Now You See Her (12 page)

Unease prickled her spine. This wasn't going quite as she had imagined. A million would take care of all her debts, letting her start fresh, but because she was uneasy she said, “Half a million.”

“That's a lot of money.” He shrugged. “Your pussy isn't that good.”

She didn't react to the crudity. She was aware, after all, of just how crude he could be.

“I wonder just how you managed to get pregnant,” he mused. “You always told me you were on birth control pills.”

“An accident. I had a respiratory illness, and the antibiotic I took affected the pills.”

“Unfortunate. However, I sincerely doubt the child was mine. I had a vasectomy some years ago.”

Anger curled in her stomach, but she controlled it. He thought he had just played her for a fool. If, however, he thought that was her only approach, he would be unpleasantly surprised. “Did you? You never mentioned it to me.”

“Why would I? You were on the pill anyway, and I've never been fool enough to think I was the only man fucking you. The vasectomy was insurance against this kind of blackmail.”

“Now, that's interesting,” she said smoothly. “I took out a form of insurance, too. I've never underestimated you, Carson, but I do believe you've underestimated me.”

“In what way?” To her gratification, he did look a little wary.

She leaned over and took an envelope and a tiny
tape player from the large bag she had carried. His face went stony when he saw the tape player.

“Oh, it isn't on,” she said. “It doesn't record, anyway; it's just a player. Our little tryst was private. Others, however, weren't.” She punched the “play” button and sat back.

With satisfaction she watched his face blanch as voices filled the room, scratchy but recognizable. She had made the tape at a raunchy little orgy she had staged at the beginning of their relationship, while Richard was in Europe for several days and she had plenty of time. She had done it deliberately, of course, because she had never had any illusions about Carson and suspected that one day she might need a club with which to bludgeon him.

She turned the tape player off, ejected the cassette, and tossed it to him, then placed the envelope on his desk. “Keep it,” she said. “It's your personal copy. The accompanying pictures are in the envelope.”

His jaw bulged with rage, and he flushed a dark red. “You bitch.” The words were low, as if he couldn't manage anything more.

“I don't suppose I have to tell you I have the originals, in a very safe place.”

“You're incriminated by these tapes, too.” He was breathing hard.

“Yes, but I don't have a career to lose. Of course, your constituents are pretty liberal, they might say live and let live. I don't think the other senators would agree, though, especially those you've fucked over the years. They would enjoy having evidence of
their esteemed colleague's illegal behavior.” Her tone was rich with irony.

Murderous hatred was in his eyes. Candra controlled a shiver. It was a risk, crossing Carson like this, and she had walked in here knowing it. That was why she had made certain her weapon against him was so powerful he couldn't ignore it.

“This won't be an ongoing thing,” she said impatiently. “Just this once. You can afford the money, and I need it.”

“Sure,” he said sarcastically. “I'm supposed to take your word for it.”

“I'll send you the originals as soon as I have the money.” She meant it. What she wouldn't send him was the videotape she hadn't mentioned. She would use that only if he tried to get revenge.

Of course, he had no way of being positive anything she gave him was the original, no way of ever being sure there were no more copies in existence. Blackmail was forever.

She placed a small piece of paper on his desk. “This is my bank and account number. Wire the money into it. I opened the account just for this, and I'll close it after I get the money I trust I won't be audited by the IRS either, so you really should hope the random audits miss me.”

He didn't pick up the paper. Candra got to her feet and looped her purse strap on her shoulder. “I had the cab wait. Don't bother seeing me out.” When she got to the door, she unlocked it, then paused and looked over her shoulder at him. “By the way . . . make it a million.”

*   *   *

The front door had barely closed behind Candra when Margo entered Carson's office. Her face was white and rigid. “You fool,” she said scathingly. “You stupid, goddamn fool, always thinking with your dick instead of your head.”

“Shut up,” he snarled, erupting from his chair. “What were you doing, listening at the door?”

She walked over and punched a button on the intercom console. “I opened the intercom when I found out she was coming here. You think you're so damn smart, but you never check to see if the intercom is open.”

He grabbed her by the arm, his powerful fingers biting into her flesh. “Don't take that tone with me,” he warned.

“Or you'll what? Divorce me? I don't think so.” She jerked her arm free and picked up the envelope Candra had left. Carson made a move for it, but Margo stepped away and opened it, removing the pictures.

She looked at them, and ugly red color splotched her cheeks. She flipped through the photographs, and her mouth contorted. She whirled, her hand lashing out with all the strength in her arm behind it, catching him full across the face. His head jerked around under the impact.

Slowly he looked at her. His face was white except for the imprint of her hand. His eyes burned like coals.

Margo was shaking. “You're worse than a fool; you're the most imbecilic egomaniac I've ever
known, and it takes some doing to top my father. I haven't put up with you all these years to let you fuck things up now, with everything in place for the next election. You have to do something.”

“I'll pay the goddamn money. I don't have any choice.”

“What if she wants more?”

“I'll handle it. Just shut the fuck up. I'm not in any mood for your shit.”

“Tough.” She threw the pictures at him. They hit him in the face and fluttered to the floor, eight-by-ten glossies. “I hope you've had an AIDS test.”

“Don't be stupid. How long do you think that would stay confidential?”

She almost screamed with rage. “You'd risk my life rather than risk having someone find out you'd taken an AIDS test,” she said, her voice trembling. “You fret about a stupid handkerchief. How in
hell
can you be careful about a handkerchief but let yourself be photographed having sex with a man? Those are great pictures, by the way. The only thing more ridiculous than your expression while you screw him is the look on your face while he's screwing you! Face red, mouth open—”

He backhanded her, knocking her against the desk. The contact was so satisfying he wanted to hit her again. “Shut up,” he said between clenched teeth. “We had snorted some coke, or it never would have happened!”

Slowly Margo straightened, hand to her aching cheek. Her hip throbbed where she had hit the desk. Hatred and disgust congealed in her stomach. “I
don't suppose it ever occurred to you not to take illegal drugs. There's a picture of that, too. Won't that look lovely on the evening news?”

“She won't release the pictures. If she does, she won't have any means of getting more money from me.” He was confident of that, at least. You never went wrong betting that someone would protect their own interests.

“You don't know what she'll do,” Margo said sharply. “Your track record so far isn't anything to brag about. You have to take care of this, and you have to do it now. Offer her two million for the originals.”

“And you call me a fool,” he sneered. “There's no way to tell if she gave me the originals. And even if there were, she could have any number of copies made.”

“Then you'd better think of something.” She was breathing hard, her nostrils flared. “And you'd better think fast.”

C
HAPTER
    S
EVEN

R
ichard didn't have a downtown office. Instead he had converted the bottom floor of his town house into a small office complex: an office for him, with the state-of-the-art computer with which he worked his market magic; small offices for his two assistants; a tiny kitchen; two bathrooms, one connecting to his office and the other shared by his assistants; and two rooms for storage and files. The arrangement was extremely convenient should he want to work late into the night or even all night.

Every day, he had one objective: to make as much money as possible.

He had spent most of his adult life amassing wealth. He enjoyed the challenge of anticipating and outguessing the market, but the pleasure was only moderate. He had known poverty and he hadn't
liked it, so when he was old enough to do something about it, he left home, joined the army, and set about learning skills that would enable him to make money He hadn't learned quite fast enough. Pops, his grandfather, had died before Richard could do much to alleviate the grinding poverty of the little farm in western Virginia where he had been born and raised. At least his mother's last years had been better; if she planted a garden, it was because she wanted to, not because she had to in order to eat.

Poverty ground you down, turned you into a social parasite, or it made you tough. Pops had eschewed welfare as charity, and instead worked his small acreage as well as taking any other work he could find. Richard's mother had taken in sewing and ironing. When he himself was old enough he had not only helped with the farming chores but hired himself out for small jobs such as cutting the grass, helping cut and haul hay, the odd carpentry job where function mattered more than appearance.

He had only a vague, maybe wishful image of his father, and a grave in the small country graveyard to visit a few times a year, but from his grandfather he had learned that men didn't lie around all day drinking beer and collecting what the old man called “damn government handouts” once a month, men got out and worked. So Richard worked, and worked hard. Survival of the fittest. You either surrendered, or you fought like hell to better your position.

He'd never been ashamed of his poor country roots, the roots that made him strong, though Candra was embarrassed enough by his origins to
insist he say only that he was “from Virginia.” If he had let her, she would have invented an antebellum mansion in his background and had one of his ancestors signing the Declaration of Independence.

He had taken steps to ensure he was never poor again. His investments were varied, to weather the hiccups and burps of the market, and he had put money into gems and precious metals as a hedge against a market crash. It was a high, a challenge, a game, to gather tiny details of information and decide which stocks would increase in value and which were in trouble. He seemed to have a sixth sense for it, and he had long ago gained the amount he had set in his mind as “enough,” but he kept playing the market, and kept getting richer.

It was eating at Candra's soul that she couldn't get a bigger share of his wealth.

The thought of her brought a bitter taste to his mouth. He supposed he had loved her, in the beginning, though she might have been just a challenge, like the market. From a distance of over ten years he couldn't remember exactly how he had felt about her, though he knew what had attracted him. Candra had been—still was—very attractive, with impeccable social credentials backed by old money, and blessed with an outgoing, friendly personality. If anything, she was
too
friendly, especially with other men.

Their marriage had already been in trouble when he first learned about her affairs, and by that time he simply hadn't cared enough about her infidelities to do anything about them. She thought he knew
about only one lover, but he was far from a fool. He had made it his business, over the years, to find out about all her lovers. He knew about Kai. He knew about Carson McMillan. He knew about all the artists she slept with, which social acquaintances found their way into her bed. After he stopped caring, he used her occasionally for sex, and used a condom, even though she was on birth control pills. She had never asked why. He supposed she knew.

Unfortunately, condoms sometimes tore. Two years ago, one had, and combined with some antibiotics she had been taking, that had been enough for her to get pregnant. Not that she had told him, not at the time. Instead she had gotten an abortion.

He wanted children, had always wanted them. When they were first married, Candra had wanted to wait, and he had agreed because his financial position hadn't been as strong as he wanted it to be before he had any children. By the time he felt prosperous enough, Candra had already begun taking lovers and he had lost all desire to have any children with her. But when she told him what she had done, threw the words at him like weapons, everything inside him had hurt at the thought of that small lost life, and from that second on he hated her.

He hadn't spent another night under the same roof with her, but packed her bags and carried her to a hotel, with her crying and cursing, and swearing that she hadn't really done it, that she had only said so because she wanted to hurt him. And he had rousted a locksmith out in the middle of the night and had the locks changed on the town house.

Candra had been forced to make appointments to pick up the rest of her belongings, a humiliation that had galled her soul.

He knew she had told all her friends and acquaintances that the decision to divorce was mutual. He didn't care what she said. All he wanted was to get the divorce finalized and never see her again. This was something he should have done years ago, rather than burying himself in the pursuit of wealth. He had known for quite a while, in the back of his mind, that the time would come when he would look at her and realize he couldn't bear living in their sham of a marriage a moment longer. He had stayed with her for his own reasons, using her sexually with little emotion, as if she were a stranger, and because of that his child had died. He should have left her long before that tiny lost life had been conceived.