First Class Seduction. Anita Bunkley
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of the entry to Brightwood Estates welcomed Lori home. As she drove up the cedar-lined road that wound its way toward her house, she admired the meticulous landscaping of her subdivision. Passing blooming oleanders, vibrant crepe myrtles and colorful hibiscus as large as dinner plates, she congratulated herself once again on buying her house when she did, because real estate prices had soared in the past four years. Five minutes from Bush Intercontinental Airport, her neighborhood was convenient, quiet and strategically located near one of north Houston’s largest shopping malls.
Lori swung into the driveway of her two-story, Tuscan-style home and beeped her horn at Brittany Adams, her next-door neighbor, who was outside clipping roses from the bright pink bushes blossoming in front of her mini-French chateau.
Brittany had become Lori’s friend as soon as the two women met and discovered that they were sorority sisters. Brittany was a former teenage TV celebrity who had starred in a black family sitcom similar to the Cosby show. Cast as a sassy, smart, but devious teenager, she had helped push the sitcom to number one in the ratings with her crazy antics, near-potty-mouth one-liners, and troublemaking schemes. However, the show ran its course, and was canceled, throwing sixteen-year-old Brittany into a tailspin that left her confused, drug-addicted and broke. A six-month stint in rehab ended her dependence on prescription painkillers. After winning a nasty lawsuit against her stepfather/ manager, she left Hollywood for Houston with a hefty bank account, determined to live a “normal” life.
Now, at thirty, Brittany was no longer the gawky teenager with braces and corkscrew curls who had exploded on the small screen with an angelic brown face and a tongue as tart as acid. Leaving Hollywood, she had gone to great lengths to transform her looks so that no one would ever recognize her as the child star gone wild, and she loved the anonymity that came with her new life. Now she was a stylishly slim, mature young woman who sported a chic short hairstyle, designer jeans and beaded T-shirts, even to do her gardening. She lived very well off her syndication royalties, shopped at high-end stores, drove a silver Jag and insisted that her California rat-race lifestyle was behind her, even though she was writing the pilot for a show about a female detective—a series in which she hoped to star.
“Hey, how’s it going, Brit?” Lori called over after lowering her window. “Your roses are beautiful, as always. My mother would be so envious. Her roses aren’t doing that well this year.”
Brittany clipped one more bud, waved it at Lori, and then approached her car. “Tell her to hang in there. Dallas is gonna get its share of rain this week.” She cocked her head at Lori in a questioning pose. “So you’re back already?” Brittany remarked while pulling off her gardening gloves to examine her fancy manicure for chips. Today, her ever-changing nail design was an intricate, multihued Indian pattern in various shades of blue.
“It was a short run. No stop in Mexico City this time. Came straight through from Acapulco.”
“How’d it go?” Brittany asked, now focusing on her neighbor instead of her nails.
“Really kinda strange.”
“Strange? How?” Brittany asked.
“Well, there was this guy on the plane…I danced with him at a club in Acapulco the night before and this morning, there he was…on my flight! And he started coming on to me like crazy.”
“You call that strange?” Brittany quipped. “Please. Call it good luck…that is if he’s got it goin’ on.”
Lori grinned. “He had it goin’ on all right.”
“Good. So what happened? You gonna see him?”
“I dunno. I’ve gotta think this one through. I can’t jump in too fast and have another situation, you know?”
“Uh-hmm,” Brittany murmured in agreement. “After Devan…I do understand.”
“Anyway, we left it at a handshake at the airport, but I do have his card,” Lori replied, not quite ready to share her true feelings about her encounter with Ramón. Besides, she wasn’t sure how she felt about him. She only knew that his kiss had shaken her up and awakened feelings she wanted to explore. The man’s image was taking up residence in her head, and Lori was sure they’d meet again one day. She stretched her neck, tilted her head to one side and gave Brittany a choppy wave. “Gotta go…I’m exhausted.”
“After you get some rest, come over for dinner. You remember Janice and Tom Evans—the newlyweds who just moved in over on Willow Trails?”
“Yeah, nice couple.”
“Well, I invited them over for dinner yesterday. We barbecued. I’ve got plenty of leftover chicken and ribs.”
“Umm, sounds great. Think I will take you up on that,” Lori decided, pressing the remote to raise her garage door.
After parking her car, Lori grabbed her luggage and entered her house through the connecting door that led into the kitchen. Leaving her rolling bag by the entryway, she went to the back window and opened the plantation blinds to let some light into the room. Turning around, she reached for her bag, but stopped dead in her tracks, unable to believe her eyes.
“My God. What happened here?” she hissed under her breath, though a scream was rising fast in her throat. The sight that greeted Lori was shocking, terrifying. Her heart thumped in fear as she eyed the scene in terror.
Swirls of bright blue paint were splattered over every surface of the room. The glass tabletop was smeared with a childish finger-paint scrawl, as were the granite kitchen countertops, the stainless-steel refrigerator and the center butcher-block island. Even the imported Italian wall tiles that Lori had paid entirely too much for, were emblazoned with jagged symbols and lines that made no sense at all. Thinking that the vandals might still be in the house, she quickly stepped back, eager to get out of the house before she became their next victim.
On her way out, Lori brushed her arm against the paint-splattered doorjamb, but saw nothing on her skin. Turning around, she stepped deeper into the room and slid a trembling finger over the blue graffiti on the front of the refrigerator, realizing that the vandals must have done their thing some time ago because all their trashy artwork was bone dry. Because of that, she doubted that anyone was still there.
More angry than frightened, she ran toward the front of the house, stuck her head into her champagne-and-sage-hued bedroom and gaped at the bright yellow stripes painted down the middle of her satin, queen-size bedspread. Lumps of the same color paint had dripped onto the carpet and dried into lumpy pools that looked like ugly egg yolks. Stepping around the mess, she peeked into her master bath and cursed out loud. “Damn, damn, damn!” The glass in her antique oval mirror had been shattered. Shards of glass littered the vanity and the floor.
From the bedroom, Lori hurried to inspect the rest of the house, including closets and jewelry boxes and found that, luckily, there was no more damage and no valuables missing. Infuriated, she punched 911 into her cell phone and screamed at the operator who answered.
“I need the police! Right away! My home has been vandalized!” she shouted, unable to control the adrenalin pushing her emotions into overdrive.
“My address?” Lori gulped down her fear and centered her thoughts, forcing herself to focus. “Fifty-two-seventy-one Falls Trail Drive.”
“The police are on the way. Are you hurt?” the operator wanted to know.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Are you still inside the house?”
“Yes.”
“Get out now.”
“I’ve looked through the house. No one is here.”
“Leave anyway. Go outside and wait for the police,” the take-charge operator ordered. “Did you walk in on the vandals?”
“No, I just returned from a three-day trip to Mexico,” Lori explained, exiting the bedroom. “I’m a flight attendant…I’m away a lot. Never had any trouble. I can’t believe this…”