Five

 

Naked on top of the rumpled bed, Wilson Lamar stretched and yawned and slapped his flat belly while he smiled down at the only body he revered—his own.

“Aren’t you just a teensy bit wiggly, Wilson?” Sally Lamar asked her husband, watching him in her dressing table mirror.

Wilson was always partly erect—something else that brought him pleasure. It used to bring Sally pleasure before he’d lost interest in making love to her.

Brushing her long, dark red hair slowly, she caught his blue eyes in the mirror and smiled at him. “Just a teensy bit?” she murmured. “This is going to be a long, busy day. Let’s give each other something to remember while we get ready to charm the people tonight. Some encouragement?”

“We’ve slept the morning away. Where’s the remote? I’m going to miss the one o’clock news.”

Sally knew enough to make sure her smile didn’t slip. “On the table beside you, hon.” The bastard. He was nothing without her. “They’re putting those darling white lights in the trees, Wilson. I think I’m going to ask for more along the galleries. What d’you think of that, lover?”

If Wilson thought about anything at all at that moment, it was Wilson. Everything he ever did was calculated to the greater glory of Wilson Lamar, and the senate race he expected to win. He didn’t answer her question, but then, she hadn’t expected him to do so.

The fine silk nightgown Sally wore was white, with thin straps that didn’t want to stay on her shoulders. Only her breasts stopped the garment from succumbing to gravity. She got up to stand in front of the French doors she’d already opened, clasped her hands behind her head, and arched her back, taking pleasure in a warm breeze that passed over her body.

“Get away from there, Sally,” Wilson said. “How many times have 1 told you not to advertise your wares to the world?”

“Why, Wilson, you do care,” she said, and walked onto the gallery, catching up a robe as she went. She hummed, and played a game she liked. Inside her head she created a little roulette wheel and gave it a spin. Her white ball bounced around and the wheel slowed. “Red is yes, and black is no,” she chanted quietly. “Red, I do, and black, I don’t. Red, I get what I want, and black, well, I guess I’m not in the mood for black today. We’ll have to see what we can find at the party tonight.” She wouldn’t have any problem finding a willing playmate to pass a little time with.

She pulled on the robe and leaned on the gallery railing. The beautiful old double-galleried house was on the southern edge of the Garden District and had belonged to Sally’s parents. Her mother had died first and her father remarried but—good for Daddy, and good for Sally—when he died, the hopeful young widow discovered it was to Sally not her that the house had been left. The house and almost everything else wealthy Claude Dufour owned. After all, Sally’s lawyer had pointed out when the widow complained, Sally’s mother had been Claude’s bankroll, and it was only appropriate that Sally should inherit.

“Μοrnin’, Mrs. Lamar,” Opi called up from the front steps to the house. Caterers, florists, and sundry other people preparing for the evening’s event scurried in and out from vans parked in the driveway.

“Mornin’,” Sally replied to Opi. He had been with her family for more years than she had, and she’d long ago forgotten exactly what he did except that nothing happened in the house that Opi didn’t orchestrate. Rotund, bald, and the color of milky coffee, either he’d advanced in the household at a very early age, or he was an old man. Hard to be sure.

“Well, I’ll be,” Sally whispered to herself. She’d have pulled back inside if it wasn’t already too late—if that upstart boy hadn’t already seen her. He stood under a tree, watching as if he’d been waiting for her to appear.

She didn’t even know his name. He was a new member of the household staff. Not that she had any idea what he did. Yesterday he’d sauntered past her, his sweet ass tight inside Jeans washed so thin, she could see the shadow between his cheeks.

First she’d followed him through the oaks until she had a chance to speak to him alone. Then she’d taken him to the old gazebo, and it had all been so much fun—until he turned rough. He’d scared her and she’d told him to get lost, but there he was, smiling up at her.

Tonight there would be a big fund-raiser for Wilson’s campaign. The old house and its sumptuous gardens would ring with music and laughter, and the clink of fine crystal and china. Deals would be made. For a “small” consideration, Wilson would remember his friends who helped him get to the senate. Already the pot was gratifyingly huge, but it had to be a great deal larger. And Sally would be the gracious hostess, the bestower of sisterly confidences on rich women, suggestive winks on rich old men, and, as the hour grew late and the company became drunker, sly crotch squeezes on rich men who were not too old.

But that was tonight.

Sally deliberately ignored the boy—she didn’t even know his name—and studied the men at work threading lights among live oaks draped with Spanish moss. She glanced behind her and saw Wilson propped on one elbow, his expression rapt as he watched the only god he worshipped almost as much as himself, and money—the media.

She turned to the gardens once more. He was still there, and he was looking right back at her. Standing in the shade of one of the oaks closest to the house, he sank his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stared up at Mrs. Sally Lamar. Insolent boy. He’d pushed her down, ripped her underwear. Oh, he’d been good—good enough for her to want more—but there was something about him that made alarms sound in her head. Besides, she was thirty-six. This sun-tanned, hard-muscled, eager-to-be friend might be twenty-one or two, or a little more. Or he might not. A tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, beautiful young thing. Possibly a dangerous young thing. She would ignore him.

His finger, pointed at her, mesmerized Sally. He kept right on pointing and strolled from the shade into the light.

Heading for the house. He was heading for the house!

When he reached the bottom of the front steps, he sent her a knowing look and folded his arms. He nodded toward the entrance, then disappeared beneath her, through the front door.

Sally felt the beat of her heart in her throat. She went back into the bedroom, keeping her steps slow. Wilson continued to stare at the TV screen that all but covered a wall, and acknowledged her presence only by letting out an exasperated breath and shifting irritably when she walked in front of him and out of the room. She closed the door quietly behind her.

From the balcony that ran around the second story there was an unobstructed view of a central hall. Tessellated black and white marble tiles, walls hung with dark red brocaded silk, white stone urns overflowing with hothouse flowers already put in place by the florists—a small gold-draped dais where a harpist would serenade arriving guests. Daddy would have approved. Sally approved of it, but she didn’t have time to admire her taste while the sinuous, fluid-limbed man approached the stairs with the kind of nonchalance that belonged only to the foolish or the self-confident. Everyone was too busy working to notice when he climbed upward, one large hand on the gilded banister. His light denim shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, showing plenty of black curly hair on his chest.

And the way those soft jeans dipped and bulged over his crotch.

Heat and cold chased across her skin. She had to get rid of him. He was young, and wild, and could be difficult to control. Control was Sally’s thing. She always controlled the men she chose to play with.

This time she’d control the boy too. She’d show him who was in charge, enjoy him, and make sure he didn’t come near her again unless she did the approaching and the asking.

One of Opi’s Jelly Roll Morton tapes burst to life from the dining room. Sally snapped her fingers to “Black Bottom Stomp” and turned her back on the man who climbed the stairs. Sashaying to the music, she made her way into one of the guest bedrooms. She dropped her robe at the entrance to the bathroom and began to hum and clap. There were always plenty of big, fluffy towels in every bathroom. Sally pulled two from a cupboard and hung them on a rack near the shower before turning on the water.

Yes, this time her strong, young lover would learn about being used, and he’d want her again so badly that he wouldn’t dare to put another foot wrong.

The bedroom door slammed shut.

Sally boogied, her bare feet beating a rhythmic tattoo on the cool, deep-water-green tile.

He entered the bathroom, hovered by the door, watching her. Then he locked them in.

His eyes were dark, but dark blue, not brown, and maybe she’d misjudged his age.

“How old are you?” she asked softly.

“Old enough, me.” His liquid voice was deep, the cadence heavily Cajun. “You?” he asked.

“Old enough, me too,” she said, making herself laugh. He was too sure of himself. “Where did you get all that chutzpah so soon? Come on, how old? Twenty?”

He raised his chin. “Twenty-three. That too young? Or too old? I show you it’s just right, lady.”

Sally danced toward him and locked her wrists behind his neck. “You aren’t going anywhere until I say so, and I don’t say so. I call the moves around here. Dance with me, baby. Show me how you can move.”

He swallowed, and his neck jerked sharply, and a thrill ran down her spine. He talked a great story, but the big boy was a bit nervous this time. Sally kept one hand behind his neck and used the other to play with the hair on his chest. She stood on her toes and ran her tongue along his square jaw and into his ear. He made a moaning sound low in his throat.

“You’re going to make love to me,” she whispered. “And afterward you’re going to go away and you’ll never do what you did out there again. No one saw you—at least, I don’t think so. But you will never risk arousing my husband’s suspicions. Next time, you wait for me to send for you.”

He shivered, actually shivered.

“Now let’s get close,” she said. “You can do anything you want. And I’ll do anything you want. And you’ll do everything I want. Do we have a deal?”

“Maybe.”

Sally stood absolutely still. “Maybe?”

‘You want somethin’ I got. What you want I don’t give away not unless I’m offerin’

She slapped him hard across the face. She didn’t get a chance to hit him again.

He grasped her wrist, spun her around, and pushed her arm just far enough up her back to make her bite down a scream. The face Sally saw above her own in the mirror was very confident. He smiled at her, a tight, downturned smile, and his eyes narrowed against steam from the beating shower.

Placing his mouth on her left ear, he said, “Probably we should make no loud noise, no?” and eased the pressure on her arm. He slid his free hand around her waist and splayed his darkly tanned fingers over her belly. “You should be polite, you. Thank the guest for comin’. Ask him if he got everythin’ he want. Maybe he say yes.” He rested his mouth on the side of her neck but never lost eye contact in the mirror.

She had judged him right the first time. Dangerous. He could cause a lot of trouble. The “boy” had shivered with excitement at the promise of a chance to dominate a woman who should have been beyond his reach.

“What you say, Mrs. Lamar?”

Sally placed a hand on top of his on her stomach and smiled at him. “Tell me your name.” She dipped her head slightly, let the smile slip away slowly. The little touches that went into seduction came naturally.

“You love sex,” he said baldly. He bared very white teeth and sank them lightly into her shoulder. “Perhaps you love sex almost as much as Ben.”

“Ben.” Not a name she would have expected. Perhaps the white ball had landed on black after all. Despite the steam, she began to feel cold. “You’ve been gone from your work a long time. They’ll wonder where you are.”

“I work for myself, me.” He spread his legs, pressed her bottom into his pelvis. “Aquariums. You remember the new aquariums Mr. Lamar order? Today I stock them. Nobody watchin’ me. Nobody know if I leave for a while.”

She considered and discarded the notion of threatening him with an accusation of unprovoked attack. At least until she was safely away from him. “You are very handsome, Ben. But you know that, don’t you?” Her mouth was so dry. “I’m sorry if Ι offended you by thinking you’d want me.”

“I do want you. You’re lots of woman. Yesterday was very good. Any man want you. But I don’t like to be told what I want.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you not sorry, you are frightened of me. I like that too. Fear bring respect, and a man is not a man if a woman he fuck don’t respect him.”

Sally’s legs weakened, but she locked her knees and stood firm. Damn Wilson for ignoring her all the time. This was his fault, but if he ever found out, he would probably laugh and say she’d got what she deserved. Wilson wouldn’t find out; nobody would. Her dear husband never came looking for her; if he did, he might have walked in on her with a man long before then.

She wished he would walk in now.

“You like this?” Ben asked, stroking downward between her legs and making the thin silk gown instantly wet. “Tell me how you like?”

Sally grew warm again, then hot. What the hell. She could handle a twenty-three-year-old with a big head. “I like it a lot, Ben. But I want you to tell me what you like. I thought you were going to tell me.”

“I like it here, in this house. Ι get sick of aquariums.”

Horrified at what he might be suggesting, she covered his probing hand. “What do you mean?”

He trapped her tightly against the green marble counter. His penis might as well have been naked—she could feel its hard outline and its pressure on the small of her back. Her breathing grew shallow and her breasts stung.

“This what I mean,” he said quietly. “I want you give me a job, you. The pool. I look after the pool, maybe—and other things.”

He began to terrify her. “I’m not sure—”

“You sure.” Releasing her arm, he cupped her breasts and pinched her nipples between his fingers. “No man better than Ben. And all yours. Whenever you want, you come to me.”

“Live here?” she asked. “Is that what you mean, you want to live here?”

“No.” He laughed. “I got my own place. Like my own place. I show it to you and you come when you like.”

Then why did he want a job here?

“And I be here to give you surprises when you bored, yes?”

No, she wanted to shout, but he was tightly wound, a steel coil of energy inside, and she’d be a fool to risk unleashing the cold rage he’d already shown himself capable of.

The pressure on her back became a rhythmic bumping. He darted his tongue in and out of her ear and bared her breasts. “Great tits,” he said, scraping the edges of his thumbnails over them until she tossed her head restlessly. She burned from her breastbone to her knees, and throbbed heavily where her labia swelled.

“You like it hard, maybe? Fast? You tell Ben what you like.”

Her breath came in pants now. Apart from beads of sweat on his brow, he seemed in control. “You tell me what you like,” she countered. “I want to make you happy.”

“Oh, I’m gonna be very happy, Mrs. Lamar. I gonna plan so many surprises for you. So many new things.”

Why had she picked him out? Because he’d been everywhere she looked yesterday, and because he was the kind of beautiful she couldn’t resist. Even as his hands and body sucked at the last vestiges of reason, she struggled against panic. Rather than what she was accustomed to, an exciting, forbidden encounter quickly forgotten by both parties, she was threatened with a tough opportunist who knew how sexy he was, and who was sharp enough to also know he might have hit pay dirt with Mrs. Lamar.

“You tell that Opi he hire me to take care of the pool, yes? And Mr. Lamar’s aquariums, of course?”

With no effort he spun her to face him and bent to suck at first one, then the other breast. He took his time, took long, heavy drags, and eased the gown up to her waist. His thumbs settled in the cleft of her bottom and he held the cheeks, forcing her against his jeans once more.

She looked at his thick black hair, his slanting black brows. He didn’t close his eyes while he worked over her breasts. Sally had never seen a man who didn’t close his eyes for that.

He was menacing.

But he was so damn good.

“What you say?” His blue eyes rose to hers. “We gonna have a whole lot of fun together, Mrs. Lamar?”

She stopped herself from asking, What 1f 1 say no? Instead, she passed her tongue over her lips and nodded. Her breasts felt bruised, but she wanted more of what he’d bruised them with. “We’re going to have lots of fun, Ben,” she said in the husky voice she could summon at will. “I’ll speak to Opi.”

“Good. You tell him I come recommended, me. And you not satisfied with the pool, huh?”

“You bet,” she told him. “I’m going to tell him exactly that.”

His intent expression became immobile. Concentration drew his mouth down at the corners again. “You never bored, Mrs. Lamar. I promise.” With that he sank to kneel, parted her thighs, and used his tongue. A tongue that wasn’t practicing a thing. A tongue that was a well-developed muscle like a small jackhammer whipping back and forth until she came. And she came so fast, there was no step between the start and the finish line.

“Hush, you,” he said, clapping a hand over her mouth when she screamed. “You a lady who need a lot of attention, a lot of surprises.”

On his feet again, he shrugged out of his shirt, unsnapped his jeans, and turned her to face the counter again. “Hold on, lady,” he muttered, laughing very deep. He tipped her forward and she clung to a faucet while he pushed inside her.

“Oh” was the only word she could speak. She hadn’t stopped throbbing from his tongue. “Oh, oh.” Twenty-three, huh? Thank God she’d kept her body in the kind of shape that still made men drool.

Long, deep strokes became faster until he crossed his arms around her and held on to her breasts—and rested his face on the back of her neck.

His control wavered only with his own release, and even then he gave just a single keening moan before spilling into her.

Ben knew how to play a woman who was a connoisseur.

They breathed hard, and together. Slowly Sally became aware of how short a time had passed. He hadn’t wasted a second. He’d made his demands—not that she intended to grant them—and then he was in, and out. But she would want him again once she could figure out how to do so and still call the shots.

“Nice,” he said, stepping away from her. He stripped off his jeans—under which he wore nothing—and his shoes and efficiently removed the gown that was twisted around her waist. “When do I start here?”

Her stomach turned. “I’ll have to talk to Opi.”

“Opi make decisions like that? I don’t think so. I think if Mrs. Lamar say she want Ben, Ben get the job, yes?”

She gave him a modest smile. “Probably.”

His mouth covered hers so unexpectedly, she had no time to take a breath. Still kissing her, he lifted her, wrapped her legs around his waist, and carried her into the shower. Placing her head immediately beneath the pounding water, he ensured she kept her eyes squeezed shut.

“Probably, yes,” he said. “I come tomorrow and Opi expect me. Your good friends recommend me.”

He couldn’t do anything to her, could he?

Ben showed just what he could do to her at that minute. He jerked into her again and held her around the waist to pump her up and down on him. When she squirmed, and whined, “I’m too sore,” and meant it, he wrapped her against him and gave her his first complete surprise. A finger where she least expected it, massaging, horrified, then thrilled her. He sent her exploding over the edge while he laughed some more, or, more accurately, while his chest moved with silent laughter.

“Don’t stop,” she begged. “Oh, damn, oh, yes. Don’t stop.”

When Sally went back into the master suite, she avoided looking at Wilson and went directly to her dressing room.

“Get out here,” he told her, his voice angry. “Now. Shit, this is a goddamn mess.”

She looked at herself in the dressing room mirror. Even after toweling off and combing her hair, she still looked used. She’d left the gown hanging in the shower to dry and put on the robe. Now she grabbed a pair of orange cotton sweats and dragged them on over her still red and chafed skin. She trembled inside. Pulling her hair back, she secured it at her nape with a piece of ribbon, then pushed her feet into gold flats.

“Sally! Get here!”

“Sure, lover,” she said, going as briskly as possible to his side and kicking the shoes off again to lie beside him on the bed. “What’s eating you, Wilson?”

“That.” He pointed at the television screen. “What the fuck do I pay all these people for?”

Sally looked at the set and saw the front of a familiar building in the Quarter. “Royal Street. Was there an accident?” There was always something going on in the Quarter, some drama.

“For God’s sake, Sally, shut the fuck up.” Wilson snatched up the phone and dialed. He waited, still naked but sitting up and leaning forward. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. And you know why I’m calling anyway. Yeah, so why not let me say my piece fast? The faster, the sooner we hang up and pretend you never heard from me today, right?”

Not just Royal Street, but that Errol Petrie’s place. Sally strained to hear what was being said, but Wilson had turned down the sound while he made his phone call.

“Okay,” Wilson said. “Maybe I need to speak to someone else. No. Shit, no, I’m not being funny. There’s nothing funny about this. What’s all the fuss about Petrie? Why the big TV splash? You’re supposed to make sure this doesn’t happen.”

Sally got an unaccustomed tightening in her chest. Breath stuck in her throat. Even if she didn’t know Wilson almost as well as she knew herself, she’d be able to see how angry he was, and how scared. He was more scared than angry, and that frightened her He never let weakness show.

“Save it,” he yelled into the receiver. “If you want to keep on getting the bennies, just do it.” He hung up, snatched the remote, and turned up the volume again.

“Wilson,” Sally said tentatively. “What’s happened? Did something happen to that Petrie man?”

He slid her a pitying look. “That Petrie man is dead.”

“Oh.” Her heart thudded. “I didn’t think you knew him well. Just from casual things.”

“You don’t know anything.” He gripped her arm and jerked her face close to his. “And now you’re going to forget what you just heard.”

“Who were you talking to?”

“I haven’t talked to anyone today.”

“But—”

“Sally, I haven’t—”

“No,” she said quickly, trying to draw away from him. “You wanted to talk to me about something, Wilson? You called me.”

He smiled, but his mouth quivered. “Good girl. You were always quick on your feet. Claude taught you that. Quite a guy, your old man.”

The announcer’s voice caught Sally’s attention. She opened her mouth and shook her head. An aid car stood at the gates into the courtyard of Errol Petrie’s house on Royal. Gradually she began to hear what the reporter said. And she watched medics carry out a loaded gurney and slide it into their vehicle.

“Dead?” she said, thinking fast. “That’s sad. He did so much for children.”

“Remind me to cry for him,” Wilson said. “Maybe I’ll play the friggin’ harp at his funeral.”

She hardly dared look at him. His reaction confused her.

“...found early this morning by his old friend, Jack Charbonnet. Authorities haven’t yet released details of exactly how he died, or when.”

“Charbonnet,” Sally said, recalling the several times she’d met the man who was getting so much publicity because he was a principal in the biggest, flashiest riverboat casino ever to open. She remembered him because no woman would ever forget him. “Is he invited tonight, Wilson?”

“Charbonnet wouldn’t come near this house,” he said. “He’s made his affiliations more than clear. Not that we want or need him. He’s no gentleman, and his money’s dirty. Dirty money, we do not need, honey.”

She noted the subtle change to the almost conspiratorial tone Wilson occasionally used with her—another cause for concern, since it inevitably meant Wilson was feeling insecure.

“Why is his money dirty?” she asked, aware that Wilson had never met as much as a dollar bill he considered “dirty.”

“Never mind. I don’t have time to give a local history lesson now. I’ve got to think. It could be okay. It could all blow over.”

“Mr. LeChat” the reporter said. “Mr. LeChat could you give us a few words about what you saw in there.”

A man Sally didn’t recognize tried to push past the reporter but was stopped by the microphone that was pushed into his face. “I do not have a word to say to you nasty people,” Mr. LeChat said. “Ask Mrs. Payne. Come along, Mrs. Payne, your cab will wait for you. This gentleman needs an informed view of what happened here today.”

“Oh, my God!” Wilson fell flat on his back and put the back of a hand over his eyes.

No explanation for the reaction was necessary. “What’s Bitsy doing there?” Sally said. “Wilson, this is awful. How could she get herself in a position like this? Call Neville at once.”

Wilson shook his head from side to side.

“I guess Mrs. Bitsy Payne—would that be Mrs. Neville Payne?” the reporter asked Mr. LeChat, who appeared to be amused by the woman’s ducking and turning away.

“That’s right,” LeChat said. “Mrs. Neville Payne, who doesn’t feel like commenting. Any more than I do. We’ve both had a very distressing time of it. The unexpected death of a friend, and a truly good man, isn’t likely to be a time for celebration. Now, excuse me, please.”

Several policemen could be seen walking in the central courtyard at Errol Petrie’s house. A man in plainclothes appeared and stretched yellow crime scene tape between the pillars of the tall metal gates.

The reporter duly noted the development and publicly dedicated himself to pursuing the truth of the situation for a public that “deserved to know what had happened at the heart of their own city, and to a philanthropist, an upstanding man respected by all.”

“Crap,” Wilson said behind his hand.

“It’s sad,” Sally said. “But you’re just too softhearted, Wilson. You feel for everyone and you feel too deeply.” The mixture of fear and fabulous sex must have gone to her head.

“I told you to shut your mouth,” he muttered. “If the phone rings, answer it. Don’t put anyone through to me unless I say I want to speak to them.”

A flipping in her stomach joined the unpleasant thundering in her heart. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to. Just do as you’re told. Remember that what affects me affects you—that should keep you from making any careless calls—or careless comments.”

On the screen a man identified as a detective emerged from the courtyard and made for an unmarked car parked at the curb. The reporter cut him off and got a “No comment” for his pains.

Then the avid camera closed in on a woman with curly, dark red hair being escorted from Petrie’s property by a tall man Sally instantly identified as Jack Charbonnet.

“Mr. Charbonnet, Mr. Charbonnet,” the reporter shouted, closing in again. “We understand you found the body.”

Jack Charbonnet aimed a glacial stare at the man.

“Ooh,” Sally said, and shuddered, with deep excitement rather than any negative emotion. “I used to laugh when people said he looked like the devil when he was mad. But he looks like the devil. Look at him, Wilson.”

“Get out of my way,” Charbonnet was saying.

Undeterred, the reporter cleared his throat and said, “We saw the crime tape. People are speculating that we may be looking at a foul play situation.”

“You’ll have to get your information elsewhere,” Charbonnet said, trying to walk on.

“Mr. Petrie’s dead. Was he murdered?”

“Get out of my way,” Charbonnet said, trying to shield his companion.

“So he was murdered.”

The camera jerked and the picture swung wildly. “He pushed the cameraman,” Sally said. “Wilson, Charbonnet pushed the cameraman. Won’t he be arrested for that? Who was it who got arrested for that?”

“Stop this,” a woman’s voice said clearly. “Errol was a peaceful man. There’s no call for this behavior. It’s disrespectful.”

“Yes,” the reporter said. “Sorry, ma’am. Maybe you can shed a little light on what went on in there this morning.”

“Errol Petrie died,” she said. Charbonnet still stood between her and the camera. “We thought he had a heart attack. He had a weak heart.”

“You thought he had a weak heart?”

“He did have a weak heart. But the police doubt if that’s what killed him.”

“That’s it,” Charbonnet said, steering his companion firmly along the sidewalk. “No further comment.”

“Celina Payne, isn’t it?” the reporter said, glowing with triumph. “Why, yes, I should have seen at once. We’re talking with Celina Payne, folks, our former Miss Louisiana.”

“Someone’s going to pay for this,” Wilson said.

Sally looked at him and got slowly to her feet. His face was pale, and sweat trickled down his temples. He scooted to sit on the end of the bed, where he was so close to the television screen, she was sure the picture would be too blurred for him to see.

“Bitch,” he whispered through his teeth. “You are going to learn to do as you are told, bitch.”

“I haven’t—” Sally stopped, her lips parted. He wasn’t talking to her. “Celina?” she said. “What do you mean?”

“You aren’t taking me down,” Wilson said. “Trust me, baby, it’s time for a lesson.”

“Wilson,” Sally said quietly. “Please.”

He turned on her, threw her down on the bed. His lips were drawn back from his teeth and veins stood out at his temples and in his neck. Too quietly he said, “You don’t have to beg, Sally. Just spread your legs.”

For the second time that morning a powerful male tore off her clothes and used her forcefully. For the first time in some months, Wilson entered his wife’s body. He used her, and kept his eyes on the television while he did so. If she were stupid and blind, she might have enjoyed it. But Wilson Lamar had become amused by an image on a screen, and his wife happened to be around as a substitute for Celina Payne.