Retribution (11 page)

In her own fatigue, she found herself staring, thoughts wandering off into a kind of blankness, and she looked away quickly, hoping they hadn't noticed. Instead she looked down at her blouse, tucked hastily inside her vest, because the buttons had been torn from the front, done her mother said, by the paramedics to check her vitals. The black sequined vest which matched her satin trousers seemed unharmed, and for that she was grateful. Evidently its two buttons had been easy enough to open quickly. Her bra had been cut into shreds and she had tossed it into the trash, along with the plastic bag from the hospital which had held her other garments. Self-consciously, she drew her vest closed a little tighter.

An aquarium bubbled in the corner, a tall and thin rectangular glass world, with fuschia and ivory sea fans as a backdrop to the saltwater fish who swam seemingly heedless of the hour. She watched it, knowing that the window to the sea was soothing as well as entertaining, far less stressful than a television set, yet as compelling to watch. Her neurosurgeon from years ago had had two such aquariums in his office. She could not count the times she had spent, nose nearly pressed to the glass, watching the fish and eel and hermit crabs among the rocks and flora. After the operation, she had found herself eerily identifying with the hermit crab, her own head bound in a turban of bandages, the rest of her venturing out into the world only when she could hope it was safe.

There was no hermit crab in the hospital tank. There was, however, one of those eels, peeking through a porous lava rock, his brown sleek self darting in and out as a brilliant fish ventured too close to his lair. She had never seen an eel eat a fish, so she thought it was to protect his territory.

A shadow fell across her view and she drew back quickly, prepared to see her mother. Instead, the dark-haired boy smiled shyly at her. His T-shirt had a small grape-colored stain on it, his round stomach peeked through a tiny hole, and he wore knee-length shorts meant to sag.

"Lady, could I borrow some quarters? My dad wants some coffee and we ran out of money."

"You've been here a while, huh?" Charlie reached inside her vest, to an inner pocket, where she always kept money folded up and secreted. She withdrew the bills, found a one crisp except for the crease in the middle, and gave it to the boy. "You can put this in the vending machine."

"I know," he said wisely.

She nodded. She could not tell if he was school age or not, but she knew the wisdom of children when it came to drink and candy machines. "Well, there you go."

"Thanks." He started to turn around, then looked back. "My sister… she was in a car accident. We don't know if she's gonna live or not."

His need for her to understand touched her. Charlie smiled briefly in sympathy. His brown eyes darkened for a moment. "You can pray for her if ya want."

A sharp whistle sounded across the lobby, directed at him evidently, for he flinched. He added, "Gotta go," and dashed away, holding the dollar bill gingerly. Charlie swallowed a small lump in her throat and looked back to the aquarium as if she were drowning and the small, brilliant light of the tank were the sun to show her the way to the surface. She did not want to be here. She fought down an overwhelming moment of panic, wondering where her mother could be.

A janitor came through with a small carpet sweeper, cleaned the area of the lobby briskly and quickly, leaned to the aquarium and snapped the light off. He smiled at Charlie.

"Even fish have to sleep sometime," he said apologetically.

She nodded. She continued to watch the darkened tank, although the fish were nearly impossible to see now, and the eel withdrew entirely into his rock. The janitor worked his way around, humming off-key to himself, and then there was silence again except for the sound of the aquarium pump, and the faint voices from the waiting family in the other alcove.

She closed her eyes briefly and sent a small prayer for their daughter, whoever she was.

"Charlie."

Startled, her eyelids flew open, her body jerking in reflex.

He stood very near her, so close she wondered how he had gotten there without her knowing, unless she had dozed for a moment or two when her eyes closed. His face was shadowed in the dimness of the alcove, but she would know it anywhere, dark hair smoothed back, dark eyes intent on her, dark goatee neatly trimmed, his ivory shirt gleaming from the depths of his dark and expensive suit jacket.

He removed a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to her silently. She took it, careful not to actually touch his fingers, and realized a tear or two dampened her cheekbones. She dabbed at them, drying her face.

He refused when she tried to return the handkerchief.

Uneasily, Charlie wrapped it about her hand. "Thank you, Valdor."

He inclined his head. "Are you all right?" His dark gaze swept the wheelchair.

She paused before answering. "I will be."

"May I sit?"

So formal. Always, so formal. Born in Europe, educated in Italy and France, like his father and grandfather before him, his fiery intellect bent entirely toward the arts. He discouraged use of his first name, Federico, which Americans invariably tried to reduce to Fred, preferring to be addressed by his last name, even in intimacy. He had spent most of his youth in San Francisco before going to Europe to finish his degree in business and art, and he had scarcely a trace of accent in his voice, but his mannerisms, his culture, his outlook, his whole persona were indisputably Continental. He even far preferred to gamble in Monte Carlo rather than in Vegas.

At one time she had thought it incredibly sophisticated. Now she thought little of it one way or the other.

He sat down anyway, taking care to pluck at the crease in his trousers so that it would stay in place.

"You were there tonight," Charlie said, suddenly realizing that though she had never seen him he had to have been among the crowd.

"I was."

"Why?" The calm in her tone surprised her.

"I heard of the show. I came because I hoped… you had started painting again."

"I will never paint again."

"You cannot say that. No one of us knows what our future holds."

A small sigh escaped her despite her effort to rein in all her emotions. Valdor's eyes flickered slightly.

"I can say that I don't feel like painting again."

He countered, "But we both know your feelings change. You are mercurial, like the wind."

She was not, and he knew it, and about the only major feeling she had ever had change was her love for painting— and he knew that, too. She ignored the dig. The palm of her right hand itched a little, missing the feel of Jagger's harness in it, and the protection he gave her. Valdor would not be sitting opposite her now, a cool, composed smile on his face, if she had Jagger with her.

She had to wet her lips to ask, "Are you back now?"

"Perhaps." His flint-colored eyes watched her keenly. "I am still your agent, Charlie."

"The contract expires in a year."

"It does not matter. I have your best interests at heart. I always have had. There is no one else who could represent you in the fashion that I can."

She had to concede him that. Valdor was a flawless businessman. But it was his relentless pursuit of her to begin painting once again, his somewhat questionable advances from some of her investments, that had made Quentin urge her to cut him off, and they had done what they could, changing accounts and locking him out. Then Valdor had gone into a rage, and things had escalated from there, fired she knew by his need to pay his gambling debts and her father's determination that she would not be scorched as well. After that initial blowup, things had subsided somewhat.

He adjusted the French cuffs on his shirt. "Are you ill again?"

"It was nothing," she said defensively. "A busy day, I fainted."

"You do not faint, my dear."

"I did tonight!"

He appraised her for a few seconds. "And you do not get frightened easily." He raised an eyebrow.

Where in God's name were her mother and Quentin? Had the hospital swallowed them whole? Charlie added firmly, "And I am fine now."

Valdor stood smoothly, as though aware time was no longer on his side. His expensive suit fell into unwrinkled lines on his compact body. The fourteen years' difference in their ages did not show on his face. "I wish you well, Charlie. I have always… wished you well."

Faintly, she said, "If you stay in the area, my father will get another restraining order."

He tilted his head. "Of course. And you still have your ferocious dog… somewhere… I assume."

"I do."

"It is not necessary, my dear. I have only your best interests at heart. You must paint again, Charlie, because that is your soul, and you cannot continue to deny it. Nor can you let the critics say that you were not genuine, not a talent. You need to return to canvas."

She closed her eyes against the pain briefly, then looked outward again. "Valdor—"

But he was gone, as silently as he had appeared.

Charlie began to shake.

She was still shaking when her mother finally came out of a corridor, leaning on Quentin, her hand full of papers, her face furrowed.

Charlie found the strength to stand quickly. "Let's get out of here."

"I should work for the United Nations. We've been trying to coordinate the hospital with your clinic. Phone numbers, faxes, doctors… no one is happy about this."

"But your mother settled things." Quentin patted her arm. Mary looked up at Quentin, and her face immediately smoothed, as it always did, the love lines in her expression beginning to glow.

It was enough for them to be worried over the one thing. She shoved aside every intention she had of telling them about Valdor, despite her misgivings.

He pressed gently on Charlie's shoulder. "Sit down, young lady, and let me wheel you to the curb."

His presence behind the wheelchair settled her a little, solid, formidable, his low voice rumbling something to her mother who walked, birdlike, quickly, fluttering, to keep up with them. "Let's go home, get some sleep… I'll cancel my golf game tomorrow… and then we have to make those doctors happy, so we'll make some arrangements."

Charlie sighed. Her mother slipped her arm around her waist. "You're coming home, of course."

"No. I want to sleep in my own bed. Besides, I don't know when he's going to bring Jagger back."

"Where is Jagger, anyway? Someone has him?" her father asked sharply.

"John Rubidoux. He came to the benefit, too. Jagger knew him immediately."

"He made such a fuss over Charlie, Quentin, I don't know what I'd have done. No one could get to her!"

"Good dog, that. So Ruby took him?" Quentin made a grumbling sound. It cheered her to hear it. She hugged him. "All right then. Sleep in your own bed. I'll send Pedro after you when you call."

"I'll make a brunch," her mother said cheerfully.

Sandwiched between them, Charlie rolled to the lobby doors. A small body darted in front of them, blocking the exit as it opened.

"Lady! Your change." He held out a grubby hand, a silvery quarter flashing in his palm.

She looked back, and saw a fatigued figure in hospital scrubs, talking to the man and woman, and the woman's face was wreathed with smiles, and the worn-down man was pumping the doctor's hand up and down vigorously. She had no need to hear the words to know the outcome, and smiled faintly. She pulled her money out again, and pressed a ten into his hand. "Go celebrate," she told him.

His button-round eyes widened. He gulped. He flashed an all-over grin and ran off, waving his money in triumph.

"What was that all about?" Quentin rumbled in her ear as they went through the doors and into the parking lot, an evening wind off the coast chilling the air.

"Survivors," she said. "We need to stick together."

He had doubted the address as he pulled into the winding drive, the street lined with unpretentious bungalows, but he began to change his mind when he saw the cars sitting in the driveways, convertible BMWs, more modest but equally pricey Mercedeses, and the last of his doubts was erased as Jagger stuck his head out the passenger window and let out a loud "Woof!" of approval. John decided that, despite the small size of the homes, the hillside view of the Laguna cove and beach far below must be worth the price. It was hardly afternoon and he'd already embarrassed himself by calling earlier and obviously disturbing her from the sound of her voice. He'd found, beside the embarrassment, the throaty tones awakening him sexually, as he thought of being beside her in the morning, that voice in his ear in person. After a sentence or two, the cold composure had returned to her voice to his dismay. He rang off quickly to let her go back to sleep, and to put a quick check on his own responses after agreeing to come by after one.

Towering palms and ficus trees straddled the boulevard, this street carved into the hill when front yards and boulevards actually existed. Ruby found Charlie Saunders' address and pulled in, parking behind a late model Honda Accord. Jagger verified it, his tail skimming the air in happiness, beating John's arm.

Jagger looked as if he was going to take the most direct route to the ground, through the window, when John snatched at his harness.

He gave the correction and added a "Hey!" for emphasis. Jagger put his ears back remorsefully and sat down on the car seat. He rolled caramel-colored eyes as John got out and closed the van door, but he waited until John opened the door and gave him the signal to get down.

Still, no training in the world could keep Jagger's feathery tail from whipping into furious motion nor from a front shrub getting watered as they approached the door. Jagger did not wait for John to knock or ring the doorbell, he let out another belling "Woof!" and they could both hear a light voice answer, "Jagger! Just a minute!"