Hooked (8 page)

“How did you get away?” she asked. “Why didn’t they kill you, too?”

“That letter I sent you?” Gavin said. “The one I told you to put in your safe-deposit box?”

Cleo nodded.

“There’s another copy—”

”There is?” she replied. “Who has it?”

“I’m not going to tell you because it would put you in danger,” he said. “All I’ll say is that letter saved my life.”

One other name was missing from the list of Cilek dead: Rudy Sarvo.

The day after the murders he boarded Pan American flight Number One from Istanbul to New York City. From there, he would proceed by domestic carrier to Denver.

He was carrying with him a sealed bid of $641.1 million for the oil-shale-development rights on a five-thousand-acre tract two hundred miles due west of Denver.

While Gavin and Cleo honeymooned in Bermuda, Cleo left instructions for her decorator in New York. She wanted certain changes made to her apartment before bringing Gavin back to New York and his new home. She asked for the master bedroom, formerly feminine and pastel, to be made bolder and more masculine and she had the guest suite converted into an office.

When they returned to the city, Cleo reached into her handbag for the gold monogrammed door key she had ordered from Tiffany’s for him and presented it to him.

“For the man who has everything,” she said, pressing it into his hand.

“For the man who has
you
, which is the same thing,” he replied, picking her up and carrying her across the threshold. “What plans do we have for tonight?”

For an answer Cleo ran her right forefinger up the zipper of his trousers, making a scratching noise as her nail scraped against the metal teeth.

“But first, the guided tour,” she said. The living room had a view of Central Park. The furniture was comfortable. “Perfect for entertaining—”

There was a servants’ wing, a kitchen and pantry and a dining room. Then Cleo led Gavin to the former guest suite. His office had oak-paneled walls and built-in bookcases filled with medical journals, reference volumes and textbooks. The patients’ waiting room was sunny and comfortable, its coffee tables displaying the latest magazines and newspapers.

“You’re incredible,” Gavin said.

“All I needed was the right inspiration.
You
,” she smiled, leading him to the bedroom. “It’s hard to believe I lived without you for so long. I don’t want to ever again—”

“You won’t,” he said, taking her into his arms. “I promise—”

“I wonder why it took us so long to get together?” she asked.

“Some things are worth waiting for,” said Gavin for whom there was no mystery. Cleo’s money, which had gotten her everything she wanted, prevented her from getting the man she wanted. He was unwilling to be Mr. Cleo Eames Talbot, a doctor from a modest background married to a rich socialite. Now that he was a millionaire himself, he belonged in her world because he had earned the right to be there.

“I don’t want to waste any more time,” she said. “Make love to me—”

“Say it—”

“I love making love to you—”

“Say it,” Gavin demanded, holding her by the shoulders.

“Fuck,” she said. “I love fucking you—”

Gavin smiled and released her. “Okay,” he said. “Now prove it—”

She was obsessed by his body. When he was shaving in the morning, she would go into the bathroom in order to see him standing at the sink, naked except for the towel around his waist. He understood why she was there and reacted by removing the towel. She had the smoky glass of the shower removed and replaced with clear glass because she liked watching the water pour over his naked body.

When she wasn’t with him, she pictured the slim, hairy legs; the narrow arms with the muscular biceps; the flat chest and stomach; the heavy brown pubic hair; and his penis, average in length but unusually thick and round, able to fill her with pleasures she had never even imagined.

She lived in a state of almost constant arousal but after a while she realized she was never truly satisfied. She could not bring Gavin to orgasm. He would groan at all the right times but Cleo became convinced that his performance was just that: a performance. She sucked him and had intercourse until she was sore; she had climax after climax; but what she wanted most of all eluded her. She longed to see his milky fluid in the palm of her hand, to taste it in her mouth and feel its heat and liquid power deep inside her.

“You want something more, don’t you?” Gavin said.

Cleo nodded. “I want you to come inside me—”

“I don’t have to,” he said. “I have something better—”

“Better?”

He got up and walked across the room. He opened up his medical bag and took out a hypodermic and a syringe. It took her a moment to realize what was happening.

“You want to give me what you gave Gail, don’t you?”

“You saw her, didn’t you?” he said, preparing the shot. “It’s even better than sex. Better than anything—”

Gavin talked about little except medicine, about new discoveries, about clinical advances he heard about from other doctors, about treatments he himself had created and was trying, about patients he was able to help that other doctors had given up on. His enthusiasm was palpable, contagious, and in the beginning Cleo shared his excitement.

Gradually, though, she lost interest because she didn’t understand what he was talking about. When she asked him to explain, he did so patiently, but his answers were far too technical for her to follow. She nodded and smiled but eventually had to admit to herself that what fascinated him, bored her. How many hemorrhage problems of the adrenal cortex could she enjoy listening to over filet mignon?

Conversely, it distressed her that Gavin rarely asked her what she did during the day. Whenever she spoke about her charity work, the boards she sat on, the friends she lunched with, the plays she thought he might like, he yawned and picked up a newspaper or medical journal. Cleo tried to make their evenings more interesting by entertaining or accepting invitations to dinner parties. Gavin went grudgingly but rarely engaged in conversation. Once, at one of her own dinner parties, he fell asleep between courses.

Gavin’s patients irritated her. They started arriving at seven in the morning and, often enough, they were still there at midnight. Cleo regretted that she had had the guest suite converted into offices when she saw the waiting room overflowing with people waiting for their turn with the doctor.

As much as she disliked the intrusion by Gavin’s patients, she resented the mobile radio receiver he kept in his inside jacket pocket even more. Even when she was able to drag him to the ballet or theater, she knew, just knew, that the goddamn thing would purr with a message. He would get up and leave and she would be left to go home alone.

“Why is every call so urgent?” she had demanded late one night when he had left during the middle of a performance of The Magic Flute. “Can’t your patients wait until the morning?”

“I am a physician,” he had replied. “My first responsibility is to my patients.”

“All day and all night?”

“Yes,” he replied. “As long as they need me—”

The note of finality in his voice ended the conversation.

On top of his jam-packed days, he consulted at the Department of Neurology at Lowell Hospital. He was researching a new treatment for hyperkinetic children that involved amphetamine. The drug had an unexpected effect on these youngsters and quieted them down. He was, he told Cleo, surprised at the high levels at which the drug could be administered to even such young patients.

A year and a half after they settled in New York, it was Cleo who needed quieting down. Gavin had almost stopped making love to her. She would lie next to him at night and run her hand along his thigh but he rarely responded.

Cleo bought filmy new nightgowns and sexy new underwear. She wore perfume to bed, sometimes dabbing it on her public hair. Remembering that he had prodded her into saying
fuck
, she talked dirty, hoping to excite him. Still, no matter what she tried, her efforts made little difference.

Cleo kept hoping things would change until one evening when they had been invited for dinner at Bobbi’s. They were expected at seven-thirty, but it was almost quarter to nine when Gavin got home from the hospital.

“Where the hell have you been?” Cleo demanded when he let himself in.

“At Lowell, as you perfectly well know,” he said, his face stony.

“I hate Lowell,” said Cleo, raising her voice. “I hate your patients and I hate your career—”

“And I hate your goddamn dinners,” Gavin snapped back. “They’re a waste of time—”

“You know how much trouble Bobbi goes to—”

“The hell with Bobbi,” said Gavin in his cold, tight voice. He brushed past her and headed for the bathroom.

Cleo’s anger boiled over and she followed Gavin into the bathroom. The mirrored room was steamy from his shower and his clothes lay in a heap on the floor. She noticed that the monogrammed gold key she had given him when they returned from their honeymoon was no longer on his key ring.

“Where’s the key I gave you?” she asked as he stepped out of the shower.

“In the top drawer of my bureau,” he said, drying himself. “If you want to know why I’m not using it, the answer is that it’s pretentious. If you want, you can have it melted down. You can have it made into your three thousandth piece of jewelry.”

She followed him as he walked naked into his dressing room. Angry as she was, she still responded to his lean, strong body. She touched his shoulder.

“Gavin, do we have to fight all the time?”

“You’re the one who’s angry, not me.”

“But you don’t care that I’m angry and hurt? We don’t spend time together,” she said. “We don’t even make love anymore except when you give me a shot—”

“You’re angry, Cleo, because you don’t have anything constructive to do with your life,” he said. “Your life is boring and mine isn’t and that’s why you’re angry—”

Cleo didn’t answer. She saw the reflection of the two of them in the mirrored door of the dressing room — she in the evening gown she had put on in anticipation of going to Bobbi’s, he in the casual clothes he wore for evening office hours.

“You’re going back to your office,” she said.

It was a statement, not a question, and there was no need for him to answer.

“What shall I tell Bobbi? She’s expecting us.”

“Tell her that I don’t plan to squander the evening with gossip and chit chat when there are people who need me,” he said. He brushed past her and left the apartment.

Alone now, Cleo dialed Bobbi’s number.

“Bobbi, it’s me. I’m afraid we’re not going to make it this evening—”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Bobbi. “I was looking forward to seeing you and Gavin. Are you okay?”

“Tired but okay,” she said. “You don’t mind too much, do you?”

“Cleo?”

“Yes?”

“You’re a terrible liar. What’s wrong?”

All of the anguish and frustration she had been trying to suppress poured forth and Cleo began crying into the phone.

“He walked out on me,” Cleo finally said. “We were fighting. That’s all we do lately. We can’t say good morning without getting into an argument.”

“You were arguing about coming to my house for dinner, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Cleo muttered softly. “He made some remark about not wanting to waste his time with gossip and chit chat and then he walked out. I don’t know what to do, Bobbi. Everything’s turned so sour—”

“You’re not so special, dear. A lot of marriages go through stages like this,” she said. “People tell you that love is wonderful and they’re right, but they don’t bother to tell you that love is also a pain in the ass. Pardon my French—”

“But I never went through anything like this when I was married the first time—”

“This is a different man and a different marriage,” Bobbi said. “It will probably take a little time before you two learn to give and take. Just what are most of the arguments about, anyway? Your boring friends?”

“You’re not boring, Bobbi. That’s just Gavin being contrary—”

“I
am
boring,” Bobbi said. “All I do is go to the hairdresser, shop and clip coupons. That’s what women like me do. Gavin is a brilliant doctor—”

“He
is
brilliant,” said Cleo. “His patients line up night and day to see him—”

“You could solve your own problem,” Bobbi said. “You could make the adjustment yourself and live the kind of life Gavin wants—”

“But how?”

“Tell the world what you and I already know,” said Bobbi. “That he’s brilliant—”

At one that morning, Cleo heard his key in the lock. She lay quietly in bed as she heard him tiptoe through their room and undress in the bathroom. When he climbed in beside her, she spoke.

“I’m glad you’re home,” she said.

“Good.”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said. Maybe you’re right—”

“Three cheers.”

“I can help you—”

“You can help me by letting me go to sleep,” he said. “I have a busy day tomorrow.”

“It’s just that I’ve been thinking about us,” Cleo said. “I want to be part of your work—”

“You do?” he said. “I thought my work bored you—”

“Sometimes I felt shut out—”

“I know I’m not always the easiest person to live with,” he said. “I’m sorry I was so short—”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t a better wife—”

He was naked and she touched his thigh with her palm. He pulled her over to him and, for the first time in a while, they made love.

“No shot this time,” she said, as he reached for his hypodermic. “All I want to feel is
you
—”

Project number one, Cleo told Bobbi, was to find Gavin a new office. A new office, she explained, would get him — and his patients — out of their apartment. She found the place she wanted on Beekman Place, an eight-room suite previously shared by five doctors.

She told the architect that she wanted an entrance that would give patients a sense of stability and confidence as soon as they arrived for their appointment. The ordinary front door was replaced with one made of stainless steel and resembled the vault of a bank. Then Cleo had the suite broken up so each patient had his own waiting room to ensure privacy.