For Your Love (2 page)

Chapter Two

Normally, as Orson Hemmings drove home to Fountain Hills, one of the most exclusive towns in the valley, he enjoyed the view of Red Mountain standing high above the McDowell Mountain range as its red sandstone was transformed by the Arizona sunset into a fiery orange and rust color. That evening he didn’t notice. Preoccupied, he turned onto N. Fountain Hills Blvd and then took a right onto N. Sherwood Drive before turning into the paved driveway of a sprawling, split level Spanish-style, stucco and brick house overlooking one of the two golf courses in the planned community.

He noticed that the gardener had added a new flowering cactus to the terraced area on the left of the steps leading to the massive wooden doors. Nodding his approval, he pressed the automatic garage door opener on the car visor and pulled his Mercedes sedan into his five-car garage. Heather’s car was gone. This was the second night this week that his
charming
wife was missing in action. He got out of his car and slammed the door. His anger heated his thick neck and he felt his silk Armani shirt cling to his broad back.
Jesus, it was hot
.

Walking into the den, he heard a low growl as a pink blur catapulted across the room from the imported, Italian leather couch and attached itself to his leg. It was Heather’s crazy miniature poodle, Lovey. Every single time he came home whenever Heather was out, that insane dog, acting as if he was a home invader, would attack him.

“Grrr!” came from the coiffured ball of fluff as he tried to shake it off his leg. The damn thing was firmly clamped on as if his leg were a doggy treat. He’d kill that infernal animal if she ruined another imported silk suit. After a few failed attempts, Hemmings managed to swing his leg with enough force to send the dog streaking across the room like a guided missile. He heard a loud smack followed by an ear-piercing whelp and then, finally, blissful silence. With any luck, he thought, the nuisance was dead. He hated animals—especially that emasculated poor excuse for a dog. He sorely regretted his stupid decision to allow Heather to bring that thing into his house.

The silence was deafening. Guilt began to spread through him and he worried about whether or not he’d actually killed the damn thing. Perhaps he should go over and check on the mutt. However, that moment of weakness quickly passed aided largely by the noticeable tear along his trouser leg. Another Hugo Bass suit ruined by that beast.
Shit!
Orson applied his emotional brakes, squarely transferring the blame to Heather. It wasn’t his fault if the mutt broke its damn neck. Hemmings was only defending himself from the miniature canine Jaws. Nothing would have happened had she been at home to greet him like an adorning wife should.

Trudging upstairs to the kitchen, he knew what he’d find waiting for him for dinner—nothing, unless he counted leftovers. And with Heather, he’d better check the expiration date. He’d learned quickly to examine everything carefully for green or white fuzz. At his age, the big 60, he’d stopped playing daredevil with his stomach. Early on in their marriage he hadn’t been as vigilant and ended up with a week’s worth of the runs.

If his ex-wife, Mary, knew any of this she’d laugh her head off. During their bitter divorce she’d venomously remarked, “You may be replacing me with a younger model, but she won’t be better. Just wait until your stomach becomes more important than your pecker.” Had she been psychic? Or had she simply cast a curse on him? He pushed all thoughts of his ex-wife out of his mind as he read Heather’s scribbled note taped to the refrigerator.

“Went to dinner and a movie with an old girlfriend. Your dinner’s in the fridge.” He ripped it off and angrily crumbled it before tossing it onto the counter. With little expectation, he opened the refrigerator. Taking one quick look, he closed the door and went downstairs to the liquor cabinet in the den. He unscrewed the cap on a bottle of twenty year-old single malt scotch, poured himself a double and sunk down in his recliner to think.

* * *

As Hemmings stared at the amber-colored liquid in his glass between sips, the anger within him resurfaced. He’d have to take charge of the situation. He’d never let any man make a fool out of him, why allow a mere woman to cuckold him? Then again, there was always the chance that she really was out with a friend—though as slim as it may be.

Either way, he had to be sure.

That required hiring someone to follow her. He’d have Jessie Thompson, his administrative assistant, do some checking in the morning and hire a private investigator. Someone discreet—but damn reliable. He wanted to find out about whatever dirty little things his wife was doing, but he didn’t want anyone else to know.

No one got the better of Orson Hemmings—no one! He took a healthy sip of his whiskey and smiled for the first time that evening, flashing a complete set of blinding white caps.

Chapter Three

Jessie Thompson owed a huge favor to her Aunt Louise.

When Jessie’s screw-up compulsive gambler of a husband, Jake, went on a bender after discovering that the sure-thing he’d bet on was in the crapper, he hugged a tree with their car, and set off a chain of disastrous financial events that went down like a wall of dominoes.

First off, Jake neglected to pay the insurance premiums on the car. Then when he needed to be hospitalized, Jessie discovered they had no medical coverage, either. He’d let their policy lapse and that cheapskate boss of hers didn’t offer health insurance. To add gasoline to the already burning fire, Jake, who’d been laid up in the hospital for over a month, lost his job as a security guard at the bank leaving them flat-out broke and him at home still recovering.

If it hadn’t been for Aunt Louise, they would have lost their house in Tempe, as well. They had fallen so far in arrears with their mortgage payments that the bank had threatened foreclosure. If her aunt hadn’t given her the money, they’d be living on the street. That’s why when Orson Hemmings asked Jessie to hire a PI, she called her cousin, Haywood. He was Aunt Louise’s youngest son.

While watching TV, his favorite pastime, Haywood had seen an ad for a-learn-at-home career opportunity and had sent away for the private investigator’s kit. Though Aunt Louise considered her son to be a late bloomer, she’d hoped he’d finally found an occupation he would stick to for more than four months. To help her cousin, the least Jessie could do was throw a little business his way. It would certainly please Aunt Louise and ease some of her debt to the woman, and her boss would be none the wiser.

Hemmings stuck his head in the door of Jessie’s office. “Hire a PI yet?”

“He’ll be here around two. Said he had to take care of something first.”

“Good,” he said, smiling to himself.

“I’ll send him in when he shows,” she said, but Hemmings had already walked away.

Jessie opened her desk drawer and pulled her cell phone out of her purse. Then she went to the ladies room where she’d have some privacy. She checked to make sure that no one else was in there. Slipping into a booth and closing the door, she keyed in a number.

Heather Hemmings answered on the third ring. “I thought it was Orson checking up on me. Lately, he calls at least twice a day. You’d think he didn’t trust me.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Huh?”

“Stop whatever it is you’re doing that’s making him suspicious.”

“What are you getting at?” Heather asked her childhood friend.

“Why else would he ask me to hire a private investigator?” Jessie said softly.

“Ouch!”

“Not to worry. I hired my cousin, Haywood.”

“Haywood Wish?” Heather chuckled. “Is he still such a hick?”

“You know him?”

“Yeah. We went to school together and to make a long story short, I went on a date with him.”

“I didn’t know. Must have been a pity date for you,” Jesse replied, remembering how popular and beautiful Heather had been back then.

“You might say that.” Heather chuckled.

“Say, Heather, did you ever tell Orson that we went to school together?”

“Of course not. What Orson doesn’t know about me can fill a book.”

Jessie breathed a sigh of relief. “Look, I gotta go. And Heather…”

“What?”

“Be careful. Haywood may seem like a country bumpkin but he’s not a fool.”

“I will.”

Jessie closed her phone and left the stall. She glanced in the mirror. A harried-looking woman with mousy brown hair starting to gray stared back at her. When had she gotten so old looking? It seemed like only yesterday she’d gotten married and her future had been one of bright promise. Now, she hardly had two cents to rub together and was saddled with a husband who hung around her neck like an albatross.

“Cut the louse loose,” Aunt Louise told her time and time again. “He’s only going to drag you to a dark place you’ll never climb out from.”

“Soon,” Jessie vowed to the woman in the mirror. “Real soon.”

* * *

Heather began to laugh at the thought that Haywood Wish would be following her. The last time she saw him, he couldn’t find his way out of a classroom. They had been in the same high school English class. He sat across from her and stared at her like a moron half the time. He never really worked up the nerve to ask her out. Besides, at the time she’d been going out with Joey Carstairs, the tight end of the football team.

She smiled at the memory of his
tight end
, as well.

Then she’d been invited to a wedding and needed to bring a date, but Joey couldn’t go. He had some family function of his own to attend. She was furious with him for turning her down like that and lashed out at him in the hall between classes. When he told her to ask somebody else, she noticed Haywood standing a few feet away.

She took Joey’s suggestion and marched up to Haywood and asked him right then and there if he’d go with her. He agreed and she ended up ignoring him the entire time. The only reason she’d asked him was to spite Joey.

Even though she’d treated Haywood like dirt, he took her home and tried to kiss her goodnight. She laughed in his face. That hurt look on his face had meant nothing to her until now.

She stopped laughing. She had humiliated him. What if he came back at her with a vengeance, so to speak? She’d have to be careful. With the lousy prenup Orson had forced her to sign, she had everything to lose. She took heart, though, for Orson was a cheap SOB and wouldn’t keep Haywood on the payroll long.

A fiendish idea began to take shape in Heather’s calculating mind. She’d make certain Haywood worked for every penny of his money. She’d go out all week, all right—except it would be to salons, fashion shows, museums and libraries.

By the end of the week, Haywood would wish he’d never taken the job and before long Orson’s suspicious mind would be laid to rest. And if she was real clever, she might end up with a nice shiny trinket for her troubles.

This is gonna be fun
, she mused as she reached for her address book and began to make the necessary appointments and reservations.

Chapter Four

A week after meeting Lynne at the restaurant and declaring war on her fat, Carla forced open one eye and then the other. Today was going to either be the best or worst one of her life. She was going to meet Joey, Lynne’s personal trainer, for the first time. Doubts began to seep into her mind like water flowing through a hole in a bucket. She needed to remind herself, why was she doing this? Why was she bent on adding more stress to her life? Besides, when Joey discovered how uncoordinated she was, he’d pee his pants. Again she asked herself, why was this necessary?

She replayed the scene at the restaurant in her mind. “How are you going to keep me on track?” she remembered asking Lynne.

“Look at it this way. If you get derailed, you’d only be hurting yourself. Just think of the satisfaction you’ll get by winning your husband back from some young bimbo.”

“Yeah!” she said as if those words were an elixir energizing her body into motion.

* * *

The phone rang just as Carla got out of the shower. The towel hardly covered her ample body and she held it tightly around herself as best she could as she went to answer the phone.

“I’m glad I got you before you left for the gym.” It was Lynne.

“
Why
—what’s up?”

“I have a last minute house showing and can’t go with you.”

“That’s okay. I’ll wait until you can.”

“No. Keep the appointment with Joey.”

“I don’t want to go—”

“Carla, you can do this. Trust me.”

Beads of perspiration began to break out across Carla’s forehead. She feared making an idiot out of herself. With Lynne at her side there might have been hope.

“You still there?” Lynne asked.

“Yeah, but I don’t wanna go without you,” Carla whined.

“Joey’s a nice guy and he doesn’t bite—”

“But…”

“You sound like a baby, Carla,” Lynne admonished. “I’ll go with you next time. Oops! Gotta run. Let me know what he says.”

Carla realized she was standing there holding a dead line. Lynne was right, she could do this. She went back into the bathroom and finished drying. What she saw in the mirror nearly made her cry. The woman who stared back at her looked older than her 35 years. Her breasts, always ample, were now over-ripened melons that hung there as if on the vine. Her once foxy figure was now marred by roles of fat at her disappearing waistline. Her ankles were still trim though those thunder thighs definitely had to go. Carla impulsively stuck out her tongue at her image. Well, at least she still had her high cheekbones and smooth skin. But what she saw in that mirror cinched it.

She’d take the plunge and go to the gym alone.
What’s the worst that could happen?
She wondered. Then she wished she hadn’t thought about that.

* * *

Carla drove to the 24 Hour Fitness Center on Camelback Rd. in Phoenix and parked her Honda in the lot. Entering the air-conditioned building, she immediately felt intimidated and wondered why.

Perhaps it was seeing all those perfect-looking bodies there to become more perfect, while she looked like a pickle barrel with feet.

Or could it be the rows and rows of shiny chrome bicycles in the cavernous room to her right looking like props in a torture scene from some Sci-fi movie? Whatever. She’d come this far. Taking a deep breath, she walked over to the polished reception counter.

An attractive brunette, with a perfect tan and dazzling white teeth, asked her if she needed help.

“I have an appointment with Joey, the personal trainer.

The brunette opened an appointment book. “You’re…?”

“Carla Millhouse.”

“Okay, then. He’s waiting for you in room number 6.”

“Which is where?”

The brunette gave her a
of-course-you-don’t-know smile
as she lifted a slender arm and pointed with a tapered finger to a set of doors on her right. “You walk through there and make a right.”

Carla hurried through the doors, but was so nervous that she made a left instead—straight into the men’s locker room. The sight of two huge, cellulite-filled, naked buns belonging to a man struggling to bend down and pick up his towel that had fallen under the bench, caused her to snap her eyes shut in fear of having been struck blind.

As she reversed her gears and retraced her steps, she came to another room. Half afraid that she’d find naked men doing cartwheels inside, she hardly wanted to take a peek. However, reminding herself that Lynne had gone to the trouble to set this appointment up gave her renewed courage.

A bronzed god was doing sit-ups on an exercise bench. All she could see was sweat-slicked muscles—flexing and releasing. It took her a moment to realize her breathing had become in sync with their movement. Even the legs emerging from his gym shorts looked like they were pumped with air. Martin was in good shape, but his body was nothing compared to this guy’s.

He sensed someone was there and grabbed a towel to wipe his face and under his arms, which she noticed were just as hairless as the rest of his gleaming body. She felt warmth spreading from her center. Good Lord! She mused. If the sweat glistening on his arms looked erotic, she’d been neglected by Martin far too long. She was going to make this work.

“Hi! You must be Carla,” he said, smiling warmly which made her feel welcome. “I’m Joey.”

She nodded. Prying her eyes from his body had been difficult. If a person’s body was considered a temple, she wanted to join his congregation.

He put down the towel and she studied his face for the first time. It wasn’t what she might consider handsome, but he was cute in a boyish kind of way. His hair was light brown and cut really close to his scalp making it look as if someone had sprayed it on. She loved his eyes, though. They were amber-colored with dark brown specks and became tight slivers when he smiled.

He came closer and offered his hand to shake. Carla shook it and noticed how small her hand looked next to his. Were the muscles in his hands pumped, as well?

“I wanted to meet here for the first time so we can get your specs in order to make an exercise chart. We need a jumping off point.”

“Forget about anything that concerns jumping. If I haven’t done it by now, I’m not going to. And as for my specs, just half of what you see now.”

Joey broke into a throaty chuckle. “Lynne mentioned you had a good sense of humor. Keep it up. A good mental state is important.”

Carla hadn’t meant to say anything funny. It was just the way she got when she was nervous. That’s why she avoided going to funerals.

“Let’s get started then. Put your things down on that chair and hop onto this scale.”

Carla hated scales. Just the sight of the abominable instrument made her shudder. Scales had the power to suck the very self-esteem right out of a person. And all you had to do was merely step on it.

Joey saw the hesitation in her large brown eyes. “Hey, by this time next week you’ll want to jump on the scale to see how much you’ve lost. Come on, trust me.”

Carla took a few tentative, baby steps in the direction of the damn thing and stopped. Joey nodded his head toward the scale to get her moving again. When she finally reached the base, she closed her eyes and stepped on. She heard him push the slider back and forth until he was satisfied.

“Open your eyes, Carla. It’s not that bad.”

She looked at the number and thought he was humoring her.

“You’re about 5’6”, right?”

She nodded, wondering how he knew.

“Okay, for a woman your age and height, factoring in your bone structure, you should be somewhere between 127-141 lbs.”

She sighed. She tipped the scales at 181. Jeez, how did she ever let herself go like that?

“I’m going to work up a plan of action for you and I promise results. But hey, you’ve got to work hard and have patience. Follow what I say and you’ll have a body you can be proud of,” Joey told her.

Great pep talk. He probably told all his clients this,
Carla mused, watching him stride over to a desk and pick up a form. Muscles rippling everywhere.

“This is a medical form I need you to fill out,” he said attaching it to a clipboard along with a pen and handing it to her.

Carla filled out the information as best she could and handed it back to Joey. He read through it quickly and then gave her an overview of what he would be doing. Then he gave her a quick tour of the place.

The gym, which remained open 24 hours every day, was huge. There was a nutrition center, a daycare, a room filled with free-weight equipment, a group exercise room, another with treadmills, a tiled locker room with individual shower stalls and an Olympic-size pool. Located near the pool was a sauna, steam room and whirlpool.

Then Joey put her through a series of “easy” exercises and stretches. Carla ached in places she didn’t even know existed. Before he left her to work with another client, Joey suggested she try out the treadmill or bicycle to fill out her hour. Next time, they’d be working out for most of their hour together.

Feeling pangs of hunger, Carla felt like going home and having some lunch. Maybe a nice roast beef on rye with a side of fries. Then guilt overpowered her and she decided to take a more positive attitude. That meant taking Joey’s advice and trying out the treadmill. Maybe she’d even get one for the house.

She spied a free treadmill and ambled over to it, half-hoping that someone would beat her to it. It was a big one with lots of buttons and switches. She stepped onto the belt and pushed a switch. It lurched forward and she lost her balance falling against the panel of switches. All the lights lighted up like a car’s dashboard and the machine bucked and sped forward like a racehorse hearing the gunshot at the starting gate.

Frantic, Carla tried to get off, but the belt was going way too fast. All she could do was try to keep pace and hold on for dear life as she screamed for help. Unfortunately, no one heard her. Most of the other patrons had earplugs in their ears listening to their iPods.

The belt continued to speed under her slipping feet and her heart was beating nearly as fast. She didn’t know how much longer she could hold on. Then she heard a man’s voice over the tumult. “Hang on!” He came closer and yanked the plug from the wall socket.

“Oh, nooooo!” Carla cried out as she flew off the back of the machine like a cowboy being thrown from an angry bronco. She landed on her rear with a solid thump.

“Are you hurt?” a deep voice asked, as her rescuer looked down at her.

“Only my pride,” Carla replied, gazing up into a pair of green eyes sparkling behind black square-rimmed glasses.

“Here, let me help you up,” he said, offering his hand.

She extended her arm, but she was still a little shaky and lost her balance, her weight pulling him down on top of her. He wasn’t able to get up easily and the more he tried, the harder it got—especially with them both laughing. They both realized how ridiculous they must have looked, with her squirming under the guy in a vain attempt to get up and the poor man trying to get off what must have felt like jiggling Jell-o.

Finally, he rolled off and they sat there laughing until the gales of laughter subsided. The guy had a marvelous laugh, full-hearted and catching. Each time they stopped laughing to catch their breath, they looked at one another and burst into uninhibited laughter all over again. They laughed until the tears flowed.

Mr. Tall blindly felt the floor around him and found his glasses, but before he put them on, Carla got a glimpse of the long, thick eyelashes fringing his almond-shaped, green eyes making them more spectacular. When he looked directly at her, they nearly took her breath away.

“Give me your hand,” he said.

Carla gave him both and with a mighty tug he finally hauled her to her feet.

“Let’s go sit down over here,” he said, as he led her to an empty wooden bench nearby.

“I’m so sorry,” Carla said, feeling like an idiot, tears of mortification filling her doe eyes and her sweet, round face now flushed with embarrassment.

“It’s okay.” He said. “We both survived.”

“Not really. I feel so…so incredibly clumsy. You go out of your way to save me from being splat on the wall and I nearly yank both your arms out—not to add, making a scene that rivaled Abbott and Costello.”

He held up his hands and gave her an adorable crooked little smile. “I needed a good laugh. My name is Richard Stein.”

“Klutzy Carla Millhouse.” They shook hands.

Carla got nice vibes from this man, liking him instantly. He was quite tall, a little over six feet she’d guessed, with high cheek bones covered by taut olive-toned skin giving him an exotic Mediterranean look. Okay, Antonio Banderas, he wasn’t, but if she was in the market—which she wasn’t—she wouldn’t put a bag over his head in bed. His striking green eyes were warm and yet filled with impish mirth. Sitting there, she had to tilt her head back to look up at his face. He didn’t have a pumped body like Joey, but looked fit probably from working out at the gym often. And his chest had felt hard against hers. The rest of his physique looked well-proportioned, as well.