Secret Combinations (11 page)

The doors opened onto a small patio on the roof of the building. Coffee in hand, Jack went outside and sat down at a wrought-iron table. In the distance, he could see the forest of trees marking Hyde Park. Fat white clouds scudded quickly across the sky from south to north. Kenyon wondered if that meant good weather, or bad.

O'Neill came out with a tray filled with smoked salmon, cream cheese, and bagels and a bowl of cut mangos.

Kenyon dug in, his appetite whetted. “How did you know this was my favorite breakfast?” He asked between mouthfuls.

“I didn't,” replied O'Neill. “It just happens to be Lydia's. Is this what you ate in Montana?”

“Nope. I don't think I even saw a bagel until I was eighteen, let alone lox.”

After they finished their food, O'Neill fetched the carafe from the kitchen and refilled their coffee mugs. “So, tell me what happened yesterday.”

Kenyon leaned back and stared out over the rooftops. He had been wondering whether to say anything. Finally, he decided honesty was the best policy. “Lydia was having an affair with Legrand.” He turned back to O'Neill. “Did you know?”

Her expression was hidden behind a large pair of sunglasses. “Yes.”

Kenyon turned his gaze back to the rooftops. “Why would she do that? Why would she chase around with another woman's husband when she could have anyone?”

“Does it really matter, now?”

“It matters to me,” said Kenyon.

“Why?”

“Well, because . . . shit, I don't know.” Kenyon rubbed his face in his hands. “I guess because I wanted her to be someone nice.”

“She was one of the loveliest people I ever knew,” replied O'Neill.

“I wanted to be proud of her.”

“You can be proud of her,” said the lawyer. “She did many wonderful things in her life.”

“Yeah? Like screwing somebody else's hubby?”

O'Neill stood up and headed into the apartment. “Don't talk of her like that.”

Kenyon followed her inside. “Why not? It's the truth, isn't it?”

O'Neill stopped in front of Lydia's portrait. “Sometimes the truth is the smallest part of reality.”

“Okay, then maybe you can explain it to me.”

O'Neill turned to face Kenyon. “Explain what?”

Kenyon sat down on the couch. “What was going
on
between the three of them? I mean, if Lydia was running around with Legrand, then what was Ilsa doing letting her organize this big art auction she holds every year?”

O'Neill sat down beside Kenyon. “It's a little complicated.”

“I like complicated.”

O'Neill thought for a moment. “Charity work is very important to Ilsa. Her family, the Ingoldsbys, have been trading on public service for centuries. The problem is, all of her friends are the horsey crowd. Unless you have Prince Charles out to your auction, nobody covers it. Ilsa needed Lydia to pull in the media.”

“How did she do that?”

“Lydia knew the A-list: the rock stars, the movie actors, the ones who guaranteed newspaper coverage. She was their trusted art adviser. One phone call to Bono or Naomi from Lydia, and the society columnists poured out in droves.”

Kenyon sat back. “This is too weird. You're telling me Ilsa tolerated Lydia and Legrand fooling around because it meant her charity event was a success?”

O'Neill hung her head. “I don't know, Jack. I don't want to talk about this just now.”

Kenyon looked at her. “I'm sorry.” He looked out the window at the beautiful day. “You want to do something? Maybe show me the neighborhood?”

She lifted her head. “Do you like ice cream?”

“I love it.”

O'Neill took him by the hand. “Come on, then.”

They left the apartment and walked several blocks east, until they came to a wide street lined with immense homes on one side and a large mansion on the other. “That's Kensington Palace, where Diana lived,” explained O'Neill.

They entered Kensington Park, a large, open area dotted with ponds, ancient oaks and bandstands. Children sailed boats in the water, and nannies walked by wheeling their prams.

“This is great,” said Kenyon, as they stood and waited in line at an ice cream stand. “It reminds me of Mary Poppins.”

“Come on,” said O'Neill. “I'll show you something special.”

They wandered down a lane of rose bushes until they came to a huge monument. Marble statues stood at four corners, and a cupola supported by granite columns stood over an immense, gold-leaf statue.

“What is it?” asked Kenyon.

“It's the Albert Memorial,” said O'Neill. “Queen Victoria had it built for her husband, Prince Albert, just after he died.”

Kenyon stared at the one hundred and fifty-foot tall monument. “She must have really been nuts about the guy.”

“It's amazing what people will do in the name of love.”

They wandered along a path until they came to a cafe by the Serpentine, a long, sinuous lake in the middle of the park. They bought two glasses of white wine and sat by the water. Some teenagers on in-line skates came by, laughing and shouting.

“That looks brilliant,” said O'Neill. “You ever try it?”

“Nope.”

“What did you do for fun when you were a kid?” she asked.

“We'd pack our horses and go camping in the mountains,” he said. “Find a glacier lake and set up our tent and do a little fishing and hiking. How about you? What did you do for kicks?”

O'Neill took a sip of her wine. “I grew up in Ireland, near the sea. I'd ride my bike across the green hills to the ocean and spend my evenings with friends by a fire on the shore, dancing under the stars.”

“It sounds beautiful.”

“It was.”

“Why did you leave?” asked Kenyon.

“Why did
you
leave?”

Kenyon leaned over and pulled a stalk of grass from the turf. He chewed on it absently. “You talked to Cyrus?”

“Your foster father? Yes.”

“How was he?” asked Kenyon.

O'Neill thought for a moment. “He was greatly saddened by the news of the death of Lydia.”

“Really? He said that?”

“No. He cried, though.”

“Well, you got one up on me,” said Kenyon. “I lived with Cyrus for eighteen years and I never heard him cry once, not even when my stepmom, Daisy, died of cancer.”

O'Neill reached over and ran her warm hand along Kenyon's arm. “Was it hard, living with Cyrus?”

Kenyon snorted. “Not if you did exactly what he said. Man, he was always on my case about something. If he caught me so much as standing still, he'd shout at me, ‘Quit wasting your time daydreaming, boy!'”

O'Neill leaned forward and stared at his eyes. “You were a day-dreamer? What did you dream about?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes, I do.”

Kenyon stared at the grass. “I never told anyone this before.”

O'Neill gave Kenyon such a nice smile, he couldn't resist.

“Okay.” He took a breath. “When I was around seven or eight, I used to dream about my parents.”

“Sorry?”

“My real parents. You know, the ones who gave me up for adoption.”

O'Neill nodded. “Tell me about your dreams.”

“I pictured myself sitting on the porch of our ranch house. This big car would pull up, and out would get my mom and dad. He'd be wearing this nice suit and smoking a pipe, and she'd be all gussied up in this pretty dress. They'd give me a hug, then say, ‘Oh, Jack, we finally came for you,' then they'd take me back to this nice, suburban home with a yard and big dog. And everything would be perfect.”

Kenyon stared out over the lake. “Well, they never did show up. By the time I finished high school, I knew it was up to me to get out. Cyrus said I was welcome to stick around and work the ranch, but I won an athletic scholarship at Stanford, and I lit out for the big lights of San Francisco when I was seventeen.”

“By the time I was seventeen, I wasn't welcome in my home,” said O'Neill. “I was too outrageous for my folks to handle.”

Kenyon turned his head to one side. “Except for that axe in your purse, you don't look too dangerous to me.”

O'Neill sipped her wine. “Axe murderers are fine. I was something worse.”

“What?”

“I developed a crush on my teacher.”

Kenyon nodded. “I can see how people would be outraged.”

“I was attending The Bleeding Sacred Heart of Jesus. My teacher was Sister Mary Ignatius.”

“Ooh,” said Kenyon. “And that was uncool?”

“Are you kidding me? Falling in love with a nun, in Ireland? My father thought I was deranged; he wanted to send me off to a sanitarium.” Rain began to fall from a cloud drifting overhead. O'Neill brushed a drop from her face. “I told the lot of them to get stuffed, and I came to London.”

They finished their wine and began walking back across the park. “Did you meet Lydia in London?”

O'Neill nodded. “I was painting portraits on Portobello Road. Lydia liked my drawings and offered to help me out. She spoke to some people and got me an art scholarship.”

“Were you a good artist?”

“Fair,” replied Tanya. “That portrait of Lydia? I painted it.”

“No way!” said Kenyon. “That's a great portrait. How come you're not hanging in the Tate Gallery by now?”

O'Neill smiled. “My art professors were very kind, but London is a difficult city to make a living in as an artist. I switched to law.” It began to rain a little harder, and they began to walk faster. “Tell me about being an
FBI
agent,” said O'Neill. “Do you arrest spies?”

“Sometimes. We also chase mad bombers, extortionists, and the Mafia.”

“How about aliens?”

“Just the ones from Earth.”

The wind picked up, and the rain came down harder. They laughed as they ran, splashing in puddles and slipping on the wet pavement. By the time they reached O'Neill's apartment building, they were both drenched.

“Take off your clothes,” demanded O'Neill, as soon as they were in her flat.

Kenyon looked up in surprise. “What, all of them?”

O'Neill laughed. “Come on, don't be so shy. I've got three brothers.”

Kenyon went into the bathroom and stripped down to his boxer shorts. When he came out, O'Neill was in the bedroom, changing out of her wet clothes. Kenyon hung his jeans and shirt over a chair by the French doors.

“There's some port in the kitchen,” shouted O'Neill. “Pour us a drink.”

Kenyon found a bottle of Ware's Special Reserve and fished some glasses out of a cupboard. He went back to the living room and sat down on the couch below the portrait of Lydia. He tilted his glass at the picture.

O'Neill came out of the bedroom dressed in an emerald green silk bathrobe, her hair brushed back.

“You look lovely in that color,” said Kenyon.

“You're such a charmer,” said O'Neill. “Let me get you something with that port.” She went to the kitchen and dug around for a few minutes, then came back holding a platter. “You have a choice; chocolate-dipped almonds or parmesan cheese. What's your preference?”

“I think I'll try the parmesan.” Kenyon took a slice of cheese and put it on a cracker. When he bit in, however, the cracker split, showering him with crumbs.

“Oops, a bit messy,” said O'Neill. She ran her hand across Kenyon's bare chest, brushing away the crumbs. “You should stick to the almonds.” She picked one up and placed it in her lips, sucking on the chocolate.

O'Neill looked up and caught him watching her. “Tell me something, Jack, do you find me attractive?”

Kenyon smiled. “Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“I like the smell of your hair, and your soft skin, and your pretty smile.”

O'Neill sat down and kissed him on his shoulder.

“Do you like me?” asked Kenyon.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

O'Neill ran a fingernail down his chin and gazed into his dark brown eyes. “Because you care about people.”

“I do?”

O'Neill kissed him on the neck. “Uh-huh. I knew that from the moment I met you.”

Kenyon tilted her head up and softly kissed her warm, full mouth. O'Neill responded, thrusting her tongue between his lips. He tasted almonds and chocolate.

Kenyon kissed her neck, then worked his way down across the soft skin of her shoulder. She had a small butterfly tattooed on her right shoulder blade. He licked it playfully.

O'Neill untied her robe and her breasts fell free of the silk. A silver ring ran through her nipple.

Kenyon cupped her breast gently in his lips and kissed it until it stood erect.

O'Neill stood up and ran to the bathroom, returning with a condom. She stood by the couch and let her robe drop to the floor. Underneath she wore a pair of black, silky briefs. She leaned forward and pulled off Kenyon's boxer shorts, then clasped his penis in one hand, unfurling the condom over his erection.

Kenyon, filled with desire, pulled her back onto the couch and ran his tongue along her earlobe. Goose bumps rose on her skin.

O'Neill pushed him onto his back and climbed astride his flat stomach. She pulled the gusset of her panties to one side and slid Kenyon inside her. Arching her back, she thrust her hips against his loins, first pushing, then grinding. Rivulets of sweat ran down between her breasts to join the moisture on his belly and thighs.

Panting, O'Neill leaned forward, and their bodies slid against one another, seeking out every sliver of skin.

Kenyon gripped her tightly as she began to convulse, her muscles flexing in joyous spasm. She cried in his ear, an animal wail of pleasure, and Kenyon answered with a guttural moan of joy as he came.

She gradually subsided onto him, her soft breasts pressing onto his chest. “Hold me, Jack,” she whispered. “Just hold me.”