Slightly Imperfect (24 page)

"That's sweet."

"Are you coming?"

"I haven't decided. Maybe I should meet you on Bay Shore after the meeting. I just don't know."

He hung up not knowing either.

* * *

Zac and Gerald watched the building inspector pull his government truck away from Fischer's Landing.

"Hell if
I
know what kind of bee they have in their bonnet." Gerald's bewilderment sounded in his voice.

Zac nodded, feeling grim.

"I've rebuilt half of Ramona and this is the first time they've ever made me tear out a wall rather than take my word for the hidden wiring being up to code. This will really slow us down if we have to wait for them to show up and inspect at every stage of the game."

"Did you see that editorial on public housing in the
Puerto San Miguel Sun
this morning? And that article on Fischer's Landing?"

"Piece of work, huh?" Gerald grinned wryly.

Pierce Chandler had made print noise about the project, invoking a clever turn-around on the phrase "gentrification"—the process in which the rich push the poor out of old neighborhoods. He intimated Gerald's endeavor would allow the opposite to occur. Zac could still taste the sourness that had manifested in his gut when he'd read the article. Now he grappled with the nebulous notion that had resulted.

"It may have something to do with me."

"How's that?" Gerald cocked his pink and gray head, and the sun glinted on his steel- rimmed glasses. He closed the door of the Lincoln, interested.

"Some people resent Hispanics being in a position of power or authority. My name was mentioned a lot, if you noticed."

"Well, if that's it they'll just have to get over it. Almost all the housing inspectors are Mexican, if you haven't noticed, and that's the real position of power. Your people will basically be the ones benefiting from Fischer's Landing if we can keep the costs down."

Zac kept his expression benign, assuring Gerald an out if he wanted one.

"Fischer's Landing won't break me," Gerald continued, "even if they try to shut us down. You're doing a good job with what little knowledge you have, and you're learning fast."

The earlier dock scene with Alejandro filtered through his mind. He wondered if Marcus had managed to thaw Alejandro by now, if Lizbett was keeping her word concerning her charge, and if she was leaving Josh free to concentrate on
his
responsibilities. "There are a lot of guys— "Who would want the job more than they wanted to fish.

Gerald held up his hand, silencing him. "I
am
concerned, though, about the way materials are either being wasted or pilfered. I know the girls are cutting every corner. I hate waste, son. I hate theft more. The raised costs on the bottom line will get passed to the wrong people. Got any ideas about that?"

"A few. I'm working on it."

"Got your speech polished for tonight?"

"I've got it canned."

Gerald laughed, opened the car door to let the interior cool off before slipping inside. "Knowing you it's probably canned in platinum. See you there."

"Got it."

* * *

"Gerald, this is Victoria Chandler."

She could have predicted the reaction when Zac introduced them. Recognition flashed in Gerald's eyes. He looked at Zac quickly, back to her. She extended her hand, smiled.

"Are you Pierce's daughter?"

"Someday I'll earn the right to be just myself."

He smiled, properly chastised. "Does this mean you're advocating gambling, the fact that you're here? If so, we're glad to have your endorsement."

She wouldn't let herself look at Zac, but she felt her back go a little stiff as regret for the situation materialized. "I'm here as an observer, like the other business people in the room." She took a sip of the white wine Zac had given her, meeting Gerald's flinty gaze over the rim of the plastic tumbler. "I represent my son. His estate operates the Valdez Hotel."

"Marcus," Zac said softly to Gerald, barely touching his fingers to the back of her waist. "Your surrogate grandson and fellow Taco Bell aficionado. Victoria is the friend I keep talking about. She's Marcus's mother."

Gerald's florid brow creased heavily.

"Excuse me," she said softly. "I see someone I know. I... enjoyed meeting you, Mr. Fitzpatrick. Good luck on your speech, Zac. I'll rate you later."

"Got it."

* * *

They watched her move into the crowd, take a seat without speaking to the "someone she knew."

Smiling wryly, Zac faced Gerald. "I told you the fat lady had sung. Maggie's finished with me. You weren't still hoping were you? About us?"

"Not after the last five minutes. As we say in East Texas, you're whupped, boy. Especially now that I know this woman is Marcus's mother."

"And, she has twins. Two years old. Blond and beautiful." It felt good to talk to someone who didn't appear sickened by the topic, only bemused. "You'll like them too."

"Pierce Chandler's grandchildren."

Zac nodded.

"What an interesting web we're weaving for ourselves."

Thoughts of the
Sun
editorial stirred Zac's guilt, but he liked how Gerald spoke of them as a team. "Yeah. I guess it is."

"It is, believe me. But I didn't get where I am leading an uninteresting life." He glanced over Zac's shoulder, toward the podium. "Look's like I'm up, and then you. Kill 'em, son. We need an excuse to revamp the
Irish Lady
into a devil's casino, the way Carron wanted."

Now Zac understood the meaning of straddling a fence.

* * *

Victoria lay in his bed. Her head rested in the crook of his arm, hair enveloping the pillow, eyes a little glazed. A thin film of sexual aftermath glistened on her face. When he touched his lips to her forehead she tasted salty.

"I'll be generous and rate tonight's speech as impressive." Her voice was ragged. "Your most recent performance, however, rates superior," she whispered huskily.

His groin rippled. "I can beat it. Give me a minute."

She smiled.

"Making love with you,
novia
, is like being taken to Disney World, where the delights are unlimited, and being handed the key to the kingdom. I turn gluttonous."

She smiled again, softly, beautifully.

Zac wallowed in her compliance, in such acceptance and encouragement. She loved being held, kissed, the invasive act of sex itself. Her eyes proclaimed as much, her mouth, her body, in the way it rallied within his hands. He sometimes looked at her across a room—tonight when he'd been speaking—and tried to associate her glacial demeanor with the woman she evolved into once they were sequestered, with her traditional existence on hold. He knew she'd had a world-class teacher in Tomas Cordera, her own Dr. Henry Higgins. He wanted to feel envious, but couldn't get past being grateful.

"You don't think I'm passive?" she asked quietly. Again.

"Yeah. You're passive-perfect." Ritually, she initiated sex, sometimes with a look across the heads of her children, or a kiss, a touch gone astray. She was gifted. Once she attained her goal, however, she simply turned herself over to him. " Who hurt you by saying that?"

"That I'm perfect?" She raised one brow.

He smiled, waiting, needing to know.

"... that I'm passive. Christian."

"Nice guy."

"I hurt him far more than he was capable of hurting me."

"I've been wondering about something. Why did Coby try to kill Christian?" He had asked in Portofino and gotten no answer. He hoped enough time had gone by. "I remember reading they were friends before you ever met Christian. What happened?"

She fell quiet, as though considering. "I think it was because of the effect Christian had on me, the way I strived to get his attention and approval. Coby said he was afraid I would go back to Christian once Tommy was dead. He didn't want to risk that. They weren't friends at the last." She closed her eyes. "Christian found Coby and me in bed together. In London. Just before I began seeing Tommy again."

His gut roiled, threatening. "I guess I need to hear about that."

Her eyes opened. "We never had sex. But if we had, would you want me?"

"If you didn't, I don't have to answer, do I?"

The familiar furrow appeared.

"I want to hear about London."

"Christian and I went there for a while. It had to do with a sister church he was affiliated with. Coby came to see me. Christian was tied up with volunteer counseling and couldn't join us for dinner the one night Coby was there. I was hurt that Christian—We made a night of it, as only Coby and I could." She looked away, silent.

He caught her chin, drew her back, waited.

"We had dinner and went dancing. We made all the clubs—lots of champagne. There's no one like Coby when a party is at hand... "

He watched her drift back, and listened wordlessly as she unfolded the tale, revealing that had she been more sober, she would have been shocked, or concerned—or both—to discover Christian still absent from the apartment when she and Coby returned from their night out. But given her state of mind she simply went into the study with Coby where they staggered and struggled, laughing outrageously until they were able to undo the sofa and provide Coby with a bed. Then she had attempted to say goodnight.

"Don't go," he coaxed. "Let's listen to the new Clapton CD. You get some brandy and I'll put it on."

She could hardly make out his face, but she spoke in that direction. "No. I have to go to bed. It's late. I'm tired. You're tired, too."

"Not that tired." He reached for her.

She stepped back, laughed drunkenly.

"Come on, Tori," he said smiling. "I have to go home tomorrow. You can sleep all day. Stay with me a while."

"I can't."

I really can't, Coby. Even if I want to more than I want anything else in the world, at this moment. More than I want my marriage, or Tommy to forgive me for that marriage, or to see Los Niños grow up. I can't.

But she didn't move when he advanced on her. She let him unzip her dress, felt it fall past the silky half slip to the floor. She held onto him, balancing while he knelt and took off her shoes. "That's enough," she whispered.

He stood. "Get in bed," he said gently. "I'll put Eric on. We'll listen a while." A childhood ritual.

She got between the crisp white sheets. He unfolded a blanket, spread it over her, and over the empty side of the bed. Then she watched him, his form hazy, as he turned away and began performing mechanical operations on the sound system.

"Don't turn off the light." She felt that pressing need, knowing he wouldn't violate her in a brightly lit room. She heard music from behind her closed lids, but she sensed light still, and it was somehow significant. Then she felt him next to her, his weight on the narrow bed, his body heat, the smoothness of his skin. He slipped his arm beneath her head, his other arm across her waist. It felt right. Christian found them like that in the morning.

He hadn't spoken, but some force that she was never able to recognize entered her, pushing her upward and over the brink of wakefulness. She opened her eyes to see him standing in the open doorway. Her second, cognizant thought concerned his uncharacteristically wrinkled clothing. Her third, thankful realization was that all the lights in the room still burned.

She attempted to sit up but Coby's arm pinned her waist, just like the night before. She could rise only onto her elbows. When Coby stirred, she moved his arm from around her. He opened his eyes, took in the situation, smiled. They sat up in unison, her senselessly clutching the sheet to her chest. Through the linen, she felt her bra against her forearm. Somehow, that, too, held significance.

Christian turned wordlessly, closing the door behind him.

"Oh, Jesus!" she moaned, lowering her face into her palms.

"It'll be all right," Coby whispered calmly.

His arm went about her shoulders, drew her against him. When she stiffened he loosened his hold, but didn't take his arm away.

"We're innocent, Tori. I'll explain to him."

She lowered her hands from her eyes, gaping at him incredulously. "We are
not
innocent. I slept with you. There is nothing innocent in that."

"But that's all," he insisted. "We didn't
sleep
together. You just never made it out of her. We had too much to drink." Again. "I can explain it to him. Don't cry."

Suddenly she realized she was.

"Come on," Coby urged. "Get up. Put your clothes on. I'll go out and talk to him."

Fear manifested, colored her tone. "No! I'll talk to him."

"I'll go with you." He got out of bed, reached for his pants, her dress.

She brushed away tears as she held onto him to fit the straps of her shoes behind her ankles. Then she let go, quickly, not liking the feel of him beneath her fingers. "You did this on purpose." She heard him laugh, softly, and watched him stuff his shirt into his pants. "God damn you, Coby," she whispered hoarsely.

"Calm down, Victoria." He stepped into his shoes. "I don't even
love
you on purpose. Why would I go to this much trouble? I've missed you, and I wanted to hold you. That's all. I have every right. You wanted that as much as I did."

"Shut up." She sobbed, covering her face, shoulders shaking. "Please. Just shut up! We have no rights, and now you're going to see that for yourself."

She ran into the bathroom and slammed the door.

"Christian slept in that same study—without touching me, until I couldn't stand the alienation. Until I seduced him." Her voice a whisper, she lay lifeless in Zac's arms. He sensed her struggle to pull herself back. Reluctance to let go of Coby? Of Christian?

"What would you have done, Zac? If you had been in Christian's place?"

"Worse than withhold sex, Victoria. A lot worse."

"That scares me."

He held her, grateful for her reaction.

"And it scares me that Coby's—that our obsession has become a tradition that can be passed on to Ari and Alex."

"Not all traditions are worth preserving,
novia
. Some need to be torn down and rebuilt. I'll help you do that."