Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

“If that Caribbean island gets newspapers.”

Speakman grinned. “You’re sure you won’t have another drink?”

“No thanks.”

Speakman reached for Griff’s glass and carried it with him to the bar. As before, he went through a ritual of placing their glasses in the rack beneath the sink, wiping the spotless countertop, and folding the towel until all the edges were even. After he’d hung it in the towel ring, he adjusted the hem again. When it finally met with his satisfaction, he washed his hands with sanitizer.

Then he lightly slapped the arms of his wheelchair three times. “Now, down to business.” He did that weird back-and-forth thing with his chair, then rolled over to the desk. On top was what appeared to be a box of stationery. Indicating it, he said, “Your money.”

Griff made no move toward it.

Speakman, misreading his hesitancy, laughed. “Go ahead. It’s yours. Look in the box.”

Griff approached the desk and indifferently lifted the lid off the box. Inside it were stacks of hundred-dollar bills, neatly banded with paper strips.

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

Griff gnawed the inside of his cheek, saying nothing. He was afraid of what he would say if he spoke, afraid he would tell Speakman the low opinion he had of a man who would pay another to have sex with his wife, no matter how lofty the reason.

Out of curiosity, he’d looked up that Bible story. It was the wife, Sarah, who had sent another woman to her husband, but basically the situation was the same. It hadn’t worked out too well in Genesis. In fact, things had got real mucked up. And all because this Sarah had wanted a baby, and wanted it her way.

You could tell yourself it was only biology, but it was still sex. It was still a man and woman lying down together and using equipment that was functional but also pleasure giving. Nobody had yet invented anything more intimate.

What he wanted to know was: How could any man ask that of his wife? Contempt for Foster Speakman roiled inside his gut along with the whiskey, along with his jealousy.

Of course, he was no prince of virtue. He was taking the man’s cash. He would deal with his disgust for himself later. But right now, he was revolted by Speakman, who was smiling at him like he’d won a jackpot, smiling without giving a thought to the emotional turmoil Griff and Laura had suffered for the sake of his foolish, selfish, stubborn demand.

“I won’t be insulted if you want to count it.”

Griff shook his head.

Speakman looked at him curiously. “Frankly, I’m surprised.”

“By?”

“Your reserve. Have you gone shy on me?”

“What did you expect?”

“More…” He made a rolling motion with his hands. “Reaction. Exuberance. You act almost reluctant to take your pay, like you’re sorry-” He broke off and studied Griff for a moment, then began to laugh. “Oh, dear.”

“What?”

“You don’t want it to end, do you? That’s it, isn’t it? You’re sorry those afternoon interludes with Laura are at an end.”

“That’s nuts.”

Speakman shook his index finger at him. “I don’t think so.”

“Let’s just settle our business so I can get outta here.” Even to his own pounding ears, his voice sounded like a growl.

“Ah, Griff, don’t be embarrassed. Making love to my wife is no hardship duty. Well I know. How could you help but get a crush on her? Like your gambling, you developed a taste for her, didn’t you? The more you had, the more you wanted. Now it’s hard to give her up. I understand. Truly I do.”

Griff clenched his fists.

Speakman chuckled again, then held up both hands, palms out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I apologize for laughing at you, but it’s just so damn amusing. Your job is over and you’ve earned your money, but you’re heartbroken about it. Can’t you appreciate the irony?” Speakman winked up at him. “You’re so downcast, I think you must have really enjoyed doing her.”

That clipped the last tenuous thread of Griff’s restraint. He gave vent to his disgust. “You sick fuck.”

“Possibly,” Speakman said affably. “But at least I’m not horny for another man’s wife, for a woman I can never, ever have again. Poor Griff, poor Griff, poor Griff.”

Griff glared down at him through a red mist of rage, then turned his head away and searched the desktop, looking for something, anything, that would silence that maddening, taunting chant.

“Mrs. Speakman?”

Laura had been staring through the airplane window as the jet made its final approach into Dallas. She’d been addressed by a flight attendant leaning across the empty aisle seat.

“When we get to the gate, I’ll be escorting you off ahead of the other passengers.”

“Oh, no, please don’t.” She disliked being given any special treatment when on a SunSouth flight.

The young woman smiled. “Sorry, orders from the cockpit.”

“Why?”

“The tower informed the pilot that you were being met immediately upon arrival.”

“Met? By whom?”

The attendant lowered her voice to a whisper. “Maybe by that handsome husband of yours. I remember that time on your birthday when he set up a string orchestra in baggage claim. Such a romantic surprise. Anyway, you’re to obey captain’s orders and disembark first.”

She hoped that Foster didn’t have an elaborate homecoming planned for her tonight. It had been an exhausting day, starting early and ending much later than it should have. All she wanted to do was go home, take a quick shower, and then have a long night’s sleep.

The pilots made a perfect landing, right on time. She made a mental note to report that to Foster.

After a short taxi to the gate, a flight attendant got on the PA and asked the other passengers to remain seated. Laura felt self-conscious as she was ushered up the aisle. She smiled an apology to passengers with whom she made eye contact.

When she reached the cockpit door, the captain was standing there. He doffed the bill of his hat. “Mrs. Speakman.”

“Flawless flight, Captain Morris,” she said, reading his name tag with peripheral vision, a knack she’d developed over the years.

“Thank you.”

But his expression was grave, and because he didn’t engage her in conversation, she felt a prickle of apprehension. “Is something the matter?”

“Please.” He gestured toward the open aircraft door. She stepped into the Jetway and was surprised that the pilot accompanied her. Even more surprising, he placed his hand beneath her elbow. Before she could react to that, she noticed two men coming toward them.

They were wearing the dress uniforms of senior police officers. Upon seeing her, they respectfully removed their hats.

Her footsteps faltered. The pilot’s hand tightened around her elbow.

“What’s happened?” The words came out drily, scratchily, barely audible. Then she cried out, “What’s happened?”

The homicide detective stared down at the corpse and blew out a gust of air. “Jesus Christ.”

His partner, a man of few words, grunted assent.

A member of the Crime Scene Response team, who for the past hour had been collecting evidence, agreed with a sad shake of his head. “Bad, huh? Bad as I’ve ever seen. Maybe not as gruesome as some murders, but…well, only a real cold-blooded bastard could do this.”

“Or a real hot-blooded one,” the first detective remarked.

“Crime of passion, you think?”

“Maybe. Whatever, the son of a bitch deserves to get the needle.”

His partner harrumphed again.

“Excuse me, Detectives?” A uniformed officer appeared in the open double doors of the library. “You said to let you know as soon as Mrs. Speakman got here. They’re taking her into the living room now. That way.” He motioned in the general direction.