The Stuffing of Nightmares (The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse Book 7) (14 page)

E
milia was crossing
the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton with a spring in her step. She was happy that finally everything was falling into place. The scene was set and before the night was over, so would her marriage. The moment Grover consented to a divorce on her terms, she would live happily ever after with more money than she knew how to spend—though she’d give it her best shot.

She made a beeline for the elevators, knowing that there were still some final arrangements to be made, but before she could reach her destination a very tall policeman approached her, looking extremely serious and officious.

“Mrs. Calypso?” he asked, clearing his throat.

“That’s me,” she said, surprised.

“I will need a moment of your time, ma’am.”

As the man was quite a bit taller than she was, she was treated to a close-up view of a rather large and prominent Adam’s apple, and she watched with fascination as it moved up and down the powerful column of his throat. It reminded her of an amusement park ride. The ones that make you all giddy.

With some effort, she tore her eyes away and fixed them on his chin. Anvil-shaped, it was a battering ram of a chin. Medieval armies would have clamored to use it when laying siege to some enemy fortress. A distinct weakening at the knees occurred, and she was conscious of a marked flutter in the pit of her stomach. What a man, she thought. What. A. Man.

“A moment of my time?” she finally managed, though her voice quivered slightly. “Why? What is this about, Officer…”

“Scattering. Virgil Scattering. Afraid I can’t tell you until we’re somewhere more private,” he said. His eyes were searching the lobby as if fully expecting some nefarious gangster suddenly to pop up from behind the potted plants.

“Can’t you give me some idea? I mean, I’m rather busy at the moment.”

“Trust me, this will only take a moment,” he assured her.

Once again, she was drawn to that Adam’s apple.

She’d never told anyone, but she’d always indulged in a secret fascination for tall men with distinct and prominent Adam’s apples and anvil-shaped chins. Even as a young girl she’d dreamed one day of meeting a man with just such an Adam’s apple who would sweep her off her feet and win her heart.

This cop looked like he was the real deal, she decided. Tall, handsome, fully clothed in the attire of his trade, and with an Adam’s apple that exuded both strength and power and the sensuous promise of great things to come.

She gulped. If she’d had an Adam’s apple of her own, it’d have jumped in sync with this policeman’s. As it was, she could offer but a poor imitation.

“Well, all right, then,” she consented. “I can give you five minutes.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said formally and followed her to the elevator.

As they stepped on, he directed a look upward, pulling at his collar, and she couldn’t help but stare at the column of his throat, so powerful and within easy reach. She wanted to take a bite—to nibble at that tower of strength—but restrained herself. It wouldn’t do, she felt, to attack a policeman in the Ritz-Carlton simply because she had a secret fascination with male throats.

Besides, she wasn’t sure he would take too well to being bitten. This wasn’t True Blood, after all, or The Vampire Diaries.

The elevator came to a full stop, and they both got off on Emilia’s floor. She directed him along the red velvet carpet, and once more was struck by the fact that he was so tall. The men she was involved with were all rather short. Grover Calypso, of course, was a midget compared to this majestic man, and even Romuald was a full head shorter than she was. She’d even gotten into the habit of wearing flats in public, so as not to make them feel emasculated. Most men didn’t like their women to be taller than they were.

But now here was a man who didn’t have to worry about that.

“This won’t take long,” he assured her again as she keyed them into the room. They walked across the threshold, and she waved a hand to a small salon. Instead of taking a seat, however, he remained standing, feet planted firmly, hands behind his back, regarding her with a sternness that made her stomach flutter with uncustomary fervor, her legs all wobbly all of a sudden.

She plunked down on the plush couch and let her hands roam across the soft material. Oh, God, she was starting to experience a familiar heat at her core. If this policeman had any inkling of the power he held over her, he could make his move right here, right now, and she’d be only too happy to surrender herself to his every wish and command.

“The thing is, Mrs. Calypso,” he finally said after a long pause, “that it has come to our attention that you have made quite a substantial donation to the church choir of Saint-Mary-In-The-Field. Is that correct?”

“Yes, what about it?” she asked, wondering if her excitement was reflected in her voice.

“I fear you must prepare yourself for quite a shock,” he said, softening.

She blinked. “What? Why?”

He approached, and now stood towering over her.

“There is no more church choir, Mrs. Calypso. The conductor has taken the money and skipped town. We reckon he’s in Mexico by now.”

“What?!” she cried, jerking up. In doing so, she collided with the policeman’s form and was thrust back down onto the couch. The firm texture of his uniform had briefly impressed itself against her fingers, and the sensation was intoxicating: cool and hard and uncompromising. Just like the man, the uniform promised an experience she would never forget, and the peculiar weakness in her stomach was spreading across her whole body.

“Yes, I’m afraid so, ma’am,” he said with that deep rumbling voice of his. “The money you donated to this particular charity… It’s all gone.”

“Oh, no,” she said, clasping a shapely hand to her mouth.

She didn’t care about the money, of course, as it was all Grover’s anyway. But something told her that if she played the damsel in distress something might come of this. And she wasn’t mistaken. As if on cue, the policeman took a seat beside her, enveloping her hand in his and pressing it warmly.

“I’m so sorry to be the bearer of such bad news,” he said, and she could see in his eyes that he was truly sorry and that he felt for her. “Me and my colleagues at Interpol will do whatever it takes to catch this guy.”

“Interpol?” she asked, surprised.

He uttered a strangled sound, as if she just caught him in a lie, then admitted, “Actually my name is not Virgil Scattering.”

“It’s not?”

“No. I’m actually French.” He screwed up his face, as if what he was about to say made him feel highly uncomfortable, but then pushed on. “My name is Jean-Marc Anciaux. You may have heard of me. I’m a French billionaire, and it is my hobby to chase the bad guys in my spare time.”

“Is that right?” she asked, surprised. “So you’re like a French Batman?”

He looked pained. “Yes.” Then, after a brief hesitation, “
Oui, Madame
.”

“Dressed in the uniform of an American police officer?”

This time, he hesitated even longer, then finally said, “I’m… undercover.”

The story made no sense to her whatsoever, but the warmth of his hand did. The heat radiating from his large mitt sent tingles up her spine. Her gaze dropped down, and she took in the hand. It easily dwarfed her own more delicate specimen and was exquisitely firm to the touch. Memory stirred about the size of a man’s hand, and she distinctly recalled the small size of Grover’s hands or those of Romuald. She couldn’t help but wonder…

“Monsieur Anciaux,” she breathed softly, “I’m so glad you’re here to comfort me. This is such a great shock. A very great shock indeed.”

“I know,” he rumbled softly. “But don’t worry, I always get my man.”

“Oh, Monsieur Anciaux,” she said. “That’s such a comfort to know.”

“Jean-Marc, please. I’m only too happy to be of service, Mrs. Calypso.”

“Emilia, please. You must call me Emilia.”

“Emilia,” he murmured, and their eyes locked. Deep and gray, they were, with a hint of passion. And then his Adam’s apple gave a sudden lurch, and she felt something go off in her head, and then she threw herself into his arms and kissed him passionately. The heat of the moment made her forget her position—even made her forget the mission she’d set out to accomplish. And then there was only this Interpol man. This large, wonderful policeman.

The next moment she was drowning in the kiss, clinging to this tall cop like a drowning victim to a life raft, incapable of restraint. And when he whispered her name against her cheek, she sought his lips again, even as her hands roamed his broad back. Emilia Calypso had fallen prey to the strange fascination that Virgil Scattering hadn’t even known he possessed...

G
rover didn’t know
whether to laugh or cry. Here he was, on an opera date with the most gorgeous young woman he’d gone out with in quite some time, and for some reason she seemed suddenly enamored with him!

It was hard to fathom that anyone as pretty and peppy as his date for the evening would fall for him so hard she’d even invite him up to her room.

He let his eyes wander about the opulently appointed room, slightly dazed, his tie askance, his hair mussed, and the drink in his hand doing little to put his mind at ease. He had a slight buzz going, after she’d kissed him not once, not twice, but about a dozen times in quick succession.

He wasn’t used to this kind of thing, at least not since his younger days, when he’d been quite the force to be reckoned with on the New York club scene. But those days were long gone, along with his youth and vigor.

He was having second thoughts about the setup, and while the girl was in the bathroom ‘to freshen up’, he was starting to feel he was in way over his head here.

He’d gone to the opera, even though Emilia had announced at the last minute she wasn’t feeling well and would sit this one out, and had discovered to his not inconsiderable surprise that his plus-one wasn’t some ugly old bat his wife had saddled him up with but a most attractive young thing.

Fabiola Cieslok, as she’d introduced herself, was a close friend of his wife, apparently, even though he’d never seen or heard of her before—but that was to be expected. His wife had such an extensive circle of friends that in all the time they were married he hadn’t even scratched the surface. Nor did he want to, for most of them were as callous and duplicitous as Emilia herself.

But this young lady had proved quite the pleasant surprise. All through the performance, seated in their box, she’d showered him with a long stream of compliments, stressing the fact that she admired the position he’d reached in life.

It takes a beautiful young woman to make a billionaire blush, and she’d succeeded to do so within minutes of their time together. In fact, he hadn’t really taken much notice of The Magic Flute or whatever else was going on on stage after she’d dropped her coat and revealed that she was wearing a provocative sheer dress that gave him a pretty clear picture of what the night might have in store for him—or rather what she might have in store.

It rarely happened these days that a woman displayed an interest in him, an old fogey by his own admission, and the attention had massaged his ego to such an extent that he’d only had eyes for her from that point onwards.

It hadn’t helped that she’d asked him to give her a neck rub at the start of the second act, complaining from a sudden and unexpected crick in the neck.

The creamy smoothness of her skin under his hands had further cemented his opinion that here sat the queen of her sex, and strange and wonderful sensations had coursed through his stolid frame. The opera concluded, she’d suggested he drop her off at the Ritz-Carlton where she kept a suite when she was in town. And when finally the taxi arrived, and her gay prattle had lifted his spirits to such heights he regarded all the world through rose-colored glasses, he’d readily accepted her cheeky invitation to join her for a nightcap.

Once seated, she’d been all over him, and when their lips met, he’d experienced a familiar rush that brought him right back to his high school days, when he’d stolen a kiss from Cathy Bicklemore behind her pa’s garage.

He was feeling exhilarated and not a little bit aroused at the prospect of bedding this gorgeous young female. And then it struck him: he hadn’t done the deed in quite some time, Emilia having insisted on separate bedrooms a couple of weeks into their marriage. He started to wonder if he was still capable of performing up to his standards. He was, after all, not a young man anymore, and even though his doctor had told him all was well in that area, his vigor and stamina weren’t what they used to be once upon a time.

So he dug into his pocket, took out the heart-shaped tin pill box that he always carried, and selected the bright blue one his doctor had given him when he’d expressed concern about his upcoming wedding night. He popped it into his mouth and washed it down with the bubbly Fabiola had handed him. Very soon, he was blushing profusely. And when Fabiola returned from the bathroom, dressed in a green satin negligee, he was ready to explode, like the cork of the second Dom Pérignon currently chilling in the ice bucket.

She slid next to him on the couch, caressing his chest with long fingernails. “I hope you weren’t bored, waiting for me for so long?”

He shook his head vehemently. “Not bored,” he said in a strangled voice.

“I was hoping you’d be waiting when I got back, and here you are.”

“Here I am,” he confirmed lamely.

“Shall we... take this production to the bedroom?” she suggested.

He nodded vehemently. “Great idea,” he wheezed.

And when she took his hand and pulled him to his feet, he followed her into the bedroom, like a puppy on the heels of its master. He would have yapped, too, and even drooled a little, but his heart was hitting his ribcage like a jackhammer, and he’d started a silent prayer he’d survive the night.

O
ut on the balcony
, Romuald was getting bored. He’d been waiting for over an hour, and it hadn’t helped that Emilia had suddenly and quite uncharacteristically broken off all communications, keeping him in the dark as to when his targets would arrive at the hotel.

He’d darted the occasional look down to street level, but he couldn’t discern one taxicab from the next, and it was only when the lights suddenly flashed on inside the room that he heaved a sigh of relief. The show was on.

So he held up his camera and started snapping away. He knew that to catch Grover in the act he needed clear, professional pictures, and even though he’d taken his share of pictures in his day, it was the first time he’d taken them without his subject being in the know. And as he kept the shutter clicking ferociously, he was adjusting his opinion of paparazzi, who did this sort of thing on a regular basis. A renewed respect for that embattled species surged in his bosom as he tried in vain to capture a decent snap of Grover and this mystery woman Emilia had set her billionaire husband up with.

Either they were ducked behind the couch, or Grover’s big head was in the way, but he seemed incapable of getting a nice framed shot of the two of them linked in a close embrace. And then the woman stalked off, and he groaned with despair. He hoped she would return for an encore.

Emilia had told him she needed money shots—the real deal—and plenty of them. He cursed in frustration when he flipped through the set. Nothing that warranted the description of a money shot. Barely even a nickel or a dime. And that’s when the lights came on in the next room—Emilia and his love nest—and he decided to drift over for an impromptu creative meeting.

Great was his surprise, therefore, when he saw that Emilia wasn’t alone but in the company of some police officer. His jaw dropped, and so did the arm holding up the camera when she suddenly threw herself into the copper’s arms and started kissing him fervently! And even greater was his surprise when next to him he heard the telltale sound of a shutter opening and closing—someone was taking pictures of Emilia and the cop!

He looked over, and saw that on the other side of the window, hidden in relative obscurity, was another guy, snapping away picture after picture!

He hissed, “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

The guy didn’t respond, but simply kept on clicking.

“Hey!” he said, a little louder. “I asked what the hell you’re doing?!”

The snappy snapper lowered the camera, and moved into the light, and Romuald saw a guy wearing an overcoat as rumpled as his jowly, haggard face. He looked like a rat from the underworld. Or perhaps a paparazzo.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” asked the guy bluntly.

Indignation took control of Romuald. It was unacceptable that some idiot would be snapping pictures of his girlfriend. It was a clear invasion of her privacy. The fact that he himself was invading another man’s privacy was another matter entirely, and not one on which he wished to dwell right now.

The guy had gone right back to snapping pictures, so he tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey! I demand that you cut that out immediately!”

The guy, instead of responding, simply shrugged off Romuald’s hand.

“What’s the big idea?!” the lawyer cried, dismayed.

“The big idea is that you should mind your own business!” the guy said.

“I
am
minding my own business. That lady happens to be my girlfriend!”

The guy snorted derisively. “Some girlfriend. If you hadn’t noticed, she’s about to do the horizontal mambo with some other fellow.”

“I had noticed, and while I don’t approve of her doing this particular… mambo, I must ask you to butt out of this. This is something between her and me and we will discuss this quietly and in a civilized manner at a later date.”

“Butt out, butthead,” said the man, and held up his camera again.

At this moment, there was a commotion inside, and he watched as the door to the room burst open, and more people streamed in. Two men and two women joined the couple, and the policeman, for one, seemed highly perturbed that he was so rudely interrupted. And what was even weirder: he seemed to recognize the four new arrivals.

Even through the window, he could hear the discussion raging inside.

“Hey, I know these bozos,” said the man next to him.

“Well, I don’t,” he said, feeling left out of the loop.

“That’s Felicity Bell and her little friend Alice Whitehouse,” said the guy, and he seemed happy to see them.

“The only thing I’m interested in is the identity of that policeman,” Romuald said through gritted teeth.

“Oh, that’s Virgil Scattering,” said the guy. “He’s just a patsy. Hired to seduce the dame so I can snap some pretty pictures.”

Romuald looked up in horror. “What? Are you here to set her up? You and that cop?”

“Sure. Who do you think I am? The wedding photographer?”

Who—” He almost couldn’t get the words out from sheer indignation and horrified shock. “Who hired you to do this? Was it Grover Calypso?”

“Sure. That’s the guy. One of my regulars.” Then he squinted at Romuald as if seeing him for the first time. “Say, aren’t you that lawyer fellow? The one she’s been banging?” He pointed a finger to a horrified Romuald. “You are, aren’t you? Hogston, right? I never forget a face I’ve seen through my zoom lens.” He stuck out a hand, and Romuald found it contained a business card. “Name’s Gerry Finnegan. If you ever need a private dick, give me a call.”

Before Romuald could respond to this enticing offer, loud voices interrupted him. Inside the room, things were hotting up. People were shouting, and this policeman guy was blushing profusely. Even Emilia seemed perturbed, which was not a look that became her. Usually, she was the one doing the perturbing.

He had the sinking feeling the jig was up. For one thing, he didn’t have any great shots of Grover in action, and for another, he was pretty sure this guy Finnegan was a much better paparazzo than he was. He probably was in the possession of some juicy snaps of Emilia by now. He darted a quick look at the detective’s camera, wondering if he couldn’t simply snatch it and throw it over the parapet. But then a terrifying scream rent the night air, and he shared a startled glance with his involuntary colleague.

Both men hurried over to the next room—the one Grover Calypso was in.

And what he saw there was enough to curdle the blood in his veins: the billionaire was lying on the bed, staring up at the blond angel, who was holding a big-ass syringe over him, preparatory to plunging it into his heart.

Now, he didn’t like Grover very much. Perhaps it wasn’t too much to say that he resented him for the days and nights he spent with Emilia, the woman of his dreams. But to watch him die by the hands of this nasty piece of work was something he couldn’t condone. So instead of waiting in the wings, he put his foot against the window and gave it a vigorous kick. Finnegan had the same idea, and the window collapsed under the impact of their joint efforts, erupting into a shower of splintering glass.

Just at that moment, the connecting door to the other room was kicked in, and a guy who looked surprisingly a lot like that movie star Chuck MacWhatshisname came barging through the door. All three men simultaneously descended upon the bed and toppled over the murderous blonde with the syringe, thereby saving Grover Calypso from certain death.

With three men piled on top of her, the blonde had no recourse, and she cried out in frustration, “What’s wrong with you people today?!”

“You simply can’t go around killing people,” he pointed out.

Finnegan concurred, “It’s not a great line of business, honey, trust me.”

More people filed into the room, and he suddenly realized that he was still holding the camera. Something told him that he wouldn’t need it anymore. The nature of the game had abruptly changed. There wouldn’t be a nice quiet divorce and a transfer of millions into his and Emilia’s accounts.