Twenty-seven

Sally let herself into the house through the kitchens. Everything was in darkness. She’d stayed at the hotel until night finally fell, then hailed a cab in the street and told the driver to drop her a block away from the house.

She didn’t want to see or talk to anyone.

After Cyrus left her at Maison de Ville, she’d cried. Why hadn’t she seen him for what he was before it was too late, and the Church had him. If she’d married Cyrus rather than Wilson, her life would have been different—better.

The book Cyrus had left with her was in her purse. She’d read it at the hotel, but it hadn’t made her laugh the way he’d promised. The Screwtape Letters. Letters from a lesser devil on the subject of winning humans. Maybe she’d laugh if she didn’t see herself in every weakness written about in those pages.

Tomorrow they’d talk about it and he’d make her feel better about herself.

When she reached the vestibule she made no attempt to stop in at any of the main-floor rooms. She wanted to sleep again.

“Took your time gettin’ home, didn’t you, sweetheart?”

At the sound of Wilson’s voice, Sally jumped and spun around. “You’re supposed to be at a meetin’, aren’t you?”

He lounged against the wall just outside his study. “Over a long time ago. And where was the lovely wife who was supposed to be at my side?”

She didn’t want a fight. “I’m tired, Wilson.”

“I asked you a question.” He straightened. “Where have you been?”

He had no right to order her about or to demand. “I’ve been out.” She took the black scarf off her head and looked straight into his face. “I need more time to myself. I’m sick of meetings, and smilin’ at people I don’t like, and being nice to people who twitter at me, then talk about me behind my back. It’s shallow. I’m about fed up to the teeth with shallow people, and shallow talk, and selfishness.”

Wilson sauntered toward her. “Why, that was quite a speech. I didn’t realize you knew that many words. You’d better be careful. If too many people hear you going on like that, they’ll start thinkin’ you’re not just a pretty face.”

“Good night, Wilson.”

“You’re not going anywhere until I tell you I’m through talkin’.”

“I am not your dog,” she told him. “Do you understand me?”

“Why are you wearin’ that ugly thing? You look like an Italian grandmother in mournin’.”

She smiled sweetly. “I wonder what some of your constituents would think if they knew you’ve got a nasty comment to make about every ethnic group on the planet.

“As long as I’m not with the group in question, what I say about them can only serve me well. My motto, beloved, is ‘Know thine enemies and scorn them when they’re not around.’ In other words, I’m a consummate politician—in all things. And don’t you just love me for it?”

“I hate you for it.” She stopped with her mouth still partly open. Those were words she’d thought often enough, but never intended to say aloud.

Wilson’s smile evaporated. He narrowed his eyes and closed in on her. “Finally you tell the truth. People have suggested that you aren’t the faithful, supportive little wife you pretend

to be, but I’ve always defended you. I’ve been a fool. Get in my study.”

She turned away from him and said, “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“We’ll talk tonight,” he told her. He strode beside her and took hold of her hand. “We’ve got a few things to get straight.”

Sally had to run to keep up with him. He rushed her into his study and shut the door.

“Don’t manhandle me, Wilson. You forget, bruises show, and you can’t afford to have people wondering why the little wife looks as if she’s been beaten up.”

“I’m not into beating women,” he told het. “But if I were, there are plenty of places that don’t show.”

She sat down, but wouldn’t let herself look away from him.

“What were you doing at the Hôtel Maison de Ville?”

The breath she took choked her, and she coughed. She kept on coughing and got up to get some water from a carafe. Drinking gave her a chance to regroup.

“Well?” Wilson said.

Clearing her throat, she wiped at her tearing eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ll make it plainer. Why did you meet Cyrus Payne, Father Cyrus Payne, at a hotel?”

She shook her head.

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing.”

“You always had a soft spot for him. You wanted him when you were a kid. You were always oversexed. I haven’t forgotten what you did to him at the prom. He’d die if he knew you told me about that.”

“I doubt it.”

Wilson fastened a hand on her arm and swept her against him. “I guess you figured the poor, frustrated father would be ripe for you to pick, huh? How was it? Was it the ultimate kick for you—fucking a priest?”

“Stop it.” With every shred of strength she possessed, Sally fought to free herself. “You wouldn’t know a good man if he saved your life. You are the most selfish creature I ever met. And you’re sick to say a thing like that about Cyrus.”

“Oh, Cyrus, is it? Cyrus, Cyrus. Did he come like a Roman candle? Get it? Roman candle?” He guffawed.

Sally averted her face.

Wilson shook her. “Nothing gets away from me. Nothing that belongs to me, not unless I decide to make a gift of it. I haven’t started giving to the Church that I can remember.”

“You’re wrong,” she told him. “There’s nothing like that.”

“Behave. Do you understand? Behave, or you’ll suffer. Now, tell me everything that was said.”

“It was private,” she told him defiantly. “You knew I was going to seek his counsel. His spiritual counsel.”

“Oh, right.” Wilson closed his eyes and tipped his head up to the ceiling. “Spiritual counsel. That’s the first time I’ve heard adultery called that.”

Arguing with him was pointless.

“What did he say about Celina?”

She stiffened. Now they were getting to what was really on his mind. He didn’t give a damn what she did—he only wanted to know if his beloved Celina had been mentioned. “We didn’t talk about Celina.”

“Liar. What did you say about Celina? Did you tell him I think she’d make a great aide.”

“Aide?” Sally said. “Unfortunately that isn’t the first time I’ve heard a mistress called that.”

He slapped her across the face so hard, her neck hurt. She put her hands over her eyes and willed herself not to cry.

A light tap sounded at the door. Wilson gave her a shove into a chair and said, “Come in.”

It was Ben who entered. Sally saw him glance at her, and the sneer that lifted a corner of his mouth. He went directly to Wilson and murmured something in his ear.

“You don’t have to whisper in front of me,” she said loudly, too loudly.

Wilson gave Ben his entire attention and whispered back. Ben nodded and Wilson followed him from the room, pausing only to point at Sally and say, “Stay.”

“I always knew we should have bought you a doggie,” she said, but only felt more out of control.

As soon as the two men had left, she got up and went swiftly to the door. Opening it a fraction, she peered out. Wilson’s back was to her, but he held out his hands in welcome to those two horrible preacher people who’d crashed the party the other night.

Ben stood diffidently aside, his hands behind his back. She became increasingly convinced that there was something she didn’t know about him. If she could only find out, she’d use it to get rid of him.

“You owe us,” the preacher said. “You said if we did what you wanted, we’d never go short of a thing.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Reed,” Wilson said in his best win-’em-over voice. “Come into the living room and have a drink.”

“We don’t drink,” Mrs. Reed said, drawing up her bosom inside a very ugly brown dress. “Liquor is the devil’s tool.”

“Come on and let me make you comfortable,” Wilson said, unsinkable as ever. “I insist.” He strode to throw open the living room door. He held it open until the Reeds, with obvious reluctance, did as he asked.

Before he closed the door, Wilson looked back at Ben and grimaced. He inclined his head and Ben nodded.

Sally closed the door again, very carefully, and hurried to resume her place in the chair.

After several minutes she decided Wilson hadn’t done as she feared and sent Ben to guard her. She relaxed. Tomorrow she would ask Cyrus to help her figure out what to do. The difficult part would be to avoid telling him more than he needed to know. More than she wanted to burden him with.

The phone on Wilson’s desk rang. Once only. A button remained alight on his intercom panel. The call had been answered elsewhere.

Sally knitted her brow. Wilson wouldn’t answer a personal call in front of strangers, especially strangers like the Reeds, whom he clearly detested. There was only one other phone that rang on this line—the cordless in their bedroom.

She got up and went to open the door again.

At first she saw nothing through the crack. Then Opi came downstairs with the cordless phone from the bedroom Sally shared with Wilson. The chubby little man who ran the household went directly to the living room and knocked. Wilson appeared and took the phone. He gestured for Opi to close the Reeds in, which he did.

In a low voice Wilson said, “Neville? Good news, I hope?” He folded one arm on top of the other and paced, his heels clicking on the marble tile in the foyer. “Too bad. Why did you call if you don’t have news? I told you I’ll take care of you, and I will, if you get me what I want. Your time is running out. I’ve got my ducks in a row. So far you haven’t managed to pull off one thing we agreed to. If I have to do everything myself—including clean up your mess—then I’ll consider any debt to you paid. Do we understand each other?”

Sally opened the door slightly wider. What could Wilson be talking to Neville Payne about?

A large hand effectively covered her nose and mouth. Another large hand gently closed the door.

Ben Angel removed his hand from her face and swung her around. He smiled with his mouth. His blue eyes were...evil. “I promised you surprises,” he said, shaking his head. “I haven’t been keeping my promises very well so far.”

“I’m going to scream,” she told him.

His smile broadened. “And risk having Wilson find out that you’re an alley cat who can’t keep her claws off any available meat? Hush, chère, and let Ben give you a little surprise, him. Yes? Come with me.” He lifted her, then tipped her over his shoulder to carry her.

Wilson had spent a fortune converting what had once been a spacious buttery between a sitting room and the dining room into his own private bathroom. Ben took her inside and set her down on black granite tiles.

“You had pictures taken of us, didn’t you?” she said, winded. “Didn’t you?”

“I know nothin’ about no photos, me,” he told her.

“In the gazebo. You know what I’m talking about. Why did you do that? As if I didn’t know you intend to blackmail me with them.”

“You’re tired,” he told her. “I see it. And I see you need to relax and have some fun. The kind of fun you like, huh?” He took off his coat, undid his tie, and slipped it from beneath his collar.

“No,” Sally said. “I don’t want to.”

“But of course you do. Take off that bad dress, chère. I got a good surprise for you, me.”

She tried to get around him.

He laughed and caught her, closed the door at the same time, and locked it. Holding her arm, he went to the shower and turned it on. “Steam is good, yes? I like steam too. Just like you.”

She opened her mouth, but he covered it with his own, and when he raised his head again she could scarcely breathe.

“Scream,” he told her. “No sound comes from in here. You didn’t know? Mr. Lamar tells me. He sometimes needs a place to be. A place where he can do what he want. A politician needs this. So much public life. You understand?”

“Let me go,” she whispered, staring around the room.

He continued removing his clothes.

“I want to go upstairs, please, Ben.”

“You don’t know what you want. But you will when you get it. Afterward you won’t feel like spying on your poor husband anymore. You’ll be too tired, you.”

She started to protest again, but stopped when he peeled off the last of his clothing.

The man’s grin was self-satisfied. “Now,” he said. “We have a nice shower.”