She broke the shell and read the message. “ ‘Soon you will cross over the great waters.’ ” She frowned. “Well, I don’t care much for the sound of that.”
“Relax,” Ben assured her. “Probably means you’re going to Bermuda.” He cracked open his own cookie. “ ‘Birds are entangled by their feet, and men by their hearts.’ ” Ben grimaced. “I think these cookies came from the Transylvania factory. I’m surprised the management permits this. Restaurants usually screen out anything that might possibly upset the clientele.”
“Did you major in restaurateuring?”
“Music, actually. How about you?”
“Funny you should ask.” A delightful smile played upon her lips. “Why don’t you come up to my place, and I’ll give you a demonstration?”
Ben looked at her warily. “Is this dangerous?”
“No.” She took his hand in hers. “The dangerous part will be sneaking you into my room while Mary Sue isn’t watching.”
“Are you sure about this?” Ben said through the bathroom door.
“Positive,” Belinda replied. “Get out here.”
“Well … turn down the light.”
“They’re down. I can barely see the table.”
“And you’re looking the other way?”
“And my eyes are shut—cross my heart and hope to die. Would you get out here already?”
Ben opened the bathroom door slightly and confirmed that she was looking the other way. He tiptoed out of the bathroom. He had stripped down to his boxer shorts. Actually Belinda had instructed him to strip, period, but there was no way he was parting with his shorts. A boy had to have some modesty.
He lay flat on the table and pulled the towel over him. “Okay. I’m in position.”
“Good.” Belinda turned around and smiled. “Cute boxers.”
“How … ?” Ben yanked the corner of the towel over his rear. “I never met anyone who majored in massage therapy before.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat.” She placed her hands on his shoulders. “Didn’t I say I wanted to make a meaningful contribution to the world? Now, this is an example of a Swedish massage.”
“Perfect,” Ben murmured as she soothed his neck and shoulders. “I’m feeling very Swedish tonight.”
“The Swedish massage derives from Chinese techniques of physical manipulation. It’s composed of five basic strokes—the effleurage, the petrissage, friction, tapotement, and vibration.”
“A massage and a lecture,” Ben said. “Such a deal.”
She began the effleurage, which, she explained, involved long, gliding strokes in the direction of the heart. “Boy, are you tense!” She moved her hands systematically down his back. “Your muscles are really knotted up.”
“Well, it’s been a tense week.”
“Lucky I got you on this table before you exploded in the middle of the courtroom.”
She took him through her repertoire of strokes—kneading, pressing, tapping, and vibrating. “Of course, this is just one example of each stroke. There are several variants.”
“I think we should try them all,” Ben murmured.
“This is the Anara massage technique.”
Ben could tell the movements of her hands had changed, not that it made much difference. It all felt delicious.
She started working on his thighs. “Strong legs for a desk jockey,” she commented.
“I get plenty of exercise chasing my cat.”
“Who’s looking after her while you’re on this extended vacation?”
“My landlady, Mrs. Marmelstein. She’s always happy to help out. Cat-sitting gives her an excuse to go through my closets.”
Belinda continued moving down his legs. “Man, you are just unbelievably tense. You keep it all locked up inside, don’t you?”
Ben chose not to comment.
“Now, this is an example of the Shiatsu massage technique.”
To Ben’s surprise, her fingertips danced lightly over the soles of his feet. “Hey, that tickles.”
“So there’s life in you after all.” She used her thumb and forefinger to rub out the tension in his feet. “Finally I want to demonstrate the famed Montgomery massage.”
“The Montgomery massage?”
“Right.” She began lightly kissing his back, then worked her way up the nape of his neck. Goosebumps rose on his skin. “Does this tickle?”
“That’s one way of putting it.” Ben rolled over and took Belinda into his arms. “Can I play?”
“Please do.” The first kiss was followed by several others, each more passionate than the first.
Belinda pulled away for a moment and reached behind her back. A second later her business suit lay in a pile on the floor.
Ben felt his heart palpitating. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured.
Belinda lay down beside him. She kissed him again on the lips, then let her own lips roam where they would. “I’m not sure, but I think you’re becoming less tense,” she said quietly. Her fingers ran up his chest and through his hair.
Ben explored the soft contours of her perfect body. “Did you really major in massage therapy?”
She smiled, then rolled over on top of him. “Nah. But I thought it was a great way to sneak a peek at your boxer shorts.”
45.
THE NEXT MORNING BEN made it to the Silver Springs courthouse well before nine and began reviewing his notes. He’d had a great night’s sleep. Once he and Belinda finally got around to sleeping.
Two deputies brought Vick back to the defendant’s table and the crowd began to flood into the courtroom gallery. Most of the people he had recognized the day before had returned. Plus Grand Dragon Dunagan and a small coterie of ASP muscle.
“What brings you here?” Ben asked as he passed by them.
“Came to keep a close eye on you,” Dunagan said.
“I thought you considered me lead counsel for the forces of goodness and light.”
“That was before I found out you were a Vietcong sympathizer,” Dunagan spat out. “Before I found out you were in league with that demon whore Hamilton.”
Ben’s jaw clenched. “You have no business talking about Belinda like that.”
“I know what she is!” Fortunately the drone of the crowded courtroom muffled his shout. “And I know what you are now, too.”
“You hateful—” Ben swallowed the expletive on the tip of his tongue. He turned his back on Dunagan and walked away. He noticed that Colonel Nguyen from Coi Than Tien was in the gallery. And in the front row, Belinda sat beside her associates Frank Carroll and John Pfeiffer.
Judge Tyler entered the courtroom and the crowd was silenced. “Opening statements, gentlemen. Mr. Prosecutor, would you like to begin?”
“Thank you, your honor.” Swain planted himself in his intimate, up-front position inches away from the jury,
“Thuy Quang Vuong—known by his friends as Tommy—was a Vietnamese American. But that isn’t what this case is about. He was a young man, and subject to many of the troubles most young men face. That isn’t what this case is about either. Tommy Vuong was a living, breathing human being, with as much right to live his life as any one of you sitting in this jury box.”
Swain leaned forward and made eye contact with each of the jurors. “And that’s what this case is about. Because you see, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Tommy Vuong wasn’t permitted to live. He wasn’t permitted to marry, or to have children, or to experience any of the quiet, simple joys most of us take for granted. Because on July twenty-fifth, on a hot summer night, someone ripped his life away by firing two metal crossbow bolts at close range into his chest and his neck.”