Impasse (25 page)

Margery laughed. She thumped his chest with her open hand, letting it linger. “Oh, you. Let's catch up later.”

Katherine felt her hackles rise, but then Margery was off greeting another guest. They moved into the bar, where she began a mental list of important people to talk to before the night was out.

“Joe!” Clay hailed an older man in an expensive suit that didn't fit; he was sitting at the bar with a glass of scotch instead of wine. He was maybe sixty, but his face was wizened and his eyes suspicious beyond their years. Clay strode to him and extended a hand.

“Joe, I'd like to introduce you to Kate. She's a local photographer.”

Clay didn't use her last name, she noticed. The man Joe sized her up. She smiled and allowed it, cocking a hip for him.

“Picture taker, eh?” he said with a Rhode Island accent.

“I try.”

“You gonna take my picture?” He laughed.

“I certainly could. You have a face full of character.”

“She's also my new partner in the firm.”

“Lawyer, too?” He seemed disappointed.

“No. Business partner.”

“Good. I got no regard for lawyers. Married?”

“No.”

“Even better.” He smiled.

“Can I park her here with you for a minute? I need to use the restroom.”

“Sure thing.” He patted the stool next to his.

Clay left. Katherine was disappointed to see him go, but she understood that she was on assignment. She slid her rump up onto the stool beside Joe as he ordered her a Tom Collins to replace her empty wineglass.

“Do you know Margery?” she began.

“No.”

“What's your connection here? Wine lover?”

“Ha. No. Wine's a woman's drink. Clay mentioned this little party, and I had my people arrange an invitation.”

“Oh. Wow. So, are you from here?”

“No. Providence. I'm here on business.”

“What do you do, Joe?”

“This and that. I do some informal banking. But I guess you could say I'm mostly in transport.”

“Shipping?”

“Yeah. That sort of thing. I get over here to the water to check on my investments once a month or so. But enough about that. Tell me something interesting about you.”

“I studied photography at UMass. I'm not just some picture taker. Sold an entire series recently.”

“Educated. Good. I get tired of waitresses and pole dancers.”

“Pole dancers?”

“Cheap women. They're starting to bore me.”

“I'm not cheap.”

“No. You don't look it. Are you from New England?”

“Grew up here.”

“Local girl. Great. You like money, local girl?”

Katherine laughed. “That's a funny and very direct question.”

“And that's not an answer.”

“Well, they say it isn't everything.”

“Yeah, they who don't have it say that.”

“We do fine at the firm. And my work is selling.”

“Photography, huh? I'll have to check that out.”

“Do. I still have a few individual prints on display at Brad Bear's studio in Dartmouth. A man named Archie Brooks purchased my series.”

“Yeah, I think I heard Dugan mention that.”

“Oh! You know Reggie?”

“Yeah, I know Reggie.” He laughed. “I own Reggie.”

It was an odd thing to say, but Katherine didn't push it. “He's a new client at our firm.”

“I heard that, too.”

“How do you know him?”

“Everybody knows Reggie. But me, I fish on his boat sometimes, the
Iron Maiden
.”

“Lovely. Isn't that a medieval torture device?”

Joe laughed. “I think he named it after his ex-wife.”

Clay returned as the bartender brought Katherine's drink. Joe pulled out a wad of cash and peeled off a one-hundred-dollar bill to cover it. The bartender held the money up to the light.

“Sorry, smallest I got.”

Clay helped Katherine down from her stool.

“Aww, we were just getting to know each other,” Joe complained.

Clay laughed politely as he led Katherine away. “Sorry, I can't loan her out tonight. She's my date.”

“I guess I'll just have to get in line.”

Katherine looked back as they walked away.

“What did he mean by that?”

“Nothing. It's just old-school humor.”

“Are we doing business with him?”

“Maybe.”

“Who is he? You know it helps if you give me a little background before you dump me on raging chauvinists.”

“Joe Roff. Owns parking garages in downtown Providence and warehouses here, right on the damned waterfront. Among other things.”

“Funny, I almost thought you said
whorehouses
for a moment.”

“Not all success comes wrapped in a prep school uniform, Kate.”

“He bought me a Tom Collins at a wine-tasting party,” Katherine said, and she discreetly poured her drink into a potted plant.

“You didn't exactly come from money; don't act like you're too good for him.”

The truth of the comment stung. “Where I'm from and where I am now are two very different places.”

“No offense, but you need to understand that he's a big fish. Not a
New York Times–
society-page type, but self-made and does what he likes. I just hope you were charming.”

“If I was any more charming, he'd have given me the hundred.”

“Good.”

*   *   *

They circulated. Clay continued to introduce her as Kate the photographic artist, which she liked. And he rebuffed Margery's advances, which she loved. He looked good doing it, too—the most handsome man in the place. There was one young waiter who might have given him a run, but the boy had a tattoo that wasn't quite right, and as soon as he opened his mouth he dropped out of the race. Smart was sexy. Dumb, not so much. She estimated that she herself was among the top three women in her age range, but Clay did not talk to the other two, and the younger twentysomethings clung to the friends they'd come with and laughed too loud. They were no threat.

Margery hooked her up with two other restaurateurs over a merlot blend. Katherine got herself invited to stop in at their joints, and laid groundwork for suggesting they acquire new wall hangings. An art dealer from Boston unfortunately did not deal in photography, but took her card and promised to pass it along. And Clay circled back to talk with Joe at the bar while she did a round of wine sampler speed dating. She was matched with the Syrah.

It was a good night.
Fucking fabulous
. By the time they walked out to her Audi, she was flying. She plopped down in the seat, closed her eyes, and let the vibration of the engine run through her.

“Well, there's only one thing that could make this night better,” she said, letting eight glasses of wine do the talking for her. She giggled.
Whoops, flirting stage three
.

Clay grinned. “Let me guess: midnight gelato with dark chocolate drizzle at To Die For?”

“Not what I was thinking. But yes!”

She laughed all the way home. During the trip, she parodied an imaginary conversation between Margery and Joe Roff. Clay was so attentive that he missed her turn. Then she realized they weren't going to her house. The shoreline road was familiar, but she hadn't driven it in the Audi or with Clay, and certainly not at eighty miles per hour. It was exhilarating. When they pulled up, her heart was beating
one hundred
miles per hour.

“Care to give me the tour,” Clay said, and he held up a key that she immediately recognized.

Her heart skipped a beat. “Where did you get that?”

“Good news. They accepted your offer.”

“What offer?”

“I knew what you could pay. I filled out the paperwork for you.”

“You forged my signature?”

“You're welcome.”

“I was waiting to make sure everything came together.”

“You were being a pussy. Come on.” He got out of the car, shut his door, and ran around to open hers.

Clay led her straight to the living room, where they stood in front of the wall of windows. She couldn't wait any longer. She kissed him. He kissed her back, and she lost herself in his mouth, her hands clutching at his lats. After eight wines and months of waiting, she found she had no patience. She reached down.
He's not ready yet.
It wasn't a problem, but she was mildly surprised. Dugan had been ready from the moment he'd touched her, probably before.

Clay took the hint and peeled her burgundy dress up to her neck so that she stood like a ballerina with her hands in the air in her bra and thong. But he left the dress tangled around her arms and head. Then he pushed her face-first over the couch. She was able to breath, but couldn't move her arms or see, feeling both trapped and exposed. Unable to see, her other senses were heightened. She smelled her own perfume on the dress, felt the room's cool air on her bare body.

Clay pressed himself up against her, his mouth at her ear.
He's still not ready?

“What did you do with Dugan, Kate?” he whispered.

She hesitated. “What do you mean?” she said through the dress.

“I know something happened. Tell me about it. And don't lie.”

Katherine hesitated. “Am I in trouble?”

“Not unless you lie.”

“You want to hear what I did with another man while you and I are…?”

Clay twisted her dress tighter around her wrists. “Tell me.”

“I don't know, I—”

“Tell me!” he barked, and he slapped her exposed butt so hard she was certain it left a red handprint.

“A-a-a favor,” she stammered. “An
oral
favor.”

And then, finally, Clay Buchanan was ready.

 

CHAPTER 30

The caribou herd chose the easy path through the snow, and it was there that the alpha gray waited for them. The trap was laid where they were most likely to go.
No different than setting a snare on a rabbit trail,
Stu thought. The rest of the pack was scattered through the woods, waiting for their leader to ambush the herd.

Stu crouched uphill and downwind from them, motionless, as he had been for an hour. The snow fell lightly but steadily enough that it dusted over his tracks and coated him with a white crust that made him look like the hunched, snow-crowned shrubs all around him. None of the animals that were locked in the struggle for sustenance and life in the theater of the wild below knew he was there. And though he carried the Browning, he was just a spectator today, an audience of one, the only human who would ever witness this particular drama.

He couldn't help wondering if
his
caribou was among the herd. He couldn't remember its features—he'd been new to the sight of the great animals, and it had been hard to distinguish between them. These, too, had all looked alike at first, but he'd been coming here for a month, and now they were as distinct as though they'd sat in his Criminal Law II class with him all semester.
More so.

Thirteen males strutted arrogantly through the group, their massive antlers held high. Yet despite their bravado, they were careful to stay safely within the loose exterior border of the herd. There was a small group of females.
Cows, not does,
Blake had told him. They clumped together, the healthiest-looking beasts of the bunch. One other kept trying to nose her way in, but they kept their circle tight and their rumps toward her. The rest congregated loosely, scooping snow away with their hollowed hooves to get to rare and precious winter lichen. The eldest male had lost weight over the fall, and the female with the notched white bib had been moving slowly lately—possibly sick. The wolves would try to take one of the herd, and Stu laid odds on these two as the likeliest victims.

As Stu watched, the herd stirred, one of them suddenly aware that something was amiss. Nostrils flared and heads rose. They began to move up the trampled path toward the shallow snow in the nearby small clearing, where it would be easiest to run.
A mistake.
The walk became a trot, and when they reached the open space, the alpha gray showed himself. The caribou turned as one, as though joined at the shoulders by invisible ropes, the ripple of their doomed vector echoing through the herd like a virus.

The alpha gray closed the gap with an amazing burst of speed, but he didn't land in the midst of them. Instead he floated at the herd's edge, watching, waiting, shepherding. They ran, then turned, and ran again, each animal determined not to be
the one
today. Then it happened.

The herd veered to its right down a trail between the trees, and the excluded female who'd wanted so badly to join the cows veered left. She was not weak or particularly old. In fact, she looked to be in good condition. She simply made a bad choice.

Without the herd around, the wolves closed on her quickly. A second wolf was waiting on the trail, and it leaped to tear at her flesh as she passed. It did not need to take her down, but simply to confuse her, to throw her off her stride. When she stumbled into a deeper snowdrift, a third wolf bounded from the woods and threw itself against her. She spun in the snow and faced her antagonists, panting. The wolves slunk around her, feeling her out, careful to avoid her sharp hooves and small antlers. There was a quick feint, and when she twisted to protect her flank, the alpha surged forward and clamped his jaws onto her exposed neck. It was intimate, a joining of teeth and flesh and blood, their furred bodies pressed together in an embrace as she weakened and then faltered. The weight of two more wolves brought her down, and it was over quickly.

Stu watched the conclusion through the scope of the Browning. He put the crosshairs on the carcass. He could take a caribou himself, he thought. Or even a wolf. He didn't; he wasn't the hunter today.
But I could.