The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (16 page)

The shock of seeing his real name in print terrified him.
 
How much did they know about him?
 
How far were they willing to go?

Michael tore the note in half and telephoned his father.
 
He needed that money, regardless of the stings that were attached to it.
 
As he waited for someone to answer, he glimpsed the picture of his mother.
 
It was lying askew on the floor, just a few feet away from Rufus’ body.
 
Someone had slashed it with a knife.

“Yes?”

“It’s Michael.
 
I’ve changed my mind.
 
I need your help.
 
Just tell me what I have to do and I’ll do it.”

Could he commit murder?

“What made you change your mind?”

Michael managed to speak only out of sheer will. “Santiago broke into my apartment and butchered my dog.”

“I’m sorry, Michael.”

“I’ll bet you are.
 
Just tell me what you want me to do.”

He glanced at the blood-soaked towels that covered his dog and knew it could be him lying there, knew that if he didn’t do as his father asked, it would be him lying there. “I’ll do anything.”

Including murder?

“Why don’t you come to my office tomorrow morning?
 
We’ll discuss everything in detail then.”

Michael said he’d be there and hung up the phone.

When he knelt beside Rufus, he ran a trembling hand over the dog’s back.
 
If he waited, just a moment, it seemed he would understand.
 
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
 
“This is my fault and I’m sorry.”

They said they were giving him three weeks to come up with the money.
 
So, why this?
 
What was the point of killing a harmless dog?
 
Michael covered Rufus with another towel. Then he glanced at the tattered remains of his mother’s picture.
 
Anger rose in him, a fury so deep only revenge could pacify it.
 
Maybe it was just as well he help his father.

Yes, he could commit murder.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The sun cut through the partly open Venetian blinds and sliced bright bands of gold across Eric Parker’s sleeping face, the cream-colored sheets of his four-poster bed, and a section of his bloodstained leather belt, which, along with the rest of his clothes, lay in a crumpled mass at the foot of his bed.

It was late Saturday morning.

He awoke with a headache a little before noon.
 
After fumbling in his bedside table for some aspirin, he sat up in bed, swallowed three Tylenol dry and then walked into the bathroom, where he drank water from the faucet and relieved himself.

As he stood before the toilet, Eric peered at himself in the bathroom mirror, surprised to find that he looked worse than he felt.
 
His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, the pupils still dilated; his hair was a wild mass of dark brown waves; his face, usually smooth and tan, was creased with fine pink lines and he was in need of a shave.

Eric flushed the toilet and turned with a groan away from the mirror.
 
Regardless of how much he’d drank, last night was still fresh in his mind.
 
When Eric left Leana, he took the elevator to the lobby, asked the doorman to get him a cab and then waited for it outside in the rain so there would be no chance of him running into Celina or George.

When a cab pulled alongside him, he stepped soaking wet inside and instructed the cabbie to take him to Redman Place, the condominium complex where many of Redman International’s senior executives lived—including himself, Celina and Diana Crane.
 
Not wanting to come across either of them, Eric went straight to his apartment, peeled off his damp clothes and crawled into bed, where he quickly forgot the beating he gave Leana Redman and fell asleep.

 
Now, standing beneath a hot shower, Eric realized the enormity of what he had done to Leana.
 
Hitting her with that belt had been a grave mistake.
 
If he hadn’t threatened her, Eric was certain she would have gone to the police—or to her father—and he now would be in jail, instead of his bathroom.

He wondered how long she would keep quiet.
 
Did she believe him when he said he’d have a contract put out on her?
 
When her anger prevailed—and he knew it would, probably even had—would she risk the chance that he was bluffing and go to the police? Or to George?

Eric stepped out of the shower and was struck with the realization that by hitting Leana, he had given her the power to blackmail him.
 
Leana knew how hard he had struggled to reach the top.
 
She knew how much his reputation and his job at Redman International meant to him.

If she wanted to, she could destroy everything he ever worked for.

*
  
*
  
*

Later, after changing into a pair of dark blue sweat pants and an old, faded football jersey, Eric knew he had to call Celina and explain to her what she’d walked in on last night.
 
If he let too much time pass, more damage would be done.
 

He went to the living room, picked up the telephone and dialed Celina’s number.
 
If she told her father what she had seen, he knew George would fire him—and all those years of struggling to the top would have been for nothing.
 
As the phone rang, his thoughts returned to Leana.
 
If he lost his job because of her, he would make her see that last night was just a party.

There was no answer.
 
Eric replaced the receiver, stepped into a pair of worn moccasins and left for Celina’s apartment, which was two floors above his.
 
There was no answer there as well.
 
Either she was out, or she was not answering the door.

He returned to his apartment and dialed the doorman.

“I saw her come in myself, Mr. Parker, at around eleven last night.
 
No, she hasn’t left the building.
 
Yes, I’m sure of it.
 
You have a nice day, too, sir.”

 
Eric replaced the receiver.
 
So, she was in her apartment.
 
He considered taking his own key and using it, but thought better of it.
 
She would have nothing to do with him now.
 
If he walked into her apartment unannounced, she would either throw him out herself, or she would have security do it.
 
Eric knew that as well as he knew himself.

It was over.
 
Deep down he knew what he had with Celina was over.
 
And all because of Leana.

He opened two French doors and stepped out onto a terrace that smelled faintly of potted roses and city air.
 
Below him, Fifth Avenue bustled and Central Park sighed, and the sun gilded the tops of shiny limousines and enormous elm trees.

As a boy, owning an apartment in New York City had been a dream.
 
And while he felt that one day his dream would come true, never did he think he would be living on Fifth Avenue.
 
Perhaps on the West side of Manhattan, maybe even in some obscure studio on the East side, but not Fifth Avenue.
 
And never, never with a view of Central Park.

He had paid $25 million for this view.
 
He had handed Manhattan’s top interior decorator an additional $10 million so he could say to guests, “It’s Art Deco.” At the time, he had been convinced the expense was worth it.
 
When you’re a senior executive at one of the world’s leading conglomerates—and sleeping with George Redman’s daughter—you believe your job is secure and that the money will last forever.

Now that he was faced with the possibility of being fired, Eric wasn’t so sure of that.

*
  
*
  
*

The reasons why she hated him—or should hate him, if she could only bring herself to that level—were listed on sheets of white paper and taped to her refrigerator, her desk, her bedroom and office walls.
 
She knew what she was doing was immature, but it was effective.

She placed the notes anywhere she could easily see them.
 
She had spent the better part of the night writing them and now, as Diana Crane taped the final list to her computer screen, she wondered again why she still loved the son of a bitch.

She knew it didn’t have to be that way.
 
She knew that other men found her attractive (hadn’t Eric told her so only last night?), and it was this knowledge that kept Diana going.
 
She did not need Eric Parker.
 
She just wanted him.

She looked at the phone on the table beside her, considered calling him and rejected the idea.
 
Leave it alone
, she thought.
 
You can do better.
 

But she reached for the phone and dialed his number, anyway.

Eric answered on the third ring.
 
“Hello?”

He was home.
 
She felt a rush and was about to speak when something made her change her mind and hang up.
 
It was ridiculous, childish, and she knew it.
 
Disappointed with herself, she left for the kitchen.
 
She wasn’t hungry, but she wanted to keep busy, so eating was the logical choice.

She was deep into a carton of choco-chunk ice cream when the doorbell rang.
 
Diana listened, hoping whoever was there would go away.
 
She was in no mood for company.
 
She had firm plans to finish this ice cream and move on to a box of chocolates.

But the doorbell continued to ring.

She went to the door, knowing she looked like hell in her blue jeans and white sweatshirt, but she didn’t care.
 
Whoever was there would have to accept her the way she was.

 
She opened the door and found Eric Parker holding two champagne glasses in one hand, and a bottle of Cristal in the other.
 
He smiled the same crooked smile that had won her heart years ago and Diana found herself hating him for it.
 

“I came to apologize,” he said.
 
“I was an asshole last night and I’m sorry.” He waited for a reply, but Diana stood firm.
 
“All right,” he said, his smile fading a little.
 
“What do you say about coffee here and then lunch in my apartment?
  
We can talk things over, I can tell you what’s going on with me and Celina, what’s going on with me and you, and then—”

Something caught his eye and he turned to the mirror at Diana’s right.
 
Taped to it was one of her lists.
  
Eric read the first few entries.
 
He stopped cold at the fourth.
 
“You really think I walk like I’m constipated?”

“You’re so full of shit, how couldn’t you?”

In the silence that passed, they looked at each other—and then began to laugh.
 
Diana stepped aside and motioned for him to walk through.
 
“It’s like I’m allowing a vampire inside,” she said.