The Oxenburg Woman, page 27
“I can’t believe this car,” she said and smiled at him quizzically. “How did you find it? Wait.” She gestured with a slim, brown hand. “I take that back. Just tell me how long it took.”
“About four hours.” And then, to match her mood, he added, “Actually that’s from when I submitted the request until I had the paper in my hand. Say, thirty minutes to find it.” He paused while he shifted and the throaty engine noise drowned his voice. “How can you be sure it’s the same one? I can’t see a mark on it.”
“Oh, little things, like right here.” She pointed to the side of his seatback. “I dropped my lipstick. You could see the stain if the top was down.” She withdrew her finger and folded her hands in her lap. “Richard was furious.”
Lewis glanced at her profile. She must have ridden in the car hundreds of times just like that; tucked into the seat like the prim and proper wife. He wondered how she’d react to the film of her fastidious husband amusing himself on another continent.
His hands tightened on the wheel. He’d be damned if he was going to drive fifty miles with her folded and tense, thinking about that son of a bitch. He pulled over on the next straightaway.
“Look,” he said, “it’s your car and your town. Why don’t you drive?”
She shook her head. “Not in this skirt.”
He considered the long, tight skirt, seeing instead her legs going up the stairs. He remembered insisting she change her dress, but in the end, she hadn’t. Something to think about there.
“Besides,” she was smiling again, “you do it better. You hate my driving, remember?” And then, to his complete surprise, she touched his jaw with gentle pressure, turned him toward her. “But as long as we’re stopped . . .” She leaned across the console and kissed him lightly on the corner of his mouth.
For an instant he felt only astonishment, but then he was caught up in her closeness and his own response. When she lingered, he turned into the kiss and slid his fingers into the curls behind the comb.
He expected the hair clip to slide but soon realized his mistake as his fingers and then the buttons on his sleeve were caught in her hair. She drew back, laughing, one hand holding his arm while she released the clip. He swore under his breath at the awkward confinement of the car as she freed his sleeve. “Only the bloody British would build a car like this,” he said, amused.
He waited while she replaced her hair clip and flicked down the little visor mirror to fix her lipstick. Her motions were automatic, as though she’d recovered from many kisses in this car. He felt a sharp little dig of impatience at himself and the car. Just give her enough cover to eliminate your mystery, turn yourself into a flat nothing, and make sure she’s nobody important. And never mind how that felt.
When they rounded a curve and the lights of the city appeared, he asked where she wanted to eat.
“What do you like?” she asked.
“Anything but steak.”
“But you’re in cattle country,” she said, amused.
“So I noticed.” He remembered Bliss in his boots and hat, looking more like a movie extra than anybody outside Hollywood.
When he said nothing further, she glanced at his suit and said, “We’re not dressed for it, anyway. How about upscale French Bistro?”
“Fine,” he agreed promptly. It was immaterial where they went or what they ate as long as she came away convinced that he was ultimately harmless and forgettable.
She continued to look at him, studying his profile. After a few minutes, she said, “Lewis?”
He waited, then looked over when she did not continue. “Yes?”
“Is that your real name?”
When he didn’t reply, she said, “It doesn’t really matter, I just wondered if you use it all the time. Do people know you by that name? When I say it, does it mean anything to you or is it just a word?”
This time she waited for his answer while he pondered what she was after. It was going to be a long night if she ran this far ahead of him. “Do you mean if I’m in an airport and they’re paging someone with that name, do I notice?”
“Yes, I guess.”
“I notice.”
She didn’t respond for a minute. Then she asked carefully, “So, should I call you Lewis? Say, for the next hour while we’re in the restaurant?”
“You can call me anything you want. Lewis is fine. It’s the name I use.”
“Good. That’s how I think of you anyway.”
“Right,” he said, wondering. Definitely a few details had disappeared into the gaps in his memory. They were early for dinner and had their pick of the tables. The restaurant was large and arranged in the French provincial manner with the tables offset, each enclosed within its own circle of high-backed wing chairs. They sat against the windows, a placement Lewis would normally have refused, although these windows were banked on the outside by high hedges. He rated the exposure minimal and allowed his usual caution to be tempered by hunger and the cloistered seating.
Eventually, the menus and wine list were removed. He felt the tension and strain return across his chest. It had been a long day, he was tired and hungry, and he had no idea what they were going to talk about.
Suzanna seemed to be having the same thoughts. Finally she asked, “Where do you live? Approximately.” She rearranged her water glass. “Can I ask you that?”
Lewis thought it the one topic of reasonable safety.
“Mexico,” he replied, and after a tiny pause, “Mexico City, actually.”
She admitted that she had never been to Mexico, so he told her about the city, taking time to describe the traffic, the crowded downtown areas, and the fine, old villas in the suburbs. He did not go into the filthy, choking layer of pollution that smothered the center of the city day and night or the millions of disenfranchised Mexicans who endured lives of poverty and desperation within the city. His political views, like almost everything else, were off-limits. He gave her a city tour; he knew it well and liked it.
When he compared the boulevards and walled gardens with European cities, they discussed Europe; where they had visited and when. That brought them to the revelation that they had attended the same Grand Prix, in Monaco the year of her marriage. Monaco runs in May and his brain recycled her file and presented him with her wedding date: April 29th.
“So,” he asked, “are you a big racing fan?” Remembering as he spoke that he had been on a honeymoon of sorts himself at the time. He could not recall the girl’s name, but she had been French and stunning.
Suzanna shook her head. “It was all right, I guess. I enjoyed it at first. Until the driver was killed.” She grimaced, “And then it all made me sick, the way the crowd reacted, everybody suddenly so excited. Because there’d been a wreck and he was dead.”
“Formula One is a blood sport, Suzanna. At least, there’s always that risk, you must know that. It’s man against man, man against machine, man and machine against the road. That’s what it’s about. Pushing the envelope. The crowds come for the spectacle but the drivers only care about racing. It’s really like everything else in life; a few do the driving while the rest are spectators.”
“I see,” she said slowly, “just two kinds of people; drivers who don’t want anything to block their view of the road, and all the rest, spectators on the sidelines.”
In the slanted light from the window her eyes were very blue probing his. He wondered that he had ever thought them black. “Is that just men or women, too?” she said. “Where do they fit in your view?”
Before he could respond a large group of patrons began a noisy exit past their table. One of the couples detached themselves and drew aside to allow a waiter to pass. The male was lean and tanned, well-dressed in business clothes. He was looking at Suzanna and didn’t strike Lewis as threatening in any way. He didn’t glance in Lewis’s direction. Business associate, Lewis guessed.
The man leaned around the high back of Suzanna’s chair to touch her arm lightly. “Suzanna,” he murmured, “I saw the car.”
She obviously recognized him and smiled. “Hello Lloyd.”
The man returned her smile and then withdrew his hand and straightened. Very discrete, Lewis thought, wondering if it was for his benefit.
The stranger’s companion had noticed the little exchange. She was a pretty, brittle woman obviously sensitive to her exclusion. Her gaze flicked over Lewis without interest, then she was past Suzanna’s chair and turning to examine her. “Suzanna, darling,” she cooed, bending toward her. “How lovely to see you! It’s been so long. I was just telling Lloyd the other day, we must have you for dinner. Mustn’t lose touch with your friends, darling, just because you’re on your own.”
Suzanna’s smile had thinned. “Hello Carol,” she said, when the woman paused for breath.
The woman turned her attention back to Lewis and smiled at him. “And speaking of friends, darling, who is this? I thought we knew all your friends.”
Lewis had been observing. “I’m only an acquaintance,” he told her with a chill in his tone. “I’m a travel writer. Suzanna kindly agreed to make a reservation at this restaurant and join me for dinner as a favor. She’s known here, and dining with a regular is one way for me to stay under the radar. My livelihood requires a low profile. You’re stepping on that right now.”
The woman stared at him, flushed, and drew back. Lewis saw that her escort had been watching and now took her arm to propel her toward the group waiting at the door.
When they were gone, Suzanna raised her eyebrows slightly. “So nearly true,” she said.
“Why the attitude? Does she work with you?”
“No, but he does.” She smiled. “It’ll be an interesting drive home for Lloyd.”
He liked her smile, couldn’t resist smiling back. He signaled for the check.
* * * *
Outside, a wind had come up and Suzanna held her face up to the night sky. “It’s going to rain again,” she predicted.
“Is it?”
“When you live in the desert you become very interested in rain. And it has the most amazing effect when it comes. You crave it.”
He shook his head. “It’ll be a while before I’ll want to get caught in the rain again.”
“No,” she agreed, “you wouldn’t.”
When they reached the car, he turned her lightly into his arms and kissed her, tracing her lips slowly and without insistence. Her mouth was sweet from the wine and, in a perfect reflection of her personality, cool and delicious.
He realized he’d been waiting for this. Her kiss in the car had ignited something that had flared, in the face of his better judgment, with every move she’d made. When she’d slipped off her jacket, he’d been intensely aware of her bare arms and the silk of her blouse. Each time she’d crossed her legs, he’d been reminded of their tanned perfection going up the stairs. The brush of her lips on the dessert fork had had him reaching for his wineglass.
He savored her along with the food, while his cynical mind ridiculed his reactions. She was hardly his type. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have drawn a second look — not that it hurt to look, or for that matter, to return the kiss. Important not to insult the lady. Don’t make her mad; don’t make her anything. She likes to be kissed in sports cars — kiss her. Then take her home and forget her.
Her taste and scent were familiar. Expectation played those tricks. He liked the lean, supple challenge of her body against his. His hands released her shoulders and slipped under the jacket to cover the swell of her ribs. Her heart was leaping under his palms. He realized she was trembling.
“Are you afraid of me?” he said, caught between surprise and the urge to kiss her again.
Her face tilted up to him, her expression lost in shadow. She didn’t reply. After a long, questioning minute, he released her and opened the car door.
So, she was afraid of him. Just weeks ago, he’d expended a lot of energy impressing her with the prudence of fearing him. Not long ago, he’d doubted his success.
They drove in silence until he turned off the four-lane. When the car began the final, twisting climb, she turned to him. Her voice was subdued. “We have an expression in the insurance business — deep pockets.”
He said nothing, unwilling to engage in this line of conversation.
She continued. “This car, it was incredibly generous of you, but I can’t accept it. Please take it with you.” She had been speaking to his profile. Now she sighed and stared out the windshield. “Richard will be wild at me for selling it in the first place, but I can’t even think of a word to describe his reaction to me getting it back this way.”
“What way?” Lewis said carefully. “You did me a favor. Now I’m doing you one. He’ll never know.”
“He will if he ever looks at the date on the registration,” she said. “Better that I tell him.”
“Do you really think that’s necessary?” he pressed.
“Do I think it’s necessary for wives to tell their husbands the truth? Yes, I do.”
So there it was and no way to get around it. The knot was back in his gut and he wished he’d taken the director’s advice and stayed clear of this woman.
“Do you have any idea what it cost to get this car for you?” he snapped. “I could have just given you the cash. Think how hard that would be to explain. If you don’t want the car, sell it again. I know a man who’d really like to get it back. You’ll find it’s appreciated nicely. I don’t give a damn what you do with it, just leave that husband of yours out of it. You don’t understand what you’re playing with here. Just keep the car, accept it with my thanks, and forget where it came from.”
“Why did you come back? Why take me to dinner?”
“I came back to thank you. Dinner was an afterthought, for company.”
“Why did you kiss me?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Why does any man kiss a woman?”
“I don’t care why any other man would do it. Why did you do it? What do you remember about being here before?”
“Christ. I remember jerking you around, threatening you, strangling you. What do you want from me, Suzanna? Do you want me to apologize for every bruise, every word? Would that satisfy you?”
“That’s all you remember?”
“If I had a choice, I wouldn’t remember any of it. I’ve got enough useless memories without those miserable hours with you.”
“Why don’t you forget them, then? Just go away, and take this car with you.”
Lewis wanted to shake her. He ground the car to a halt under the carport. She opened her door and was out, letting the heavy door fall shut behind her before he could extricate himself. He caught up with her at the foot of the stairs.
She turned to him in the glow of the night lights. “Thank you for dinner.” She held out her hand. “Goodbye, Lewis.”
He pressed the key into her open hand and closed her fingers around it.
She twisted her hand free. “Doesn’t anybody ever say no to you?”
“Absolutely. Damn near everyone I saw today before I came here. I thought you were a new trend. Look, the car’s yours. Your name’s already on the registration.”
She set the key on the railing. “You must think I’m a fool,” she said firmly. “If you came back here to give me that car, you’re a bigger one.” She turned to start up the stairs. “It’s raining. I just felt a drop. You’d better take your car and go. Unless you’re planning to walk somewhere in this.”
“It’ll be returned in the morning,” he said.
Her only response was the sound of her heels punishing the stairs. He checked his impulse to go after her. Better to let her go. She was stubborn and unreasonable but not stupid. She liked expensive restaurants and good clothes; she’d find a use for the car.
He had planned to call MacIntyre to pick him up, but that was before he’d had the ridiculous impulse to have dinner with her. He wasn’t about to ask to use her phone now.
Chapter 22
MacIntyre’s black jeep was parked around the first curve on the gravel road that was the approach to the datacenter. Further evidence, Lewis assumed, of MacIntyre’s unspoken but obvious disapproval of his open contact with Suzanna Oxenburg. Having failed to rescue Lewis once, he was now apparently prepared to wait up all night.
What for? Lewis wondered. Was the damned fool planning an assault on her house if he didn’t appear by dawn? Torn between amusement and exasperation, he drove past the Jeep without a glance.
Then he slowed. If MacIntyre didn’t have enough sense to go to bed he could at least do something useful, like follow him back to the house right now. He’d leave the key in the Jag’s ignition and the Oxenburg deal would be made—one very expensive automobile in exchange for her silence. He braked to a stop and reversed the car in a tight three point turn on the narrow road.
He pulled up opposite the jeep and waited but the driver’s door did not open. The roadster was too low for him to see inside but MacIntyre could not fail to recognize the Jaguar. Lewis rubbed a hand down his face then reached for the door latch, choosing his words as he stepped out.
He was halfway out of the cramped cockpit when MacIntyre’s profile warned him. He dropped to the ground, every trace of exhaustion gone. He waited, coiled, ultra-alert, while the sharp-edged gravel bit into his palms and knee and his heart drummed painfully against the scars in his chest.
There was no gain in waiting, especially pinned down in the middle of the road with the noisy car thumping and gurgling, headlights on, door wide open. He gathered himself, moved back along the car, away from the light spilling out the open door. Thinking again that it was pointless to wait, but did it anyway, shaking from the memory of the impact that had slammed him against his rental car and dropped him, stunned, into this same gravel just about a month ago.
