The Wicked Wife (Murder in Marin Book 2) (11 page)

“Do you think Willow’s real interest in him might be his money?” Holly wondered.

“Yep, that’s my guess.” Eddie leaned in. “I asked Sharon about her. Apparently, Willow has also dated some of the best-paid sports stars, not to mention a fair number of Hollywood actors. If she were into mere millions, I would think she would have sunk her claws into one of them. Instead, she dumps handsome, well-paid celebrities for a guy nearly twice her age, who lives the glamorous life of a corporate attorney slash high-tech investor? Not buying it! My bet is on the money.”

“Wow,” Rob said, shaking his head. “There are people in this world who need that much green?”

“It takes all types, my friend. Work my job for a year, and you’ll see what I mean.”

“Speaking of money,” Holly interjected, “would one of you guys mind picking up my drinks tonight? The job of senior editorial staff director doesn’t pay as much as people might think.”

“You know, you’re worth more than I can afford to pay you,” Rob said. “If Willow Wisp becomes Willow Adams, you should see if she’s interested in buying a chain of community newspapers. If she thinks she has a glamorous life now, wait until she gets an exclusive on Tiburon’s plans to update its sewer system.”

Holly wrinkled her nose. “I’m sure she’d be thrilled. For now, though, I’ll focus on getting a few more promotional perfume bottles. I’m a gal with simple goals.”

CHAPTER NINE

The next morning, on her way to the airport, Willow made two calls. One to William to tell him how pleased and grateful she was for the party; the second to Viktor to reassert her decision that their relationship had indeed come to an end.
 

“But this cannot, must not be! I can be secret lover, like Czarina had in time before Bolsheviks!” Viktor insisted.

Willow thought about hitting the red disconnect symbol on her iPhone’s display, but each time she resisted. Images of Viktor’s flat, toned abs, his carefully defined chest, and broad tanned shoulders kept catching her as her index finger hovered over the phone, wavering endlessly between lust and reason.

Finally, she couldn’t resist. As if in a trance, she said, “When?”

“Tomorrow, yes?”

“What time?”

“Four! No, two! Must rehearse.”

“Where?”

“Four Seasons. My room, Yes?”

Drained from the conflict within her, Willow agreed, and clicked off.
 

She spent her time in flight, both down to Los Angeles and flying back north to San Francisco, considering her options.
 

The thought that she was being disloyal to William by reigniting her tryst with Viktor was of little concern. A far more pressing issue was the potentially disastrous consequence of William learning of her unfaithfulness.

She knew she was treading a thin line. At the same time, the specter of Viktor’s insatiable passion haunted her thoughts.

She awoke the next day at eleven, wondering what she should wear to her rendezvous with the volatile violinist.
 

She settled for an outfit that was both alluring and discreet: black leather pants and a black-and-white trench coat. She shoved her hair into a black leather newsboy cap. Her disguise was finished off with her largest pair of black sunglasses.

When she got to the hotel, the last thing she wanted was to do was stop at the hotel’s front desk, for fear of being recognized, so she texted her lover:
 

What is your room number???

The penthouse, of course.

Viktor answered the door clothed only in a silk robe. He had ordered champagne and caviar, which he planned to charge to his room’s expense account, all generously provided by the producer that had flown him into town to record Tchaikovsky’s “Violin Concerto in D,” accompanied by the San Francisco Symphony.
 

Willow and Viktor exchanged silent nods in greeting and then passionately tore into one another. Never had they wanted each other more.
 

And never had his lovemaking been so clearly a blend of tenderness and ferocity.
 

Afterward, as she lay spent in his strong arms, her mind again wandered back to those magical words: “He plays the violin, and I am undone.”
 

That evening, she resisted William’s offer of dinner, fearing that he would want more than just a meal and would somehow sense that she had spent the afternoon in the arms of another man.
 

“I don’t know why, darling but I’ve had this frightful headache all day long…”

William, disappointed of course, told her to rest and promised to call early the next day to see if she was feeling better.
 

“Alright,” Willow responded softly, “But not too early.”
 

Their busy schedules left Viktor and Willow no other times to rendezvous before he flew off to London, and she to Paris, for a series of personal appearances and the taping of her segment on
Project Runway.
 

Halfway through her trip, William arrived, joining her at the
Georges Cinq.
When he knocked on the door of her room a little before six in the evening, he was holding two-dozen long-stemmed yellow roses.
 

Willow put her arms around him and kissed him passionately.
 

“I was thinking of going out to dinner, but if you prefer we can stay in,” William suggested.

“Oh no, we have to go out! I have a big night planned. We have dinner reservations at Epicure at eight o’clock. Then we’re meeting LeBon and the new love of his life, Jacques Allard. He’s a famous jewelry designer, and he makes the most beautiful pieces! Then we’re going over to the Latin Quarter, to have cocktails at
Le Six
.”

“Sounds wonderful, sweetheart. Maybe I should jump in the shower and freshen up after that long flight.”

“Go ahead, sweetheart. It’s a wonderful shower, so take your time.”

William stood under a steady stream of hot water, hoping to breathe a little energy into his travel-weary bones. Even though he had a comfortable first class seat, the strain of a long work day, followed by an eight p.m. San Francisco departure time, a nine hour time change, and a twelve hour flight for a four o’clock arrival time in Paris, made him feel fifteen years older than his fifty-eight years. Nevertheless, he was determined not to play the role of the aging traveler. He stood under that shower until, finally, his bone weariness faded, and the energy returned to his body.

By the time he stepped back into the bedroom of their two-room suite, Willow was dressed and ready for a night out.
 

“You look fabulous,” William murmured. But as he reached to kiss her, Willow pushed back. “Not now, darling! You’re still damp from your long hot shower. Besides, you’ll make a mess of my hair and make-up.”

“You’re right, sweetie.” He sighed. “I’ve just missed you.”

“Later tonight, darling, alright?” she said, as she smiled, kissed him on the cheek, and sent him off to get dressed.

William thought Epicure was superb. He was less than enthralled with LeBon and Allard, or Henri and Jacques, as they insisted they be called.
 

Willow tried to include William in the conversation, which drifted casually from French to English, and back again. William, never the linguist, tried his best to keep up. But between the rich food, the bilingual gymnastics, his befuddled body clock, and a full twenty-four hours without sleep, he found himself falling further and further behind.
 

In spite of his valiant effort, when it was time to get the check, he insisted on staying to pay, but told the three of them to grab a cab over to the Left Bank while he went back to the hotel for some much needed sleep.
 

Watching the three of them leave, for the first time in his relationship with Willow, William wondered if he could successfully ignore the substantial gap in their age.
 

He thought about this as he strolled along the Avenue Matignon, turning onto the Champs-Elysees at Franklin D. Roosevelt. For just a moment, FDR came to mind. The world famous president was just five years older than William was now when he died of a massive stroke. Could his trying to keep up with Willow do to William what twelve years in the White House did to Roosevelt? It was a sobering thought. After having it, however, William quickly chided himself for being ridiculous.
 

Still, the age issue bothered him in a way it had not before, as he dragged himself back to his suite, got into bed, and turned out the light.

In the cab on the way over to the nightclub in the heart of St. Germaine, LeBon and Allard teased Willow about her aging billionaire. Now that he was no longer around, LeBon made a much greater effort to speak English to the one woman who peaked his sexual interests. “He is very nice, and certainly very wealthy. But
mon Dieu
,
mon cherie
! I cannot see how he will ever make you happy.”

Willow smiled, but didn’t say a word.

“I think what will make you very happy is all that money,
mais oui
?” he insisted with that knowing smile that irked her in the way only an intimate playmate can.

“I’m not getting any younger, Henri. And besides, William is a wonderful man,” Willow said emphatically.
 

That led to LeBon and Allard exchanging asides in French faster than Willow could possibly hope to follow. She was annoyed, even agitated, but calmed herself with the thought that soon she would be well settled with a personal fortune that LeBon could only possess in his dreams.
 

She made what every member of her entourage agreed was an early exit from the nightclub where they had gathered.
 

“A wretched headache,” was her default reason of choice.
 

Fifteen minutes later, she slipped into bed next to William, who was in a deep, and much needed sleep. She chose not to disturb him, and instead considered whether her plan to show him the glittering side of her life had indeed backfired. Certainly, steps one and two had gone better than she could have hoped. But the idea of sharing the most glamorous aspects of her life had clearly fallen flat.