“Vera?” A nudge. “Vera?”
The voice seemed to pull her out of a well. Her eyes eased open. My God, she thought.
“You fell asleep.” Kyle climbed off her. She turned groggily onto her side. No, none of it had really happened, none of it was real. Kyle grinned down at her, still in his tan cut-offs, and Vera still in the bright fuchsia swimsuit.
“I…fell asleep?”
“You sure did. Out like a light.” He casually grabbed his towel and slung it across his shoulder. Vera, still prone, paused to look at him, the pool lights shifting on his skin: the long, damp swept-back hair; the sculptured muscles of his chest, shoulders, arms; the tapered frame. What am I thinking? she thought.
“It’s late,” he said. “I’m turning in.”
Vera bottled up the slow burn of angst. After all the accusations she’d made to herself, all the times she’d condemned him as a conman and womanizer, here was the truth. He’d had every opportunity to seduce her, yet he hadn’t.
And, Vera, as a result, was now disappointed, irritated.
“So how do I rate as a back-rubber?” he inquired, grinning.
“I believe the word is masseur, Kyle, and I’ll give you a high rating.”
“Just a high rating? Not the highest?”
Vera reflected, still lounging on her side. It had been good, hadn’t it? No, it had been better than good. “Now that I think of it, Kyle, yes, you get the highest rating. Five stars.”
“I thought so. And seeing how all’s fair, maybe next time I’ll get to rate you.”
“Possibly,” Vera said.
“See you tomorrow.”
Kyle turned and strode off. Vera watched after him.
These notions weren’t like her at all, these desires. I wanted him to do it. Indeed. For the first time in her life, she’d wanted no-strings, fast-and-furious, rough-and-tumble…sex.
She slowly rose, still aroused by the fantasy. Her nipples poked against the suit’s bright cups, the contact of the wet fabric titillating her. Diffuse chunks of light wobbled on the ceiling. She grabbed her towel, picked up the bottle of lotion Kyle had forgotten, and walked out.
Notions seemed to lag behind her down the hall. The Mouth nibbling her toes. The Hands kneading her ass. The images boggled her. It’s just stress, she convinced herself. New job, new place, new people. And: no sex life anymore. They’d added up, that was all. The frustrations would abate once she had time to get used to things.
She stepped into the darkened atrium, then instantly stepped back. A figure had turned around the corner, as if walking from the fireplace. The fireplace? Vera wondered.
The fire had died to ash. It must have been one of the maids or maintenance people checking on it. But—this late? It just didn’t feel right, though Vera couldn’t name a reason. She didn’t dare call out. What if it was Feldspar? He might be a bit curious as to why his restaurant manager, whom he was paying a hundred and fifteen thousand dollars a year, was traipsing about The Inn going on two in the morning, clad only in a damp swimsuit.
Still, she waited a moment, peeking back and forth. When she felt certain the figure was gone, she skipped out across the plush wool carpets to the fireplace. Only a trace warmth lingered. Its fieldstone maw was nearly large enough to stand in. Chopped logs filled a black-iron rack to the left. She peered down, noticing something else, the vaguest scent…
Ah, ha. The glint caught her eye. On its side behind the stacked logs lay a bottle. Scotch, she noted. A rail brand. That explained it. One of the maintenance staff was snitching a nip. She supposed it was her duty as a manager to report it, or to at least confiscate the bottle, but she let it go.
Something else was on her mind.
She scurried up the stairs as fast as her bare feet would carry her. Down the hall. To her bedroom.
Where the fantasy of The Hands awaited her.
— | — | —
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ah, Christ, Paul thought. What’s her name?
The hostess looked up, lissome and trim in the tight pink-sequined dress. Paul knew he’d met her—he’d met all of Vera’s friends and employees at one time—but for the life of him he couldn’t remember her name. Cement-head!
“Hi, you may remember me. I’m—”
Her expression hardened very quickly, the pretty face going cold. “Paul,” she acknowledged. “I know you.”
The look said it all. My name’s not Paul, Paul realized. It’s mud.
“You don’t have a reservation,” the hostess curtly pointed out. “So why don’t you just leave?”
“Look,” Paul said, and stepped forward. “I need help.”
“You sure do. You need to have your head examined. How could you do something like that to Vera?”
“I—” But what could he say? Should he lie? Deny it? That would be useless. Women could always tell when a guy was lying about something like that. “There are always things you don’t understand,” he said instead. “I just want to know where she is. Please, give me her address, her new number, anything.”
“I hope you’re happy. Vera’s a great girl, and you really hurt her. And this restaurant’s gone downhill since she left. Last week two waitresses were laid off, and I’m getting my hours cut back. Thanks. Now why don’t you get out of here before I call the police.”
Paul felt forged in flint. He groped for something to say. “It’s a misunderstanding. I just need to talk to her, to clear things up. Look—” He reached into his pocket, withdrew a one hundred dollar bill. “I’ll pay you to tell me where she is.”
“I don’t know where she is,” the hostess said.
“All right, then. Tell me who does.”
She contemplated this, her big bright blue eyes fluttering. She picked up the phone, turned her back to him, and began whispering. Paul couldn’t quite make out what she was saying. Then she hung up, refaced him, and snapped the bill out of his hand.
Money always talks, Paul thought, relieved. Women are so corruptible.
“Go back into the kitchen,” she said, not even looking at him. “Ask for Georgie. He’ll tell you where Vera is.”
“Thank you,” Paul said.
“And don’t ever come back here again.”
Don’t worry, I won’t. Paul skirted the reservation desk. A quick glance at the book showed him it was barely a third full. Then another glance around the subdued dining room showed only a trickle of the turnout The Emerald Room was used to. Had Vera’s mystic departure crimped business this bad?
He pushed through the swingdoors to the kitchen, into blazing fluorescent light. Dead silence greeted him, not the usual busy kitchen clamor. A lone guy with a bad complexion tended to a single order of Veal Chesapeake at the range. He wore not a chef’s cap but an old-fashioned black derby.
“You Georgie?” Paul inquired.
The guy turned, grinning. “That’s right. And you must be Paul, the scumbag motherfucker who shit all over Vera.” Georgie walked around the hot line. “And she was so upset, you know what she did, brother? She just up and left town, and she took the chef with her, and our best waitress and dishman. You got any idea how bad business crashed? You got any idea how hard it is to find a restaurant manager on no notice?”