How to Score (34 page)

Arlene had taken a long swig of champagne.

“Miss Arnette?”

Numbly, Arlene had turned to see a man in a tuxedo beside her.

“Come with me, please.”

She’d drained her glass, then accompanied the man to the side of the foyer and down a narrow hallway. Thinking that he was taking her to a private rendezvous with Chandler, Arlene’s heart had thudded furiously. Chandler did love her, after all.

The man led her into the kitchen. A maid looked up from the platter she was arranging. The chef eyed her curiously over a pan of sautéing mushrooms. The tuxedoed man had leaned close and spoken softly. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve been instructed to tell you to leave.” The man’s eyes were kind, but his tone was firm.

The champagne hit Arlene’s empty stomach, making the room spin. “Instructed? By whom?”

“That really doesn’t matter.”

“It’s Mrs. Phelps, isn’t it?”

“You are not welcome here, Miss Arnette. You need to leave.”

“But—but the other guests are my coworkers! How will I explain… ”

The maid from the foyer reappeared with her coat and held it open. Numbly, Arlene put her arms through the sleeves.

“I suggest a sudden headache.” The man took her arm and escorted her out the back door.

“Ms. Arnette?”

Arlene opened her eyes, the old humiliation still burning in her chest, to see Sammi in the doorway. Arlene rose to her feet, still clutching the dress.

“Are you all right?” Sammi’s forehead creased with concern.

“I’m fine.”

“You look a little pale. Can I get you some water?”

“I’m perfectly fine.” Arlene turned toward the clothes rack.

Sammi’s gaze lit on the red silk. “Oh, what a beautiful gown!” she exclaimed.

Delightful. Now she was going to praise Justine’s taste in clothes. “It’s one of Justine’s older ones.”

“She must have looked gorgeous in it. From her photos and portraits, she was a beautiful woman.”

A fresh stab of pain pierced Arlene. It was ridiculous, feeling inferior to a dead woman, but Justine still managed to make her feel that way. Arlene’s hand shook as she slid the dress onto a clothes hanger. “Did you need something?”

“Yes. I’ve come up with a way that we can expand our exhibit space.”

Arlene smoothed the dress and tried to gather the tattered remnants of her patience. “It doesn’t need to be expanded. And we don’t have any more space, anyway.”

“Well, you know the house I’m renting—”

Walter’s house. Arlene held up both her hands. “I told you I don’t want to hear another word about that house, and I meant it.”

“But there’s something you should know. It’s going to be—”

Good lord—the girl just didn’t know when to quit. Arlene put her hands on her hips. “The subject is closed.”

“But—”

Frustration and anger curled in Arlene’s stomach like a crouching tiger. “I mean it. Not one more word.”

Sammi twisted her fingers together. “I really think you should hear me out.”

The tiger in Arlene’s belly switched its tail. “What part of ‘not one word’ don’t you understand?”

Sammi drew in a breath and jerked her head in a stiff nod. “All right. I’ll put it in an e-mail.”

Arlene felt her left eye twitch. “When I say I don’t want to hear about it, I mean in writing, in person, on the phone, or on the computer. Have I made myself clear?”

Sammi’s back went rigid. Her eyes flashed with heat and two bright pink spots flamed on her cheeks. She was obviously struggling to retain her composure. “Very clear,” she said curtly. She turned on her heel and ascended the stairs.

Dadblast that girl! Arlene’s forehead throbbed. She rubbed it with her thumb and middle finger as she sat back down in the chair beside the trunk, then closed her eyes. When she opened them, a wispy bit of familiar pink chiffon chased all thoughts of Sammi from her mind. Leaning forward, she moved aside a wool dress and lifted out a filmy peignoir.

Oh, dear Lord—it wasn’t just any peignoir; it was the same one Chandler had brought her from Paris! The same draped bodice edged with the same lace, the Valentino label in the back, the same high slit up the side.

Her hands tightened on the delicate fabric. A man didn’t buy a negligee for a woman he wasn’t sleeping with. No matter how much she might want to think otherwise, Arlene wasn’t simple-minded enough to believe that for a minute.

She’d been suspicious about that anniversary trip. Apparently her suspicions had been justified.

Pain shot through her, sharp and hot. Her hands shook, making the nightgown flutter. Had Chandler had sex with Justine only on the trip, or did he make love to her at home, too? Had he been making love to both of them all along?

She’d known it was possible, of course. After all, Chandler and Justine were married, and married people slept together. He’d denied it when she’d asked him, but then, what could she expect from a married man who was cheating on his wife?

Another knife of pain stabbed her, but this time it was accompanied by a dagger of anger. Out of all the shops in Paris, Chandler hadn’t bothered to find her a nightgown of her own? Good Lord, she’d thought the man had had more originality than that.

Another stab, deeper than before. Who had he been thinking about when he’d bought them—Justine, or her? When he’d made love to one woman, was he thinking about the other? Did he compare them? How different were they in bed? She’d always thought Justine must be a cold fish, but if she’d whisked her husband off on a romantic trip and inspired him to buy sexy lingerie, how cold could she have been?

A sick feeling gripped Arlene’s chest. Breathing hard, she wadded up the gown, stalked across the room, and threw it into the trash can.

Her chest hurt. She put her hand on her racing heart, wondering if she were about to have another heart attack.

What the hell difference did it make? No one would care. The board would probably be relieved if she just dropped dead.

She might be relieved, as well.

I
just can’t do it, Coach,” Horace whined through Luke’s cell phone, his voice reverberating loudly in the close confines of the SUV on the darkened street. “I just can’t tell Mother I’m going to move out.”

Chase didn’t need to look over at Paul to know he was smirking. Man, he hated coaching clients in front of his partner, but he and Paul were on stakeout and he had no choice. It didn’t help that Horace’s whiny voice carried loudly through the phone so that Paul could hear every word he was saying.

Chase draped his arm on the steering wheel, directed his gaze out the window, and tried to recall Luke’s methodology. “Don’t you want to?”

“Oh, yeah!”

“And from what you’ve told me the last time we talked, you’ve found the perfect apartment.”

“Yeah,” Horace said wistfully. “And I’ve found this big black leather sofa that would fit in there perfectly. But I just don’t have the nerve to tell Mother.”

“Let’s think about a time when you felt afraid to do something, but you went ahead and did it anyway.”

“There isn’t any.”

“Come on, Horace. Help me out here. How about when you went to interview for your job? Weren’t you nervous then?”

Paul put on a faux-terrified expression and started shaking. Chase ignored him.

“Well, yes,” Horace admitted.

“And you went anyway, and apparently you got the job.”

“Yes. But that’s because I was the only candidate. My company only pays about half what accountants at other companies get paid.”

Yet another area to work on. Horace could keep his brother in business for years to come. Chase turned away from Paul, who was playing air violin, and decided to try another tack. “What about the first time you asked a girl for a date?”

“I’ve, uh, never actually done that.”

Not to be believed. Paul was clutching his chest, feigning a heart attack. Chase shot him a warning look. “Well, what about as a kid? Surely you were afraid of something as you were growing up.”

“Oh, I was afraid of everything. Especially the bullies, but I still went to school every day.”

“Good. That’s a great example. And how did you handle that?”

“I didn’t. I got beat up every day.”

Chase closed his eyes, not wanting to see Paul’s reaction to that piece of news. “Well, how do you wish you’d handled it?”

“I wish I’d had some sort of superpower.”

“Like what?”

“Like Superman. Only with an accordion.”

Paul let out a snort. Chase shot him a warning glance and shook his head. He was out of his league here, and Paul wasn’t helping. “Uh-huh. Well, how would you have handled it if you had superpowers?”

“Well, first I’d play ‘Charge,’ and then I’d kick in their faces until they looked like hamburger.” Horace’s voice took on more enthusiasm than Chase had ever heard him express. “Then I’d boot them into outer space, where they’d circle the earth attached to a visually amplified satellite that tracked me, so they’d be forced to spend the rest of eternity watching me with their girlfriends.”

Paul’s shoulders shook with the effort not to laugh.

“Wow. I can see you’ve put some thought into that.”

“Yeah. A lot.”

“Well, that’s good.” Or was it? Chase had no clue. He rubbed his forehead. “For the purposes of our exercise here, I want you to picture yourself doing something that’s actually within the realm of your, um, abilities. If you could deal with those bullies again as just a normal human being, how would you handle it?”

“I dunno.” There was a long pause, then Horace sighed. “Probably just get beat up again.”

“Wrong answer, Horace. You need to start thinking of yourself as confident and capable and able to handle conflict.”

“But I’m not.”

“But you’re in the process of becoming that way.”
Or at least you’re supposed to be.
Jeez, this guy was pathetic. “Besides your mother, what are some of the things that make you anxious?”

“Everything.”

“You need to be more specific. This week I want you to find a situation where you’re anxious, Horace, and do the thing you fear.”

“Maybe you could set something up for me.”

“What?”

“Well, maybe you could pretend to mug me, and I could fight back.”

Paul was on the floorboard, his face buried in the seat to muffle his laughter.

“Interesting concept.” And stupid as hell. Chase could see the headlines now: “
FBI Agent Attacks Man to Boost Loser’s Self-Image.
”

“That would be so cool!” Horace continued, sounding totally pumped. “Mom always says I’m a coward, so that’s how I think about myself. If I could prove I wasn’t, well, then, maybe she’d believe it, which means
I’d
believe it, and then maybe I wouldn’t be. A coward, that is.”

Was the guy coming unhinged? Horace couldn’t seriously believe Chase was going to attack him.

Still, the idea seemed to have caught the man’s imagination.
When you find something that works, build on it,
Luke had written. Maybe Chase could use this to spur Horace in the right direction. “You know what, Horace—I think you should spend some time this week imagining yourself fighting off a mugger. Better yet, picture yourself saving someone else from one.”

“Oh, yeah!” Horace sounded excited. “That’s good. That would be really heroic, wouldn’t it?”

“Very heroic.”

“So maybe you’ll come by my office or home and pretend to attack a girl, and I’ll get to save her?”

Paul’s shoulders heaved as he pressed his face into the upholstery.

Chase closed his eyes and silently counted to three
.
“Well, Horace, you could mentally picture that. Or you could envision yourself acting brave and feeling confident in more normal situations.”

“Okay.”

“As the week goes on, I want you to keep an eye out for situations where you can step up to the plate and face down one of your fears. It doesn’t have to be a big fear; it can be something simple, like talking to that girl in Escrow that you rapped about.”

“Oh, no! She’s scarier than Mother!”

Was there any hope for this man? Chase drew a deep breath. “Well, then, start smaller. Tell a waiter that you don’t want mayonnaise on your hamburger, and ask him to get you another one.”

“But I
like
mayonnaise.”

“Whatever. That was just an example. The point is, you have to do something that makes you anxious.”

“And sometime during the week, you’ll surprise me with a situation, right?”

The concept seemed to have stirred Horace like nothing else had. “I never said that, Horace.”

“You never said you wouldn’t, either. And since it’s supposed to be a surprise, it wouldn’t be a surprise if you actually told me. I
get
it.”

No, you don’t. You don’t get anything.
“Horace—this isn’t about me tricking you. This is about you being the quarterback of your own life. If you score a touchdown, that feeling of victory will give you courage to carry the ball again, and you can just keep on scoring.”

“Yeah. Okay. ”

“So—do you have a rap for me?”

“Yes. And I’ve got my accordion this time.”

“Terrific!”

“Want to hear ‘Lady of Spain’ as a warmup?”

Paul snorted into the upholstery.

“We’re running out of time,” Chase said. “Better go straight to the rap.”

“Okay.”

An awful squawk made Chase close his eyes and hold the phone away from his ear. Horace played a few chords and slipped into his hip-hop voice with a cheerleader beat:

I went to a movie to see some action

’Cause my social life didn’t have any traction.

I saw a seat beside hot blond twins,

So I winked and waved, and they gave me grins.

I said, ‘Hey, ladies, is this seat taken?

You both look hotter than sizzling bacon.’

They giggled and said, ‘Ooh, you look like trouble.

How do you feel about seeing double?’

Oomachucka, oomachucka, oomachucka, OOM!

Double trouble all the way, boom boom BOOM!