CoverBoys & Curses (24 page)

Chapter Seventy

To
Encounter a Stranger

CARLY
SLID INTO THE leather passenger seat of the polished black Jaguar. It was a
magnificent machine, in spite of the stench of rancid cigar smoke. They headed
toward the small area of commerce near the lake.

Carly
was agreeable to the idea of lunch. It was drawing upon noon and she felt an
uneasy gnawing in her stomach. Besides, he seemed like a gentleman. Not exactly
gracious, but then again, he was the client.

She was
at an unwelcome juncture in life. Burned out. In her career. Certainly in her
private life. Somewhere along their drive in a brief moment of conversation Armand
mentioned he wanted to get rid of another home filled with antiques and English
attitude, and that home he wanted to turn into a true contemporary. He told
Carly he would exchange his valuable antiques for the new stuff, and she could
cash in on the intrinsic value he didn’t so much value. Of course, Carly very much
liked the idea. The antique store she’d always wanted. But how could he know?

Armand
made a couple of sharp turns. They drove another five minutes in complete
silence. It was overwhelmingly awkward for Carly and the longer they drove
together in silence, the harder it became for her to initiate conversation.

Carly
watched as Armand’s eyes focused on the road. She decided the silence was fine
with Armand. Maybe preferable. She had more time to think.

No
matter how she fought it, she remained passionate about her work. She loved the
freedom each canvas of space, room, nook and cranny held for her. She loved it
like a potter loved the feel of wet clay on her hands and under her
fingernails. Creativity was a fiery experience when she was allowed total freedom.
A bachelor usually had few rules, or even guidelines, and this job in Big Bear
proved it. Maybe his other house would be an even better job, especially if it
was stuffed with unwanted antiques.

They
arrived at the restaurant and Armand pulled the sleek Jaguar under the tacky
make-shift porte-cochere lined with even tackier strings of lights. The doorman
greeted him by name and Carly followed inside. In spite of clear state laws,
the room permeated enough smoke that it distorted the dim lighting. Armand led
the way past the bar and to a red leather booth in the back.

He
grabbed a waitress and gave her a quick groping hug followed by a juicy kiss.
Even before sitting down he ordered a double Jack on the rocks from the girl.
Carly asked for an iced tea, but Armand scowled at the notion, snapping at the
waitress he had just groped. Ordering her to make it double
double
Jacks.

Drinks
came within minutes, and soon afterward two plates arrived with pastrami on rye
sandwiches. Carly never saw a menu and never asked for the pastrami. She hated
pastrami.

Armand
observed her hesitation. “I eat
only
pastrami and I only pay for pastrami, and the waitress damn well knows it.”

Carly
took a sip of the dark liquid on ice. Her father had taught her how to drink a
scotch, but she had never tasted anything quite as awful as this thing called a
Jack. There was no way she could drink the whole thing, and never—
ever
, for lunch.

Armand
devoured half of his sandwich and ordered another Jack for himself. He gulped
it down, along with the side plate of fries. He announced it was time to get
back to inspect the house. Guzzle and go.

Although
alarmed that the home wasn’t ready for any inspection, this suited Carly. She
felt anxious to leave the stench of smoke, hard liquor, and pastrami. But she
still had a nagging question burrowing inside her belly. How did he know she
was interested in antiques?

Chapter
Seventy-One

The
Inspection

ARMAND’S
BEHAVIOR changed. No surprise, Carly thought, considering all the lunchtime
booze he consumed. He was much more talkative, narcissistically jabbering on
about his fast life. And he was driving fast, too. Way too fast. Like a Jaguar
fast.

Carly
sighed with a quiet relief as they pulled up the familiar long drive of the Big
Bear home.

Armand
pulled his Jaguar up to the two huge moss rock pillars that announced the
entrance. Carly’s shoulder tension eased when he stopped the car and turned off
the ignition key.

Once
inside Armand excused himself, briefcase in tow. “I’m going to change my
clothes. Mind pouring me a Jack? Double.” His voice commanded more than asked.

“Sure,”
Carly said.”But—”

“You
know where the bar is,” he chortled. “There’s a box of booze on the counter.”

“There
is?”

“I
brought it in when you went for your purse. And you might as well pour yourself
something, too.”

“I think
I’ll pass,” Carly said.

“Nonsense!
I have the finest stocked bar in all of Los Angeles and I plan to have one here.
Fix yourself a damn drink.”

Armand
disappeared up the stairs and Carly turned toward the bar. Familiar with her
surroundings, spying the liquor box already on the counter startled her. And
where had his clothes come from? Why was he changing? And would he see that she
had slept in his new bed and on his new sheets?

The ice
cubes were out in a bucket, slightly melted and stuck together, requiring her
to test her skills with the ice pick. Where had he found an ice bucket, let
alone ice and a pick?

It was
only two in the afternoon, but unnerved from Armand’s reckless driving and the
imminent client inspection still facing her, Carly declared her father an angel
for teaching her how to drink a
Real
Man’s
drink. After filling each glass with ice, she poured a stiff drink
for Armand, then poured about two fingers of a single malt scotch for herself.
Her daddy would have frowned but she topped hers off with plenty of water.

She
glanced around the room and its furnishings. True to what Armand seemed to want,
the room already held the distinct ambience of luxury mountain living. Richly
upholstered wing chairs, club chairs, and a sofa framed with solid wood and
nail head trim offset the pattern of the tapestry rug. Ornately carved bookshelves
gave the room depth. Distinct. Handsome. And then she remembered her client had
had a few of his personal antiques delivered. They were supposed to be out in
the garage.

Carly
took a quick look around the garage and found a desk and two tables crowded
into a dark corner. She looked closely through the smoldering light of a single
dim bulb. Good enough light, though. She could see they weren’t antiques. Fine
reproductions, but not saleable in the antiquity market.

Had she
been had?

An itsy
bitsy spider began crawling and creeping around the lining of her stomach.

Chapter
Seventy-Two

Taste
is for Sale

ARMAND
WALTZED BACK into the room just after Carly had returned. He’d exchanged his
sweater and black pants for black sweat pants and a flowing black tunic.

Snatching
the glass of Jack waiting for him at the bar, he took a slug of it, then turned
to the sound system left behind by the previous owner. He selected
Rachmaninoff. The high ceilings amplified the somber notes, yet still Armand
turned the volume higher. He downed more bourbon, then slid into one of his new
wing chairs.

Was he
agitated? Why?

Carly,
left standing alone by the bar, couldn’t endure more discomfort in the absence
of conversation. She struggled for words, fearful that her naiveté would reveal
itself in each one, and fearful her naiveté, too, would appear through the
cracks of any silence.

She had
a job to do. A talented designer, she knew her stuff. She certainly knew those
antiques in the garage weren’t worth taking on in any trade. But right now, she
had to get through this job. This was the only project that mattered.

Anxious
to get on with her work and get home to her Pugs and her home at The Centre,
she pressed herself. “I have some catalogs in my van. The lighting that’s not
all in yet. Stuff I’ve ordered. I’d like you to see how your home will look in
another few weeks.”

“It’s
fine right now,” Armand said. He smirked, scooting a misplaced ottoman over to
prop his feet up.

Carly
felt his taking pleasure in her dumbfounded expression. He hadn’t really even
looked around. Not that she knew.

“Yes, of
course,” she said. “Give me a few more weeks.” I had two months, she thought.

Carly
diverted her eyes to the center of the cocktail table and the thick spines of
the art books she had carelessly splayed across it.

“Taste
really is for sale, if you can afford the price,” Armand said.

Carly
braced herself against the bar. She wasn’t sure what he saying anymore but she
understood the warning bells in her gut.
 
At any cost, she still selected her words with
care. “Perhaps you aren’t in any further need of my services. Maybe my skills
aren’t quite right for you.

“I’m
sure your skills are exactly what I need.”

She
watched him watch her. He enjoyed her frayed nerves. Her apprehension. Her
inability to digest the situation. She realized she was fidgeting and he
relished in it. She felt her neck tighten and she swallowed hard, and he
watched her.

“I’d
like you to show me my bedroom now.”

She had
no response. Did he delight in that?

He
pushed the ottoman aside and sprang to his feet. At her side. He caught her off
guard. Instinctively she stepped back, far against the backbar.

“Forget
the goddamned bedroom. We don’t need it. You really didn’t think this was about
your stupid design services, did you, Ms. Posh?

“You are
the posh possession. The first time I saw you I knew you would be a challenge.
You aren’t like all the other sluts.”

When?
When had he seen her?

Chapter
Seventy-Three

The
Violation

SECONDS
BECAME MOURNFUL eternities. Carly slowly reached for her purse, but maybe only
in her mind. She wasn’t sure. It really didn’t matter. Stupid her. Stupid.
Keys. No good keys. Her van, the keys dropped somewhere as she unloaded goods.
Stupid her.

“You
don’t want to do this, Armand.” She raised her head high, summoning a false
sense of fierceness. But her shaking rasping voice betrayed her fear.

Armand
put his hands to her face. He touched her cheeks with his fingers as if she
were a treasured old high school sweetheart.

“I do
want to do this.”

She had
to get out. How? She could run. Stupid. Stupid her. Stupid feet that stuck fast
to the wood floor and wouldn’t give.

Armand
pushed her farther into the corner of the backbar, sealing off any last means
of escape. He moved fast. Jaguar fast.

He
cuffed his leg against the back of Carly’s calf, causing her to buckle. Her
last sense of balance crumbled. She fell hard against the polished wood floor.

Armand
was all over her. He had a small frame but his muscular strength yielded hardened
evil. He ripped open Carly’s cherished silk blouse. He yanked at the navy
slacks. He tore into her pretty ivory panties.

Carly
tried to move. Any way. Left or right. Up, if only she could. Cornered behind
the surrounds of the bar, she was no match for the forceful hands now yanking
at the short tresses of her dark hair.

She
begged him to stop. Screams became shrieks.

He
didn’t even try to silence her. It was as if he got off on hearing her yelp for
justice.

No
neighbors nearby. Every resident, part-time or full, lived well out of ear
shot. She knew that. Stupid her.

Too
late. No options. Her hand had been dealt.

Armand
reeked of alcohol, and the last thing Carly saw before squeezing her eyes shut
was the white powder up inside his flaring nostrils.

She
would not be delivered from his madness. The pain was excruciating. He ripped
at her. He tore and slashed at her with his manhood. He pierced through her
virginity.

Her
virginity. Yes. She had saved it. For someone special. Someone she could love.
Forever. It was supposed to be a good thing.

Carly
couldn’t cope any longer. So scared she neared insanity, she didn’t want to be
there any longer.

Her only
escape route would be that through her own mind. She didn’t want to be behind
that beautiful bar anymore. With him. She couldn’t and she wouldn’t.

She
allowed herself to fade into that hidden darkness. Somewhere hidden in the
caverns of her subconscious, Carly slipped away deep into hiding. She waited
there, somewhere away from her body and into a surreal existence of protection.
She waited there, patiently. She waited to see if her body would survive this
violent sexual attack. She waited to see if ever she could return to her
suffering body and get out, with it, alive. If not, she would be content to
stay where she was. It would be okay.

“You
wanted it, you whore. Maybe you won’t admit it now, but you wanted it. I’m your
ticket to a new life and you like it.” Armand chuckled with a shrill and
giggling falsetto voice.

One cell
at a time. One second more ticked off the clock. Carly finally returned to the
violated human body that lay in a crumbled heap on the floor. Time to get out.
Not too late.

She slowly
pulled herself up off the hard surface of the cold wood and rose to her knees,
grabbing at her shredded clothing.

Unfortunately
for Carly, Armand was there to lunge at her once again.

 
“I don’t think I have your attention, bitch,”
he raged. “You
gotta
prove to me you aren’t talking.
You
gotta
prove to me you want my offer. We can be a
team. I can use a class-act like you around me, and I can pay for you beyond
your wildest, fucking-ass dreams. I can buy every fucking antique you want, and
fifty times more. I can set you up for life, but you aren’t leaving here,
bitch, until I
know
you’re taking my deal
and that you're
not
talking
!”

Her head
burst with fireballs of rage.
Quick.
She painstakingly tried to assess
her options, but she had to be quick.
Okay, be real. No
options
.
He would never let her go because she would never take his deal. Never. She
didn’t want his ticket to paradise.

Barely
standing, she reached to steady herself against the bar. Her hand felt the cold
metal of the instrument and she grabbed it like the wild animal her attacker
had forced her to become.

Armand’s
eyes betrayed his shock. The ice pick penetrated his main artery and blood
squirted out of his neck in bursts like a frozen garden spigot. He grabbed at
his neck, foolishly pulling out the silver ice pick. Not a good thing to do.
The blood now gushed through the deep hole in his jugular vein, spurting rivers
of red everywhere. He held the ice pick up and attempted to lurch at her again,
but instead he blacked out, hitting his head hard against the green marble
bar-top and then collapsing to the floor. His glass of Jack Daniel’s, left
behind on the bar, was now topped off with a streaming sea of red blood. Carly
watched as Armand's blood poured onto the wood, mixing with that of her own.
That blood of a virgin.

 
Curled up in the corner behind the bar, she
tried to move but her body became a puddle of nightmares.
 
She tried to scream but she had no voice. She
tried to move away but had no limbs. She tried to see but had no vision.

If she had,
she would have seen Armand’s last bit of life energy as he reached for the
Glock
tucked under the waistband of his sweat pants and
said, “Yours is an inconvenient death.”