The Alibi (16 page)

cover everything except her shoulders and the leg he

was presently massaging.

Hammond took the hand she extended him and

squeezed it. "Not if you don't."

She gave him a wicked smile. "You know me better

than that. Not an ounce of modesty to my name. A

flaw that liked to have driven my mama crazy. Of

course, she was crazy anyway."

Propping her chin on her stacked hands, she

sighed as the masseur kneaded her buttock. "We're

right in the middle of the ninety-minute session, and

it's so divine I just couldn't bring myself to ask San-dro

to stop."

"I don't blame you. Funny, though."

"What?"

"Lute had a massage in the hotel spa yesterday."

"Before or after he got himself murdered?" His

frown caused her to laugh. "Just kidding. Pour yourself

some champagne, why don't you?" With an indolent

wave, she indicated the silver wine cooler

standing near the vanity. The cork had already been

popped, but on the silver tray near the cooler was an

extra flute that hadn't been used. It flitted through his

mind that Davee might have been expecting him

tonight. It was an unsettling thought.

"Thanks, but I'd better not," he said.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," she said impatiently.

"Don't be such a stick-in-the-mud. You and I have

never stood on ceremony, so why start now? Besides,

I think champagne is the perfect drink for when your

husband gets blown away in the penthouse suite of

his own freaking hotel. While you're at it, pour me

another, too."

Her champagne flute was sitting on the floor beside

the massage table. Knowing it was usually futile

to argue with Davee, Hammond refilled her glass,

then poured half a flute for himself. When he brought

hers back to her, she clinked their glasses together.

"Cheers. To funerals and other fun times."

"I don't exactly share your sentiment," he said

after taking a sip.

She ran her tongue over her lips to savor the taste

of the wine. "You may be right. Maybe champagne

should only be drunk at weddings."

When she lifted her gaze to him, Hammond felt

his face turn warm. Discerning exactly what he was

thinking, she laughed.

It was the same laugh he remembered her laughing

on a July night years before when both had been

attendants in a mutual friend's wedding. Gardenias,

Casa Blanca lilies, peonies, and other fragrant flowers

had been used to decorate the garden of the

bride's home where the reception had been held. The

heady scent of the flowers was pervasive and as intoxicating

as the champagne he had guzzled in a vain

effort to keep cool within the constraints of his

tuxedo.

As though they'd been cast by a talent agency, all

eight bridesmaids had been gorgeous, matching

blondes. In the frothy pink floor-length gown with a

deep decolletage, Davee had been even more dazzling

than the others.

"You look good enough to eat," he had told her

outside the chapel moments before the wedding. "Or

drink, maybe. You look like you should have a paper

umbrella sticking out the top of your head."

"A paper umbrella is all this getup needs to be

thoroughly revolting."

"You don't like it?" he asked, egging her on.

She flipped him the finger.

Later at the reception, when they came off the

dance floor after a rousing dance to Otis Day and the

Knights' "Shout," she fanned her face, complaining,

"Not only is this dress too foofy to be believed, it's

the hottest fucking garment I've ever had on my

body."

"So take it off."

The Burtons and the Crosses had been friends before

either Davee or Hammond was born. Consequently,

his first memories of Christmas parties and

beach cookouts included Davee. When the kids were

shuttled upstairs to bed while the adults continued

partying, he and Davee played tricks on the babysitters

unlucky enough to be in charge of them.

They'd smoked their first cigarettes together. With

an air of superiority she had confided to him when

she started menstruating. The first time she got

drunk, it was his car she threw up in. The night she

lost her virginity, she had called Hammond as soon as

she got home to give him a detailed account of the

event.

From the time they were kids sharing their vocabulary

of nasty words, all the way into adolescence,

they had talked dirty to each other. First because it

was fun, and they could get away with it. Neither

would tattle on the other or take offense. As they

progressed into young adulthood, their banter became

more sexually oriented and flirtatious, but it

was still meaningless and therefore safe.

But leading up to that July wedding, they had

been away at their respective universities--he at

Clemson and she at Vanderbilt--and hadn't seen

each other in a long while. They were more than

a little drunk on champagne and caught up in the

romanticism of the occasion. So when Hammond

issued that naughty challenge, Davee had looked

at him through smoky eyes and replied, "Maybe

I will."

While everyone else gathered around to watch

the cutting of the bridal cake, Hammond stole a

bottle of champagne from one of the bars and

grabbed Davee's hand. They sneaked into the

neighbor's backyard, knowing that the neighbor

was at the reception. The lawns of the two houses

were divided by a dense, tall hedge that had been

cultivated for decades to guarantee the kind of

privacy Hammond and Davee were seeking.

The popping champagne cork sounded like a

cannon blast when Hammond opened the bottle.

That caused them to giggle hysterically. He

poured them each a glass and they drank it down.

Then a second.

At some point into the third, Davee asked him

to help her with the back buttons on her brides

maid dress, and off it came, along with her strapless

bra, garter belt, and stockings.

She hesitated when she hooked her thumbs into

the elastic waist of her underpants, but he whispered,

"Dare you, Davee," which was a familiar refrain

from their childhood and youth. Never had she

backed down from a dare. That night was no exception.

She removed her panties and allowed him to stare

his fill, then backed down the swimming pool steps

into the cool water. Hammond shed his tuxedo in a

fraction of the time it had taken him to get into it,

scattering studs that were never seen again--at least

not by him.

As he stood on the edge of the pool, Davee's eyes

widened in astonishment and appreciation. "Hammond,

honey, you've come along nicely since that

time we got caught playing doctor."

He dove in.

Beyond some experimental kissing as youngsters

when they had agreed that it was too "totally gross"

to even consider opening mouths and touching

tongues, they had never kissed. They didn't that

night, either. They didn't take the time. The danger of

getting caught had heightened their excitement to a

point where foreplay was unnecessary. The moment

he reached her, he pulled her onto his thighs and

thrust into her.

It was slippery. It was quick. They laughed

through the whole thing.

After that night, he didn't see her for a couple of

years. When he did, he pretended that the escapade in

the swimming pool had never happened, and she did

likewise. Probably neither had wanted that one sexual

experiment to jeopardize a lifetime friendship.

They had never mentioned it until now. He didn't

even remember how they had got back into their

clothes that night, or how they had explained themselves

to the other people attending the wedding reception,

or if they were even required to explain

themselves.

But he vividly remembered Davee's laugh--gutsy

and lusty, seductive and sexy. Her laugh hadn't

changed.

But her smile was almost sad when she said, "We

had fun as kids, didn't we?"

"Yes, we did."

Then she lowered her eyes to the bubbles in her

glass, watching them for a moment before drinking

them down. "Unfortunately, we had to become

grown-ups and life started to suck."

Her arm dropped listlessly over the side of the

table. Hammond took the flute from her hand before

she dropped it and shattered it on the marble floor.

"I'm sorry about Lute, Davee. That's why I came, to

let you know that I think what happened is terrible.

I'm sure my parents will call or come over to see you

tomorrow."

"Oh, there'll be a parade of sympathizers marching

through here tomorrow. I refused to receive anyone

today, but tomorrow I won't be able to fend them

off. Bringing their chicken casseroles and lime

gelatin salads, they'll crowd in here to see how I'm

taking it."

"How are you taking it?"

Noticing the subtle change in his tone, she rolled

to her side, pulled the sheet against her front, and sat

up, swinging her bare legs over the edge of the table.

"Are you asking as my friend, or as the heir apparent

to the D.A.'s office?"

"I could argue that point, but I'm here as your

friend. I shouldn't have to tell you that."

She pulled in a deep breath. "Well, don't expect

sackcloth and ashes, or hair shirts. None of that Bible

stuff. I'm not going to cut off a finger or anything like

the Indian widows in the movies do. No, I'll behave

appropriately. Thanks to Lute, the gossips will have

enough to keep them in material without me showing

how I really feel."

"And how's that?"

She smiled as brilliantly as she had the night she

took her bow at her debutante ball. "I'm positively

delighted that the son of a bitch is dead." Her honey-colored

eyes challenged Hammond to say something

to that. When he didn't, she just laughed and then addressed

the masseur over her shoulder. "Sandro, be a

love and do my neck and shoulders, please."

From the time she sat up, he had been standing

against the mirrored wall with his arms folded over

his meaty chest. Sandro was handsome and heavily

muscled. Straight black hair was combed away from

his face and held there with thick gel. His eyes were

as dark as ripe olives.

As he moved in behind Davee and placed his

hands on her bare shoulders, his intense, Mediterranean

eyes stayed fixed on Hammond as though he

were sizing up a competitor. Obviously his services

extended beyond the massage. Hammond wanted to

tell him to relax, that he and Davee were old friends,

nothing more, and that he need not be jealous of

him.

At the same time he wanted to warn Davee that

now was not the time to flout convention by screwing

her masseur. For once in her life she should exercise

discretion. Unless Hammond missed his guess,

and taking into account Steffi's remarks, her name

would top Rory Smilow's list of suspects. Everything

she did would be closely scrutinized.

"I admire your candor, Davee, but--"

"Why lie? Did you like Lute?"

"Not at all," he replied honestly and without hesitation.

"He was a crook, a scoundrel, and a ruthless

opportunist. He hurt people who would let him, and

he used those he couldn't hurt."

"You're equally candid, Hammond. Most people

shared that sentiment. I'm not alone in despising

him."

"No, but you are his widow."

"I am his widow," she said wryly. "I am a lot of

things. But one thing I am not is a hypocrite. I won't

grieve for the bastard."

"Davee, if the wrong people heard you saying

things like that, it could mean trouble for you."

"Like Rory Smilow and that bitch he brought here

with him last night?"

"Exactly."

"That Steffi person works with you, right?" When

he nodded, she said, "Well, I thought she was positively

horrid."

He smiled. "Few people like Steffi. She's very

ambitious. She rubs people the wrong way, but she

doesn't care. She's not out to win any personality

contests."

"Good, because she would lose."

"She's really quite congenial once you get to know

her."

"I'll pass."

"You have to understand where she's coming

from."

"Up North someplace."

He chuckled. "I wasn't referring to a region,

Davee. I meant her drive. She's had some career disappointments.

She overcompensates for those setbacks

and comes on a little too strong sometimes."

"If you don't stop defending her, I'm liable to get

grumpy."

Placing one arm behind her head, she lifted her

hair off her neck so Sandro would have easier access.

It was a very provocative pose, exposing her underarm

and part of her breast. Hammond figured she

knew it was provocative, and wondered if she was