Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

He turned on his heel and had started back toward the house when he spotted something that drew him up short.

RODARTE WAS PARKED HALFWAY DOWN THE BLOCK. THE WINDSHIELD of his car reflected the leafy trees above it, so Griff couldn’t see him. But he stuck his hand out the driver’s window and gave a friendly little wave.

Griff forgot about his apology to Laura Speakman. He jogged to the Honda, scrambled in, and cranked the motor. The tires left rubber in the driveway as he backed out. He sped the short distance and came to a squealing stop a half inch from the grille of Rodarte’s sedan. He was out of the Honda before inertia settled in.

Rodarte was waiting for him. His car engine was idling, but the driver’s window was down. It took all Griff’s self-control not to grab him by the neck and haul him out through that window. “You’re a goddamn coward, Rodarte.”

“Are you trying to hurt my feelings?”

“You hire goons to do your dirty work on men. Women you beat up yourself.”

“Speaking of, how is your favorite whore?” Rodarte laughed at Griff’s expression of rage. “Okay, so I got a little carried away. Why didn’t you report me to the police?”

“That was Marcia’s decision.”

“But I bet you didn’t argue against it, did you? The very thought of police involvement puckers your sphincter, doesn’t it? As for the working over you took, I heard you got jumped by a couple of former fans.”

“They were pros.”

“You know this?”

“You were behind it.”

Rodarte wagged his finger at him. “But you didn’t file a police report. I’ll bet you didn’t tell your lawyer, either. Or your probation officer. Jerry Arnold, right?”

“You know who my probation officer is?” Griff regretted the question as soon as he asked it. It revealed how surprised and alarmed he was to learn that Rodarte was so well acquainted with his life.

Rodarte grinned. “I know lots about you, Number Ten.”

He must. He must have been tailing him or he wouldn’t have known that Griff would be in that particular sports bar the night he sicced the brutes on him. He also wouldn’t have known to find him here, on this street, today. Right now.

Jesus.

And before Griff could even fully process the worrisome implications of that, Rodarte said, “One thing I don’t know is the name of your new gash there.”

Griff turned his head quickly to see Laura Speakman backing her car out of the driveway. Fortunately, she drove away in the opposite direction.

“Real estate agent,” Griff said. “She was showing me the house.”

Rodarte snickered. “You’re looking for a house just after getting settled into your duplex?”

“Turns out I’m not crazy about the neighborhood.”

“Where did you get the money to buy all those fancy toys? Sound system. Big-screen TV. All that.”

Griff’s mind was spinning. He wanted to cram his fist into Rodarte’s mouth because every word from it increased his alarm. Rodarte knew where he lived. He knew how he spent his money. And now he knew about this house. Most alarming was that he might learn about Griff’s arrangement with the Speakmans.

“See,” Rodarte said conversationally, “what I think is, is that before you used your big, strong quarterback’s hands to snap Bill Bandy’s neck, you dipped those hands into his private till.”

“That’s crap and you know it. How could I have taken any money? I was arrested at the scene.”

“A technicality,” Rodarte said with a dismissive gesture. “Before the real heat came down on you, you managed to stash the ill-gotten funds where nobody could find them. They’ve been sitting somewhere, earning interest, waiting on you to get out. Now they’re coming in handy. Just as you planned.”

He paused, frowned, and said sadly, “Only thing is, Griff, the way those Vista boys see it, it’s their money, not yours. They would be real grateful to anybody who could recover it and bring it home to them.”

“In other words, you.”

“I’m just trying to make things easier for you, is all. I’m doing everybody a favor. These guys get their money back, and they just might forget about what you did to poor ol’ Bandy. You see where this is going? How nice it would be for everybody?” His ingratiating smile collapsed. “Where’s the money?”

“You’re delusional. About Bandy. About ill-gotten funds. About every frigging thing. You think if I had money, I’d be driving this piece of shit?” He raised his arm toward the Honda. “A secondhand car I bought from my lawyer?”

Rodarte regarded him for a moment, then said smoothly, “You cut quite a figure in that new Armani jacket.”

Griff tried to keep his expression neutral. “Thanks. It would look like shit on you.”

Rodarte chuckled. “I’m afraid you’re right. I haven’t got the figure.”

“You haven’t got the balls, either. If you did, you’d get out of that butt-ugly car, stop making veiled threats, and fight me like a man.”

Rodarte pulled a face as though considering it. “You sure you want me to do that, Griff? Think hard now.”

Griff was seething, but he knew he could not give vent to his rage. If he laid into Rodarte, he’d be giving the woman-beating son of a bitch exactly what he wanted. “Marcia didn’t have anything to tell you,” he said. “You ruined her face for nothing.”

Rodarte shrugged. “I guess. She didn’t tell me anything useful, and from what I understand she won’t be telling anybody anything for a long time. Wonder if she’s able to give blow jobs, what with her jaw wired shut and all. And something else…” Griff didn’t bite, but Rodarte told him anyway. “You’d think a whore wouldn’t make such fuss over getting it in the ass.”

A tide of red-hot fury washed through Griff.

Rodarte sensed it and grinned. “You ever had her that way?”

Griff had wondered if Rodarte’s assault included rape. He hadn’t asked Marcia because he hadn’t wanted to cause her further distress. And, possibly, he just didn’t want to know exactly how badly she’d suffered on his account. Now that he did, he wanted even more badly to kill the man grinning up at him.

Rodarte nodded toward the house midway down the block. “And what about her? Even from this distance, I could tell your new lady friend has a sassy little butt. Just as well tell me her name. I’ll find out anyway.”

Griff’s outrage went from fiercely hot to icy cold in seconds. The degree of his rage frightened him, and it should have frightened Rodarte. “One of these days,” he said softly, with conviction, with promise, “I’m gonna have to kill you.”

Rodarte dropped the gearshift into reverse and smiled as he backed the car away. “I have wet dreams about the day you try.”

Reluctantly, the concierge rang Marcia’s penthouse. With his back turned to Griff, he spoke in whispers into the telephone until Griff reached across the counter and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Give me the phone. Please,” he added but with impatience. Reluctantly, the man passed Griff the receiver. “Marcia?”

“Actually, it’s Dwight.”

“Hey, Dwight. Griff Burkett. I want to come up.”

“I’m sorry, you can’t.”

“Who says?”

“She doesn’t want company.”

“I need to see her.”

“She’s resting.”

“I’ll wait.”

There was a dramatic sigh, followed by “She’ll probably kill me, but okay.”

Dwight answered the door to the penthouse and stood aside to admit Griff. “This isn’t one of her good days.”

“Mine, either,” Griff returned grimly as he followed Marcia’s neighbor into the spacious living room, where Marcia was reclined on her sofa. She appeared to be sleeping, although it was hard to tell because her head was swathed in bandages.