One Way or Another(41)

He turned the corner and stepped quickly into a shop doorway. Mehitabel came clacking round the corner. He threw his arm round her throat, dragged her backward, held her tight against him. He growled the question at her: what did she want?

“You” was Mehitabel’s answer.

He let her go. They’d stood looking at each other. There was only a faint light coming from where the archway ended.

He put both hands around her throat this time. Her skin was silky under his thumbs; all he had to do was push down, right there where the pulse beat. He stared, hypnotized, at the beating pulse, at the living flesh under his hands, then up at her unfrightened face.

“I can kill for you,” she whispered.

Her throat moved under his fingers as she spoke and Ahmet was suddenly drenched in sweat. His knees shook, he wanted her yet he did not want her. She was too like him.

“I can find the women you want, I know what you are looking for.”

He let his hands drop to his sides. “How do you know?”

“Because I am like you. I knew it before we even met, before that cocktail party for the homeless boys. You were helping them because you had been one of them. Good can only come from an evil heart when it is touched by personal memory.”

It was true, Ahmet thought, sitting restless in front of the dying embers, the bottle of tequila in his hand, acknowledging the suddenly terrifying loneliness in his heart. He had no friend, no man who really knew him. Those boys he’d helped along with his charitable foundation showed up for the reunions, the presentations, the public thank-yous, and many of them wrote to express their gratitude and say how their lives had changed because of him. But none wanted to be his friend. He was the famous billionaire and they were sure he would want nothing to do with their ordinary small lives.

And the rich men he knew? Perhaps it was because they sensed something different beneath the jolly bonhomie fa?ade, the pleasant well-dressed man, flaunting his riches, his Bentleys, his helicopters, his yacht. He must be the only yacht owner who had a hard time finding friends to fill it on vacation, though God knows he issued enough invitations, often refused politely, even warmly, thanking him for his offer but the timing was wrong, there was an important family wedding, a prior trip arranged.

Marshmallows might have been a house on the moon for all the visitors it got. Now he was hoping that by involving Martha Patron, he might also gain access to people she knew. When it was finished he would throw a party, ask her to invite them all. He would floodlight the house, the marshes would glimmer, beautifully green and seductive under all that light. He would have a band, a singer, whoever Martha said would be the best, the most famous. He would serve Veuve Clicquot champagne and five-pound tins of the best caviar; he’d even have chefs carving sides of roast beef the way the man who had once owned the house had done, before being knifed by his lover.

Martha would lay a parquet floor in the hall for dancing; he would have tumblers and acrobats and magicians. He would invite dukes and movie stars and tell them to wear only black or white, like Truman Capote’s famous ball in New York. He would present Lucy, bring her out in couture, a black gown from Dior or Valentino. And a mask. Of course everyone must be masked, that’s what made it so much fun, not knowing exactly who you were holding in your arms as you danced, or who felt safe confessing secrets in your ear not really meant for you.

It was all there. His plans were perfected. Tomorrow he would put them into action. Meanwhile, what was he going to do about Angie? He couldn’t keep her locked up. And he wanted her. Not the way he wanted Lucy, his lovely young Lucy, so well brought up she wouldn’t even finish her dinner because it was bad manners; so innocent she probably didn’t know what real sex felt like; and so sweet she recoiled with horror at the thought of a lamb becoming meat on her dinner plate.

For once in his life he had some interesting women, one he might hope to marry and one he meant to kill. He had already thought of an attractive way to accomplish the latter, since the first attempt had gone so dramatically wrong. Not this time. This would be final. He’d let Mehitabel take care of that.

He put a bottle of the very rare tequila to his lips, drained it, then threw it into the fireplace where it joined the shards of the three-hundred-dollar glass he had pitched in there earlier.

He felt pretty good.





29

Lucy got the e-mail from Ahmet the following day.

Dear Lucy, now you are to be working on reinventing my house into a “home,” along with your sister, Martha, I think I am safe in inviting you to come look at it, and perhaps have dinner? Lunch? So we can discuss your own views on its new look, as well as Martha’s. Do tell me you think this a satisfactory idea and of course I will send a car and the helicopter for you. Remember, I told you, all square and above board! No funny business! Ha ha! May I look forward to your visit?

Lucy sighed. Ahmet was persistent, she’d give him that. It was probably why he’d gotten where he was: persistence; cunning; smarts; and—she had to admit with a smile—charm. She didn’t fancy him exactly, but he was kind of creeping into her life despite that. Was he attractive? According to the gossip columns and girlie reports, he was. Sexy, too. That was also on the gossip rounds: well endowed; fast but knows how to use it; always sent flowers and gave small, pretty, expensive gifts. Ahmet knew his way into a woman’s heart, that was for sure; Lucy would bet there were half a dozen right now willing to step into the role of Mrs. Ahmet Ghulbian. Thankfully, she was not one.