Butterfly (2 page)

There he was. At the far wall, moving aside a painting and contemplating the combi-

nation lock of the small safe.

She studied him. Her trained physician’s eye saw, beneath the tightly fitted black

turtleneck sweater and pants, the body of a man who kept himself in shape. She couldn’t

guess his age—a black knitted ski mask covered his face and hair—but he was wiry. Finely

shaped buttocks and thighs moved beneath black fabric.

Linda didn’t move, she didn’t breathe, as she watched him expertly open the safe and

reach inside.

Then he turned suddenly, as if he had felt her watching him. He stared at the dressing

room door; she saw two dark eyes peer warily through the ski mask; a grim mouth and

square jaw were outlined in black knit.

She backed away from the door, holding the gun at arm’s length with her trembling

hands. The single beam of light that spilled into the tiny room caught on the shivering

platinum butterfly that hung from her wrist; it shot silvery reflections over the camisole

and nylon slip she was wearing.

She inched back as far as she could and then stood her ground, watching the door, her

finger on the trigger.

The door swung slightly at first, as if he were testing it. Then it swung all the way open

and his black silhouette stood against the softly lighted bedroom.

He looked down at the gun, then at her face. Although his features were masked, Linda

sensed uncertainty about him, thought she detected indecision flicker in his dark eyes.

He took another step toward her, coming into the dressing room. Then another step,

and another.

“No closer,” she said.

“I’m unarmed,” he said. His voice was surprisingly gentle and refined, the distin-

guished voice of a stage actor. He had spoken only two words and yet in them she had

heard a trace of—vulnerability.

BUTTERFLY

7

“Get out,” she said.

He continued to stare at her. There were only a few feet between them now; Linda

could see the curve of biceps beneath the tight sweater, the calm rise and fall of his chest.

“I mean it,” she said, aiming. “I’ll shoot if you don’t get out.”

Black eyes in a hidden face studied her. When he spoke again there was a trace of incred-

ulousness in his tone, as if he had just discovered something. “You’re beautiful,” he said.

“Please—”

He took another step closer. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no idea I was intruding into a

lady’s
house.”

Her voice came out in a whisper: “Stop.”

He looked down at the necklace in his hand, the thing he had just taken out of the

wall safe. It was a long rope of pearls, knotted at the end.

“I have no right to take this,” the intruder said, lifting it up. “It belongs to you. It

belongs
on
you.”

Unable to move, Dr. Markus stared up into dark eyes as black-gloved hands lifted the

necklace over her head, slipped it under her hair, and brought it to rest on her bare chest,

just above the lace of her camisole.

The night silence seemed to intensify as the thief slowly removed his gloves, keeping

his eyes locked on hers, then took the pearl-knot in his hands and adjusted it so that it lay

between her breasts.

At his touch, Linda caught her breath.

“I hadn’t meant to frighten you,” he said in a quiet, intimate tone. His masked face

was inches from hers. Black eyes were framed by black lashes and the black knit of his

mask. She could see his mouth, the thin straight lips and white teeth. He bent his head

and said more quietly, “I had no right to frighten you.”

“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t—”

He raised a hand and touched her shoulder. She felt the strap of her camisole start to

slide down. “If you truly want me to go,” he said, “I will.”

Linda stared up into his gaze. As the two straps of her camisole fell from her shoulders,

her arms lowered and the gun dropped to the thick carpet. His hands moved as slowly

and expertly as when they had opened the wall safe, feeling her feverish skin, seeming to

savor the way she trembled. When lace and satin came away from her breasts, Linda

closed her eyes.

“I have never met a woman as beautiful as you,” he said. His hands gently explored

her. He knew where to touch, where to pause, where to hold her. “Tell me to leave,” he

said again, bending his head so that his mouth was nearly upon hers. “Tell me,” he said.

“No,” she breathed. “Don’t go…”

When his lips touched hers, Linda felt a shock go through her body. Suddenly she

wanted this man, desperately. Here and now.

He drew her into his arms. She felt the coarse knit of his sweater against her naked

breasts. His hands stroked her back, then went lower, sliding under the elastic waistband

of her slip. Linda could hardly breathe. His kisses smothered her. His tongue filled her

mouth. Her thighs pressed urgently against him; she felt his hardness.

8

Kathryn Harvey

Is it possible? she wondered in desperation. Is it possible that, after all these years,

finally, with this stranger I could—

And then a sound broke the silence. It was a rude, insistent bleat, coming from the

bedroom.

He brought his head up. “What’s that?”

“My beeper. Damn!”

Linda pushed past him, ran to her purse, grabbed the little box and silenced it. “I have

to make a phone call. Is that telephone real?” she asked, pointing to the boudoir-style

instrument on the nightstand. “Can I call out on it?”

He came to stand in the doorway of the dressing room, folding his arms and leaning

against the doorframe. “Just pick it up. The girl will give you an outside line.”

As she dialed a number Linda glanced at him, at the gorgeous body in black, and felt

her irritation rise. She had taken a gamble; she had had no other choice. The odds had

been that she would be able to snatch a couple of hours of peace before having to go back

to the hospital, but the odds had turned against her. “His pressure’s dropped,” the

Intensive Care nurse now told her over the phone. “Dr. Cane thinks he’s got a bleeder.”

“Okay. Get him back up to surgery. Tell Cane to open him up. I’m in Beverly Hills.

It’ll take me about twenty minutes to get there.”

She hung up, having made the call without once saying her name—the ICU nurses

knew Linda’s voice—and turned to the stranger in the ski mask. “Sorry,” she said, hastily

removing the pearl necklace and reaching for her clothes. “Can’t be helped.”

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry, too.”

She looked at him. She couldn’t see his face, but his voice sounded genuinely sorry.

But she knew it was an act. He was paid to humor her.

After she was dressed, she grabbed her hospital coat and medical bag and hurried to

the door. Linda paused to smile at him, a little sadly, thinking about what might have

been. Then she reached into her purse, pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, and laid it on the

table by the door. He would have gotten it afterward. It wasn’t his fault that they were

interrupted.

“But I didn’t do anything,” he said quietly.

“Make it up to me next time.”

Linda stepped out into a corridor that could have belonged to an elegant, tastefully

discreet hotel. She hurried along, past closed doors, and checked her watch. She really

shouldn’t have risked coming to Butterfly this afternoon, not with a patient in ICU. But

she had been looking forward for weeks to coming here, had already put it off several

times because of medical emergencies.

When she turned the corner, Linda was met by an attendant, a young woman in black

skirt and white blouse with a butterfly embroidered in gold thread on the pocket. “Is

everything all right, madam?” she asked. The attendant did not know Dr. Markus’s name;

all of Butterfly’s members were anonymous.

“I’ve been called away.”

“Was the companion all right?”

They reached the elevator. “He was perfect. I’d like to reschedule. But I’ll have to call.”

BUTTERFLY

9

“Very well, madam. Good afternoon.”

When the doors whispered closed, Linda quickly removed the black harlequin mask

from her face and folded it into her purse. She rubbed her cheeks, in case it had left any

lines there.

The elevator brought Dr. Markus down to the street level and opened upon the brass-

and-mahogany elegance of Fanelli, one of Beverly Hills’ most prestigious men’s clothing

stores. She hurried through to the glass doors that opened onto Rodeo Drive and stepped

into the glare of a sharp January afternoon. Linda put on her oversized sunglasses and sig-

naled to the parking valet. It was a beautifully clear Southern California day—a citrus-

grove kind of a day, Linda thought, and wished she had someone special to share it with.

But there was no one, and there probably never would be. She had come to accept

that now, by age thirty-eight and after two failed marriages and numerous unsuccessful

relationships.

Although, she thought as she looked up at the plain, unassuming façade of Butterfly,

although there in fact was someone to share such a spectacular day with…but she had to

be at the hospital, and he had other women to see.

The valet brought her red Ferrari around, she tipped him generously and joined the

rushing traffic on Wilshire Boulevard. Opening her windows and letting the crisp wind

blow through her blond hair, Linda felt herself smile, and then laugh. “I’ll be back,” she

said out loud to the monstrous Beverly Hills traffic. “Come hell or high water, Butterfly.

I’ll be back!”

2

The first time Jamie swam naked in Miss Highland’s pool he had thought she wasn’t

home. He had pulled himself out and was shaking himself off in the crisp morning sun

when he glanced up and saw her standing at one of the second-floor windows, staring

down at him. It had startled him. Then he had gotten scared. The wealthy Beverly

Highland could see to it that he never worked in Southern California, or anywhere else,

ever again.

But, to his surprise, she had not moved from the window. She hadn’t shouted at him

or called the security guards that protected her enormous Beverly Hills estate. In fact,

there had been no visible reaction. She had merely stood there, her hand resting on the

drapery, her eyes fastened on him. Suddenly very worried that Beverly Hills cops were

going to arrive any second and take him away, Jamie had hastily pulled on his jeans and

got to work cleaning the pool. Every so often he had looked up and found her still there.

He’d finished in record time and driven off in his truck, spending the next few days in

agony, waiting to be called on the carpet for swimming in a client’s pool—
bare-assed

naked
at that! But, curiously, no reprimand ever came.

The second time he swam in her pool he did it on a reckless dare with himself. He fig-

ured she was home—the Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud that everyone knew was her favorite

car was in its garage. And he’d seen the chauffeur working on the Excalibur. Wondering if

she would come to her window again, he had dived in with a great announcing splash.

When he emerged a few minutes later, naked and dripping, he saw her up there,

watching him.

And again, strangely, no reaction.

This morning was his third time. He had pushed the buzzer at the wrought-iron gate

and identified himself to the security guard. Then he had driven his pool-maintenance

truck down the long drive and around to the back, where he would spend the better part

of the morning cleaning Miss Highland’s enormous Italianate swimming pool. With the

equipment and chemicals all ready, he paused and squinted up at the house. She was

already there, at the window.

He nearly waved, but didn’t. Instead, he stood with his hands on his hips, surveying

the blue-green shimmering water, as if making up his mind. He was thinking: She wants

me to do this.

Although she was a personality constantly in the limelight, a favorite subject of the

media, very little was actually known about the reclusive Miss Highland. She lived all

alone in one of the biggest mansions in Beverly Hills, surrounded herself with a staff of

secretaries, consultants, and hangers-on, jetted frequently from coast to coast in a private