Private Lies. Wendy Etherington
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smiled weakly. “Just think of the adventure we’ll have. We haven’t gone incognito since we snuck into fraternity parties in college.”
“And found your boyfriend snuggling up to a Chi O.”
Toni winced. “Right.”
The image of Gage and a svelte blonde—not unlike her friend’s current look—darted through her mind. She could picture him nuzzling her neck—God, he was a great nuzzler—and whispering naughty suggestions in her ear as she tossed back her head and laughed.
“Hey. Stop thinking about it,” Toni said as if she’d read her thoughts. “I’ve got two gallons of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia stashed in the freezer just in case.”
For a moment, Roxanne managed to forget her heartache. “Cherries? I’m gonna need chocolate.”
“You’re allergic.”
“A few coughs aren’t going to stop me tonight.”
“Fine.” Toni shimmied her shoulders. “Until then…let’s party.” She stepped from the car and tugged her trim pink suit into place, her gold bracelets jangling. “Okay, Foxy Roxy, lead on.”
Roxanne ground to a halt. “Damn. We need fake names.”
Toni clapped her hands. “Great. I get to be Brandy.”
“That sounds like a stripper.”
Toni sniffed. “I like it.”
“What about me?”
Toni eyed her up and down. “Something exotic, Mediterranean. Marina?”
“Fine.”
They wound through the parking garage before getting on an elevator. Roxanne’s heart hammered in her chest like a freight train. What would she do if she saw him? What if she found him sitting in the bar draped around another woman? Would she break into tears and run? Slap his face?
Maybe there was a logical explanation for deceiving her. Maybe he’d just gotten the hotels confused. Possible, but depressingly unlikely. Gage was way too careful.
The walk from the parking deck to the lobby seemed to take an eternity, but finally they pushed through the revolving glass door. They walked out, Toni swinging her hips so hard a bellhop tripped into his luggage cart.
Roxanne poked her in the side. “Will you stop? We’re supposed to be incognito.”
“We’re hiding in plain sight.”
“This is a mistake,” Roxanne said, her stomach suddenly bottoming out.
Toni grabbed her arm and tugged her toward a table of house phones. “You’ll hate me tomorrow if I let you back down.” She picked up the receiver and handed it to Roxanne. “Besides, it’s kind of exciting.”
“What do I do with this?”
“Ask the operator to ring Gage’s room, of course.”
“May I help you?” a voice said through the phone.
“Gage Dabon’s room, please.”
“I’m sorry. There’s no listing under that name.”
“What about First National Bank?”
“No, ma’am.”
Great. She could feel anger and dread stir deep inside. His car was here, but no room in his name? Maybe the room was registered in his roommate’s name. Damn. She should have questioned Gage further.
“I don’t suppose you have a John Smith?” Roxanne asked dryly.
“Seventy-two of them.”
“Of course. Thanks anyway.” Roxanne hung up. “Strike one.”
Toni smiled and looked around the opulent, bustling lobby. “Good.”
“Good?”
She pulled Roxanne by the wrist. “Now we can troll the bars.”
“The next time you get an idea this stupid, remind me to talk you out of it.”
Toni laughed, dragging her into the bustling lobby bar. Happy hour was in full swing, without a vacant seat in sight. As they craned their necks and wound through the tables, a pair of young businessmen gallantly gave up their stools at the bar. The men bought them drinks—a Long Island iced tea for Toni and a glass of white wine for Roxanne—and while Toni carried the small talk, Roxanne looked for Gage.
She flinched as each dark-haired man turned around. She strained for the sound of his voice. And frantic explanations scrolled through her mind. The parking deck at the Sheraton was full, so Gage had parked here. The meeting location had changed at the last minute. Gage was meeting a client here, then going to the Sheraton later.
But as much as she wanted to believe these excuses, her sense of practicality doubted it, and her imagination kicked into high gear. Hadn’t Gage been distant lately? Distracted? When he’d visited New York two weeks ago, had he really been here? And this week, had he gone to Chicago and come back early? Had he gone at all?
Could he really be cheating on her?
Though she’d never once considered him dishonest, she’d always sensed a dangerous, dark side in Gage. Ironically—given her vow to steer clear of cops—she wondered if that quality had attracted her.
After thirty minutes with no sign of Gage, and with nervous panic fluttering in her belly, she nudged Toni. “Let’s go.”
Toni batted her lashes in Jr. Executive #1’s direction. “In a minute.”
She stood and nudged Toni hard enough that her drink sloshed to the rim.
“Oh, right.” Toni downed one last slug of tea. How the girl drank that stuff and still walked—especially on high-heeled slingbacks—Roxanne had no idea. “Gotta cruise, guys,” she said to the suits as she slid off her stool. “Maybe we’ll catch you later in the Quarter.”
Roxanne nudged her friend. “Let’s go, Brandy.”
Toni’s eyes narrowed briefly, then she led the way out of the bar and across the lobby. From a bellhop, they learned there was a quiet piano bar on the twenty-sixth floor, so they headed up.
“I could get into this undercover work,” Toni said, inspecting her face in a compact.
Roxanne watched the elevator numbers light in sequence. “We’ll sign you up for P.I. school ASAP.”
The doors opened, and Toni strode out, Roxanne hot on her heels. The maître d’ stand was positioned at the bar’s entrance.
How did one go about these things? Following someone, tracking them down, confronting them? She swallowed hard. Why hadn’t she paid more attention to her siblings and father when they’d yammered on about their cases?
Tamping down her nerves and regrets, she watched Toni smoothly tell the tuxedo-clad maître d’ that she and her companion would prefer to sit in the back. He escorted them across the room to a small table next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, affording them an incredible view of the Mississippi River. Nauseous, Roxanne couldn’t appreciate the sight.
A waiter in black pants, white tuxedo shirt and black vest took their orders—Diet Coke for Roxanne and another Long Island iced tea for Toni—and Roxanne decided she would definitely drive home. She fiddled with the drink-special menu, then the gold-rimmed, crystal ashtray, while taking surreptitious glances around the room. It wasn’t until the smiling young waiter set her Coke in front of her, then met her gaze directly, frank male appreciation reflected in his eyes, that she remembered her disguise. She was Marina—exotic Mediterranean beauty. The description was so far from the usual her—quiet, ordinary Roxanne—she nearly giggled.
Good grief, she was getting hysterical.
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