Strangers in the villa, p.6
Strangers in the Villa, page 6
Jameson Drew claimed his victim had attacked him in a drug-fueled rage, that he’d killed him in self-defense. He’d panicked. There were illegal drugs and a corpse in his apartment! He knew how it would look to the police. So Drew had wrapped the body in plastic, driven to a forested area in New Jersey, and buried it.
It had not been Sydney’s job to decide guilt or innocence. Her role was to represent her client at arraignment, to ensure he understood his legal options. When the DA offered a plea deal—twenty years to life—she counseled Drew to take it. There was no way he’d win at trial. The crime was too violent. The video footage of Drew dragging the lifeless body to his car too chilling. The DA would fight for first degree, make her client out to be a cold-blooded killer, a predator. If a jury bought it, Drew would get life without parole. He’d never be free again. Jameson Drew had wept like a child when he was sentenced, but it was the right choice. Sydney stood by it.
“What about him?” Syd asks.
“He’s dead.”
“Oh no,” Syd says, but she isn’t surprised. Prison often has a shortening effect on a life.
“There’s more, Sydney…” Brian says, and his tone is solemn. “It’s about you.”
Syd’s chest tightens, narrowing her airway. She struggles to get a deep breath, her anxiety raising its ugly head.
Because she knows, even dead, Jameson Drew can hurt her.
12
Curtis pours chilled Spanish vermouth into glass tumblers with orange peel and olives, the Catalonian way. They’d had two bottles of red with dinner, and they’re all a little tipsy, talking too loudly, laughing too easily. All except Sydney. She’s quiet, her eyes glassy, a little unfocused. Bianca and Damian are discussing Australian politics, so it’s not like they as Americans have much to add, but Syd is so obviously checked out. Curtis clears his throat, attempts to draw her into the conversation.
“I guess we’ll have to educate ourselves on the Spanish government,” Curtis says, looking directly at Sydney. “With our visa, we can become citizens in ten years. Right, hon?”
Syd snaps to, reorienting herself in the moment. “Yeah,” she mumbles. She looks to Bianca, abruptly changes the subject. “You two should sleep inside. In the guest room.”
“We’re fine in the van,” the younger woman says, sipping her drink and making a face at its strong flavor.
“It may look cramped, but you’d be surprised how comfortable it is,” Damian adds.
“We have a perfectly good guest room,” Sydney insists. “And you’re our first guests. It’d be a shame not to use it.”
Curtis keeps his tone light. “They said they’re fine in the van, babe.” He’s enjoying their guests’ company for the most part, and he appreciates Damian’s hard work, but he doesn’t need them sleeping down the hall. He doesn’t want to hear them snoring, using the bathroom, or, God forbid, having sex a few feet away.
Syd ignores him. “It’s safer if you’re inside. We like to lock the doors at night, and you might need the bathroom.”
“I can go in the bushes,” Damian says.
“Speak for yourself,” Bianca says. “There are snakes!”
“We can leave a door unlocked,” Curtis placates. “It’s perfectly safe. And we have the cameras.”
“Those old cameras don’t even work,” Syd counters. “And they’re not much of a deterrent if someone really wants to get in here.”
“Who would want to get in here?” Curtis chuckles awkwardly. “We don’t have many valuables.”
“You never know when some psycho could be passing by.” Damian swirls the liquor in his glass. “But you’re Americans. You probably have a gun.”
“We’re from New York,” Sydney retorts, and Curtis feels a flicker of satisfaction. He hasn’t been blind to the dynamic between his wife and their macho guest. Damian’s been attentive, even solicitous toward Syd. In his cloud of testosterone, she has been acting demure and girlish. But she’s annoyed by his assumption, and Curtis finds it satisfying.
“No offense,” Bianca says, attempting to smooth things over. “It’s the media. They make it seem like every person in America is packing.”
“If I lived all alone out here, I’d have a weapon,” Damian says, eyes meeting Curtis’s. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“We don’t have a gun,” Curtis says, and Damian nods with a slight knowing smirk. The Australian likely knows about the secret phone. Does he assume Curtis has a secret firearm, too?
Bianca smiles at Sydney. “I think it would be nice to sleep inside for a few nights. Thank you.”
“It’s settled, then.” Syd’s chair scrapes across the tile. “I’ll make up the bed.”
By the time Curtis and Sydney head to their room, his eyes feel gritty, and there’s a mild pounding between his eyebrows from the drinks. He unbuttons his linen shirt, glancing over his shoulder at his wife. Her back is to him as she hurriedly undresses. God forbid he get a glimpse of her naked body. He’s always thought Syd was beautiful and sexy. But since his affair, she acts shy around him, almost ashamed, which makes no sense. She pulls a tank top over her bare torso and turns toward him.
“Do you remember Jameson Drew?”
“Should I?” Curtis climbs into bed wearing his boxers.
“I was representing him when you cheated on me,” she says, that familiar edge to her voice.
“Right. Sorry. The murderer.”
“Self-defense, according to him.” Sydney pulls back the sheet, crawls in next to him “He’s dead.”
Curtis doesn’t know how to respond. Is this sad? A man who got caught up in a bad situation gone too soon? Or is it good news? One less killer out there living off the public dime.
“He died by suicide,” Syd says. “He sliced his wrists open with a sharpened toothbrush.”
“Damn.”
Syd turns over on her hip, faces him. “He left a suicide note. He said he couldn’t take prison anymore. He said he was innocent, and he blamed me for not allowing him to go to trial.”
“Criminals always blame their lawyers.” Curtis places a comforting hand on her bare shoulder. “You know that.”
Syd’s eyes are shiny in the pale lamplight. “I was so distracted, Curtis. My heart was broken. My life was falling apart. I couldn’t think straight. Maybe I fucked up?”
“You were an excellent lawyer, Syd.”
“Maybe I could have—should have—done more. Maybe I should have gone to trial and fought for him, but I was too devastated.”
“This isn’t about you. This is about a man who killed someone and couldn’t live with the consequences.”
“Drew’s father called the office looking for me. He threatened me.”
“Legally? They can’t prove you did anything wrong.”
“He threatened to make me pay.” Syd’s voice trembles. “He thinks I killed his only son.”
Back in New York, Curtis had sometimes worried about his wife’s safety. She represented dangerous people, angry people. It would have been so easy for one of them to find Sydney and harm her. But not now.
“Does this guy know where you live?”
“I don’t think so. But I’m sure he could find out.”
“Even if he did, I doubt he has the resources to get to Spain. I mean, they used a public defender. Clearly they don’t have a ton of cash.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Is that why you want the Aussies to sleep inside?”
“I don’t know. I just feel unnerved. Anxious.”
“Are you taking your medication?”
“Of course,” she snaps. “I think it’s perfectly normal to sleep better with the doors locked when you’ve had a threat against your life.”
“I agree. It’s a good idea.” He strokes her arm gently. “You’re safe, babe. I’m here. I won’t let anything hurt you.”
“Thanks.” Her body softens under his touch, head easing into the pillow. She looks up at him under heavy lids, and her eyes are warm, receptive. His hand moves up, strokes her cheek, moves through her hair. Desire wells up in him, and he inches his body closer to her. Slowly, he moves in for a kiss that he hopes will segue into something more. Their lips meet for a brief, tentative moment.
And then Sydney rolls over and goes to sleep.
13
Syd sits in the designated smoking corner, having her morning cigarette. She’s groggy, a little hungover. She shouldn’t drink vermut. It’s stronger than wine, and she always pays for it the next morning. Recently, she’s been drinking too much alcohol, grasping onto the frivolity and joie de vivre of their young guests. But last night was different. Last night, she’d been trying to blunt her fear and anxiety.
Taking a drag, Syd rubs at a sandy eye. She hadn’t slept well, her phone conversation with Brian Hale replaying in her mind. A man was dead. His family thought it was her fault. Of course she was upset. How could Curtis dismiss it so easily, blame it on her medication? He may as well have asked if she was on her period.
Brian had been circumspect as he recounted the call from Jameson’s father, Teddy Drew. “He was angry. He called you some nasty names and made some vague threats.”
“Like what?”
“He wants to make you pay for what happened to Jameson, but he didn’t mean it. But we recorded the threats just in case.”
“Am I in danger, Brian?” Sydney’s voice sounded thick.
Her friend sighed down the line. “If you still lived in the city, I might suggest a restraining order, but Teddy Drew is probably all talk. And he has no way to find you in Spain. He doesn’t strike me as a big international traveler.”
“I hope not.”
“Since you’re no longer practicing, you should check that your professional liability insurance has a tail that covers you. Just in case Teddy can find someone to represent him.”
“He’s going to sue me now? For what?” But she knew. For negligence. For being so broken by her mom’s death, her husband’s betrayal, that she sent a man to prison who may have had a case for self-defense.
Stubbing out her cigarette, Sydney stands, prepares for her morning dip. Hopefully the chilly water will perk her up, but she’s doubtful. If they didn’t have guests, she’d crawl back into bed, but she doesn’t want to appear indulgent or lazy. Last night, she’d tried the guided imagery exercises Ellen the therapist had recommended to calm her racing thoughts.
“Change the channel,” Ellen had advised, like the traumatized brain was nothing more than a TV. Finally, she’d been able to push Teddy Drew from her mind and drift off, only to be woken by muffled sounds in the house. It had scared her at first, until she remembered Bianca and Damian were just down the hall.
Eyes open in the darkness, Syd had listened to their gentle murmuring. A soft feminine gasp, a deep guttural groan. Her guests were making love. She felt both awkward and a little aroused. Syd had glanced over at her husband to see if he heard it too, but Curtis was asleep, mouth open wide, snoring wetly. She felt a swell of disdain at the sight (and sound) of the man she’d married, though she knew it wasn’t fair. She nudged him with an elbow, and he rolled over with a muttered “Sorry.”
As she wades into the cool water, Syd’s breath catches, and her pulse begins to race. Her thick head clears a little. She’s waist-deep, about to go under, when Bianca wanders onto the deck.
“Morning,” the woman says, stretching tanned arms over her tousled honey head. She looks tired and puffy, but on her it’s sexy, devil may care. Bianca’s wearing a large T-shirt, the one Syd remembers Damian had on yesterday. The sounds of their lovemaking revisit her, and she feels her cheeks warming.
“Morning.” Syd dips under the surface, swims a few strokes, allowing the cold water to bring her back to life. She emerges just as Bianca strips off the T-shirt to reveal tiny bikini bottoms and nothing else. Casually, the Australian lowers herself to the edge of the pool, dunking her feet into the water.
“Remind me not to drink that red cough syrup stuff,” she says, shielding her eyes with her hand. “What’s it called?”
“Spanish vermouth,” Syd replies, averting her gaze. She’s in Europe. Boobs are everywhere. Why does she feel so uncomfortable? “I feel a little rough myself.”
“Who’s ready for breakfast?” Curtis walks out on deck, stops short at the sight of Bianca’s bare C cups.
The blonde leans back on her hands, perfect breasts thrusting toward the sky. “I’m not sure I can eat,” she says. “That vermouth did a number on me.”
Curtis seems mildly stunned by the sight of their topless guest, his eyes darting around her perimeter, but he composes himself. “I made ham and eggs. A greasy breakfast should settle your stomach.” He turns to Sydney. “You ready to eat, babe?”
“Sure. I’ll be in in a minute.”
“Okay.” He turns back to Bianca. “Do you want me to make you some plain toast?”
“I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. I’ve got granola, too.”
“Ugh.” She makes a face.
Curtis chuckles. “Vermut is kind of strong. And it has a lot of sugar. Recipe for a brutal hangover.”
“Now you tell me?”
As Syd watches her husband chat and joke with their nearly naked roommate, she feels something dark and ugly sprouting in the pit of her stomach. It’s jealousy, a toxic blend of insecurity, fear, and anger. She doesn’t want to make a scene, doesn’t want to lose her temper, but how can Curtis not see that his casual banter with Bianca’s tits is wildly inappropriate after what he did? She breathes deeply through flared nostrils, trying to calm her ire. How would Ellen suggest she handle this issue?
As though he senses his wife’s upset, Curtis turns to face her. “I’d better get back in the kitchen,” he says with a sheepish smile. “Come on in before the food gets cold.”
And then he scurries away.
When Syd enters through the French doors, the aroma of coffee and Spanish bacon is enticing, but her stomach is tight and queasy. Damian sits at the table, eating a massive plate of food. “Morning!” he calls, half standing as she enters. He’s in a tank top, sinewy muscles on full display, but Syd barely notices.
“Morning.” She tosses the word in his direction, approaches her husband. “Can we talk for a sec?”
“Eat first.” He grabs the frying pan. “The eggs will be rubbery.”
“This won’t take long.” Her frosty delivery stops him short. He sets down the pan and follows her to the bedroom.
“What’s up?” he says when the door is closed behind them.
Sydney knows how this will sound—pathetic and petty—but she has to articulate her feelings. Open communication is essential if they’re going to rebuild their trust. “I’m not comfortable with you hanging out and chatting with Bianca when she’s practically naked.”
Curtis snorts. “I asked her if she wanted breakfast, Syd.”
“You were flirting and laughing with her. And her breasts.”
“I was not flirting with her,” he says, calm and indignant. “I offered her food, and then I made small talk. She’s our guest.”
Syd’s cheeks are getting hot, but she employs the language she learned in therapy. “I’ve been working very hard to trust you again.” Her voice tightens as she goes off script. “Maybe you could respect the fact that I’m still feeling less than secure in our marriage after you had sex with your client.”
Curtis’s response is a low rumble. “Of course I respect that. Everything I’ve done for the past year has been to make you feel more secure.”
“Then stop ogling Bianca’s tits and laughing about her hangover!” Sydney whisper-shrieks.
“You invited her to stay here,” Curtis says through gritted teeth. “Why don’t you tell her to put a shirt on if it makes you uncomfortable?” He storms back to the kitchen.
14
Heat shimmers off the black highway, an apt reflection of Curtis’s mood. He steps on the gas, the Citroën lunging forward with a satisfying roar. Soon, he’ll have to gear down for another roundabout, but for now he enjoys the swell of power, the reckless surge of speed. His passenger will be impressed with the way he handles the car. Not a lot of Americans can drive stick anymore. It takes skill and finesse, makes him feel both suave and masculine. Like Ayrton Senna… before he died in a tragic crash, obviously.
Curtis and Damian are going to Girona to order lumber and supplies for the shed renovation. Damian will check in at the garage, and Curtis has a private call to make. But mostly he needs to get away from his wife and her ridiculous accusations. He’s been bending over backward to make her happy, to win back her trust, and the suggestion that he’s been perving at their houseguest is beyond insulting. Especially when Syd’s been acting like an eighth grader with a crush on Damian since he arrived.
If Sydney is still so insecure, why did she invite a beautiful younger woman to stay with them? Curtis hadn’t even wanted guests, but he’s been a perfect goddamn host: cooking, mixing drinks, keeping the house tidy. His welts are still itchy and irritating, and he’d slept fitfully last night. But he’d gotten up, made breakfast, and offered it to the women lounging by the pool like a couple of socialites. If his eyes drifted to Bianca’s perfect tits for a split second, it was only natural. He’s a red-blooded human male who’s been deprived of sex for months.
Damian’s voice shakes him from his reverie. “So, how did you and Sydney meet?”
“The old-fashioned way.” Curtis smirks. “Plenty of Fish.”
“Her profile must have blown you away. Sexy. Smart. Great job.”
Curtis glances over at him—his words sound almost besotted—but Damian’s face is turned away, taking in the scenery out the passenger window. The Aussie and his pretty partner seem solid, but Damian wouldn’t be the first guy infatuated by Sydney’s cool, aspirational beauty.
