Cupid (9 page)

L
unch on Ovid Island
was as much an affair as dinner. If you belonged to the right crowd that is.

Diana took her spot beneath a creamy white umbrella, the frosted glass table set with matching daises, plates and linens. The waiter asked her what she would like to drink.

“I think I’ll take a lemonade,” she said, speaking lightly. The day before had been long and tiresome and though she’d done well to tire herself out with pleasure, a weary sensation dragged her down and kept her movements a bit sluggish most of the day.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t get a coffee instead?” a deep voice sounded behind her.

There was no need to look back. She knew who it was, had imagined that voice in her ears all night. “No, I don’t need coffee. I’m quite sure about that.”

Asher came around to the front of the table and took a seat across from her. “You look like hell, Diana. I take it you didn’t sleep well?”

“I slept well enough. And you, sir, are no gentleman. Haven’t you learned how rude it is to comment on a woman’s ragged appearance?” She pushed a tendril of hair in front of her face, that had been blowing in the breeze away from her face.

He smiled, though it was a bit forced. Much too put upon. “You’re incredibly feisty, do you know that?”

“Of course I do.”

“I figured as much.” He gestured to the waiter, and ordered a gin and tonic much to her surprise.

Meeting Asher in the daytime, outside of her work environment was different than meeting him at night. Diana couldn’t explain it, but it was almost as if he was reserved, docile, uptight during the day, while he let his guard down at night. She supposed that was the way for many, but she had neither the energy nor desire to change herself so rapidly. She was who she was—no matter what the time of day.

“You sure start early.”

He waved her off. “It’s never too early for libations, Diana. Now, tell me, how are you doing?”

Libations? Really?

“I’m. . .fine,” she said.

“Ah. Hesitation. Tell me what’s bothering you?”

How had he caught that? Was she that transparent? So see-through that this stranger, this man, could see right through her?

“It’s nothing, really. My mind playing tricks on me. It’s just. . .I swear there was someone in my condo last night.”

“You
think
there was or you
know
there was?” Asher leaned forward.

“Well I didn’t exactly see anyone in my house. I heard something, like footsteps. And then when I went to bed, I thought I saw someone on my balcony.”

The minute it crossed her lips, Diana laughed. “Shit. I’m losing it. This sounds so silly.”

He reached his hand across the table and covered hers. “You
might
be losing it, but there
is
a murderer on the loose. Someone who knows who you are and what you do. This, Cupid, as you call him or her, might be aware that you’re close to the truth. If your article caught my attention, why wouldn’t it catch his? I don’t think it’s wise for you to be alone.”

She laughed then, at the seriousness in his tone. The way his eyes commanded every ounce of her attention. “Oh, Mr. Bishop. Don’t be so dramatic. You don’t have to be polite and make up excuses for me. I know what falling off the rocker looks like.”

He clenched his hand around hers. “First, it’s Asher, not Mr. Bishop. I’m not fifty. Second, I’m not being dramatic. You’re a walking target and don’t seem the least bit concerned about it.”

Diana pulled her hand out from underneath this. “Well,
Asher,
I’ve been around the block before. This isn’t the first monster I’ve investigated.”

“He’s not a monster,” Asher blurted out.

“What?”

“There’s a difference. There are serial killers, and there are monsters. Some might be both, but just because a man is one, doesn’t mean he’s the other.”

“Whether monster or just plain old serial killer, I’m not scared of Cupid, whoever he or she may be. It’s obvious that the motive behind those kills are men hurting women and women hurting women. I’m not hurting anyone.”

Asher rolled his eyes. “What’s to say the motive can’t switch to self-preservation? Who says Cupid won’t kill you just to keep his identity quiet?”

“You did.” She shrugged. “You just made a valid claim that Cupid isn’t a monster.”

“And what if I’m wrong? Do you need an arrow in your chest to think you might be in danger?”

Asher had a good point. But Diana Carson didn't run away in fear. No one, murderer or not, would push her out of her home, her job, or Ovid Island.

"Cupid is not after me. I truly believe that. I have nothing to worry about."

Asher gave her a look, part condescension, part concern. "As much as I'd like to believe you, I don't. Things are going to have to change. Are you ready for that?”

“Excuse me?” She sipped at her drink.

“You'll be moving into one of my spare bedrooms."

Diana spat out her lemonade. "You're kidding, right?"

His expression remained serious. "No, I'm not."

"Mr. Bishop. I mean, Asher, I'm not moving in with you. I'm sorry."

The corners of his mouth tugged a little until a smile broke out. "Yes, you are."

Diana's fingers clenched into fists.

What the hell was wrong with this guy? He’s crazy!

"Listen. I understand that you're concerned, and I appreciate it. I really do. But I'm a big girl. I don't need you, or any other man for that matter, to take care of me. I'm more than capable of handling myself."

"It's not a question, Diana. You are now an investment. The minute you agreed to our deal, I wired two million dollars into your Ovid Mutual bank account. It's sweet that you think I'm worried about you, and I am, but I'm more concerned with getting my money's worth."

Diana was speechless. Never had she been shut down with such intensity and command before. And who just dropped that amount of money for an investigation.

She needed to know more about this man, and how he would benefit from the capture of Cupid.

"I think that you’ve lost your mind," she said.

"Don't argue. It's useless. Just think about the advantages, Diana. Top of the line cuisine, room service if you wish, helicopter rides where ever your heart desires, and a beautiful lavish room as well as the best part, my company."

“Asher, I’m a grown woman who’s taken care of herself for many years, way before I met my husband. I’ve reported news in the Middle East for gods-sake. I was in L.A. for some crazy gang shootings. I’m pretty good at protecting myself, and even more important, you will not boss me around.”

He leaned her way and targeted her with his gaze. “Just say yes, Mrs. Diana Stubborn-Head Carson. Just say yes, before all of this gets messy.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have many friends on this island that could make life difficult for you.” He formed his lips into a slick grin. “The cops could deem the entire house as evidence and close it off for further use—”

“They opened the area already.”

“I have friends—police that can bar you from your own property and lawyers that can tie you up in obligations to me.” He leaned back, grabbed his napkin, unfolded it, and placed it on his lap. “I’m also pretty creative. Your boss could be included in this. Not to mention I have nothing but time on my hands. I could simply follow you around every minute of the day.”

She crossed her arms and smirked. “You forget that I have a friend on the police force, too. I could get a restraining order.”

“I have too many friends for that. Didn’t I already say that?”

“Are you bribing Captain Rothschild?”

“I think the more important question is, who isn’t bribing Captain Rothschild?”

“Not me.”

“Which is why, you’ll be forced to stay with me whether you want to or not.”

“Listen. Most women would hear all of these things, jump up from the table, and race away from you.”

“You’re not most women.” He took a sip of his water. “You understand that no matter how ridiculous or overboard and creepy my earlier threats sound, the probability of me doing them are pretty high.”

She raised her eyebrows. “How would I know that?”

“Because you’re smart, and you know I’m invested in your well-being and working on this investigation.” He shrugged. “You know I’m scared, and there’s nothing in the world like a scared rich man. He’d surpass any limits to save his own mortality.”

"So what you’re telling me is that you're not going to let me say no about staying with you for a few days? Are you?"

Asher smiled, his dimples taunting her.

Diana’s heart did something weird then. A little flip-flop.

Oh get ahold of yourself, Diana.

"Mrs. Carson, I advise that you go home, pack up what you deem valuable, and be ready by seven o'clock this evening to be picked up by my driver. I'll have your room ready by then."

Diana couldn't believe it. What had her life become in the last few days? It was almost as if she were living in a movie. A strange movie where she couldn't figure out what would be happening next.

“You’re exhausted.” Asher pointed at her. “I’m well-rested. Say yes, now. Or we could go back and forth with this for the rest of the day.”

“Asher—”

“Just say yes.”

“But—”

“I won’t let this go. Other things, sure. But not your safety, especially when it deals with my money. Just say, yes, for a few days. Think of it as a vacation, a long one.”

“A short one.”

“We can discuss the length of stay later.”

“Or right now.”

He rose from the table. “I’m sorry. I don’t have the time to go over that. I suddenly realized that I have a lovely guest coming through.”

“It will only be a few days at the most.”

Asher stood up, and then flattened out his shirt and suit jacket. "See you tonight, Diana."

What just happened?

She said nothing and couldn't get up for several minutes afterwards. His scent and presence lingered after his departure. And for the tiniest of seconds, she thought she felt the same electric waves of air she'd felt in the kitchen the night her husband was murdered, and even the moment she’d been in the shower.

I should get this checked out with a doctor.
Maybe I have cancer. Or a tumor. Or maybe I’m just fucking crazy.

Diana was the type of woman who trusted her gut implicitly. Even when she ignored it, it had never been wrong. And Diana's gut was bursting, whirling, and beeping out warning signs.

I’m going to stay with Asher Bishop for a few days. This is either going to be a giant disaster or a beautiful mistake.

Diana hoped for the latter.

B
ooks crowded Asher’s mansion
. They toppled his library and stacked the desk in his office. Nonfiction filled most of the shelves, although he indulged in many horror classics—Mary Shelly’s
Frankenstein
to Stephen King’s
It
, collections of Lovecraft to leather-bound editions of Edgar Allan Poe.

Asher read more than he slept or did anything else. He consumed words, did his best to memorize all the lines and statements on every page. Knowledge lived within books. It slept along the creases of tattered spines.

In medical journals, doctors presented ways to slice veins so precise, that no blood would spurt out and make a mess. Textbooks on social behavior, from psychology to marketing, taught the human mind’s triggers and how they could easily be influenced.

And so he read, for years and many nights, in between the times he could satisfy his hunger for death. Books helped him cope with the thirst for blood.

Reading eased the dull ache in his skull when his mind drifted to his mother and her lovers… when he remembered the price he’d paid to save her.

That night he sat in his library and absorbed a book on the twelve steps to intimacy.

Diana had changed the level of the game on their first date. She was too smart to be easily impressed. He had to call in reinforcements. Everything rested on keeping control of her. She’d gotten a whiff of clues and witnesses in just one day and surpassed all the police’s efforts to figure out the murders.

If she wasn’t so beautiful, I probably would’ve thought she was dangerous.

In that moment, he realized he was falling into the same rabbit hole so many others had done before him. She was beautiful, yes, but she was fucking smart. So smart, she made men like Asher forget how distracted they could be around her.

There was hot lust that barreled in his chest, every time she came around him. He had to crush the urge in him to fuck her. He had to make her his between the sheets, just for a few nights. Nothing more. Just sex, and a taste, here or there.

He flipped a page and continued to read.

“And what is this?” His mother sashayed into the library and carried a martini with her.

She looked like she’d just stepped off of a soap opera set, one with big drama and wealthy characters. For hours, she would shut the world out, sip a glass of something wicked, and stare at the television. Asher never bothered her when she had them on, and never wanted to deal with her cursing and yelling because of it.

“Did you hear me?” She took her time sitting down across from him and sipped her martini.

“I’m reading about the twelve steps of intimacy.”

“Why?”

He didn’t even look up. “A behavioral scientist named Dr. Morris studied several couples and wondered why some stayed together while others divorced.”

“This is not answering my question of why you’re reading the book.”

“I’m getting to that.” He flipped another page. “So Dr. Morris studied hundreds of these couples and discovered that the successful, happy relationships had similar progressions of intimacy. They left a sufficient amount of time to advance to each stage. He theorized that with each slow progression in stages, it gave the couple a stronger bond.”

“And the couples that rushed through all of these stages didn’t develop anything?”

“They developed relationships, but their bonds weren’t strong, and most usually divorced.”

She set her glass on the table. “But why are you reading this?”

“It’s interesting.”

“Well,” His mother crossed her legs. “I have another question.”

He glanced up at her. “Are you going to let me read, Mother?”

“No.”

“Then by all means, go ahead.”

“Why are you sending me off to Paris for a month?”

He let out a long breath and returned his attention to the book. “I thought you liked Paris.”

“I do.”

“I’m giving you my plane and personal pilot. You’ll have no limit in expenses. What is the problem?”

She frowned. “This sounds too good to be true. That’s what the problem is, Asher.”

“You’ve been stressed. I thought that you deserved a nice vacation.”

“Is there anything else going on?”

He closed the book, kept it to his chest, stood up, and headed out of the library. “Goodnight, Mother.”

“Why are they cleaning the west wing?”

“They? Who mother?”

“The staff, of course. They’re dusting, vacuuming, and all types of things in the west wing of our home.”

“They’re cleaning that side for you. It’ll be a nice interior design project for you when you get back. I’m hoping to have you work on renovations in that area, after Paris.” He paused in the doorway and looked over his shoulder.

“You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie?”

“Is someone going to stay here?”

“Why would anyone stay here, Mother?”

“Do not talk to me like I’m crazy.”

“I would never do such a thing.”

“Why do you want me in Paris?”

“To shop, of course.” He gave a fake yawn and backed away. “Maybe you can focus on finding interesting furniture and art out in Paris. Feel free to have fun. Grab several things. Be bold with your purchases.” He grinned. “Put a nasty dent into our credit cards.”

She frowned. “You’re hiding something.”

“There’s nothing to hide, Mother.”

She spat the next words out with sheer annoyance. “Don’t mother me.”

“Calm down.”

“There better not be anything going on under my nose.”

And with that, his patience withered away into aggravation. He grinned and targeted her with a scary gaze. “Or what? I better not have anything going on under your nose, or what?”

She glared at him, and he kept a neutral mask on his face. The times of her bossing him around had ceased after he killed the third husband. In those years, she’d taught him one important thing.

Death solved problems.

When he was a boy, she could shrill out a demand and he’d fall in line. But, he’d grown, and learned how to take a life and get over it with ease.

With her fourth husband, she’d seen the cruelty that Asher could execute. By then he was a teenager, he’d captured the old man’s neck with his bare hands, looked into his eyes, and watched the oxygen leave his body. His mother had asked him to kill her husband. She’s claimed he raped her. But in the end, there was never any proof.

But by then, Asher no longer cared, when it came to murdering her husbands.

“Asher!” his mother yelled. “Are you paying attention to what I’m saying?”

He stared at his mother. “I am.”

“No, you’re not.” She uncrossed her legs as if readying herself to jump up and attack him as she always loved to do.

I wonder if that old man ever raped Mother or if she just used it as an excuse for me to kill him. I wouldn’t put it past her.

His mother flung her wine glass at him. He didn’t flinch or move. Instantly, the glass shattered against the wall, right next to him. Pieces fell down to the library’s floor.

Still, he didn’t move, couldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing that she’d startled him. “Was that necessary, Mother?”

“You’re ignoring me.”

“I have a lot on my mind.”

“Like what?”

“Business stuff.”

“Elaborate.”

For some reason, Asher couldn’t get that fourth husband’s image out of his face. “Remember, Mr. Anderson?”

She parted her lips and for a while remained silent, until finally saying, “My ex-husband?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you bringing him up?”

“Did he ever really rape you?”

“Why the hell would you bring that up right now?” With shaking hands, she reached for her martini glass, realized she’d flung it, and then simply hit the table with her fists. “And why would I lie about something like that?”

“You wanted me to kill him.”

“W-why would I make up a lie for you to kill someone? Asher, you have to stop blaming me for your own guilt. Enough is enough. You have all this guilt inside of you for no reason—”

He gritted his teeth. “We murdered men. That’s why I have all this guilt inside of me.”

“We murdered monsters.”

“Did we?”

“Yes!”

“The only monster I remember was Dad. The rest,” he shook his head, “I’m not so sure they were bad men after all.”

“Hush!” She looked around the room as if someone might have bugged it. “We defended ourselves. That is it. Nothing more. These men hurt me and you saved your mommy. That is it. This conversation is over.”

“They
all
hurt you?”

“Yes,” she said through clenched teeth. “We’ve discussed this before.”

“Did they all hurt you!? All five men?”

She jumped up. “Don’t yell at me!”

He inched back and did his best to calm himself down. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

She pointed to him. “You’re not to kill anyone while I’m gone.”

“I didn’t have any plans to.”

“No one dies, Asher. Do you understand me?”

“Goodnight, Mother. Enjoy Paris.” He turned around and headed up the spiral stairs.

“And let the past stay in the past!” she called after him.

Each time his mother had asked him to kill her husband, she had a complex story that involved the man doing something horrible to her—rape, abuse, threats to hurt her son. Stories and blurry evidence filled Asher’s childhood. She’d whisper their transgressions into his ears right before bedtime, tell him how horrible life was and how it would be so much better if that current husband was dead. Due to this, Asher never got too close to his step dads and did his best to stay away from them.

He didn’t like to kill friends, and in the end, he always had to murder them.

Let the past stay in the past? That’s easier for you to say, Mother. You don’t have the guilt eating away at your insides. Did all of those men really hurt you, or did you just have me killing them for their money? Or did you get as hungry for death as I did?

Asher knew that only one of his mother’s husbands had been truly guilty. His father. He’d seen his father beat his mother night after night.
At eight years old, all he could do was hide under his bed with his teddy bear.

Each time the angry man slapped her, she’d yell out for Asher. “Son, save me from your father!”

Under the bed, he’d cry like the little boy he was, not really knowing what he could do to save her. By the next morning, he’d wake up to her sleeping under his bed with him. Some nights they slept that way, under his bed and far away from the bad man that was his father.

The last time they slept under his bed, she faced him. Bruises covered her cheeks. Her left eye had been shut tight and coated with grayish-blue flesh.

Their father wasn’t letting them out of his bedroom anymore and declared that both mother and child needed to learn an important lesson.

Monster.

“Mommy, I’m scared.”

“I know, baby.” Tears streamed down her battered face. “If he knocks me down to the floor again, you get the knife and slam it into his back as hard as you can.”

Asher held his teddy bear tighter.

“He’ll have the door open. You’ll be able to run to the kitchen and get a sharp knife like the ones that mommy cuts the steak with.”

Asher bobbed his head.

“You’re the man of the house now.” More tears came. “He’s a monster. We have to kill the monster, Asher.”

“Yes, mommy.”

“Don’t think about it. The monster needs the knife to go to heaven. He’ll be nicer there.”

Asher searched her face, not really understanding what she was saying, just hoping that he could really save his mommy.

And that was what he’d done.

That night, his father hovered over his mother, choking her as she flailed her arms out and hit the floor over and over to get free of his grip.

Eight year old Asher rushed to the kitchen, grabbed the knife, raced to his daddy, and slammed the sharp point into his father’s back. Blood pooled along the hole. His father screamed and fell to the side, trying to grasp for the thing in his back, but he couldn’t.

His mother ran into the kitchen, stumbling every few steps. She came back with a butcher knife.

And Asher didn’t have to do anymore.

He just wrapped his arms around his teddy bear, stepped back into the shadows, and watched as his mother hacked away at his father and blood spray covered him, the walls, his teddy bear.

He’d saved his mommy at eight.

He’d sent the monster to heaven.

But the monsters never stopped coming. His mother married and married again. Each time, she found fault with the guy and needed Asher to save her. Each marriage, the man was richer and richer. By the fourth husband, he didn’t care if the guy was a monster or not, he’d been too hungry to kill him the whole time they lived together anyway.

It seemed that Asher had discovered a certain taste for death and the color red.

“Mr. Bishop.” Grace headed down the stairs right as he was climbing them toward his bedroom.

“Grace, how are you doing this evening?”

“Fine, Mr. Bishop.” For some reason, her face appeared strained or tense. “I just had a few questions, sir.”

He stopped on the stairs and tucked the book under his arm. “Go ahead.”

“You want us to prepare the house for a guest? And I’m to add a place setting and provide grander meals? I’m sorry. I’m just relaying the instructions that I received from the house manager this morning.”

“Yes. I had a meeting with house management. We will have a guest for a while.”

“We will?” Grace formed her lips into a straight line.

“Yes. What’s wrong?”

Grace tucked a braid behind her ear. “And. . .will this be a
real
guest or a. . .”

“As opposed to a make-believe guest?” He raised his eyebrows and wondered if Grace had started to doing hard drugs. From time to time, he’d caught a whiff of a smoky aroma from her shirt, but wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or the scent of marijuana.