“Here we are,” said Cheryl over her shoulder. “My place.”
“Nice.”
She tossed her hair. “It’s temporary. I used to have a place of my own, then . . . What’s the difference?” She hurried toward the double doors, yanked the handle. Resistance pitched her forward, and Sage’s head bob-bled.
“Locked?” she said. “I left it open—shit, someone must’ve locked it.” Patting the pockets of the dress. “Shit, I didn’t take a key. Now I feel really stupid.”
“Hey, it happens.”
She faced me, and the blue-green eyes narrowed. “Are you always this nice?”
“Nope,” I said. “You caught me on a good day.”
“I’ll bet you have lots of good days,” she said, touching my pinkie with hers but making it sound like a character flaw. She licked her lips. Lovely California girl face. Fresh, healthy, unlined. Even the freckles were perfectly placed. Nature’s bounty, if you discounted the aggressive mammaries.
“Okay,” she said, “it looks like I’m going to have to go find someone to let me in. I can leave you with Baxter and take Sage—no, I guess you better come with me.”
“Sure,” I said.
She gave a soft, breathy laugh. “You have absolutely no idea where you are, do you—no idea who owns this place?”
“Someone with a good stockbroker, I’d say.”
She laughed. “That’s funny.” Her eyelids shuttered closed, then opened slowly. “Where exactly are you from, Alex?”
“As in the turnip truck?”
“Huh?”
“I’m from L.A., Cheryl.”
“Where, like the Valley?”
“West L.A.”
“Oh.” She thought about that. “Because the Valley can be a far place— sometimes people don’t know what’s going on over the hill.”
“So you’re saying this is some kind of famous place?” I shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Well …” She winked conspiratorially. “I bet you really do know— without knowing you know. Take a guess.”
“Okay,” I said. “Some kind of celebrity … a movie star. If you’re an actress, I’m sorry for not—”
“No, no.” She giggled. “I’ve acted, but that’s not it.”
“Someone rich and famous …”
“Now you’re getting warm—”
She looped her pinkie around mine, and I thought of how Robin had held my index finger as she slept.
“C’mon,” she said. “Guess.”
Then one of the double doors opened and she jumped back, as if slapped.
A couple stood in the opening.
The woman was tall, thin, slightly stooped, in her late thirties, with broad shoulders and long limbs. Square-jawed face, black, brooding eyes, mahogany hair tied back in a ponytail, too many worry lines for her age. Despite the wrinkles, a chapped slice of mouth, and the grainy vestiges of teenage acne on chin and cheeks, she was attractive in a forbidding way— some men would go nuts for the challenge.
She had on a slim-cut, burgundy pantsuit with black velvet shawl lapels and matching cuffs. Any curves she might’ve owned were concealed bythe loose drape of the suit, but the gestalt was poised and feminine. No jewelry, lots of foundation masking the blemishes. No problem recognizing her: Anita Duke. Marc Anthony’s heir apparent and the new CEO of Duke Enterprises.
Ben Dugger’s younger sister. I searched for resemblance, saw nuances of shared chromosomes in the stoop and the sad eyes.
The man beside her was a few years younger—thirty-two or -three— and an inch shorter. He wore a cream linen suit, pink silk T-shirt, beige sandals without socks. A platinum watch with a face the size of a snowball flashed from under his left sleeve. Thick wrists, bristly reddish hair curling up to the knuckles. His face was a full, ruddy sphere atop a soft, seamed neck. Long, thick, coarsely wavy hair the color of dirty brass flowed over his ears and trailed past his collar. Some recession in front exposed a high, domed brow. Sooty puffiness below deep-set hazel eyes gave him a sleepy look. He had a small, straight nose, no upper lip to speak of. But the lower slab was full and moist, and when he smiled at Cheryl his teeth were snowy and perfectly aligned. Strongly built, the slightest suggestion of pot above the waistband of his linen trousers. If he took care of himself, he’d remain crudely handsome for a decade or two. If not, he’d end up a Falstaffian cartoon.