Insidious (2 page)

Staring toward the screen, the doctor smiled. “This can be difficult. But let’s concentrate on the positive. You have a strong, healthy girl. Sometimes things like this happen. The body understands if both fetuses can’t be supported. In those cases, the stronger one survives. Your daughter…”

The man didn’t hear the rest of the doctor’s statement. Glaring momentarily toward his wife, he opened the door and walked away. The entire room fell silent as the helpless door bounced against the wall, filling the room with only the sound of the echoing slam and the steady
swoosh, swoosh, swoosh
of the fetal heartbeat.

THE BACKDROP OF blue did little to temper the stagnant Florida heat. Peering through the windshield, I watched the hot, muggy air ripple through undetectable waves, as the impressive Miami skyline appeared to bow and arch in the heat-induced optical illusion. Stepping from the cool car, I longed for a breeze anything to shatter the oppressive weight of the unseasonal autumn humidity. Moist air saturated every void as my heels walked upon the concrete streets and between the glass castles. I was where others longed to be. This was the best of the best: the homes, offices, and shopping mecca to the elite of Miami society. To the unknowing tourist, or even the unaware Miamian, these buildings and monuments were an enticing testament to the power of wealth and influence. However, in reality, they were but a beautiful façade waiting patiently to entrap the unwilling participant. I should know. At one time I was that unwilling participant, dragged into the depths of malevolence. That was years ago. I’ve learned my lessons well and played my role. No longer willing to be a victim, today I’m insidious.

“Thank you, Mrs. Harrington.” The saleswoman’s voice reverberated throughout the pricey boutique.

Nodding in response, I took my purchase and strode toward the door. The five-hundred-dollar shoes weren’t a necessity. Hell, they weren’t even for a purpose: a dinner, a benefit, or any other excuse to show me off and parade me around Stewart’s business associates. They were just because: because they were tall and sleek, with a slender heel, and a thick platform. And because they were red. Red, as in the color of emotion: emotion that remained pent-up until its only acceptable outlet was a mundane visible reminder, a way to flaunt the loathing within to the world outside. Oh, I had covertly exercised other modes of release, yet at the moment, a pair of red shoes would suffice.

The gentleman in uniform spoke as he opened the door. “Thank you, Mrs. Harrington. Please come back to see us again.”

“Yes,” I said, my expression inscrutable.

“Ma’am, we’re all praying for your husband.”

“Thank you.” I looked down and bit my lip before I returned his gaze, bravely smiling, and added, “I’m afraid that’s our only hope.”

His eyes dulled as he sadly nodded, allowing me to exit through the open door. Rarely did a day go by that someone didn’t offer me his or her support or encouragement for Stewart, as he fought his unwinnable battle. I’d practiced my responses well. After all, very little went unseen. While we’d made headlines when we married, mostly surrounding our age difference, we were making them again as the tabloids and magazines discussed my impending widowhood at the young age of twenty-eight.

Moving onto the sun-drenched sidewalk, I covered my eyes with the dark glasses and braced myself for the wave of heat. Up from the depths of hell, like fire fanned by the devil himself, my legs tingled with the contrast in temperature. I bit my lip again, stopping the genuine smile that threatened to shatter my mask of grief. Assuming hell was real, soon it would have another resident. Before the bun of long brown hair secured low on my neck could mold to my skin, I settled into the backseat of the waiting taxi.

Though my car was parked only a few blocks away, I knew the wonders of technology. The GPS would show that I’d spent my afternoon in the Harbor Shoppes—at least until I was ready for it to indicate otherwise.

“To ONE Bal Harbour Resort,” I instructed, as the driver pulled the car into midday traffic.

After spending most of my life in southern Florida, I found little beauty in the city of Miami. What appeal it had was completely lost on me as I scanned the screen of my phone, reading my text messages. A sense of suffocation loomed omnipresent as I read one from my husband:

“WE HAVE A GUEST COMING TO THE WAREHOUSE THIS AFTERNOON. BE THERE AT 4:30. DON’T BE LATE.”

I closed my eyes, hid my expression behind my designer sunglasses, and sighed. Thankfully, due to Stewart Harrington’s recent rapid decline in health, we’d not visited the warehouse in some time: his text was sent months ago. Nevertheless, I refused to delete it. It served as my fuel and my daily reminder: a reminder of a time I refused to forget.

I would not. I could not.

I scanned back to the message I’d more recently received, one I’d first seen late last night:

“I NEED TO SEE YOU.”

I gave it one more glance, grinning at the shared sense of desperation, before I hit delete. I waited until this morning to respond:

“TODAY?”

After I’d hit send, his response came back almost immediately:

“NOW.”

We both knew that NOW hadn’t been an option, but a minor tweaking of my schedule and a slight juggle of my responsibilities would allow LATER to be a possibility. Smoothing the silk of my sundress over my lap while trying desperately to ignore the sweat-ladened stench of the taxi, I relished the reality:
later
was almost upon me. If only the car could fly instead of fight the midday traffic.

As Stewart’s time on earth drew nigh its end, I worried about the legalities of our prenuptial agreement. With Stewart’s network of good ol’ boys, finding an ally, someone to look out for my interests, had been difficult, but thankfully not impossible. Since I’d made my alliance with Brody Phillips, junior partner at Craven and Knowles, there was nothing I wouldn’t do to continue the flow of information. Besides, sex was nothing more than a tool, a weapon. It had been used against me, but I’d learned to use it in my favor. If sex helped me obtain my goal, there was no fucking reason not to use it.

Minutes upon minutes later, the cab pulled under the covered drive of the resort, allowing me to exit in the much-appreciated shade. With an assuming smile, I handed the driver cash for the fare and a generous tip. I confidently placed my high-heeled sandals on the steaming pavement and walked toward the resort. With the efficiency of a drill sergeant, I moved dauntlessly toward my objective. Merely a pretentious nod of my head and the door was opened. A crisp one-hundred-dollar bill at the bellman’s desk and I was armed with the key to a suite on the eighteenth floor. Walking toward the elevator, I shifted my gaze, daring anyone to question my presence. No one did. I’m Mrs. Stewart Harrington.

Within less than a minute, I was ascending the tower toward the eighteenth floor. Although I was confident that Brody had chosen the hotel suite with other goals in mind, that wouldn’t happen today. I’d opened myself up—a little—to him for one reason: it wasn’t sex.

It wasn’t as if I always denied him sex. As a matter of fact, we had an array of locations littered throughout the city where I hadn’t denied him, but honestly, there was something about Brody that made me uncomfortable. Sex was a mechanical act for me, a time to leave my body and zone out. Each time Brody and I were together, that was increasingly difficult. I didn’t want to face that reality or even the internal questions that it raised.

As I disembarked the elevator and peered down the long hallway, the fleeting sense of anticipation took me by surprise. Rarely did I find myself aroused. However, as I realized that it had been almost a month since I’d been alone with Brody, my insides involuntarily tightened.

Brody Phillips, esquire, was, among other things, my informant. As a junior partner at Craven and Knowles, the prestigious law firm that handled all of Stewart’s personal legal needs, he was privy to information that affected me. The common good ol’ boy attitude shared by most in the firm was that as Stewart’s wife I didn’t need to know, or couldn’t possibly understand, the legalities that affected me. Thankfully, I’d found an ally who disagreed. After all, it was my name, Victoria Conway Harrington, on the documents. Despite my husband’s obstinacy, I had a right to know.

Our alliance had started slowly. Every man was suspect, especially anyone within Stewart’s circles. I hadn’t planned on allowing Brody to get to know me—few people did. However, with time and patience, he pulled me into a sense of camaraderie. Unlike the men who saw me as nothing other than an available fuck, Brody spoke to me with sincerity. It was years into our clandestine friendship before we took it to the next level. However, once we did, turning back wasn’t an option.

A quick swipe of the key and the lock mechanism clicked. Before I could fully open the door, Brody’s strawberry blonde hair and smiling eyes stopped me momentarily in my tracks. He was the perfect man next door: innocent and sweet. Yet I knew from experience, he was equally cunning and shrewd. There was no way he’d have survived in the world of Craven and Knowles if he weren’t. However, there was something about his eyes. From the first time we’d met, I was fascinated. His eyes were unlike any I’ve ever seen. They weren’t the color blue nor were they green: they were more of an aquamarine hue. It wasn’t only the color that pulled me in: it was the way he looked at me, really looked. With a glance, even in a crowded room, he made me feel vulnerable and exposed. That did strange things to me, things I didn’t like. It was as if he could see a side of me that no one else could: he could see through my façade. Taking him in, the small lines at the corners of his eyes and the slight gleam, implored my gaze to travel lower to his raised cheeks and welcoming smile. Involuntarily, the tips of my lips moved upward.

With his suit jacket and tie missing, my eyes traveled down his starched, fitted button-down shirt to his trim waist. His dark gray Brooks Brothers’ slacks accentuated his long legs and firm physique. Hearing the sound of his voice returned my attention to his remarkable eyes.

“Vik-ki,” he said, elongating my nickname. “I was worried you wouldn’t make it.” The temperature of the room increased as he reached for my shoulder and leaned near. His lips brushed my cheek with the teasing promise of more. The lingering scent of his aftershave filled me with memories of freshly laundered sheets, so unlike the heavy masculine cologne my husband wore. I fought the urge to reach up and stroke Brody’s cheek, to feel the slight stubble beneath my fingers.

Taking my hand, he led me inside the spacious suite. The wall farthest from the door was nothing but windows filled with the familiar blue. Though there were many things about Miami that I detested, the view of the water going on forever was not one of them. Now it momentarily took my breath as well as my response away.

“This is stunning.”

“Not as stunning as you,” he said, removing my sunglasses and staring deeply into my steel-gray eyes.

“Brody, I can’t—”

His lips captured my words as his firm chest pressed me toward the wall. The tingle of anticipation I’d felt moments earlier grew like a fire—wind to a spark on dry grass. I gave into desire and moved my petite hands to the sides of his face, feeling the stubble I’d longed to touch. My fingers lingered as our tongues united. I didn’t want to admit that I was afraid to let go, afraid of not remembering the feeling smoldering inside of me. The sound of our breathing filled the suite, as my beating heart echoed in my ears, momentarily drowning out reasoning, filling me instead with hunger for what he could provide.

“God, Vikki,” Brody finally said, breaking our seal and pushing me slightly away. His gaze deepened as he asked, “God, you taste so fucking good. I’ve missed seeing you like this.”

I reached for his chest and buried my cheek in his shirt. With the sound of his steady heartbeat, my body melted. Pent-up tension oozed from every pore until all that was left of me was liquid, held in place by his embrace. Fighting the desire to take our vertical connection horizontal, I stiffened my neck. “Brody, I-I can’t. Not today.”

“Are you all right, baby? You seem so… I don’t know… like you’re ready to explode. Or implode?”

I stepped back and walked toward the sofa, adjusting my dress and ignoring the part of me that longed to be lost in his arms.

“Why would you think I wasn’t coming?” I asked. “Our agreement was for 1:00 PM, and it’s barely one.”

“You didn’t reply to my last text. I was afraid someone else might have seen it.”

“No,” I said definitively. “Believe it or not, my phone stays with me. I did delete the text. There’s no sense taking unnecessary chances. Now, tell me what’s happening?”

His brow furrowed. “How’s Stewart?”

I shook my head and looked down. It was the same speech, with the same all-important non-verbal cues that I’d given to anyone who asked. “Not well. The doctors seem to think that it could be any time. When he’s awake he’s lucid, but when he’s out, he’s out! I think it’s the medications. Though he hasn’t complained, the doctors say that this form of rapidly progressing leukemia is extremely painful. They have him pretty drugged up on painkillers. They’re doing all they can do to help him go peacefully.”