James Patterson - Honeymoon

It got only worse inside.

Vinyl flooring throughout. Faux black leather armchair and a love seat that probably hadn’t seen much love. If running water and electricity constitute an “updated kitchen,” then, by golly, that’s what I had. Otherwise, I doubt that yellow Formica countertops were somehow the rage again.

At least the beer was cold.

I put down the pizza and grabbed one out of the fridge before plopping down on the lumpy couch in the middle of my “spacious living room.” It’s a good thing I don’t suffer from claustrophobia.

I picked up the phone and dialed. I had no doubt that Susan was still in her office.

“Did she follow you?” she asked right off the bat.

“All day long,” I said.

“Did she see you go inside the apartment?”

“Yep.”

“Is she still outside?”

I gave her an exaggerated yawn. “Does that mean I actually have to get off the couch and look?”

“Of course not,” she said. “Take the couch with you.”

I smiled to myself. I’ve always loved a woman who can give as good as she gets.

The window next to the couch had a ratty old roller shade that was drawn all the way. Carefully, I pulled back one of the edges and sneaked a peek.

“Hmmm,” I muttered.

“What is it?”

Nora had parked about a block down the street. Her car was gone.

“I guess she’d seen enough,” I said.

“That’s good. She believes you.”

“You know, I think she still would’ve believed me if I had a decent apartment. Maybe something in Chappaqua?”

“Is someone complaining?”

“It’s more like an observation.”

“You don’t get it. This way she thinks she’s got something on you,” said Susan. “Dressing and driving beyond your means makes you more human.”

“Whatever happened to just being nice?”

“Nora comes across as nice, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah. Actually, she does.”

“I rest my case.”

“Did I mention the yellow Formica countertops?”

“C’mon, the place can’t be that bad,” Susan said.

“Easy for you to say. You don’t have to live here.”

“It’s only temporary.”

“My saving grace. Hell, that’s probably the real reason for this apartment,” I said. “It’ll make me work faster.”

“The thought did cross my mind.”

“You don’t miss a trick, do you?”

“Not if I can help it,” she shot back. “Seriously, though, good work today.”

“Thank you.”

Susan gave me an end-of-the-day sigh. “Okay, it’s official. Nora Sinclair has gone backstage on Craig Reynolds. Now what?”

“That’s easy,” I said. “Now it’s my turn.”

Chapter 38

THERE WAS ONLY one empty seat in the first-class cabin. Under normal circumstances, Nora would’ve regretted that it wasn’t the one next to her. Then again, normally she didn’t have such a cute guy sharing the same armrest. From the side, he kind of looked like Brad Pitt, only with no wedding ring on his finger, no Jennifer on his arm.

During takeoff Nora—sans her own wedding ring—checked out her window-seat companion with a furtive glance. She was pretty sure he was doing the same with her. Of course he is. What man wouldn’t? When the captain turned off the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign, she knew the guy was ready to make a move.

“I’m a stacker myself,” he said.

She turned with the coy pretense of just now realizing she wasn’t alone. “Excuse me?”

“On the coffee table there.” He smiled broadly and nodded at the Architectural Digest open in her lap. On the right-hand page was a picture of a spacious living room.

“See how the magazines are spread out?” he said. “Fact is, there are only two types of people in this world… stackers and spreaders. So which one are you?”

Nora stared him right in the eye, unblinking. As conversation starters went, she had to give him a few points for originality. “Well, that depends. Who wants to know?”

“You’re absolutely right,” he said with an easy laugh. “You shouldn’t reveal such personal information to a complete stranger. My name’s Brian Stewart.”

“Nora Sinclair.”

He presented his hand, strong-looking, nicely manicured, and they shook.

“Now that we know each other, Nora, I believe you owe me an answer.”

“In that case, you’ll be pleased to know I’m a stacker.”

“Knew it.”

“Oh, did you?”

“Yep.” He leaned in slightly, but not too much. “You come across as very put together.”

“That’s a compliment?”

“For me, it is.”

She smiled. Maybe the real Brad Pitt was better looking, but Brian Stewart certainly was charming. Reason enough to keep the conversation going for a while.

“Tell me, Brian, what’s waiting for you in Boston today?”

“A dozen venture capitalists. And a pen.”

“Sounds promising. I take it the pen is for your signature.”

“Something like that.”

Nora was expecting him to elaborate, but he didn’t. She grinned. “To think I revealed myself as a stacker, only to have you turn bashful on me.”

He shifted in his window seat, clearly amused. “For the second time, you’re absolutely right. Okay, last year I sold my software company. This afternoon I’m about to launch my new one. Bor-ing.”

“I don’t think so. Anyway, congratulations! And those venture capitalists—they’re investing in you? ”

“The way I see it, why put up your own money when others are willing to put up theirs?”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“Now what about you, Nora? What’s waiting for you up in Boston today?”

“A client,” she said. “I’m an interior decorator.”

He nodded. “Is your client’s home in the city?”

“It is. Except that’s not the one I’m decorating. He recently built a villa down in the Cayman Islands.”

“Beautiful place.”

“I’ve yet to go myself. But I will shortly.” Nora opened her mouth as if to say something else. She stopped.

“What were you going to say?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes. “It’s silly, really.”

“Go ahead, try me.”

“It’s just that when I mentioned this client to one of my girlfriends, she said the reason he was building down in the Caymans was probably so he could keep his eye on the money he was hiding from the IRS there.” She shook her head with a convincing naïveté. “I mean, I don’t want to get mixed up in anything I shouldn’t be.”

Brian Stewart smiled with a knowing look. “It’s really not as sinister as you may think. You’d be surprised at how many people have offshore accounts.”

“Really?”

He leaned in closer, his face inches from hers. “Guilty as charged,” he whispered. He picked up his champagne glass. “We’ll make that our secret, okay?”

Nora picked up her glass, and the two of them clinked. Brian Stewart was shaping up to be someone she might want to get to know better.

“To secrets,” she said.

“To stackers,” he said.

Chapter 39

“WHAT CAN I GET for you?” she asked.

I looked up at the flight attendant—tired, bored to tears, trying to be nice anyway. She and her drink cart had finally made it back to me. “I’ll have a Diet Coke,” I said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I ran out of those about ten rows ago.”

“How about ginger ale?”

Her eyes darted around the open cans on top of the cart. “Hmmm,” she muttered. She bent down and began pulling out one drawer after another. “I’m sorry, no ginger ale, either.”

“Why don’t we try this the other way around,” I said with a forced smile. “What do you have left?”