The Offer, page 10
“Well,” she said, “that’s nice.”
“It’s more than nice,” he said. “It’s important. That’s why I want you to hostess it with Mrs. Webley.”
“How does Caroline feel about that?”
“She’s thrilled,” Dance said. “I just wanted to call you in and let you know so that you’ll be prepared. You’ll have to look your best, you know.”
“I’ll certainly try, sir.”
“Excellent,” he said. “Then feel free to go home early in order to get dressed.”
“Thank you, sir. Is that all?”
“That’s all.”
She stood up and started for the door.
“Oh, one more thing, Robin.”
“Yes,” she asked, turning as she reached the open doorway.
“This evening has to go off without a hitch,” he said. “There’ll be press coverage, print and—hopefully—television. Nothing must go wrong. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” she said, “perfectly.”
He’d managed to get the Art Museum some credit it didn’t deserve, and had arranged it so that if anything went wrong it would be her fault.
He was so good at his job.
When she got back to her office she called Caroline Webley. “How did Dance manage this?” she asked her.
“I’m not sure,” Caroline said, “but I think he got to my artist and convinced him that the show would be much more successful under the auspices of the Art Museum.”
“Boy,” Robin said, “Dance is a lot more than just his name. And you agreed to this?”
“Only under the condition that you co-host with me, and not him,” Caroline replied.
“Ah,” Robin said. He’d managed to make that sound like his idea as well.
“Wear something slinky, dear,” Caroline said. “There will be plenty of cameras.”
“I don’t do slinky very well, Caroline,” Robin said. “It’s not my style.”
“Then wear something revealing,” Caroline said, “and don’t tell me you don’t have the body for that. Remember, we’ve taken steam baths together.”
“You’re a hussy, Caroline.”
“True, dear, very true,” the other woman said. “See you tonight.”
Robin hung up and the phone rang again immediately. She assumed it was either Caroline using speed dial to call back, or Dance calling her again.
“Hello?”
“Am I still invited to this big ‘do’ of yours tonight?” Brenda asked.
“Well, it wasn’t my ‘do,’ but apparently it is now.”
“Explain, please.”
So Robin did, telling her friend about her conversation with both Dance and Caroline.
“Oh, God,” Brenda said. “So what do you suppose I should wear?”
Robin got an idea.
“Wear something slinky, Bren,” she said. “At least you have the body for it.”
“Something slinky,” Brenda repeated. “I think I can manage that. What color are you wearing?”
“Red.”
“Okay,” she said, “I’ll wear something slinky and stay away from red. I’m not bringing a date. Any eligible men attending?”
“Tons,” Robin said, “and they’re the rich kind.”
“My hair,” Brenda said, “I need to get my hair done. I have to get off the phone.”
“Seven p.m., Brenda,” Robin said, “sharp. I’ll meet you outside. I want to walk in with you.”
“We’ll knock their socks off.”
Robin hung up, starting to think that this might end up being fun.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
When Brenda showed up in front of the gallery Robin couldn’t believe it.
“My God, girl,” she said, as her friend approached her, “you’re beautiful.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
Robin wasn’t surprised. She knew Brenda was attractive, but on this night she was a stunning vision in turquoise. She wore an ankle-length gown that was cut low in front and—no doubt—in back, and around her shoulders she wore a pashmina of the same color. Her hair was done up and in her ears sparkled diamond earrings. Her makeup, often overdone, was muted tonight, giving her a soft look that went with the color of the gown. In the end the look she achieved was—well, slinky, as well as sexy.
“Look at you,” Brenda said. “You’re not exactly dowdy.”
The outfit Robin was wearing was more maroon than red. It was a dress, not a gown, and although her shoulders were covered the front was scooped out to show a deep, shadowy cleavage.
“Are you wearing that click bra?” Brenda asked.
“No,” Robin said, “it’s all me.”
“Well,” Brenda said, “I’m clicked up high in mine.”
Robin suspected as much. While Brenda’s skin was naturally pale and smooth, almost glowing, her cleavage did look a bit enhanced tonight. Brenda’s only complaint about her own body was her smallish breasts, but she would never even consider implants. She’d heard too many horror stories about them and said that push-up bras were fine with her.
“Besides,” she’d said once, “by the time a man has me out of my bra I’ve got him right where I want him.”
Now Brenda looked inside the gallery window and said, “Where is everyone? Didn’t you tell me it started at seven?”
“I told you to be here at seven,” Robin said. “It starts at seven-thirty.”
“You thought I’d be late?”
“Well, it’s a quarter after seven.”
“Okay, okay,” Brenda said, “point taken.”
“I have to get inside so I can meet and greet.”
“Well,” Brenda said, “I was hoping to make more of an entrance, but…”
Robin opened the door and Brenda followed her in. Caroline Webley spotted Robin right away and came gliding over. Caroline had the ability to look like she was gliding, and the white gown she was wearing certainly helped the illusion. She was blonde—though not as blonde as Brenda—and her hair combined with the gown made her look positively angelic—which Robin knew was far from the truth. Caroline was working on her fourth husband, and none of her divorces had been amicable. In fact, one of her husbands had tried to get “demonic possession” on the divorce papers as the cause.
“Robin, darling,” Caroline said.
“You look lovely, Caroline,” Robin said.
“So do you, dear,” Caroline replied, “but who is your friend?”
“This is Brenda Telford, Carrie,” Robin said. “You’ve heard me mention her.”
“Oh, yes,” Caroline said, coldly. “How do you do?” She promptly ignored Brenda and turned her attention to Robin. The woman was apparently bitchy enough to be bothered by how good Brenda looked.
“The guests will be arriving soon.”
“Should we greet them together?” Robin asked. “You have way more experience at this than I do.”
“I think we can circulate separately,” Caroline said. “I’ll recognize most of them on sight, and I’ll introduce you to the more important ones.”
“All right.” It was clear to Robin that Caroline wanted to get to “the most important ones” first.
Caroline patted Robin’s arm and said, “The important thing is to have a good time. A little later on I’ll introduce you to the artist.”
“Fine.”
Caroline gave Brenda a wan smile and walked away.
“What a bitch.”
This was why Robin had never introduced Brenda and Caroline before. She knew they would not like each other. For some reason she got along fine with Caroline, but Brenda was another blonde, as classy looking as Caroline, but about ten years younger. Robin had to admit that of the two, Brenda looked the best tonight, and that certainly did not sit well with Caroline.
“She’s not so bad.”
“Maybe not to you,” Brenda said, “but I’ve got an icicle hanging from the tip of my nose.”
“It’s your own fault,” Robin said, with mock severity.
“My fault? How do you figure that?”
Robin smiled this time and said, “You just look too damn good.”
“Well,” Brenda replied, “I can’t help that.”
“Guests are starting to arrive,” Robin said, looking past Brenda at the people who were filing in the door.
“Well, you go and play hostess,” Brenda said. “I’m going to go and find the bar. Uh, it’s not a cash bar, is it?”
“No,” Robin said, “not a cash bar.”
Brenda made a face and said, “Then I’ll have to figure out another way to get a man’s attention other than having him buy me a drink, then.”
Robin looked her friend up and down and said, “Somehow I don’t think that’s going to be a problem for you tonight, Bren.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The evening went well for a couple of hours. Robin met the artist, a young man with a very serious attitude about his work, which somehow involved showing a lot of skin without showing any nudity. It was a photographic art show, and he apparently had a way with cameras.
“I could do wonders with you,” he told her when they met. She assumed he was talking about using a camera. “Let me introduce you to my friend Brenda,” she replied, and that was that. Brenda and the artist disappeared for a little while.
Everything went well until Caroline approached her with a man and a woman to introduce them, but before she could get started the man said, “Oh, we’re very well acquainted with Robin, aren’t we darling?”
Amy looked at Vince, smiled and said, “Oh yes, we certainly are, dear.”
“Well then,” Caroline said before a dumbstruck Robin could summon her voice, “I’ll leave you to it.”
“My God,” Robin said, “you have nerve.”
“Nerve?” Vince asked. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” Robin fought to keep her voice down. This had all the potential of a catastrophe. Her boss had told her this had to go off without a hitch, and that last thing she needed now was a scene.
“The cards, the phone calls… Detective Jones talked to you about them.”
“That was a very bad thing you did, Robin,” Vince said, “calling the police. A very bad thing.”
“It hurt our feelings,” Amy said.
“We know you’re confused, dear,” Vince said, “and we’re prepared to forgive you. Come with us, tonight, and you won’t regret it. We promise you.”
Robin stared at them in disbelief.
“Come with you—you mean you still expect me to—”
“Who else do you have, dear?” Amy asked. “Not that husband of yours.”
“We heard about that—” Vince said, but Robin cut him off while still managing to keep her voice down.
“Heard about it?” she repeated. “My God, you did it, didn’t you? You hurt Frank.”
“I think you have that wrong, Robin,” Amy said. “Frank has hurt you, and left you with no one—”
“That’s what you think,” Robin snapped. “That’s what you planned, and hoped, but believe me that’s not the case.”
She watched Vince and Amy exchange a glance that could only be described as… hurt.
“You mean… you still won’t come with us?” Vince asked.
“Not now,” Robin said, coldly. “Not ever.”
They exchanged another glance and then Vince started to say, “More bad things can happen—”
“Don’t threaten me!” Robin said, cutting him off. “Or you’ll get another visit from Detective Jones.” It was lame, but all she could come up with at the moment.
“Robin?”
The three of them turned at the sound of another voice. Brenda approached them, having apparently left the young artist elsewhere.
“Brenda,” Robin said, with relief. She had an ally.
Brenda came up alongside Robin and faced the Wheatons. “Why don’t you introduce me to your friends?” Brenda asked.
“They’re not my friends,” Robin said. “I think you know who they are.”
Vince and Amy were both smiling at Brenda ever so politely, but their smiles soon froze as Brenda lit into them with controlled fury.
“You’re the two lowlifes who have been giving my friend a pretty hard time,” Brenda said with a smile. “Two sick individuals who should be off somewhere lying down with dogs instead of mingling with decent people.” Robin had always wished that she could be as cool and calm as Brenda and still get her point across.
Vince and Amy glared at her, astonished.
“Let me tell you two something,” Brenda continued. “You’ll leave my friend alone from now on or you’ll have me to deal with, and believe me when I say I don’t play nice—not with creatures like you.”
“Miss—” Vince started, but Brenda did not allow him to get any further than that.
“Don’t ‘miss’ me,” Brenda said. “The two of you turn around and walk out before I start telling all these nice people what lowlife trailer trash you really are.”
“Bren—” Robin started, trying to keep her friend from starting a scene.
“It’s all right, Robin,” Amy said, recovering her composure well before her spouse. “Your friend seems very protective of you. I guess you never told us how protective. Brenda, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Brenda said, “Brenda Telford. Remember the name.”
“Oh,” Amy said, sweetly, “we will, don’t worry. Sweetheart?” she said to Vince. “I think we’ve overstayed out welcome.”
She turned him and walked him towards the door, with Robin and Brenda watching them until they were outside. “The goddamned nerve!” Brenda said.
“You were… spectacular,” Robin said.
“I was, wasn’t I?” Brenda asked. “I saw them from across the room and knew who they were immediately. My God, you were right. They’re both beautiful. She has the perfect little body to actually wear a jumpsuit like that! Tacky as it was! And him. What a hunk.”
“Just be careful of Miss Perfect and Mr. Hunk, Brenda,” Robin said. “I’m not sure they’ve ever been spoken to that way before.”
“Well,” Brenda said, “they just better stop messing with my friend.” Brenda put an arm around Robin protectively.
“We better get back to the party,” Robin said.
“That’s what I came to tell you,” Brenda said. “I’m leaving.”
“With who?”
“That adorable little artist,” Brenda said. “He wants to take my picture.”
“He’s a little young—”
“He’s twenty-five, my dear,” Brenda said, “and very talented… and, I think, horny.” She giggled and added, “But I intend to find out for sure.”
“He’s going to leave his own showing?”
“What can I say?” she asked. “He wants to shoot me.”
“Brenda,” Robin said, “be careful…”
“I can handle him, Robin,” Brenda said. “He’s a pussycat.”
“No,” Robin said, “I mean be real careful. There’s a possibility that Vince and Amy may have had something to do with what happened to Frank.”
“Well,” Brenda said, “if either of your beautiful friends—ex-friends—tries to come near me, they’re going to find me a lot harder to deal with than Frank. I mean, no offense, Robin, but he is a writer and writers are not exactly the physical type.”
“Bren, I’m serious—”
“So am I,” Brenda said, spotting the artist across the floor, smiling at her. “Isn’t he cute? All that long, beautiful hair? I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know everything that happens.”
Brenda leaned in, kissed Robin’s cheek and was off so quickly that she didn’t have a chance to respond. Robin watched her friend leave arm-in-arm with the artist and was glad, at least, that Brenda was leaving with a man, and not alone.
“Robin?”
She turned to see Caroline standing there.
“Your friend has left?” Caroline asked. “What a shame.”
The look on her face and the tone of her voice convinced Robin that Brenda was right. Caroline was a bitch.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Carlos Beltre stared down at the naked woman as she slept in his bed. They had made love as soon as they got into his apartment. She was older than he by several years, probably five or six. She told him she was twenty-eight, but he suspected thirty. When they’d met, his photographer’s eye had immediately identified her as a perfect subject. He knew she was wearing a push-up bra, but he also knew that when she was naked her breasts would be perfect, albeit small.
She was an energetic and eager lover and they had romped in his bed for hours before she finally drifted off to sleep. When her breathing became even and regular, he had risen from the bed and gone to his studio for his Nikon. He would start shooting her while she slept and then awaken her for more photos.
He shot her in black and white first, starting when she was on her back: small, hard breasts flattening only slightly, blonde hair bushy between her legs, creeping up her belly. The amount of pubic hair she flaunted had excited him. Most women his age shaved down there, preferring to show less hair, artfully shaped, rather than the wild, tangled bush this woman had.
She moved while she slept, rolling onto her side. He shot the line of her back and the curve of her buttocks. He was about to move to the other side of the bed when the knock came at the door. Had he been asleep he might not have heard it. She didn’t hear it, and slept on.
He left the bedroom and entered the studio, flicking on the special lights he’d had installed which illuminated the room like daylight. He walked to the door, camera in hand. As he reached the door the knock came again, gentle but insistent. He couldn’t imagine who it was, but it would serve them right for knocking so late if they were shocked by his nudity. He was very happy with his own body, which had only eight per cent body fat, and often walked around his apartment naked. More than one mailman—or woman—had gasped when he opened the door. This couldn’t be mail, though, or UPS, as it was too late.
