward a granite-topped sideboard laden with bowls of seviche, colorful salsas and platters of mussels and other seafood. “Help yourself.”

Andrew waited, letting Alison go to the sideboard by herself. They hadn’t spoken two words since their face-off in the bathroom. Silence was the norm in their relationship. She’d even thought of it as a conspiracy of silence, but they rarely fought, and that had put a different edge on things. She had no idea what to expect, but she wasn’t backing down.

She tried a chunk of braised grouper with some spicy salsa that brought tears to her eyes. Luckily, Rebecca returned quickly with a tray of drinks. She served Alison a foamy, pale yellow sour, and then gave Andrew his virgin. The sour tasted like limeade with a donkey’s kick.

“How do you like the terrace?” she asked Alison.

“Breathtaking.” Alison went to admire a graceful iron crane that was taller than she was. “This sculpture in particular. I wonder where my mother found it.”

Rebecca hesitated. A nervous smile surfaced. “Oh, but that piece isn’t actually new. It’s been in the family for years, I believe. It may even be an heirloom.”

Alison gasped. “Oh, of course. I must be conf—Everything’s so different.”

Andrew wandered over and looked at the sculpture from another angle. “Why does it remind me of the iron piece in the foyer?” he said. “Does Julia collect Oriental cranes?”

“Well, yes, she does.” Rebecca set down the tray of drinks and helped herself to one. “Her mother did, too, I believe.”

Alison shook her head, embarrassed. “I should know these things. I still get confused.”

Rebecca’s smile was gently reassuring. “Well, no wonder. It’s amazing you survived such a terrible accident.”

Andrew broke in again, explaining that Alison suffered from a condition called transient amnesia. “But it could all come back to her in time,” he said. “We’re hopeful that it will.”

“Ah, yes, how very convenient.”

The sarcastic comment came from the terrace doors, where Bret Fairmont stood, looking flushed and disheveled. Alison didn’t know if it was a fashion statement or if he’d been in a scuffle, but he looked a mess. His hair was a blond rag mop, and his jacket was off-kilter.

He squinted at her. “My God, look what the tide dragged in. Is it really my long-lost sister? Rebecca, get me a drink. Chop chop!”

Look what the tide dragged in.
It was a terrible joke. Delayed shock seemed to paralyze everyone there.

Alison and Andrew said nothing. Bret leaned against the door frame, as if to steady himself. Finally, Rebecca moved, going to the bar to get his drink, which was the last thing he needed.

“You must remember me,” Andrew said. He boldly walked over to shake Bret’s hand. “I’m the guy she married.”

Bret glanced at Andrew’s hand, but didn’t take it.

Andrew slapped Bret’s arm rather vigorously and continued to make conversation. “What did you mean by ‘how convenient’?”

Bret’s eyes took on the gleam of a hungry rat’s. “Oh, nothing, just thinking how convenient it would be to have an unreliable memory.”

Alison brought the sour to her lips, wincing at the sudden pungency of the lime. She could tell by Bret’s behavior that he was drunk, but it was hard to believe anyone would put on such a pathetic display. If she’d had any doubts about the abject hatred she and her brother were supposed to have felt for each other, she could put them to rest. He was an obnoxious boor, and he’d obviously had it in for her since he was old enough to say her name.

What was it he’d called her when they were growing up?
Alisuck.
How mature.

“I see we’re all here. Isn’t that wonderful!”

Alison turned as her mother walked onto the terrace. She’d changed into a silk Emilio Pucci print in bright pink and turquoise, and her mood seemed to have lightened with it.

“Forgive me for holding things up. Does everyone have a drink?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” Bret said.

“You look like you’ve had plenty, Bret,” Julia said sharply. “Sit down and sober up.”

Bret’s bloodshot eyes widened. He looked good and rattled, but got himself to the nearest chair and sat down.

Alison caught the twinkle in Andrew’s eye. Was he thinking the same thing she was? Possibly the dragon lady of Sea Clouds had some redeeming qualities.

“Alison, don’t you look beautiful. I love what you’ve done with your hair.”

Julia sounded pleasantly surprised as she walked straight over to her daughter and embraced her. Alison tried to relax in her mother’s arms, but affection was the last thing she expected after the front door fiasco. She’d worn her hair up, thinking it might make a better impression, and evidently it had.

Clouds of expensive perfume swirled around them as Julia stepped back and clasped Alison’s hands. A smile softened the angles of her face, but Alison’s intuition was working overtime. She could sense the crackling tension. Julia was as anxious as she was.

Alison also caught a whiff of alcohol mixed in with the perfume, and it wasn’t her own drink.

Somehow, just knowing this very formidable woman was nervous allowed her to relax. But it also made her wonder what flaws her mother’s seeming quest for flawlessness might be hiding. She was known in the society pages as a fashion maven, but Alison had never thought of that as a cover until now. The makeup and designer clothing seemed more extreme than before, and she couldn’t shake the notion that Julia Fairmont was slowly transforming herself, whether intentionally or not, into something resembling a department store mannequin.

“Alison isn’t the only who looks beautiful tonight,” Andrew said, coming over to them. He offered his hand, and Julia hesitated only slightly before taking it. She was clearly making a supreme effort to be cordial.

Andrew sounded as if he meant it, and Julia smiled, to Alison’s great relief. Maybe this wasn’t going to be a nightmare, after all. Only Bret hadn’t risen to the occasion. He’d ignored his mother’s time-out and left the chair to storm into the house. Interesting how the rebellious little brother routine made him appear much less sinister.

“Here you are,” Rebecca said, bringing Julia a brandy sour and a plate of assorted appetizers. “Try one of the mussels and see what you think.”

Alison excused herself and walked to the edge of the deck, which overlooked a charming cove of sapphire water, thirty feet below. Beyond that the Pacific stretched like an infinite edge pool. At high tide, the waves crashed thunderously against the rocks, but now all was calm.