"That was still a long time ago. You'll never
be back on the streets, Clary. That's behind you. You've made it.
You can't go back. You've got to forget the.....alley.
Okay?"
As soon as he said it he regretted it. He
could see the fear in her eyes, the sudden tenseness in her
shoulders. He wanted to hold her like he had done all those years
ago. He put his hand over hers and smiled at her in the
mirror.
"I'm sorry, Clary. I didn't mean to bring that
up."
"I still have the nightmare sometimes. I can
still see their faces, feel their hands..."
He squeezed her hand, wanting to do more but
not knowing exactly what.
"I saved you,” his smile brightened. "I was a
damned hero. All I needed was a cape and a sword."
"I think you were wearing tights," Clarissa
returned the smiled. Hugo's bright humor had broken the black
spell.
"And how did you repay me? You lied to
me."
"If I told you I was fourteen would you have
given me the job?"
"No, but then you did make me a famous
hairdresser. Did you see me on that morning show last week? I was
marvelous."
"I was a good receptionist, too."
Hugo sighed wistfully. "Until a New York
modeling agency took you away from me. I was
heartbroken."
"You were not."
"I was, Clary. Honestly."
"Can you do my hair tonight like you did for
the Harper's cover we shot in Paris? Remember?"
"That? You want that? Really, Clary, that was
two years ago and way out of style. Alright, whatever you want. You
know, I still worry about you. Morgan Wolfe scares the shit out of
me. Clary, if you need to talk, you call me, okay? Anytime. If you
need me, you call. Promise?"
"I will. I promise."
"This shampoo is drying out your hair. I'll
bring you something new next week. Come down to La Jolla, why don't
you? You'll love it. I did the new place all in silver, black and
pink."
Clarissa smiled up at Hugo's image in the
mirror. "What would I do without you to worry over me,
hon?"
Hugo leaned forward and kissed her forehead.
When he looked at her, there was a grin on his face. "You'd look
like hell."
Hugo planted a kiss on her forehead. On the
surface, everything looked perfect for her, but he couldn't shake
the apprehension he felt. Morgan Wolfe did scare him and the
thought of Clarissa married to that dark eyed man made Hugo's
stomach knot.
Clarissa checked her make-up one last time in
the mirror. Hugo had given her hair a condition treatment, a cut,
and added a bouncy curl to her straight, fine hair, managing to be
done at the stroke of seven. He would not be caught dead in the
Wolfe Den after Morgan's explicit orders.
She adjusted the thin shoulder strap of the
short black cocktail dress, adding a pair of long diamond earrings
and diamond studded watch. She admired the diamond ring on her left
hand for a long moment, and felt again the rush of joy and sense of
accomplishment flood through her. It was close. So close. Then
everything she had dreamed about would be hers.
The black sateen oblong box rested under one
single white rose on her dressing table. She smiled to herself as
she picked up the flower and smelled its wonderful fragrance.
Morgan was a hopeless romantic. It was these little details of
their love that she cherished. She opened the black box and gasped
at the exquisite beauty of the thin strand of square cut diamonds
that lay on a pillow of red velvet. Clarissa carefully picked up
the necklace and held it to her throat, admiring it before she
fastened the clasp. Love was wonderful.
She stopped downstairs at the mirror on the
wall near the front door to check her makeup for the last
time.
"Morgan, I'm leaving," she called out. His
cold hands on her almost bare shoulders made her jump. He moved
with unnerving silence, with less noise than a breeze through the
trees.
"You are truly lovely, darling," Morgan
whispered in her ear. He turned her around slowly, drinking in her
beauty.
"I'm taking the Mercedes," she informed him,
forcing mock anger into her voice for having to go to the party
alone.
"Do you like the necklace?" Morgan asked,
ignoring her act.
"It doesn't really go with this dress, but it
will do for tonight."
"I'll have Virginia take it back first thing
in the morning since it does not please you," he toyed with
her.
"No need," Clarissa countered, enjoying the
game. "I'll just buy a little something to go with it."
"I knew you'd work it out."
"I'm an enterprising woman."
"And stunningly beautiful."
Morgan pulled Clarissa gently to him. She
twisted coyly away from his grasp and turned once again to the
mirror to fluff her hair.
"I wish you were coming with me, Morgan. You
won't change your mind?"
"I can't. Don't be too late
tonight."
Clarissa threw a flirtatious smile at Morgan's
stern, handsome image behind her in the small mirror. "I just may
not come home at all."
The side of his mouth curled into an almost
imperceptible sneer and his dark eyes flickered with menacing
lights and shadow. When he spoke, it was a low and guttural
whisper, and an icy sensation crawled up Clarissa's
spine.
"You'll come home, Clarissa."
She fumbled in her purse for the car keys so
that Morgan would not see her hands tremble. How was it possible to
love someone who you feared? Clarissa had asked herself that a
hundred times in the last few months. Morgan was so good to her, so
loving and generous. His love making was gentle and skilled,
sending her to erotic heights she never dreamed her body capable.
He gave her the best of everything, listened to her eagerly when
she needed to talk, to express her views, frustrations, or
feelings. He was the father she never had, the brother who cared
about her life, the dream lover she'd only until now, read about in
novels. He was her white knight, her prince, her secret admirer,
her friend.
Then there were the black moments, fleeting
fragments of frozen time, when she looked into his eyes and saw the
boiling clouds of an impending thunderstorm laced with wild
lightning reaching out to stab her helpless soul. It took all her
will to tear herself away from the crystal fire in that mask of
momentary evil. Then it would be gone. The domino, the mask of
Morgan Wolfe would smile at her and she could fall into his arms as
if the black moment had never materialized. She would forget the
paralyzing fear that held her for that elusive hellish
second.
"Do you have the Mercedes keys?" he asked
softly, and her fear broke into fragments of dust. She dangled them
teasingly on her little finger.
Suddenly, Morgan grabbed her shoulders and
pulled her roughly to him, smiling at her half-hearted attempts at
escape. He kissed her passionately, then let her go.
"Don't wait up," she told him coyly and he
reached for her and kissed her again.
The six-car garage held the less expensive of
Morgan's auto collection; a gray Jaguar XJ6, a red Mercedes
convertible, two identical black Cadillacs, an old Ferrari Dino,
and a brand new nondescript blue Lexus. The basement garage under
the house held the classics; a 1948 Tucker, a white Cord, a red
Shelby Cobra, two Mustang convertibles, a '57 Corvette, a 1936
Duesenberg SJN convertible coupe, and Mario Andretti's 1965 Indy
Car.
Clarissa slid into the white interior of the
red Mercedes convertible, put the key into the ignition, and turned
it. The engine droned but would not start. She tried a second time,
then a third, grinding the starter motor to shavings until she had
completely drained the battery. Clarissa slammed her purse against
the steering wheel.
"Damn it," she yelled in
frustration.
She decided to take the Jaguar, although it
was not her favorite car to drive. Just as she was getting out of
the convertible, a black Mercedes sedan pulled up to the front
door. A man she recognized as one of the art gallery owners, Brian
or Ryan something, got out and was about to knock when the front
door opened for him and he stepped inside.
Clarissa remembered him as a nervous young man
who looked much older than her, with thinning brown hair and wide
sad eyes. She had attended his younger brother's funeral with
Morgan a couple of weeks ago. Both of the brothers, she knew,
worked for Morgan at Roth Galleries. It was sad that Avery Roth had
been killed in that robbery attempt at the Beverly Hills gallery.
The robbery had made all the papers and the television news, with
nervous Byron stuttering before the cameras. Ironically, Clarissa
thought, Morgan, who actually owned the internationally famous
galleries, was never mentioned.
Reluctantly, Clarissa got out of the
convertible, opened the garage door behind the Jaguar, and slid
behind the wheel of the "old fogies" car as she called it. She
searched her purse for the keys, and her frustration mounted as she
discovered that they weren't there.
"Damn you, Morgan," she hissed under her
breath as the thin heels of her shoes clicked angrily on the
cobblestone driveway toward the front door. Her anger reached its
peak when she discovered that the front door was locked and she
didn't have those keys either.
"Morgan, open the door," she shouted. "I don't
have keys and the Mercedes won't start." There was no answer.
"Morgan!" she cried louder and pounded her delicately manicured
fist against the stained glass window in the heavy oak door.
"Morgan! Are you there? Can you hear me? The car won't start. Damn.
Morgan!"
Clarissa turned and stood facing the circular
driveway and the iron gates between the brick pillars in the wall
that circled the Wolfe Estate. "Now what?" she thought, as the
anger subsided. Her gaze drifted up to the apartment above the
garage.
Alex Rogers was Morgan's new right hand man.
He was an expert in international sales and marketing and Morgan
raved about how profits had increased nearly forty percent in the
year since Alex took over. As with everything Morgan did, Alex
became personal property. Morgan moved him out of his modest San
Fernando Valley suburban home into the garage apartment, gave him
one of the black Cadillacs, a seven figure yearly salary, and kept
him virtually chained to his side.
Clarissa felt uncomfortable around Alex. He
was tall and imposing with chiseled features, and he never smiled.
It was not fear that she felt, but it was the way he was always
looking at her with his piercing blue eyes. It was not the kind of
stare that undressed her or threatened her. She could never put her
finger on it, except that she felt like a butterfly pinned to a
board whenever he glanced at her. He never spoke to her, or smiled
or acknowledged her presence except to give her that momentary
scrutinizing examination.
His apartment over the garage was dark and the
usual strains of classical music that wafted from the windows when
Alex was home, was silent. There would be no help from him tonight.
He was probably at the meeting with Morgan.
Clarissa picked her way over the lawn, around
to the side of the house and peered into Morgan's den. It was dark
and empty. She continued around to the back of the house and opened
the wrought iron gate to the pool area. The pool light was on and
Clarissa heard the faint strains of an argument coming from the
guest house. Lights blazed where Marco Camponello, Morgan's
personal bodyguard and chief of security, lived. Clarissa shivered
involuntarily at the thought of the man. She had one run in with
him when she first moved to the estate. She had mentioned to Morgan
her dislike of the swarthy, beady eyed guard and since then Marco
had not come near her, even purposely avoided her. It was his raspy
voice she could hear coming from the guest house and it made her
nervous and more eager to get into the main house.
She tried the door handle of the french doors
leading to Morgan's office/den. The handle wouldn't budge, so
Clarissa assumed it was locked. She gave one frustrated shove to
the door, and it popped open. Startled for a moment, and smiling to
herself about the verbal abuse Marco would get from Morgan about
the office not being secured properly, she entered the dark
den.
Morgan purposely left nothing of importance in
his desk so it was rarely locked. Everything was kept in the file
cabinets behind the wall of books Clarissa had seen it open only
twice. Spare car keys were kept in the top desk drawer for Alex and
Marco. Clarissa herself had once needed the spare key to the
Mercedes when hers had been broken by an overzealous mechanic.
Virginia had told her that the keys were in the top desk drawer and
to just let her or Morgan know if she took one.
Clarissa flipped on the desk lamp and pulled
open the drawer. There were no car keys but a small black box
caught her attention. Clarissa opened it and nearly dropped it.
Inside was the most beautifully carved crystal angel. It was
delicately intricate, with a sweet face and hands folded in prayer.
She held it up to the lamp and the crystal split the light into a
magnificent rainbow.