Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

“He’s not backing out then?”

“I didn’t get that impression, no.”

“I didn’t think he would. Did you discuss how we would retrieve the semen?”

“Only in the most general terms. I told him I had to consult a specialist first. Then when he’s needed, he’d be notified.”

“Maybe the A.I. won’t be necessary. Let’s hope.”

“That’s what we all hope, Foster.”

He surprised her by pressing his hand against her lower abdomen. “I feel good about this time. Karma. Something. It just feels different, like something significant happened.”

She smiled, hoping it didn’t look shaky. “Hold that thought.” Stepping away, she said, “I really would like to get out of these clothes. You’re welcome to stay.”

“No, I’ll leave you to your shower. I’d only stay if I could offer to wash your back.”

“You can pour me a glass of wine instead. I won’t be long.”

“How about club soda? Just in case.”

“Okay.”

He kissed the air, then maneuvered his wheelchair across the adjacent bedroom and through the door, each of his motions done in a sequence of three.

Laura waited until she was alone, then closed the door to her bathroom and hastily removed her clothes. Before stepping into the shower, she worked up enough courage to examine herself in the full-length mirror. Her eyes were still glassy and dazed looking, her lips slightly abraded. She touched her nipples, navel, pubic hair.

Holding back a guilty whimper, she placed her fingers vertically against her lips and whispered, “Oh, God.” But she wasn’t certain for what, specifically, she prayed.

THE MONTH WAS LONGER EVEN THAN ANY HE’D SPENT IN prison. Compared with this, those months had whizzed past like comets.

He’d held out for three days before doing the forbidden. He’d called the SunSouth offices. After listening to a seemingly endless menu of confusing options that required pushing a series of digits, he finally reached a human being who told him in a polite but busy-sounding voice that he had reached Ms. Speakman’s office. “Kay Stafford speaking, how can I help you?”

“I need to talk to Ms. Speakman.”

“In regard to what?”

He wondered what the cool, well-trained Kay Stafford would say if he told her the unmitigated truth. Instead, he replied, “Foster is a former college buddy of mine. I met with the two of them a few months back.”

“Your name?”

“Ms. Speakman will remember.”

She put him on hold and was gone for an interminable time. When she finally came back on the line, she said, “I’m sorry, Ms. Speakman isn’t available to take your call. Would you care to leave a message?”

She asked by rote. If Laura had refused his call, chances were good that her assistant would deep-six any message he left. Besides, what could he say?

Leave your rich husband and be with me.

Or don’t leave him and be with me.

I don’t care what the hell you do, just be with me.

“No message,” he said brusquely and hung up.

He charted her menstrual cycle even more diligently than before, marking the days off on his calendar.

He got hooked on a soap opera.

He watched senior tour golf tournaments and chess matches on the sports networks, and they moved even more slowly than his days.

He perused the classified ads daily, but unless he wanted to be a telemarketer, he found nothing he could do anonymously, and he knew before trying that no one would hire the infamous Griff Burkett.

Desperately lonely one afternoon, he called Marcia and invited himself for dinner. “I’ll bring the dinner and the wine. How can you pass up a deal like that?”

“I appreciate the offer. But give me a bit more time, Griff.”

Time. It had become his enemy.

By way of consolation, Marcia offered to set him up with one of her girls. He declined, which brought on her husky, sexy laugh. It was good to hear her laughing again, a sign that the old Marcia was emerging from the bandages and the trauma. “You don’t want a date with one of my talented girls? That’s interesting. Are you seeing someone?”

He experienced a vivid flashback to Laura, moving beneath him, purring that low, sexy sound that he now heard in his dreams. “Yeah. I’m seeing someone.”

He spent most of his time restlessly pacing the rooms of his condo, wondering when he would hear from her, if he would hear from her, what he would hear.

Rodarte didn’t reappear. Griff could only hope the Vista boys had strongly advised him against hassling Griff further. But that was naïvely optimistic. Contrary to what Rodarte had implied, he wasn’t in league with Vista or answerable to them. And even if he had been, they would have supported any bad ending he had planned for Griff Burkett.

He considered warning Bolly and Jason of an ugly man in an ugly car, but he was afraid that would spook Bolly and he would scotch the coaching sessions, and that one hour each day was the only hour during which Griff was marginally distracted.

He called Laura twice more at her office, without success. After the second time, he brazenly called her cell phone. Knowing that she would recognize his number on caller ID, he was surprised but elated when she answered. But all she said before hanging up was “Stop calling me. You can’t call me.”

He tried to exhaust himself by swimming laps. On the days he didn’t swim, he ran miles. He worked out in the gym as though he were still in training. He went to multiscreen cinemas and saw every movie on the marquee.

He killed time.

Finally, while waiting inside a fruit smoothie store for his yogurt-and-berry blend, the call came. He almost dropped his cell phone as he snapped it off his belt and flipped up the cover. “Hello?”

“Griff, Foster Speakman. Congratulations.”

His field of vision shrank to a pinpoint, consumed by onrushing blackness. The clerk behind the counter signaled to him that his drink was ready. Griff looked at him with misapprehension. He turned and left the store. Out on the sidewalk, he stood in the shade, but heat had been trapped beneath the canvas awning. It was like being inside an oven. He was suffocating.

“Griff? Did you hear me?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m just…” His hand had grown slippery with sweat. He switched his phone to the other. “I guess ‘congratulations’ means you’ve got good news for me.”

“We’ve been successful.” The millionaire didn’t even try to contain his jubilation. “Laura’s pregnant.”

The disgruntled clerk came out of the store, bringing Griff’s smoothie with him. He had a silver bar piercing his eyebrow and yellow teeth that needed orthodontia. “You can’t just order something and then walk out.”

Ignoring him, Griff asked, “Are you sure?”

“Three home pregnancy tests this morning were all positive. That’s pretty much indisputable.”

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” the clerk said. “You’re gonna pay for this.” He thrust the drink at Griff.

“Hold on a minute,” he said to Speakman. Covering the phone, he grabbed the drink, which looked nauseatingly frothy and rich, and hurled it into the nearby trash can. He stuffed a five-dollar bill into the pocket of the clerk’s shirt. “Now get the fuck out of my face before I rip that thing out of your eyebrow.”

“They should’ve left you in prison to rot.” Sneering, the clerk shot Griff the finger and went back inside the store.

Griff took several deep breaths, and all that did was inflate his lungs with scorching air.

“Apparently I caught you at a bad time,” Speakman said.

“Not really. I was paying out at a store. I apologize. How reliable are those home pregnancy tests?”