The Murderer's Daughter (4 page)

H
e drifted into the lounge looking a bit disoriented, took a while to select his place, finally opted for an armchair diagonal to Grace's stakeout position.

Grace's age or slightly older, he was of medium height, pleasant looking, with a thatch of black hair worn at a length that suggested neglect of barbering rather than design. His clothes were consistent with that: tweed sport coat far too heavy for L.A., pale-blue button-down shirt, rumpled khakis, brown loafers.

The coat was boxy. The khakis sagged over the shoes. But none of that calculated rumpled preppy thing you saw in pretenders. This was not someone who spent time in front of the mirror.

Things were looking up.

Grace continued to read, sneaking peeks above her brochure, watched him accept a bar menu from a server—Miguel had gone off shift, replaced by a mini-skirted chicklet whose body posture said she was an ace at flirting for tips.

Wasted effort with this guy; he didn't bother to look up.

Nothing like a challenge.

Scanning the menu, he put it aside, slouched lower in the chair, squinted at nothing in particular, closed his eyes and appeared to be initiating a nap.

Chicklet returned with a beer, still working her bod. This time, he made eye contact and smiled briefly and paid up front—letting her know he wouldn't be ordering more, didn't want to be pestered?

Maybe because after one sip, his eyes closed again.

A few moments later, he took another sip as Grace watched from behind her brochure. When his eyes remained open and he seemed to grow restless, she lowered the pages, sipped her Negroni, recrossed her legs, exposing a foot of ivory calf and an inch of thigh.

The maroon pump dangled and swung, a suede pendulum.

Grace widened the arc, allowed the gray dress to ride up just a bit. The movement caught Tweed's eye. He watched briefly, turned away. Returned to eyeing Grace who pretended to be back in the world of derivatives.

He'd been nursing his beer, now he took a generous swig. Wiped foam from his lips with a finger. Stared at the finger and dried it on a paper cocktail napkin.

Grace flipped a page, fake-sipped her Negroni, and turned her head, catching him looking away hurriedly. The next time, her eyes nabbed him before he could escape. She held his gaze then pretended she hadn't been and proceeded to ignore him. Recrossing her legs.

Sitting up straighter and arching her back just a tad, cashmere stretching tautly over her body.

He drank away and now his beer glass was empty. Pushing hair off his forehead, he repeated the gesture when the mop fell back into place.

Grace read while dangling her other shoe. Rotated her head gently so that her hair cascaded. Smoothing the chestnut tsunami, she swiveled away from the target.

Then toward him.

Their eyes met again.

This time she held the stare without breaking, lips positioned neutrally. He looked appalled at being caught.

Grace smiled.

Grateful, he smiled back. Picked up his glass. Realized it was empty and looked at Grace again and shrugged.

She laughed.

She couldn't carry a tune but she did have a lovely speaking voice, half a tone into alto, smooth as flan. That same appeal extended to her Leap-laugh, a throaty burst of amusement men found beguiling.

She made sure her laughter floated above the conversational buzz, drained her own glass and lofted it and grinned warmly.

We're in this together, friend.

His turn to laugh. Too softly to be audible but it spread his mouth in a nice way.

Well-formed mouth. Grace bet his lips were soft.

And now that she could take a better look at him, she realized this one was actually handsome. Not that it mattered. Anthony in Florence had a face like a toad but he'd made Grace's body scream.

The target turned shy suddenly and looked away.

Endearing.

Definitely a looker. Not in that craggy, hyper-Y, heavy-jaw, brow-ridge way. More like…nothing remarkable about any single feature but taken as a whole, a fine composition. Symmetrical. And at the core, attractiveness boiled down to symmetry.

Boyish, she supposed some women would label him. Some women went for boyish.

For the next four minutes, she alternated between jots of eye contact, some followed by warm smiles, others by neutral looks.

The target's hand began drumming a lamp table and he started rocking his head ever so slightly.

The dance had begun.

Then, darn her, Chicklet was back, asking if he wanted a refill. He began to shake his head no, then looked past the waitress at Grace.

Grace lofted her glass, pointed at his, rotated her free hand palms up.

What the heck, let's both go for it.

He said something to Chicklet, paid for both drinks, and pointed. Chicklet turned around, saw Grace, frowned and left.

Now he was clearly fixed on Grace, not even pretending to be cool. Grace summoned him over with a curled index finger.

He pointed to his chest.

Who, me?

By the time he arrived, he was breathing fast.

She patted the cushion next to her.

He sat down and said, “Thank you.”

Nice voice, mellow, soft. A bit shaky—no big stud accustomed to this.

Grace couldn't have custom-ordered it better.

G
race's lies were perfectly prepared.

Her name was Helen, she worked “in finance,” was in L.A. for a conference. When he asked about the topic, she grinned and said, “Trust me, you don't want to know. Unless it's instant sleep you're after.”

He laughed. “Guess I'd rather be awake.”

She tossed her hair. “Okay, your turn.”

He said, “Talk about boring.”

Grace's smile was blinding. “I'll be the judge of that.”

His name was
Roger, he was a civil engineer in L.A. for meetings concerning “a corporate project—trust me,
you
don't want to know.”

Aiming for easygoing rapport but he'd turned grave.

Grace said, “Tough project?”

His face tightened up and the smile he struggled to keep in place was uneasy. “No, it's fine, the usual.”

Grace waited.

He drank beer. “Guess I'm a little off—jet lag. Sorry.”

“Long flight?”

“Aren't they all, nowadays?”

“Don't like plastic food and being treated like a criminal, huh? Picky, picky.” Grace pointed a finger-gun at him. Then, dropping her arm, she allowed her fingertips to graze his khakis, touching the outer curve of his kneecap. Less than a second of contact but he felt it and his eyes shot downward.

Grace picked up her drink. The look on her face was pure innocence. His shoulders had bunched and his lips had dried.

He downed more beer. Let his eyes flit to her legs then forced himself away from the view. Grace slipped the financial nonsense back in her briefcase, pretended to discover how much bare skin she'd been exposing and, again, tugged the dress down. Her breasts mounded through the soft fabric of the dress. Her nipples were fully inflated and couldn't be missed.

Roger the Engineer's Adam's apple rose and fell twice. His blue eyes made it easy to nail the nonverbal message: wildly dilated pupils. Serious interest.

Mission accomplished.

He cleared his throat. “So…thanks for the company, Helen.”

“Ditto, Roger.”

“This is a bit…” He shook his head.

“What, Roger?”

He shrugged. “This is nice.”

“It is nice but that wasn't what you were going to say.”

He looked away.

Grace touched his shoulder briefly. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Really. Refill?”

Grace hadn't touched her second Negroni. She pointed to her glass and smiled.

Roger blushed. “Mr. Observant…what I was about to say—this feels—okay, I guess I'm feeling a bit out of my league.”

“That's sweet.”

“No, I mean it.”

“What league do you play in, Roger?”

“Frankly, none,” he said. He shook his head. “I'm not making sense, am I?” He put his glass down. “This is going to sound inane but I don't do this as a matter of course.”

Strange, almost archaic phrasing. This time Grace's smile was unplanned amusement. “You don't do what?”

“Talk to strange women—oh, crap, sorry, that came out wrong—talk to…unfamiliar…” His fingers fluttered, almost effeminately. “I'm not good at this.”

Grace lowered her hand over his, let it rest lightly. Her touch made him jump. She said, “There's nothing to be good at, we're just talking.”

He bit his lip and Grace thought he'd draw away. She'd overvamped and blown it?

But he relaxed. Retrieved his glass and raised it. “Cheers, Helen.”

Grace freed his hand from hers. He drank; she pretended to. They sat there, side by side, not listening to the piped-in music, unaware of anyone else in the room. Finally, Grace ingested a few drops of Negroni.

Thinking of that Valentino in Florence. Thinking of all of them. Lovely.

Roger drained his glass. Suppressed a burp. Grimaced and murmured, “Smooth. Geez, this is…”

“I abhor smooth, Roger.”

“You do?” Bit of slur in his speech, now. “Why's that?”

“Because smooth is just another form of phony, Roger. Like charisma. And what's worse than charisma?”

He flinched. Looked upward. “Agreed, charisma sucks.” His voice had deepened. As if Grace's comments had supercharged him.

“It does, indeed, Roger. Are you a political person?”

“God forbid,” he said, with sudden vehemence. “I try to avoid politics.”

“Unaffiliated?”

“Pardon?”

“No major commitments?”

“Nothing. Political or personal.”

“Same here, Roger.” Showing him her hands, free of rings. “That way I'm assured of pleasant company after a tedious workday.”

He laughed. “Hope I haven't disrupted that.”

Grace let a moment pass before answering. “You apologize a lot, Roger.”

“I do? Sor—” He gaped. Cracked up.

Grace brushed his knee with her nails again, moved her hand atop his, squeezed his fingers gently. His tongue glided over his lower lip. A pulse had begun to pound in his carotid, let's hear it for that paragon of honesty: the autonomic nervous system.

Grace let some silence sink in before half whispering, “Roger?”

He leaned forward. No aftershave, just a nice soap-and-water lightness. “Yes?”

“Would you be so kind as to walk me to my car?”

“Pardon—”

Grace squeezed again. “It's been a long day. Would you walk me?”

She stood, took hold of her purse and her briefcase. Roger remained on the love seat, staring up at her, his face a pitiable mask of disappointment.

Crushed and adolescently charming. Grace almost felt sorry for him.

“If it's too much of a hassle, Roger—”

“No, no, sure, no problem.” But he continued to sit there.

“I'm not talking a hike, Roger. Just half a block, a girl can't be too careful.”

He shot to his feet. Teetered for an instant, threw back his shoulders and drew himself up. “Absolutely. My pleasure. Let's do it.”

Grace took his arm. A shiver ran up his biceps. Nice muscles, stronger than he looked.

They left the lounge together.

No one noticed.

The brief stroll
was spent without talking. Roger was baffled, worked at hiding it, sneaking quick looks at Grace, trying to understand her behavior. But he took care to match Grace's stride. She tested that, slowing down, speeding up, slowing again.

He might hesitate for a sec but he always got back on track. A good one.

Roger, if you don't know how to dance you can be taught quickly.

As they approached the city lot, Grace firmed up her grip on his arm. He flinched, stumbled half a step, recovered fairly gracefully but his balance remained a mite off as they entered the structure.

A quick downward glance and an even quicker upturn of his eyes suggested the reason.

Khakis, as it turned out, were an inadequate shield for that lovely bulge. Grace slowed down further, savoring.

Once inside the lot, she continued toward the elevator. “I'm at the top. Would you mind walking me up, Roger?”

“Sure, no problem.”

Bypassing the elevator, she led him to the stairwell, clung to his arm as they climbed. “Here's my stop.” One level short of where the Aston waited.

Guiding him across the tier to the farthest, darkest unoccupied corner, she pulled him into the empty space, pressed her back against the wall, shook her hair so that it fanned beautifully across her face before parting to reveal the heat in her eyes.

She knew the parking lot well. Every space came equipped with a cement stop. Perfect perch for her right foot. She hoisted it, bending her leg nearly perpendicular to its mate.

Geometrical Woman. On the face of it, a strange stance.

Roger's nice blue eyes darted around. Absolutely addled.

Grace said, “Thank you so much for being a gentleman.”

“There's no car here—”

Taking his face in both of her hands she kissed him softly, then harder. He resisted for an instant, then surrendered. Insinuating her tongue between his lips, she worked her way in easily.

He yielded like meringue. Placed a tentative hand on her shoulder then moved it to her breast. She pressed down gently, letting him know he was on the right track.

He kneaded gently.

Nice subtle touch, Roger. You really are turning out to be a winner.

Unzipping his fly, she freed his cock, stroked slowly. His breath caught. His eyes clamped shut as he groped for the front of the gray dress. But she'd gotten there before him, hiking cashmere above her hips, keeping the right leg bent and the left leg straight and thrusting her pelvis forward as his fingers made contact.

She offered herself to his touch, guided him into her. His eyes shot open, rounded and bright as those of a frightened child.

True blue; no lenses for Roger.

Grace set the rhythm, starting slowly, quickening gradually, one hand around his neck.

He said, “Oh, God,” and shut his eyes. Grace held him fast and sped up.

“Oh…God.” Weak, panting voice, baffled, frightened, ecstatic.

He seemed to teeter again.

She braced him with a hand on his ass.

“Go for it, Roger,” she whispered into his ear.

He obeyed. They always did.

Lovely Leap into molten gold as he trembled and let out a sound that was part gratitude, part triumphant war whoop, and Grace kissed him hungrily, maintained capture with both sets of lips and gave him time to finish completely.

Basic etiquette. She had no further need for him, had finished earlier, within seconds.