Garden of Lies (68 page)

to think when she dashed out to get the phone, half-dressed. And now ... God, what must he think

of her?

A locker-room word from high school popped into her head. Cock tease. Crude, but

descriptive. It struck her as ridiculous, and funny too, thinking of Rose Santini as that, an

overgrown cock tease.

She felt a giggle work its way up her throat, and bit down hard on her lip. “Oh, Max,” she said

and sighed. “Let’s go to bed. Right now. Never mind about dinner. I may be drunk, but not so

drunk I don’t know what’s good for me.”

Rose got up a little unsteadily, and went to him. She looped her arms around his neck.

“Rose ... ,” he began, his voice hoarse.

“I know what I’m doing, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said, smiling a little. “I won’t be

sorry in the morning. As long as we’re still friends. Okay?”

[417] He nodded, and his Adam’s apple worked. Then with a groan, he pulled her to him,

kissing her. Deeply. With so much hunger, Rose felt, quite suddenly, as if she’d been plucked

inside out, her head spinning. Dear God. Who would have guessed? Max ...

Wonderful, oh God, how wonderful,
she thought as he undressed her in the bedroom. Kneeling

to pull her socks off last, kissing her feet as he did so, running his tongue softly along the arch.

Then turning her over onto her stomach on the big brass bed, and doing the same to the backs of

her knees, and the tender crescents of flesh under each buttock.

Rose shivered with pleasure, each sensation a new and unexpected gift to be unwrapped

slowly, savored. A box of fine chocolates to be nibbled one by one. What heaven, to make such

love without being in love, without the
Sturm und Drang.

Gently, he urged her onto her back, his head moving down between her legs.

Oh dear God ...

She was coming. Swiftly, uncontrollably, like tumbling over and over down a hot, slippery

sand dune. Her legs twined about his chest, fingers buried in his hair.
Jesus
...
sweet Jesus ... Max

... how did you know to do this wonderful thing?

And when it was over, she was left gasping, glowing, hungry for more. “Inside me,” she

moaned. “Hurry.”

Even better like this. Better than the silvery trills he created with his tongue. Solid, deep. Hips

arching, falling, the muscular power in his arms and legs flowing into her like an electric charge.

So different from Brian, long and loose-limbed. The difference between a long-distance runner

and a prizefighter.

No,
she told herself,
don’t think about Brian. It’s not fair. Not fair. Even if you’re not in love

with Max. You have no right bringing Brian into this.

Max’s breath was coming faster, coming in hard little gusts against her ear.

“Rose ... I can’t hold ... oh Christ ...”

“Yes, Max,
yes
.”

She felt him shoot forth, and she was carried along too. Her body singing with the exquisite

pleasure of it. Again and again and again ...

[418] Afterwards, she collapsed, unable to move, her heart galloping in her chest. Wrapped in

the warm slippery cocoon of sweat created by their bodies. Listening to the gradual slowing of

Max’s breath against her ear.

“My God, Max, my God,” she whispered, stunned.

And in that instant, she felt a piercing sadness. She wished so that she were in love with him.

Hours later, sleepy, sated, Rose snuggled close to Max, thinking how even after lovemaking

she liked having him in her bed. Other men she’d slept with in the past, she had enjoyed, but then

after a while she had started to feel restless, impatient for them to go so she could reclaim her

solitary bed. But with Max, she felt cozy, in no hurry for him to leave her side.

She was on the verge of drifting off to sleep when she heard him remark casually, “I got a call

today from Stu Miller at Prudential. One of his policyholders is being sued ... a doctor, someone

you know, in fact ... Rachel Rosenthal.”

Rose felt as if he’d dumped a bucket of icy water over her, every nerve shocked awake, her

heart racing. Rachel ... Brian’s wife ...

She rolled onto her back, avoiding Max’s eyes. She didn’t want Max to guess her feelings; they

were too private, too painful.

“Is that so?” She forced a yawn. “Too bad. What’s it about?”

“Don’t know all the details yet. I’m having a meeting with Stu about it tomorrow morning. He

wants me to handle it. Thought you might like to join me. Should be interesting.”

Dammit, why was Max doing this to her? He had to know how difficult it would be.

“I don’t know,” she said, careful to keep her voice neutral. “I’ll have to check my calendar.”

But her mind was racing, leaping ahead. In her imagination, she was already placing herself at

that meeting. Seeing Rachel, and maybe Brian—would Brian be there, too? Rachel would be

upset, and Brian with his arm around her, consoling her.
God, no, how could I stand that? After

everything I’ve already been through?

No, dammit, feeling sorry for Rachel wasn’t on her agenda.

[419] But then suddenly she was imagining it a different way. Couldn’t she merely
pretend
to

feel sorry for Rachel, to want to help her? And maybe in the end she really could help, with Max

so tied up these days on that Boston Corp case. And then how noble she would seem! How

forgiving!

And wouldn’t Brian be grateful? Oh yes. She could see it now ... how they might get together,

for coffee or lunch ... united in the same cause. At first they would talk only of Rachel. But later,

the talk would turn to other things ... they would laugh together, remembering when they had

loved each other. ...

It struck Rose with stunning force: a link. Yes, that’s what it would be. A link between her and

Brian.

But Max? What would she tell him? This was some kind of test, had to be. Max was too damn

sharp, he never missed a thing. He had to suspect what this might mean to her. Damn him, he was

holding this out to her like bait. If she showed up at that meeting tomorrow, he’d know she was

still interested in Brian somehow.

But why should he care? That’s what she didn’t understand. Rose turned it over in her mind.

Well, okay, she’d take the bait ... but on her own terms, not his.

Slowly, she rolled over to face Max, charged, crackling with excitement, as if she could stay up

all night and not feel the least bit tired.

“Never mind my calendar,” she told him, “I’ll make room.”

Chapter 29

Rachel shifted impatiently on the low-slung white couch in the lawyers’ waiting room. For the

third or fourth time she looked at her watch. Almost eleven, and the appointment was for ten-

thirty. If only she could spring up, and walk right out of here.

The place was super-air-conditioned, cold as Antarctica, but nonetheless she was perspiring.

Her armpits soggy, her pantyhose sticking to the backs of her thighs. So long since she’d even

worn pantyhose, much less a business suit. And God, why had she dressed up? Who was she

trying to impress?

Five more minutes,
she told herself.
Then I’ll make some excuse to the receptionist, and duck

out. I probably have a screw loose, coming here in the first place. Of all people, Rose Santini as

my lawyer!

When the insurance agent first told her the name, she’d laughed out loud, couldn’t help it. God,

the irony of it. Fate, like a hand pushing at her from behind, shoving her in Rose’s direction. God,

why Rose, of all people? Of all the thousands of lawyers in this city, why
her?

Was that why she’d come? Curiosity? No, it was more than that, something stronger. Rachel

had had to come, to see her, to know her. This woman Brian once had loved ... and might still.

One visit, she’d told herself in the taxi on her way over. That was all. After all, the appointment

had already been made. She would just see Rose, talk to her, then insist Prudential find her

another lawyer.

But coming here like a spy, Jesus, how sneaky. She felt a little ashamed. And foolish, too.

What could she possibly hope to accomplish?

She stood up, and strode across the thick oat-colored carpet to the long wood and chrome desk

in the corner. A young tanned [421] receptionist with a mane of streaky blond hair and long red

fingernails looked up from her IBM Selectric.

“Shouldn’t be too much longer,” the young woman told her, offering a twinkly smile.

“It’s just ... well, I’m afraid I can’t wait any longer,” Rachel told her. “You see, I have to be

back at—”

Rachel heard the click of a door opening, and felt a rush of cool air against the backs of her

sticky legs. Then a voice, low and musical.

“I’m sorry. I had an overseas call. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.”

Rachel turned, and found herself facing a tall woman who stood in the doorway that connected

the reception area to the inner offices.

Rose.

Rachel, staring into those dark, proud eyes, felt a jolt of recognition. She took in the mass of

black curls caught up with silver combs. The plain black cotton shift and colorful scarf draped

artistically about Rose’s angular shoulders, the hammered gold bracelet clasped about her dusky-

skinned right forearm just below the elbow. And—how odd—a
single
earring, like a pirate’s. A

ruby in the shape of a teardrop, set in gold, which dangled from her left ear, winking and

shimmering in the fluorescent lights that shone from the ceiling.

A cold gust of fear swept through Rachel, and she thought,
She’s beautiful, stunning. Why

didn’t I see it, that night in London? No wonder Brian can’t forget her.

She felt dwarfed beside Rose, diminished somehow. Even in her best summer suit, a Galanos,

raw silk woven into a cloud of sienna hues. But she herself was limp, like a plant someone forgot

to water, listless. Her hair caught back haphazardly with a rubber band, her face pale without

makeup, dark circles under her eyes from all the sleepless nights since the summons.

Go now,
she told herself.
Make an excuse, say anything. You have no business staying here.

“I understand,” Rachel said, “but I
do
have to be back at the clinic. Look, this is probably a

mistake, my coming here. Maybe it would be best if I—”

“You’re in trouble, and you need help,” Rose broke in, her dark eyes fixed on Rachel. There

seemed to be no sympathy in her [422] voice, no resentment either. Just stating a fact. “Why

don’t you come inside, and we’ll talk about it. Then you can leave if you like. No obligation.”

Rose smiled, and her dark face seemed to glow like some strangely beautiful icon.

“I told you once I owed you a favor,” she added, “and I

meant it.”

Rachel, disarmed and a bit dismayed, too, found herself smiling back, thinking,
This woman

should hate me. Why is she doing this?

“All right,” she said.

Rose came forward, extending her hand. Long cool fingers that gripped Rachel’s hand firmly,

then slid away like water. Rachel caught a faint fragrance, sweet, earthy, like winter pears

ripening on a windowsill.

“My office is a bit crowded at the moment,” Rose said. “Papers everywhere. I’m preparing for

a case. We can use Max Griffin’s office. Would you like some coffee or tea?”

“Tea would be nice.”

“Tea for Mrs. McClanahan, Nancy,” Rose called to the receptionist. Rachel was struck that

she’d used her married name, and not “Dr. Rosenthal.”

Rachel followed Rose through a maze of paneled corridors, to a corner office overlooking the

East River. Except for the view, she felt as if she’d stepped into the house she’d grown up in. A

palatial antique Oriental carpet, a Victorian gaslight chandelier, Dutch marquetry chairs

upholstered in worn velvet. An antique desk piled high with papers and manila folders. A glass-

fronted bookcase filled with leatherbound volumes tooled in gilt. Lovely, she thought. And

intimidating as hell.

Rose gestured toward what looked like a Duncan Phyfe settee. “Please, sit down.”

Rachel, sinking down on the stiff seat, watched Rose settle in a chair across from her, carved at

the top—she was struck by the irony of it—with a dove bearing an olive branch in its beak.

There was an awkward silence. Then Rose said, “It might be easier if we skipped the small

talk, don’t you think, Mrs. McClanahan?”

Rachel couldn’t help but admire her directness.

[423] “Yes, that would be easier,” she said. “But please call me Rachel. Everyone does.”

Rose seemed to consider this, weigh it, while sun, filtering through the loosely woven drapes,

fell across her in a ripply golden haze.

“All right then. Rachel.” She picked up a yellow legal pad from the table in front of her, and

balanced it on her knees. “I’ve gone over the paperwork Prudential sent over, and I’ll be very

direct with you. I believe you did everything within your power to give Alma Saucedo the best

care you possibly could. And a jury will probably believe that, too. But nonetheless that very

same jury
could
easily vote against you.”

Rachel felt her heart begin to thump, thudding hard against her chest. But that was impossible.