RoxannesPirate Read online

  Within a few minutes she had an email from the paralegal and several attachments.

  She opened up the attachment labeled Complaint. Her skin tingled when she read Carlos’ name on the document. She shut her laptop. She would read the pleadings at home, away from the office and possible interruptions. She said good night to her secretary and headed out. She had the peculiar feeling that she was bringing something illicit home with her.

  Roxanne stopped at the liquor store near her condominium. She intended to get a bottle of chardonnay to sip while she read the pleadings. She saw the display of scotch and a placard advertising a particularly fine sample from the Isle of Islay. She was staggered by the price. She thought about the smoky flavor of scotch when she tasted Carlos’ mouth. If the taste of scotch could bring back a tiny bit of the pleasure he had brought her, the money would be well spent. She bought the scotch.

  Once home, she changed into comfortable yoga pants and a warm sweatshirt and fleece slippers. She sat on her living room couch with her feet up on the coffee table. She opened her laptop—her glass of amber scotch close at hand.

  According to the complaint, Carlos and his partner Spencer Marshall had lured Hector Rivera into investing over one million dollars in the Dover Key Development though dozens of meetings in New York and in Miami. Rivera claimed that he put his money in and agreed to help the partners raise hundreds of million more. At first, the project had gone well, but then Carlos had abandoned the project to Marshall’s control, even though he knew that Marshall was an alcoholic and drug addict. Under Marshall’s mismanagement, the project turned into a complete failure. Marshall was dead. Rivera wanted his money back from Carlos.

  Roxanne took a sip of scotch. Her blood warmed at the taste. She knew better than to believe the story told in a complaint. The duty of the lawyer who wrote it was to make a case for his or her client—to portray the story in a way that served the client’s interests.

  What’s the truth, Carlos?

  Roxanne closed her eyes. She saw again the flow chart of circled names she had seen in Carlos’ hotel room—Spencer Marshall to Dover Key Development to Hector Rivera to Investco Associates to John Murkley. And the hypodermic needle that moved from Murkley to Marshall. Someone who didn’t know Murkley might not attach any significance to the drawing, but Roxanne did know him. Murkley was a rapacious criminal not content to empty his victim’s wallet but wanted to lay waste, to burn, to pillage for the pleasure of inflicting pain. If Hector Rivera had taken money and fed it to Murkley, there was a strong likelihood that Rivera was not a good guy. Or maybe he was just another fly caught in the master spider’s web.

  The few other documents in the case did not provide any additional information. Carlos had not yet filed his answer, setting forth his version of the facts.

  It was time to turn to the internet. Roxanne searched Dover Key Development and found several newspaper stories. The early ones were little more than press releases full of optimism about the project. Spencer Marshall was quoted extensively about his plans and his hope to build a casino. There was a series of stories on problems Marshall was encountering with the local zoning board, and another story reporting a local politician’s declaration that any effort to bring a casino operation to Dover Key was doomed to failure. A local environmental group protested the development and urged that the site be preserved. A photograph accompanying this article showed a wide sandy beach backed by palm trees and shrubs.

  The second to last newspaper article dated three months ago reported on a fire at the Dover Key Development office in Fort Meyers. The article stated that the project had encountered so many difficulties it was likely it would now be abandoned. The reporter had made an effort to speak to Spencer Marshall, but he was not available for comment.

  The final article was a short report on Spencer Marshall’s death. He had apparently died of a drug overdose the same day as the fire that destroyed his office, although his time of death had not yet been established. There was a photograph of Spencer, taken in better days. He had a boyish handsomeness, sandy hair and a wide, appealing smile.

  Roxanne poured the contents of her glass back into the bottle. No sense in wasting it. She needed a clear head. She boiled water and poured it into her teapot with a bag of ginger tea. She took her cup of tea back to the couch, reopened her laptop and searched Spencer Marshall. She skipped over the articles she’d already read. There were several obituaries, including a notice from the Breckenridge Preparatory Academy in Winfield, New Hampshire and comments on several blogs. Spencer came from an old New England family. He’d attended the BPA for eight years, received a degree from Boston University, gone on to become a real estate developer. There were several gaps in his employment history, but he’d been an avid tennis player and sailor. He was included in the list of family members who were present at the dedication of the BPA library, named in honor of his great-grandfather. There were several photographs of him at tennis competitions, and one of him leaning against the mast of a boat. His BPA classmates recalled him fondly. Spence had a thousand-watt smile, one of his old friends wrote. He will be missed.

  Roxanne rubbed her eyes. It was late. She was tired.

  She typed in John Murkley. Nothing. She typed in Investco Associates. Nothing. She was not surprised. Murkley had retreated to the shadows.

  Roxanne shut her laptop. She knew the limits of what the internet could tell her. If she searched her father, for example, she would find out about his exemplary legal career, the decisions he’d rendered, the esteem in which members of the legal world held him. She would also find news articles reporting on several surprising rulings he made late in his career favoring certain businesses, and an obituary for his former law clerk, a man whose promising legal career had ended in an apparent suicide. But the internet would not draw the connections among these seemingly random pieces of information. For that, she would need a flow chart like the one she’d found in Carlos’ room, like the one her father had outlined to her in a rasping whisper, his sallow, almost skeletal hand clutching her arm. “Murkley, it all goes back to him. All his fault. All of it.” And then his last horrible demand. “Avenge me, Roxanne. Make him pay. Send him to prison for the rest of his life.”

  How, Daddy? How am I to find this bastard and make him pay? How am I to undo all the wrongs you did? How am I to restore life to the dead and bring healing to the living?

  He had given her the burden without any weapons, and sure of her defeat, she had refused the task. That was the source of the shadow of sadness in her face, in her heart, in her soul.

  She put her laptop in her briefcase and got ready for bed. She pulled up her covers and shut off her bedside light. Outside, the wind was blowing hard. She needed something to erase the past, at least for a few minutes. Her mind turned to Carlos. Her fingers moved automatically between her legs. She could not have him in her bed, but she could not do without him.

  The pirate was between her legs threatening to whip her with his leather belt unless she told him what he wanted to know.

  She cursed him.

  His men laughed. They were lined up, watching. He raised his belt high in the air and snapped it over her head.

  She cursed him louder.

  He fell on her. His hands ranged over her body, squeezing, pinching, claiming her. She couldn’t fight him, couldn’t push him away. His hands went to her thighs then higher and higher. He stroked her. She hated him but her body betrayed her. Her hips rose up at his touch. She was wet with desire for him. He thrust his fingers into her.

  She cried out.

  His crew urged him to take her. He whispered to her that from now on she must submit to him. He yelled to his crew, “This cunt is mine!”

  They cheered. He grabbed her hips and entered her. She groaned. He pulled his cock nearly out of her. She begged him to fuck her. He thrust his hips. She felt his cock erupt and cried out with the pleasure of her own release.

  Roxanne’s muscles contracted around her finge
rs with the force of her climax. Gently, she tugged her fingers away. She grabbed a pillow and held it against her breasts.

  “Carlos,” she whispered. “I’m yours.”

  Chapter Five

  Mrs. Bigelow leaned back in the leather conference room chair and appraised Roxanne’s appearance.

  “You look pretty today, Ms. Cline. I always found my looks improved considerably when I took a new lover. But I do think you should add a bit of color to your ensemble. You’re too much the somber sparrow.”

  Mrs. Bigelow wore her white hair in a sleek French twist. Her pink and gray tweed suit was tastefully elegant, as were the triple strand of pearls and the small diamond and ruby clasp at her neck. Her face, though wrinkled, was still lovely. Her blue eyes sparkled, helped along by makeup expertly applied.

  Roxanne smiled and chose to ignore the comment about her love life and her outfit. She wondered what Mrs. Bigelow would think if she knew that under Roxanne’s gray silk blouse and dark gray skirt, Roxanne was wearing a fine silk lace demi-cup bra, a lace thong, a garter belt and thigh-high black stockings. She was sure Mrs. Bigelow would wholeheartedly approve, but Roxanne’s choice of lingerie was entirely accidental. That morning she’d searched her underwear drawer and discovered she didn’t have a clean bra or panties and there were huge runs in all her pantyhose. She dove into the far corners of her closet and unearthed the sexy things she had bought for Paul but never worn.

  “I’d like to draft a statement of purpose for Ariadne’s foundation,” she told Mrs. Bigelow. “But that will have to wait until after our meeting in Florida next week. The foundation’s board members have to decide what the focus of the foundation will be—developing eco-tourism projects from the ground up or giving grants to organizations that are developing their own projects.”

  Mrs. Bigelow waved her hand. “That’s for you and Ariadne to work out. I do hope you’ll find time to enjoy your visit south. The weather should be much more pleasant.” She looked out the window, which was streaked with freezing rain. “I’ll have Joanna book you a room at a lovely little hotel.” She gave Roxanne a wicked smile. “You can bring your new lover.”

  “Speaking of Florida…” Roxanne paused. She felt awkward raising the issue with Mrs. Biglelow, though she had a perfectly good excuse. “Did you know a man named Spencer Marshall? I believe his family had Palm Beach connections. He was a real estate developer involved with a project on an island called Dover Key.”

  “The name does ring a bell. I seem to recall a scandal.”

  “The project failed. Spencer Marshall died of a drug overdose three months ago.”

  “How sad. Did you know him?”

  “No.” Roxanne’s cheeks warmed. “I ran across the story and wondered if the foundation might be interested in looking at Dover Key. Apparently one of the reasons the project failed was because environmental groups opposed it. I think Dover Key is still on the market. Ariadne might want to consider it as an eco-tourism site.”

  “You do move quickly, Ms. Cline. I know Ariadne will be excited to consider the prospect. Now we have another matter to discuss. I agreed at the benefit dinner the other night to create a scholarship for the architecture department.” She widened her eyes. “I admit I have a weakness for architects and engineers. All those steel girders and beams are very arousing. Don’t you agree?”

  Roxanne laughed. If she ever wanted to study the fine art of flirtation, Cecily Bigelow would be a perfect mentor.

  They discussed at length the details of Mrs. Bigelow’s donation and the ramifications of the different ways her gift could be structured. Roxanne promised to have the appropriate papers drafted by the end of the week.

  “Excellent,” Mrs. Bigelow said. She leaned on her cane with its intricate mother-of-pearl inlay and winced as she rose to her feet. “My ankle is feeling its age today.”

  “Perhaps you should consider retiring your high heels.”

  “They can pry them off my feet when I’m dead, dear girl. Not until then.”

  Roxanne accompanied Mrs. Bigelow down the hall to the reception area.

  “Cecily!”

  A slight man with tufts of white hair emanating from either side of his very bald head hurried toward them.

  “Heyward!” Mrs. Bigelow sounded delighted. She accepted the man’s kiss on her cheek. “It’s been ages.” She turned to Roxanne. “Ms. Cline, allow me to introduce a dear friend, Heyward Champion. Heyward, my lawyer Roxanne Cline.”

  The man pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. He frowned as he looked into Roxanne’s face. She braced herself for what she knew was coming.

  “Are you Judge George Cline’s daughter?”

  Deep breath. “Yes, I am.”

  “I was a great admirer of his. His death was a keen loss to the judicial system and the legal profession.” He smiled broadly. “You probably don’t remember, but we’ve met before. I was at your law school moot court competition when you and your partner trounced your opponents. Your father was very proud of you that night.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I take it you work for Taylor Wheelock. I trust you aren’t in any legal difficulties, Cecily.”

  “Not at all, Heyward. Ms. Cline is my estate planner.”

  “Ah.” Heyward turned to Roxanne. He looked puzzled. “I’m surprised you didn’t become a litigator, Ms. Cline. You had such a wonderful courtroom presence.”

  “What are you doing here, Heyward?”

  “I’m here to meet with one of Ms. Cline’s partners for settlement discussions. He’s brought suit against my client.” He indicated the man who was standing an arm’s length away.

  Roxanne sucked in her breath.

  Carlos Delgado, looking ridiculously handsome in a tailored charcoal gray suit and starched white shirt, was staring at her.

  At that moment, Bardon Collins strode into the reception area.

  “Heyward, we’re all set for you and Mr. Delgado in conference room three. Hello, Roxanne! Aren’t you a welcome sight on this lousy day.” He pushed the fine blond hair back from his forehead and flashed a gleaming smile. “And who is the lovely lady at your side?”

  Roxanne fought to sound normal. Her pulse was racing. “Mrs. Cecily Bigelow, one of our clients. Mrs. Bigelow, Bardon Collins, one of our chief litigators.”

  Bardon took Mrs. Bigelow’s proffered hand and shook it gently.

  “Pleasure,” he said, and his wide smile gave the impression he meant it. Mrs. Bigelow looked charmed.

  Roxanne dared a glance at Carlos. His handsome face was impassive. What should she do? Pretend she had never met him? Smile at him? Act as if this were all a joke and wink?

  “Excuse us, please,” Bardon said. He put his hand on Roxanne’s elbow and steered her away from the others.

  Roxanne could not think fast enough to protest.

  Bardon leaned close to her. “Why don’t you stay and have a drink with me this afternoon?”

  “Sorry, I have plans.” Roxanne glanced past Bardon’s shoulders to see what Carlos was doing. He was still staring at her.

  “Change them.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Oh, come on, Rox. You and I are meant to be together.”

  She wanted to slap him.

  “No, we most definitely are not.”

  “Have it your way today, Rox,” he leaned still closer and whispered, “but one of these days, I’m going to get you to change your mind.” He laughed.

  Roxanne glared at his broad back as he walked away.

  Heyward Champion was helping Mrs. Bigelow put on her fur coat. Carlos was holding her cane.

  “Heyward, follow me,” Bardon said. “Let’s get this show on the road.” He walked down the hall, humming.

  Roxanne turned toward Mrs. Bigelow, but her gaze caught Carlos’ expression. He was looking at her and smiling, with one eyebrow raised, as if he had finally understood the punch line of a joke. It was not a friendly smile.

  Roxanne swallowed hard. What
must he think of her? Before she could respond, he turned and followed Heyward Champion into the conference room.

  “Are you all right, Ms. Cline?” Mrs. Bigelow was pulling on her leather gloves.

  “Yes, fine,” Roxanne said. She tried to put her mind into some kind of order.

  “I’m sorry if my friend Heyward disturbed you with the mention of your father.”

  “Not at all,” Roxanne said. Mrs. Bigelow was a perceptive old bird.

  “He’s a very attractive man,” Mrs. Bigelow said, her voice lowered to a husky whisper. “I can see why Andrew Watson didn’t stand a chance.”

  Roxanne jerked her head up and stared at Mrs. Bigelow. How had she guessed?

  “I was always partial to big blond men. Your Mr. Collins looks like a generous handful. Cheer up, Ms. Cline. I won’t tell.”

  * * * * *

  It was after eight p.m. by the time Roxanne unlocked the door to her condo. Her afternoon and evening had been filled with meetings—including a conference call on her drive home—leaving her little time to torture herself. She picked up her mail and dropped her briefcase on the floor. She took off her coat and hung it in her closet. She paused, puzzled. She sniffed. There was a scent in the air that seemed familiar but was out of place in her home—a spicy, musky scent. She glanced around her living room. Her gaze passed over the velvet throw she had draped over the curved arm of the sofa and roamed over the shelves filled with books and the silver framed photographs, the leather and chrome chairs she had placed at angles to the sofa, the pink orchid in the white ceramic pot on her coffee table. Everything seemed in its place. She sniffed again. The scent was unmistakable but the source was a mystery. Her ears strained to pick up any odd sounds.