Play Dead (20 page)

His large hand slid under her bottom and levered her upward. With the other hand he guided himself into her opening, pushing and slowly stretching her. Halfway in, he stopped to kiss her again with fierce intensity. Hard and hot, he thrust into her. She opened her mouth as he filled her—more than filled her—to cry out with pleasure, but he again covered her mouth with his.

Oh, wow! He was just too good at this. A low groan rumbled from deep in his throat, and she hoped he was enjoying every second the way she was. She prayed he wasn’t thinking of his wife. Comparing them.

Slowly, rhythmically he withdrew, surged forward, withdrew, surged forward as if he couldn’t get enough of her. She wrapped her legs around his and moved with him. Dizzy with passion, she helped him drive her wild. What choice did she have? Every fiber of her being wanted him—now.

Each movement caused a searing rush of pure sensation that was more powerful than any drug. She lifted her hips to meet each thrust, clinging to him with both arms. Seconds—or maybe minutes—later undulating waves of pleasure swept over her. Inside she clenched and convulsed until her world fractured in a burst of pure pleasure.

“Ryan!” she heard herself scream.

Weak and spent, she managed to hold on to him while he continued to pummel her. With the most powerful
surge yet, he thrust deep and threw his head back, exposing the length of his throat. Eyes squeezed shut, his face contorted with an expression that might have been mistaken for pain except he cried, “Yes!”

The following instant, he collapsed on top of her, taking most of his weight on his bent forearms. Unexpectedly he rolled onto his back so she was on top and gazing down at him, breath rushing out of her in long, satisfied gasps. Still buried in her, Ryan hugged her to him.

Hayley clung to him a satisfied lassitude sapping her body of its usual strength. She’d made love to other men—very few actually—but those she assumed she loved. Yet with a start, she realized she’d never given herself fully and completely the way she just had.

She couldn’t help wondering how Ryan felt. He must have made love to numerous women. Most probably had a lot more experience than she did. And what about his wife? Unquestionably he’d loved her. After all, he’d mourned her for two years.

How did he feel about her? Hayley silently asked.

A sound broke into her thoughts. For an instant she thought it was Andy barking again, but it was the William Tell Overture playing from somewhere nearby. Ryan’s pants, she realized as he rolled her to the side and scrambled for the phone.

“W
AS
L
AIRD UPSET
when he found out Meg Amboy is going to lend Surf’s Up the money?” Farah asked Trent.

“Naw, I think he was relieved. Sure, he wants Surf’s Up big-time, but the economy’s in the crapper. If he loses the money he inherited, Laird’s father will be all over him.”

Farah nodded; Elliot McMasters was a tough businessman who owned a great deal of commercial property in Southern California. He’d openly scoffed at his son’s venture into the surf business. “Small potatoes,” he’d called it. She doubted he was so critical now with real estate taking such a mega-hit.

“Did you tell Laird that the loan was Hayley’s idea?”

Trent chortled, a short grating sound. “I sure as hell didn’t say I maneuvered Hayley into asking her aunt. I don’t want him pissed at me. I told Laird that Hayley didn’t want any partners.”

Farah sipped her cosmo. Just like her bro, she thought. Trent had always been one to shift the blame whenever it suited him. And take all the credit when that put him in a better light.

They were on the deck overlooking the inlet at the Blue Water Grill, having an early dinner. The restaurant was situated across the water from the loft where Hayley
lived before the car bomb. Farah wondered where Hayley was staying.

Trent had called her from work this morning and said Hayley had been able to convince her aunt to loan the company enough money to tide them over. In typical Trent fashion, he’d insisted they meet rather than discuss the details on the telephone. She thought he was being paranoid but played along.

“How’s Kyle?” Trent asked.

She mustered a smile. “Fine. Just hanging out until the economy gets better.” Which meant he was surfing and smoking weed all day while she worked her fanny off. She planned to dump the jerk as soon as possible, but she didn’t want to discuss it with her brother, so she broached another subject. “I found out what happened to Mother’s money.”

Trent signaled the waiter for another scotch. “Really? She told you?”

“No, but one of my clients accidentally revealed the info.” She finished the last of her second cosmo but decided against having another. She was wound too tight these days; drinking too much. And not getting enough kinky sex. “Several rich women who shopped at Mom’s store were speculating on real estate in Newport Coast. Buying houses, staging the homes, then flipping them. Mother gave them money to invest.”

“When?” Trent looked as shocked as Farah had been when she’d learned this. It wasn’t like their mother to put her money into anything the least bit questionable.

“Over a year ago, just before the market tanked. It looked like a sure thing. The bank now owns the houses those women bought.” She forced herself to say the words. “Mother lost all her savings.”

“Oh, shit!” Trent took his drink from the waiter before the woman could put it on their table. “Why didn’t she marry a rich man when she had the chance?”

It was a question they’d often asked each other. Cynthia Fordham had been a beautiful woman who’d married young. She’d still been pretty, with a knock-out figure, when Russell Fordham had divorced her. Over the years several men had been interested, but Cynthia refused to get serious with any of them. She kept saying marriage had taught her a lesson.

“Mother’s still attractive,” Farah said, “but I doubt she’ll ever remarry. I guess this means she’ll have to work until…”

“She’s too old and we’ll have to support her.” Trent knocked back more of his scotch.

“We owe her,” Farah said, even though she had no idea how she would come up with her share of the money. She could only hope the economy would improve and along with it her business. Before that happened, she needed to ditch Kyle. He was a useless drain, but the time wasn’t right.

“So that’s it? All you have to tell me?” Farah would rather have spent the time trolling the Internet for someone to substitute for Kyle when she finally had the opportunity to give him the big kiss-off.

“No, I wanted to run something by you. Get your opinion.”

Farah was flattered. Despite being close, Trent rarely asked her opinion. She wasn’t sure why not. Obviously she was smarter and had more business background.

“Hayley is going to be a lot more involved with the company. She wants to expand even more into MMA gear. This weekend is the Board Wars Contest.”

Farah couldn’t make herself smile. The signs for the surf contest had been up for weeks. Every surfer who could afford the trip—and zillions of beach bunnies—would show up at the Newport Beach pier for the three-day event. What a waste of time! Nothing could make her attend.

“Wait a minute. I thought Hayley had decided to be an artist.” Farah couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

“She has, but she feels obligated to help Surf’s Up since her aunt is lending us the money.” His lips thinned with irritation. “Hayley wants The Wrath to have his own space in our booth at the Board Wars to sell clothes and shit. That muscle-bound prick will be there all day signing posters.”

Farah waited for her brother to say more but he didn’t. “Okay. So?”

“So what do you think? MMA and surfers? Not a good mix.”

As far as she could see, they were all on a macho trip. “Don’t they appeal to the same crowd? Young males.”

“True.” Trent put down his empty glass and frantically signaled the waitress for a refill. “But get this. Hayley wants to sell dog leashes and onesies with The Wrath’s logo on them.”

“It’s just a few days until the event. How can she get them made in time?” Farah had to admit it was a gutsy plan. One of her clients made baby clothes with outrageous sayings on them. The woman was cleaning up even in this economy.

“Are you kidding? With the meltdown, there are plenty of machines sitting idle. They’ll be ready. I just not sure about sales and Surf’s Up’s reputation.”

Farah opened her mouth to respond but saw Chad Bennett coming across the deck toward them. “Did you tell Chad we’d be here?”

“No, but the Blue Water is a popular spot.” Trent turned around and waved Chad over even though the guy was obviously coming to their table. “Don’t mention what I just told you,” her brother whispered.

“Hey, you two,” Chad said as he came up to them. “What’s happening?” He swung out one of the empty chairs at their table and sat down.

“Not much,” Trent said smoothly while the waitress delivered his third drink and took Chad’s order for his usual—an extra-dry martini with three spicy olives.

“What’s going on with Hayley?” Chad asked. “I saw on the news last night that she was at Surf’s Up yesterday. No one was able to get an interview.”

“Hayley believes the bombing was a mistake. It was intended for someone else,” Trent told him.

“The so-called bomb experts said it had been made by the Sinaloa cartel,” Farah added. “They assume it was a drug deal gone bad.”

Chad seemed on the verge of saying something but the waitress appeared with his drink. Farah thought Chad was as boring in person as he was unimaginative in bed. But for some reason she couldn’t understand, women adored him. She wouldn’t put up with the jerk—if she had a choice.

“Got Hayley’s number?” Chad asked. “I need to tell her something.”

“She isn’t giving out her number or where she lives,” Trent responded. “Just in case it wasn’t mistaken identity. But she’ll be at Surf’s Up tomorrow. Should I give her a message?”

Chad swizzled his olive-laden pick through his martini. “I was at the police station this afternoon, bailing out Tom Everett
again.
Third DUI in eighteen months. Guy’s going down this time.” He swigged his martini while they waited for him to continue. “A cop I know told me that Steve Fulton is in town.”

Farah asked, “Who’s he?”

“Husband of the woman who was supposedly killed by the car bomb.” Chad munched noisily on an olive. “Claimed his wife didn’t know Hayley.”

“Why would Hayley make it up?” wondered Farah.

Chad shrugged and sucked on his two remaining olives. “The police checked Hayley’s story and found Lindsey Fulton had taken a flight from San Jose down here. The SF police just checked local airports after the woman went missing. No one thought of her leaving from San Jose, but there are express busses from the city every hour.”

“The husband didn’t know Hayley?” Trent asked, and Farah noticed his pupils were dilated.

“That’s right. The guy insists his wife didn’t know Hayley, either.”

“Why tell Hayley this?” Farah wanted to know. “She’s already been interviewed by the police.”

“Steve Fulton insists on talking to her.” Chad sipped his martini. “He’s sure his wife isn’t the woman who died.”

“The police showed me the security tape of Gulliver’s bar on the night the car blew up. Hayley did have a drink with a woman, but I didn’t recognize her.”

“Husband saw it, too. Claims it isn’t his wife.”

“Something doesn’t sound right about this story,” Farah said.

“For sure,” Trent agreed. “Somebody’s not telling the truth.”

“Chad! Chad! There you are.” A sultry redhead in a micro-miniskirt that showed off endless legs paraded across the deck toward them. Her breasts—oversize implants—spilled out of her halter top.

“Got to go,” Chad said, standing and taking his martini. He left without bothering to introduce them to his hot date.

“Where does Chad find them?” Trent wondered.

“They’re everywhere,” Farah replied. The waitress arrived with the calamari appetizer. She set it down between them and asked if Farah was ready for a refill. She wasn’t; tonight she was Trent’s designated driver.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Farah said after they’d eaten over half the house specialty. “About Hayley’s idea. What could it hurt to let her try? Have Hayley at the booth to hear what people say about bibs and onesies with the Grim Reaper logo on them. Let her see for herself it isn’t a great idea. Don’t alienate her. You need dear ole Aunt Meg’s money.”

Trent was silent for a moment. “You’re right. Pissing off Hayley isn’t a good idea.” He gave Farah an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. You’ve got a head for business.”

“With any luck, Hayley will see this is a stupid idea and go back to her murals or whatever. She’ll be out of your hair.”

“I could use some luck right about now.”

Farah watched Chad over her brother’s shoulder. He was at the bar, his arm around the slutty redhead. “Did you hit Chad up for a loan?”

“Been there, done that. The guy’s set on keeping his father’s house.”

“I can understand. Billionaire’s island. He’s not just another lawyer on the make if he lives there.”

There were several islands in the harbor—all of them exclusive. Linda Isle, where Farah’s father and stepmother had lived, was just one cut beneath Harbor Island. Cynthia Fordham had always resented Hayley growing up there while Farah and Trent’s visits were limited to weekends and vacations. The small house they’d grown up in was nice for Costa Mesa—but it wasn’t Newport Beach.

“Chad could live at Pelican Point. That’s even more exclusive than Harbor Island.” Trent sounded soused now and bitter, which wasn’t like him. Her brother was easygoing most of the time.

Farah could have argued that Pelican Point merely had spectacular ocean views—none of the mansions with their enormous manicured grounds could boast of being beachfront, but she had to admit they were awesome. Several of Trent’s buddies lived there and she knew he was determined to move there one day. In contrast, Harbor Island homes were closer together but all of them had docks for large boats, which made them very desirable.

“I doubt Chad’s business is doing that well,” Farah commented. “I have several clients who are lawyers practicing contracts and trusts like Chad. Business is off—way off. Chad’s father is no longer around to pull in clients. The guy’s gotta be hurting.”

“If he is, he won’t admit a damn thing.”

T
HE KILLER CHECKED
the third television news broadcast. Nothing on Hayley. That didn’t mean the police had dropped the case. No frickin’ way. It just meant the
media didn’t have anything new to report. Other stories took over.

Hayley was waltzing around town like she didn’t have a care in the world. What the fuck was that all about? Obviously she didn’t believe the car bomb had been meant for her.

How fucking stupid could she be?

The killer considered a moment, gazing at the wash of dying sunlight glazing the ocean a shimmering amber. Maybe it was some sort of trick. A ploy to lure the killer into making a mistake.

That’s gotta be it.

Stupid people made mistakes. Intelligent people took precautions. Now was the time for taking precautions. The authorities weren’t on the right trail—yet. But never underestimate them.

Placing the bomb in the car when it was parked so close to the airport hadn’t been smart. It had brought down a shitload of investigators. Some of them were the best in the world. If they detected anything unusual and took a second look, there would be hell to pay.

Taking precautions; covering tracks, leaving no traces was the solution. Just how to do this and when remained unclear. But the solution would present itself. It always did.