Drop Dead, Gorgeous Part 15

Lonnie hung up and Claire stood there, stunned, empty, and numb.

Lonnie had never considered herself an actress before now, but seeing as how her photography career was all but over, she sat there after hanging up the phone with Claire, considering the possibilities. Of course, not all of it was acting. Lonnie had started off faking the tears, but she'd surprised herself when real ones surfaced, bringing the very real panic she'd felt when Jordan had touched her. She cringed now, thinking of him putting his mouth on hers, but what made her cringe even more was how she felt afterward. Lonnie had spent private moments trying to explain her thoughts and feelings to herself, but there were no words, no reasoning that made sense. She was terrified of Jordan because of what he'd done to her. She loathed him, the sight of him, the sound of him, the smell of him. But for a moment, albeit brief, she had forgotten those things.

Lonnie was the spider and Claire was the pitiful fly caught in the web. Lonnie poured herself a gla.s.s of wine and raised it in a sympathetic toast to Claire.

Of course, Claire wouldn't mention that call to Jordan, and she wouldn't pa.s.s along Lonnie's message for him to leave her alone. If Claire mentioned any of what just happened to Jordan, he'd have more questions for her than he'd have for Lonnie. He'd wonder how Claire even knew Lonnie's name, because as far as he knew, the two women had never met. Jordan would become suspicious of his wife, and begin to focus on key events, like how Lonnie got out of that house that night. The only other person who had anything to do with that house was Claire. Maybe she could lie her way out of it, but knowing Jordan, he'd make up his mind about her before she had a chance to try.

Lonnie leaned back on the sofa, satisfied that things were finally starting to come together, one piece at a time, and slowly, but there was a method to her madness, and she could see it now. Maybe, if she was diligent and careful, she could actually pull this whole thing off.

Turn Me Upside Down Jordan had just come home after being gone for two days on a business trip. Claire greeted him in the foyer with an unconvincing smile and looking like she hadn't slept in those two days. "Hey, baby," she said, almost too jovially. "How was your trip?"

He stared at her strangely. She sounded too forced, and had a look in her eyes that he couldn't quite read.

"It was fine," he said apprehensively. "Everything alright?"

She looked away quickly, and went into the living room. "Fine. I just missed you. That's all.

"I know you're starving. You're always so hungry after getting off that plane. Rosa's in the kitchen making your favorite: steak and eggs."

Claire flitted around the living room, touching everything, rearranging, and picking. It was a nervous busy. He hadn't seen her like that in a long time. Something had gone down while he was gone. She only got like this when she was upset about something, or someone-usually him. "What's going on, Claire?" he asked cautiously.

"Nothing, baby," she snapped, still wearing that plastic smile. "I've just got all this energy. I don't know what's wrong with me. I shouldn't have had that coffee at lunch."

Old habits die hard, even for a man who'd vowed to try and fix his crippled marriage. It was things like this that irritated him the most about her. Claire had a way of turning into an overwrought victim on a dime, and of pretending to be painfully fine, when it was obvious that she wasn't, making herself appear to be even more of the martyr. Jordan was tired. He'd spent the last day and a half flying halfway across the country to sit in a meeting discussing pipelines, and half a day putting a well-needed c.h.i.n.k in Frank Ross's dumb a.s.s. This was not what he expected to have to come home to.

"I'll be in the shower," he said abruptly, leaving Claire alone with her hurt feelings, or insecurities, or depression-h.e.l.l, whatever.

Jordan let the hot water wash over him in the shower, cleansing his mind, body, and soul of all the debris kicking up in his life lately. His world was a muddled mess of petty annoyances, and he really wasn't in the mood to let Claire add hers to the mix.

The Anton takeover was getting hit with one delay after another. June was ready to forge full steam ahead into that s.h.i.t like a freight train, without bothering to look where she was going, and she had half of his executive staff jumping onto her bandwagon like a bunch of silly kids at a parade. As annoyed as he was by the delays, injunctions, and stays, he rather appreciated them because they bought him time, time to read between the lines and to see what was really at stake here and just how much it was going to cost him, because deep down, he knew it was going to cost him more than just money. Jorgensen, the founder and CEO, had bought up so many shares of Anton stock, at dirt-cheap prices under his granddaughter's name, that the old man stood to make more selling it than keeping it. Jordan couldn't fault him for the strategy. h.e.l.l, he'd even made note of it, just in case the time came when he found himself in that position.

June was like a gnat buzzing around his ear. She had something to prove and she was stumbling all over herself trying to prove it. Yes, she was smart. Yes, that d.a.m.n MBA had definitely been worth the money. And yes, she was more than capable of running things. But no-not while he was already busy running things. June was a whiz with numbers. She was a strong motivator of people, but June didn't have what it took to run a corporation the size of GII. She lacked the insight and vision that could only be gained by the experience of having people try to do whatever it took to s.n.a.t.c.h your s.h.i.t right out from under you. Jordan wasn't where he was because he had a fancy degree. He sat perched on top of the food chain because he'd mastered the art of cutthroat, while still managing to stay in the good graces of the people that mattered.

Lonnie had turned out to be more of a distraction than the threat she tried to come off being when he first saw her again. Truthfully, when he first laid eyes on her again, Jordan thought he was looking at a ghost, and he was as scared of her as if she had been. But she'd done nothing more than amuse him at best. Lonnie had no fight left in her, not like she thought she did, and he almost felt sorry for her. If Frank Ross was the biggest threat she could bring to this table to get even with Jordan-then she was more of a pathetic mess than even she knew.

She'd been wrong about another thing too. Despite her appearance now, Lonnie was as gorgeous as she ever was. Embattled, and no longer perfect, but Jordan could admit thinking about her more than he should've. He had loved her, probably more than he'd ever thought it was possible to love a woman. Love like that didn't die so easily.

Regrets could eat a man alive if he let them. And most of the time, he tried not to let them, but where she was concerned, it was nearly impossible to let go. Too bad, he thought, disappointed. Too bad that the two of them were toxic together. Too bad that the past had carved a ravine between them so wide that it could never be crossed. Too bad she didn't just come to her senses, get on a plane, and fly back to wherever it was she'd come from.

"Jordan," Claire called into the bathroom. "Dinner's ready. Do you want me to have Rosa make you some fresh eggs?"

"No. I'll be down in a minute."

Jordan ate heartily as Claire moved lettuce around on her plate, and sipped on a gla.s.s of lemon water. The shower and the meal must've helped to refill his empathy gla.s.s because he was starting to remember what used to bring on these moods in Claire in the first place. Jordan's out-of-town trips weren't always business related, and he hadn't always been so intent on keeping those trips a secret from his wife. He finished the last of his steak, leaned back, wiped his mouth, and tossed the napkin on the table.

"How about you and me go dancing tonight," he said, smiling at her.

Claire looked surprised by the suggestion. "You're tired, Jordan. You just got back from your trip, and I know you must be exhausted."

Jordan noticed the hopeful gleam in her eyes. "We don't have to go out."

He stood up, and held out his hand for her to take. Claire reluctantly pushed herself away from the table, walked over to him, and took it. He led her out to the lanai, stopping along the way to pick up the stereo remote, and pressing the b.u.t.ton to turn it on. Will Downing's voice fell like smoke from the ceilings, and erupted like lava from the floors. Jordan pulled her into his arms, held on to her so that she would know that she belonged in them, and that there wasn't room for another woman. The two of the slowly swayed from side to side, Jordan barefoot and still wearing his bathrobe, and Claire wearing a cashmere sweater and shorts. It was a perfect spring night. Crickets chirped from the yard, and the moon hung over the ranch like a giant dis...o...b..ll.

Jordan had worked hard to damage this woman. The least he could do was to work just as hard putting her back together.

How did he know that she needed this? How did he know that the phone call from Lonnie had unraveled her like a ball of yarn, and that it had taken every ounce of strength she had to try and hold herself together? Lonnie was a liar. In the back of her mind, Claire had already known it, but Claire had b.u.t.tons that were still so easy to push, and Lonnie knew how to push them. Jordan didn't want her. He wouldn't have done what he did to her if she'd meant anything to him. She was a piece of a.s.s, and Jordan had had plenty more just like her, but he was different now.

He kissed the side of Claire's neck, and she purred. "Thank you for this," she murmured. "You have no idea how much I needed it."

"Then shame on me for not paying closer attention."

Diggin' a Ditch It was a story as old as time itself. Old h.o.r.n.y guy kills off sickly wife to marry young hottie. Lonnie's gut told her that it was no coincidence that Edgar Beckman married the cute housekeeper, Dominga Rojas, less than two years after his wife's death. Chances were pretty good too that he'd been kicking it with Dominga before the missus pa.s.sed. So, Lonnie didn't find it much of a stretch that he could've very well wanted to speed up the process.

Annette Beckman was diagnosed with stage four breast cancer and pa.s.sed away six months later. It was her second bout with the disease. Lonnie combed through the crumbs of information she could find about Annette until she pieced together a pretty unremarkable life of that decent woman. So, Lonnie decided to turn her attention to Dominga. She found very little on the beautiful, young Chilean before Annette's death. She did find a photograph of Edgar and Dominga Beckman after their marriage at a fund-raiser. The striking brunette towered over Beckman, who wore her on his arm like a fine watch.

A lot was written about Edgar during his run for mayor of Fort Worth, but nothing about Dominga, except for one poor shot of her standing off to the side as her husband shook hands with the governor of Texas. Lonnie looked long and hard at the grim expression on the woman. Maybe it was because her man was so much older than she was, or maybe it had something to do with the fact that he was short and troll-like. Whatever the case, the beautiful Dominga did not look happy. It took another woman to instinctively know that expression. Dominga was married to a man she didn't love. When Beckman abruptly pulled out of the mayoral race, divorce papers were filed shortly thereafter, and Dominga vanished.

"So, where'd you go, girl?" Lonnie murmured.

Lonnie picked up her phone and dialed the number of a close friend of hers. "Hey Brad, it's Lonnie."

Brad Ackerman was a reporter friend of hers who wrote for the San Diego Daily Sun newspaper.

"Lonnie, baby!" he said excitedly. "How's it going? I heard you retired. Tell me it's not true."

"It's not true," she lied. "Hey, I'm in a bind, and was wondering if you could do me a favor."

"Sure, if I can."

"I'm doing a story on a missing Chilean woman, Dominga Rojas."

"Okay. How long's she been missing?"

"I'm not sure. Since ninety-five, maybe even longer, but definitely not before eighty-seven. She lived in Fort Worth for a number of years. I'm not sure when she got there, but I know for sure that she worked as a housekeeper or cook there for a while and then married an Edgar Beckman in 1987."

"What are you thinking? The husband killed her and hid the body," he said jokingly. Lonnie didn't laugh.

"Do you still have that South American contact?"

"I do. Do you want me to try and track down Dominga Rojas?"

"Could you? I could forward you an old photo of her. It's not real clear, but I don't know. It's better than nothing."

"Send it. I'll see what I can find. Am I working to a deadline?"

"ASAP?"

"What else is new? Okay, I'll get back to you as soon as I think I've got something."

"Cool. Thanks, Brad."

It was late, and Lonnie had hung up and was ready to call it a night when the phone rang. It was Frank. She hadn't heard from him in over a week.

"Frank. I tried calling. Did you get my messages?"

"I got 'em," he said, after a long pause.

"Well? Did you meet with Jordan?"

Again with the hesitation.

"Frank?"

"Yeah. Yeah, we hooked up."

Lonnie waited for him to elaborate, but obviously Frank wasn't in a very forthcoming-with-information kind of mood.

"Well?" she asked impatiently.

"He told me to sit tight. Told me I'd be hearing from him."

Lonnie sensed that something was terribly wrong. "What's going on, Frank? What happened?"

"What the f.u.c.k did you get me into?"

Lonnie realized that Frank must've finally met the real Jordan Gatewood. The really mean one.

"I mean, I didn't expect this to be easy, but d.a.m.n, Lonnie."

"What happened?"

"What happened?" he repeated introspectively. "I'm done," he finally said. "Whatever you got against him, you need to pack it up and take it with you, Lonnie. You can't beat this. I'm telling you ... you can't."

Lonnie almost felt sorry for him. "So, you're really going to let him run you off like that?"

"I got enough s.h.i.t on my plate right now," he shot back. "I got my own battles to fight. I ain't got the time or energy to fight yours too."

"I didn't ask you to fight my battle for me, Frank," she said, feeling insulted. "I just thought that maybe you could make him uncomfortable for me, and get something out of it for yourself."

"Nah. You used to me get his attention so that you can do whatever else you've got planned without him looking. I may look dumb, but I know what's up."

Of course he was right. Frank Ross had only ever been a distraction for Lonnie, a way to get Jordan to look at something else and keep his focus off her.

"The thing is," he continued, "if I'm smart enough to see it, what makes you think he won't?"

Lonnie swallowed. He had a point. "I thought you said that he told you to sit tight. What'd he mean?"

He sighed. "h.e.l.l if I know, and h.e.l.l if I give a d.a.m.n. I'm just calling you as a courtesy, which is way more than you gave me."

Now she really was offended. "C'mon, Frank..."

"This phone is going in the trash. And don't even think about coming to the crib in Paris, because I won't be there."

What was he saying? "You sound like you're letting Jordan Gatewood run you out of the state of Texas!"

"Where'd you run to? I said I'm done, and I mean it. This is your fight. Stay here and fight if you want to, or be smart and leave that brotha alone. It's up to you."

He hung up without saying another word.

I Am the Captain of This Ship This place smelled country. How many times had coming to this man's house flashed in his mind, and how many times had he pushed it away? Too many to count. Curiosity was relentless, sometimes, and it egged him on, but it was Frank Ross's declaration that had weakened Jordan's resolve and compelled him to finally make this drive and to look into Joel Tunson's eyes.

Jordan spotted him as soon as he got close to the house, standing over a plot of dirt, patiently watering it and wearing faded gray overalls. This was the man they said was his father, his biological father. As Joel Tunson heard the car pull up and park behind his, he turned around, and met Jordan's gaze with his own. Jordan had no idea how much time pa.s.sed before either one of them finally moved, but there was no mistaking that each of them knew who the other was. And there was no doubt that they both knew this day would come. But there would be no happy reunions, or hugs, or apologies.

Jordan climbed out of his car. Joel crossed the yard and turned off the spigot on the side of the house. He was a tall man, at least as tall as Jordan, the color of mud with silver hair covering his head, and spiking from his face. Regrettably, Jordan couldn't miss the resemblance. Put him between Olivia and Julian, people would say how much he resembled his mother. But put him between Julian and Joel, they'd likely say something else.

The old man looked apprehensive and guarded. "I seen you in the paper, quite a bit," he volunteered.

Joel Tunson was missing teeth.

He waited for Jordan to respond, but Jordan had nothing to say about the fact that Tunson had seen him in the paper quite a bit.

"Do you wanna come inside? Mosquitos will be out shortly. They worst at dusk."

Houses like his lined streets along every small town in Texas, all of them tiny, and old, and, no doubt, offering refuge for old men just like this one. Jordan followed him up the steps to the porch, and then through the screen door held open for him by Tunson. He found it strange that he didn't feel anything for this man. Jordan wondered if the same held true for Joel. He wondered if the man felt anything for him.

"Thirsty?" Joel asked, leading Jordan through a small living room with worn furniture and creaking wood floors, into the kitchen with the linoleum peeling up in the corners. "I keep tea in the house. Got ice-if you thirsty."

"No," Jordan said, surveying the small room with the tiny gas stove, ancient refrigerator, and small window over the sink. "I'm fine."

Joel pulled a gla.s.s from the cabinet. "Suit yourself," he said dismissively, filling the gla.s.s with ice, and then pouring tea over it. He motioned for Jordan to have a seat at the small kitchen table. Joel sat across from him, and stared at Jordan like he couldn't believe that he was finally able to see him in person. "Look just like your momma," he said, nodding. "Olivia. How is Olivia?"

He hadn't come here to make small talk. This wasn't a social visit, and he had no intention on catching up on all the years that the two of them missed together.

"Tell me about the money, Joel," Jordan said unemotionally. The bluntness of his question seemed to catch the old man off guard. "Where have you been getting the money from?"

Tunson's eyes glazed over, and all of a sudden, he wasn't so thirsty anymore. He slid his gla.s.s off to the side. "That why you came here? 'Cause of money?"

"Yes," he said matter-of-factly, leaving no room for misinterpretation. Jordan had come here to ask a question, and he would leave as soon as he had the answer.

Joel turned introspective for a moment, taking his sweet time with the answer. "The money comes," he said simply. "That's all I know."

"Who sends it?"

He shrugged. "First I thought Gatewood was sending it. Sending it to keep me from saying anything about you being mine. After he died it kept coming. Didn't know what to think about that."