Slow Burn (27 page)

It was another long night. When morning came she felt like hell. Not even coffee tasted good.

 

David parked in front of the club.

Sly had called him about an hour ago to let him know where they were going. The club was always busy, and at first, David hadn't felt any concern. Then, for no reason, trepidation had started to set in, and he realized he hadn't had lunch here in a long time, so why not now?

He was walking past the large outdoor pool that overlooked the rows of docks and sleek, expensive pleasure craft when he heard someone call his name. He paused, turning toward the pool. Cecily Monteith was there, stretched out on one of the lounges, dark glasses over her eyes, her mostly exposed body shiny with oil. “You really are right on my cousin-in-law's trail like a bloodhound, aren't you? I haven't seen you here in years.”

“I haven't been here in years.”

She shrugged, looking around. “I always love coming here. Especially in summer. There's a day-care kind of thing, you know. They teach the kids how to sail.”

“That's nice. Did you come with Spencer and Sly?”

Cecily shook her head, smiling. “I'm not into the business thing. I just like the sun. Want a drink?”

“Thanks anyway, but I think I'll go see what Sly and Spencer are up to.”

“Lunch, a boring business lunch.” Cecily made a face, then smiled, very much the flirt. She could be bluntly, blatantly honest, sometimes funny, sometimes sweet. And, when she wanted, damned catty.

She hadn't changed much since high school, he thought wryly. Maybe none of them had, not inside, where it counted.

“Sit down for a minute,” she invited. “I'm worried about Spencer.”

“Why?”

“Come on, sit a minute!”

He sat down. A poolside waitress in short shorts came by. He ordered a beer.

“Why are you worried about Spencer? Sly thinks she's in danger, but I thought pretty much everyone else was of the opinion that he was being paranoid.”

“Oh, I don't know about that. Anyway, it's not her safety I'm worried about. I mean, she's got you, David the wonder boy, protecting her, right?”

“Cecily…”

“Oh, don't be such a stick-in-the mud. I'm teasing.”

His beer came, and as he sipped it he realized that Cecily loved the idea that she was sitting half-naked with a man other than her husband. She was still an attractive woman. It was a pity she felt so insecure. “So, you were saying…?” he said, trying to get her back on track.

“Well, I think Spencer's…sick.
You know.
”

“
No,
I don't know. What are you talking about?”

Cecily sighed. “Maybe I've made a mistake.”

“Maybe you have.”

She sighed again. “I probably shouldn't be talking to you….”

“Cecily, you're obviously trying to tell me something, whether you should be talking to me or not, so spit it out now or I'll throttle you.”

“Ooh, I love it when you talk tough!” she teased.

“Cecily…”

“Oh, all right!” She paused for a moment, savoring her power, then went on. “Well, she didn't eat any of that Cuban food the other night. And Sly was clucking like an old hen today because she hadn't touched her breakfast yesterday.”

“Cecily, just what are you getting at?”

She leaned forward. “I'm wondering who she's seeing, that's all. I'm telling you, wonder boy, I'd be willing to bet that my saintly cousin-in-law is in a very delicate position.
Pregnant,
David. And I'm just wondering who the daddy might be, since Danny has been dead too long for a posthumous baby, don't you think?”

He would have loved to slap her. Instead he slammed his beer glass down and stood. “Cecily, maybe you should discuss this with Spencer herself, since you seem to be so curious. Personally, I think she might consider it none of your business.”

“Let's just hope she doesn't think it's none of yours,” Cecily said sweetly.

“Thanks for the beer,” he told her curtly, then threw his jacket over his shoulder and headed inside.

G
etting Sly to take her to the club had been easy. Leaving him for long enough to have her meeting with Gene Vichy was not.

She finally escaped when they ordered coffee, telling him that she was going to the ladies' room and then had a few quick calls to make. From that point on, though, it was a piece of cake. Vichy found her.

“Mrs. Huntington.”

He was all in white, silver hair neatly brushed back, his appearance dapper. He'd been wearing dark glasses, but he removed them as he stood and offered her the chair opposite him.

She sat down, assessing him. He was a striking man, with an extremely handsome face. Very sensual lips, bright eyes. At any age, she thought, he had been a lady-killer.

Perhaps literally.

“Can I get you coffee? Or something a bit stronger?”

“I'm having a coffee with my grandfather. Just say what you've got to say, Mr. Vichy.”

“My, my, you're a feisty little thing. Stronger than your husband, Mrs. Huntington.”

“If you've got something to tell me—”

“I wanted to tell you that I did not kill your husband,” he said, leaning back. “I did not kill my wife, and I did not kill your husband. It's very strange. I am suspected of killing my wife with a blow to the head and of shooting your husband. It's almost like a game of Clue. My wife in the bedroom with a blunt object. Your husband on the street with a gun. But things don't happen like that in real life, Mrs. Huntington. I asked to meet you because I hoped you would find me sincere when we spoke. I'm growing very tired of this constant police harassment, and you are a big reason for it. I hoped to convince you to ask the police to leave me alone. Then, of course, if that doesn't work, I want you to know that I'll sue you.”

“You'll sue me!” Spencer said, astounded.

“Indeed.”

She rose, looking at him incredulously. “Mr. Vichy, let me assure you, you don't have a snowball's chance in hell of winning a case against me! I'm not guilty of anything in regard to you, so you can just take your threats and—”

“He threatened you?” The words sounded more like a growl than a human voice. She was trembling inside as she spun around.

Damn it! David!

“No,” Spencer began.

Vichy was on his feet, staring at David, and looking decidedly pale. “Delgado, if you even come near me, I'll sue you for assault and battery.”

“Touch her, call her, say her name again, asshole, and you'll be too damned dead to sue anyone for anything!” David snapped.

“David!” Spencer said firmly.

Vichy smiled. “Police harassment.”

“I'm not a cop anymore. You won't be able to do anything to the force because of me, Vichy. And you know what? Eventually, they
will
fry your butt!”

“Mr. Delgado, alas! Birth will tell. Your kind should not be allowed in this club.”

“Mr. Vichy, your kind shouldn't be allowed anywhere on the streets, and I assure you, I will be doing my best to see that you're kept off them! Come on, Spencer.”

“David—”

What in God's name was wrong with him? His fingers were wrapped around her upper arm as if they were bands of steel, and he was walking so fast that it was hard to keep up, especially since she was wearing heels.

Was he angry because she hadn't told him about the meeting? But how could he know it had been planned? She might simply have run into Vichy here. Suddenly she realized that he was heading toward the boats.

“David, Sly is in—”

“Sly is on his way back to work,” David said briefly. “You're coming with me.”

“Wait a minute!”

“No!”

She didn't balk until they reached the
Reckless Lady,
Sly's sleek yacht. Thirty feet, she slept six comfortably, with every amenity known to man.

David knew the yacht well enough. Sly had owned it for at least fifteen years.

“Hop on,” David told her.

“No. I've had it. I have absolutely had it with this whole thing. I would rather be shot—”

“I'll shoot you myself if you don't get on!” he informed her.

He leaped over to the bow and extended a hand toward her. It was her chance to escape, but she was afraid he would tackle her if she tried to make it back to the club.

“I'm not dressed for this. Walking around on board a boat in heels—”

“You've got plenty of clothing stored on the
Lady.
And more shoes than Imelda Marcos.”

“The hell I do!”

“Come on.” He reached for her hand again, caught it, and brought her aboard. Then he released the tie lines and left her standing on the bow while he went to the stern and started the motor.

She made her way precariously from the bow to the stern in his wake. By the time she got there, he had backed the vessel from her berth and headed her out to the bay.

“Where are we going?” She had to shout to be heard over the roar of the motor.

“Out!”

“Out where? And why?”

“I'll know when I get there, and I'll tell you why then.”

She climbed carefully down the ladder to the cabin below. She came to the galley first, and dining area and chart desk. Two small sleeping cabins came next, one on either side of the narrow aisleway, while the master cabin was beneath the bow. He'd been right about one thing; she did keep sneakers and some casual clothing here. She changed into white cutoffs, sneakers and a sleeveless tailored shirt.

When she went topside again, the vessel was moving quickly, slicing cleanly through the water. Spencer sat on one of the seats in the stern, still completely baffled. He couldn't be this keyed up over an accidental meeting with Gene Vichy, so he must have known that she'd planned it. But if he had known
that,
why hadn't he stopped it?

He faced the onrushing wind, not even looking at her. Finally, when they were just off Bear Cut, he cut the throttle.

The heat was intense; it was another of those summer days when the air seemed to dance and sizzle. The sun beat down on the water, giving it the appearance of a field of diamonds. The waves were light, and the yacht rocked slightly.

David dropped the anchor, then stood, looking off to the little island of shrub and sand in the distance.

“David, tell me what the hell is going on—right now—or I swear I'll take my chances swimming back.”

He spun to face her. “All right. Why didn't you tell me?”

This
was
over Vichy.

“I—there was nothing to tell. He called me, but—”

“What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“What are
you
talking about?” she asked carefully.

“
Who
called you?”

“What are you talking about?” she repeated, ignoring his question.

“The circle game again, pure insanity,” he said, throwing up his arms. He was wearing a lightweight suit, but since coming aboard, he'd doffed his jacket. Now he jerked at his tie, loosening it, then ripped it from around his neck and undid the top buttons of his tailored shirt. “Who called you, Spencer? Vichy?”

“I—” She wanted to lie, but she felt his eyes on her and knew it was time for the truth. “Yes, Vichy called. Friday. He said he'd be at the club today and wanted to talk to me. It didn't seem like a bad idea to hear what he had to say.”

“Jesus Christ, Spencer, you should be smarter than that! If you really want to get to the truth of things, we've got to play together. How in goddamned hell can I fight for you when you're always against me?”

She leaped up. “Maybe, just maybe, he would have said something to me that he wouldn't say to you. Something that would help!”

He sat suddenly, running his fingers through his hair, his head down. Then he raised his head and stared at her. “All right, Spencer. Please, from this point on, let's make it a team effort.”

“Are you going to treat me like a part of your team?”

“Spencer, I don't want to see you killed. I owe that much to Danny.”

“Right,” she said evenly.

“Let's play twenty questions,” he said.

“All right,” Spencer said, confused and wary. “You tell me what—”

“No, no. I get to start.
You
tell
me,
Spencer. Just exactly what relationships have you formed since Danny died? Is there someone out there who you're not telling me about?”

“What?” she asked incredulously.

“Who have you been sleeping with?”

She stared at him, astounded, then rose, feeling as if an ice-cold wall had formed around her.

“How dare you?” she said quietly, her temper simmering beneath the tight lid she was trying desperately to keep on it. “You have no right—”

“I've got to know, Spencer! Is there someone in your past who could—”

“You're accusing me of having had an affair with someone? Someone who might have killed Danny? Who might be trying to kill me now?”

“No,” he said softly.

“Then what?”

“Spencer, answer the question, please.”

“It's none of your business.”

“The hell it isn't!” he raged.

She backed away from him. She hadn't seen him like this since…

Since the day she'd walked out of his life. Years ago.

“Damn you, David,” she grated. “I don't know what this is about, but there's no one else in my life. There
was
Danny. But he's dead. And now there's…Oh, you know! Satisfied? Do I need to swear on a Bible?”

“Damn you, Spencer!” he said softly, turning away from her for a moment, eyes brooding as he stared across the water. Then he looked at her and spoke, his voice low, deep. Passionate. “All right, I'll get to the point. Trust me, I have no intention of making demands, of intruding in your life. But I am telling you one thing. Don't you dare get an abortion.”

“What?” Spencer breathed.

“Cecily told me. That you were pregnant.”

Thank God there was a seat immediately behind her, because she fell into it, amazed. “What?” she repeated.

“Cecily told me—”

“But—” Spencer began.

Then she broke off. And watching her, David realized that Cecily had probably been right. But Spencer hadn't been keeping anything from him; she had just now realized the possibility herself.

She shook her head. “Don't be absurd. Cecily couldn't possibly know such a thing. We're barely talking three weeks. I—”

“Maybe you should check, then.”

“You don't know—”

“For God's sake, I have a sister. I have eyes. I watch television. Buy one of those tests with the plus and minus signs or the blue lines or whatever it is.”

“Oh, my God! Plus and minus signs, blue lines!” she exploded.

Then he was suddenly worried, because she started to laugh, tears streaming down her cheeks. She buried her face in her hands for a moment, then looked up at him and started to laugh again.

“Spencer…” He took a step toward her, gripping her shoulders. “Spencer, stop it!”

“You don't know!” she whispered. “You don't know!”

She wrenched away from him, leaped to the deck, then plunged into the water.

What in God's name…!

He kicked off his shoes and socks and plunged in after her.

The water felt good. He followed her ashore to a stretch of sand that was totally private on a Monday afternoon. She was sitting half in and half out of the water, knees up, arms wrapped around them, head down on her arms. Her wet shirt and shorts clung to her, and a strand of seaweed hung from her hair.

He sat down beside her. “Spencer, please…”

Forcefully, he lifted her chin. The misery in her eyes was so stark that he was taken aback, seeming to tighten against the pain that knifed into his heart. She didn't want anything to do with him, and she didn't want to be pregnant. Not with his child.

He released her chin, stared at his soaked suit pants, his bare heels digging into the wet sand. A fiddler crab was running past.

“I told you, I don't intend to intrude in your life,” he began.

“It's not that!” The words were spoken in barely a whisper. He glanced over to see that she was staring at the water, tears forming in her crystal blue eyes. “You don't understand.” She paused, moistening her lips.

“Spencer, what—”