Picture Perfect Read online

  Sara always had a better idea, or so it seemed to Andrew, as he returned her grin. “Hurry,” was all he could say. God, how he loved and desired her. He would never cease to be amazed that she returned his feelings. A man could search his life through for the right woman and never find her, but he’d found Sara and she was perfect. She fulfilled his every need. There seemed no amount of energy and caring that Sara would not put forth for his happiness. She had even interrupted her career as an English literature professor to bear him a son. At the time, she had been thirty-nine years old. He knew it had been no small concession on her part to make their union even more perfect.

  Desire, hot and potent, coursed through him as he turned the key to light the fire. Sara would return in exactly the amount of time it would take him to shower, dry off and put on the bathrobe she’d bought him for his birthday.

  Sara descended the long, circular staircase. Halfway down she called softly, “It’s all right, Mr. Sanders. I’m just coming down to lock up and get a drink for my husband and myself.”

  Stuart Sanders waited at the bottom of the steps. His appraising, businesslike gaze took in the woman’s cool blond beauty and her regal bearing. He could appreciate her neutral tone of voice. He wasn’t a servant, or even a family friend; he was an acquaintance and Mrs. Taylor addressed him as such. It was acceptable.

  “I’ll stay with you, Mrs. Taylor, until you go back upstairs.”

  Sara recognized the order behind the words. “Of course, Mr. Sanders.”

  Stuart followed her from one end of the house to the other as she checked the locks and turned off the lights. Even though he had locked up himself, she’d explained that the nightly ritual helped her to sleep better. He waited in the doorway of the den while she retrieved a couple of glasses and a bottle of wine from the built-in bar fridge. They weren’t just glasses, he told himself, they were antique wine goblets and the wine was one of those fifty-dollar-a-bottle varieties.

  He felt no envy as he surveyed the expensively appointed room. The whole house reflected Sara Taylor’s conservative style and exacting taste. It was totally unlike his own place, where the furnishings—bought one at a time—never seemed to match. The clink of the crystal echoed through the room as Sara prepared to go back upstairs. There was nothing personal in Stuart’s gaze at her. She looked like a sophisticated movie actress in her ivory satin robe and slippers. Too thin for his tastes. He liked a little more flesh on his women. Besides that, he’d never cared much for blondes; Sara’s smooth delicate complexion lacked the vibrant flush he preferred.

  Sara’s sister, on the other hand, Lorrie—now there was a woman. She was just the opposite of Sara in coloring and temperament. On top of that she was unattached. He’d liked her the moment he’d met her.

  “Would you get the lights for me, Mr. Sanders?”

  “Sure. Can I help you carry any of that?” Stuart offered.

  “It’s quite all right, I can manage. I like doing things for my husband. It’s all part of being a good wife.” She smiled at him, her widening lips and soft tone belied by her expressionless eyes.

  Stuart Sanders returned to his position in front of the television screen. He didn’t like Sara Taylor. She was cold. Icy. At first he’d thought she was only that way with him, but then he’d realized she acted like that with everybody, and worse with her sister.

  Sibling rivalry, he thought. Maybe there was something in their past that had come between them. Whatever the reason, it was none of his business. His business was to protect the Taylors, not get involved in their lives.

  Maybe after the trial, when he wasn’t on assignment, he could ask Lorrie out.

  “You’re something, honey,” Andrew said, taking the wine bottle from her. “Right on schedule. I just this minute stepped from the shower.”

  Sara laughed, a warm rich sound that sent tingles up Andrew’s spine. He loved to watch her when she laughed. The mirth began around her mouth and ended in her eyes, and he knew it was for him alone. Wanting to savor the moment, he poured the wine slowly while Sara settled herself against a mound of cushions in front of the fire. He handed her a glass and sat down beside her. “A toast. How about to—”

  “Our happiness,” Sara said, extending her glass. Her eyes were glowing, full of desire as she met Andrew’s gaze.

  It was Andrew who looked away first. “Tell me, what did you want to talk about?”

  Sara placed her goblet on the raised hearth. “I’ve been thinking that Lorrie is spending too much time with Davey. What do you think?”

  Andrew’s mind raced back in time. He frowned. “You may be right. We can’t allow her to intrude into our lives and Davey’s affections. I wish you’d mentioned it sooner, Sara. How long has this been troubling you?”

  “A while. I wasn’t certain I should say anything. Not until I saw the way Davey looked at that ridiculous Dalmatian watch, and noticed the way he’s beginning to use slang words. Lorrie’s responsible for that, I think. After this camping trip, we should have a talk with her. And,” she held up a warning hand, “we have to be prepared for some hysterics.”

  Sara brushed the hair back from Andrew’s forehead. Her touch was cool, confident and soothing. Beneath her fingers, his brow wrinkled in a frown at the thought of the inevitable confrontation with his sister-in-law. He knew that she loved Davey almost to a fault. That was the problem: Sara found fault with that love. How like Sara to put Davey’s welfare above her love for her sister—her only living relative. Andrew was glad Sara would deal with the unpleasantness herself. She would handle it just the way she handled every situation he found disturbing or distasteful. He trusted her judgment—she always did the right thing at the right time. Still, Andrew really liked Lorrie and he knew Davey loved her. An unsettling sensation grew in the pit of his stomach. “We must think of Davey first . . .” he began, half-developed contradictions forming in his mind. He had never been any good at personal relationships. He was really only comfortable with the undeniable truths of the laws of physics and higher calculus that he taught at Montclair College. And, of course, with Sara.

  “Yes,” Sara smiled warmly, “Davey must come first.”

  “The little guy is really excited about the camping trip. I think it will be a good experience for him. Since Lorrie is a doctor, we can leave for Florida without worrying about him. I meant to go up to his room this afternoon and set up his train tracks for him, but I got involved with something else and never got around to it. I’ll have some free time when all this trial business is over, I’ll be able to do it then.” Reaching for Sara’s hand, he asked, “Want to sit in with the grand old master of locomotives when he does his thing?”

  “I’d love to,” Sara assured him, pleased that Andrew always included her in his plans. “I was thinking of taking some time off myself, a day or so at least, and taking Davey to the apple orchard. We could watch them bake pies and buy some to bring home. Davey does love apple pie.”

  Andrew frowned. “I thought you were going to take him a couple of weeks ago. Didn’t you?”

  Sara laughed ruefully. “Unfortunately, no. Something came up and I couldn’t make it.”

  “Was he disappointed?”

  “No, not that I could see.” Sara sipped at her drink, eyeing her husband over the rim of the glass.

  “Okay. Next thing we have to talk about is our trip tomorrow. Nervous?”

  “No,” she answered flatly.

  “I wish we didn’t have to go through with this. I hate the whole thing. And I never liked the FBI’s decision to place Sanders and his partner in this house. You know, Sara, I’ve been thinking. You don’t really have to go with me. I’m the one who has to testify, and I don’t want you to be upset.”

  “I’m going and that’s final. I wouldn’t dream of letting you go off without me. We belong together. That’s the way it’s always been. Where you go, I go. Final.”

  Andrew ran his fingers through his thatch of dark hair salted with gray. Sara smiled, kno
wing the gesture signified relief. “I don’t like the fact that our names are being splashed all over the papers. And calling me a hostile witness . . .”

  “Andrew, I don’t pay any attention to nonsense like that. The media is the media. Period. You know how they like to latch on to what they think is a story. Everything is going to work out, so I don’t want you losing any sleep over this. Promise me. After tomorrow, or the next day at most, this whole ordeal will be over.”

  Andrew drank his wine. “I never thought they’d link me with this business, Sara. Not after we took the precaution of moving out of Miami and coming here to New Jersey.”

  “I know all that, darling. I thought we’d escape this dreadful mess too, but it hasn’t worked out that way. Don’t blame yourself, Andrew.”

  “Jason Forbes was a good student, Sara. Bright. Lots of potential. And now he’s dead. Maybe if I’d come between them there in the university library . . .”

  “It wouldn’t have made any difference,” she assured him. “Kids make drug deals every day—in libraries, in classrooms, even in churches. You just happened to witness a buy. You couldn’t have known it would end up in murder.”

  “But that doesn’t excuse the fact that I didn’t go to the police the minute I heard about the murder. Now, because I didn’t, and because Jason told his roommate that I’d witnessed his buy, it looks as though I was trying to cover up something.”

  “Well, we both know you weren’t doing anything of the kind. Mr. Sanders says that the only reason you’re called a hostile witness is because you didn’t come forward voluntarily but had to be subpoenaed. Once you testify, the State will have its case wrapped up, and we can go back to our normal lives. And Mr. Sanders and his partner can go home and leave us alone.”

  “I should have stepped forward voluntarily, Sara. I should have reported the threats I’d overheard as soon as the body was discovered.”

  “Hush, darling, you’ll only upset yourself.” Sara cradled Andrew’s head against her soft bosom. “You were only trying to protect Davey and me, and we love you for it. Even the FBI recognizes that our lives are endangered, otherwise they wouldn’t have put us under twenty-four-hour guard. I love you, Andrew Taylor, with all my heart for all my life.”

  Andrew’s pulses pounded as Sara’s face swam before his eyes. It never failed to happen when Sara prompted their lovemaking with those words. God, how he loved her. He knew his life would be meaningless without her. They shared their lives, careers, and interests; theirs was a coming-together, a blending, a loving. His hand slipped beneath the soft velour of her robe, touching her breast. Through the years he had learned the special phrases and words that heightened her response and brought her to life beneath his touch. He told her how he loved her, how they fitted one another like hand and glove. How perfect she made his life, how perfect she was, her beauty, her womanliness. How complete they were, one with the other, inseparable. And Sara responded, listening, prompting his words with touches, kisses, and murmurs.

  Her eyes became liquid, her mouth ripe and open for him, accepting his kiss, his tongue. He loved her like this, soft and yielding. His pulses quickened, his senses sharpened as he waited, knowing she would slip out from under him and turn, leaning over him, assuming her usual dominant position.

  Her thighs were lean and hard-muscled as they closed around his body, the heated, warm center of her pressed against his belly, rubbing, pleasuring. He submitted himself to her mastery without any inclination to assert a masculine role, trusting her implicitly, always trusting himself to her.

  Wineglass in hand, Sara watched his reaction as she tipped the rim, allowing the sweet liquid to trickle down his chest, pooling on his belly. The chilled wine, her hot tongue. She felt his hands stroking and pressing her head, heard him groan with pleasure. “Your mouth, Sara, your beautiful mouth . . .”

  Contact between their bodies was wet, slick, so warm. Artfully, she lowered herself onto him and felt him fill her body. She felt she was dissolving, melting. He seemed to become a part of herself. The muscles in her pelvis became rigid; she could feel her womb contract. It was as though she were birthing him.

  At the moment of climax she brought her hard-tipped breast to his lips, encouraging him to suckle. And while she held his head, feeling the life spurt into her, she crooned, “Sara’s baby, Sara’s sweet, perfect baby.”

  Blue light glaring from the television washed the faded colors of the sparsely furnished room. Hands gripping the arms of the chair, he sat with his booted feet planted solidly on the floor, his bulky torso leaning slightly forward, poised as though he were about to spring up. The images on the screen flickered. He stared at them, unblinking, but didn’t see any of the action, didn’t hear the blaring sound. Chill, wet patches on his back betrayed his anxiety. Perspiration broke out above his sullen mouth and on his scalp beneath his dark, military-short hair. Cudge Balog was waiting, listening for the dull thud of hooves deep inside his head. Cutting hooves which dug into his brain matter, tearing and gouging at it. It would start slowly, with only a hint of the weight and power to come.

  He had been watching TV, his thoughts on Lenny Lombardi, who, Cudge knew, would soon be pounding on the door, demanding repayment of the borrowed fifty dollars. There was a crap game in the neighborhood tonight and Lenny would want to sit in well heeled. Little bastard. He didn’t need the fifty. Lombardi got more than he could spend from his drug-dealing racket. It was only pot, none of the big stuff, because he didn’t want trouble with the syndicate. Still, Lombardi made more in a week than Balog would see in a month of breaking his ass on construction jobs.

  Cudge’s short, thick fingers dug into the threadbare fabric covering the chair. Pressure crowded the back of his brain, driving his squarish head into his neck as his powerful shoulders hunched to bear the weight. Soon, he knew, the hooves would pound through his skull—an unleashed power, irrevocable and ruthless. A dark, hulking shape would break loose from that area of his mind where he kept it penned, under control. Thinking about Lombardi had opened the gate.

  As far back as Cudge could remember, the hoofed beast had lived inside his head. As a kid, he’d thought of it as a huge prehistoric monster with a long, arching neck and rows of jagged, fierce teeth. But then, at a summer camp for underprivileged city children, he’d seen a bull. He’d known then, he’d recognized the thick hulking body, the menacing drift of weight. Black, with dagger-sharp horns and fiery snorts of breath. He feared it but, in doing so, he feared a part of himself. When he was provoked and lost control of the gate, it was there—lurking, skulking, ready to burst forth from the recesses of his brain. A pounding, all-powerful force, hooves striking, horns slashing, searching for escape. Finding none, it would stampede wildly, smashing his reserve, pulverizing his restraint, compelling and dominating him until he became it.

  Some said it was temper. Cudge knew better. It was the bull.

  Brenda Kopec—or Elva St. John as she preferred to be called—sat on the lumpy daybed, her back against the wall. Her attention was riveted on the man in front of the television. She watched his profile with feral alertness, knowing he was a firecracker about to go off.

  The instant Cudge had turned on the TV, she’d immediately lowered the volume of her small cassette player and jammed the earphones onto her head. Elva knew the words to Elvis Presley’s “Blue Suede Shoes” by heart, but she wanted to hear the song from beginning to end. As her foot tapped to the rhythm, the scowl on Balog’s face deepened. Elva knew he wasn’t really watching the TV. She’d known that from the minute he had turned it on. He was thinking about that little rat-faced Lenny Lombardi. Cudge was mad and getting madder by the minute.

  As though feeling her eyes on him, Balog turned and glared at her. His square, snub-nosed face registered contempt. Veins swelled in his short, thick neck. With a speed that belied his bulk, he tore the earphones from her head; when she grappled for them, he struck her. Hard.

  Elva brought up her arms defensively. “Why
’d you do that?” she whined. If she cried, Cudge would hit her again.

  “ ’Cause you’re breathin’. Shut that damn thing off and sit still. I’m trying to watch TV.”

  “No, you’re not. Anyway, you’ve seen that one before. It’s the one where—” Instantly, she was sorry she’d opened her mouth. Cudge sent her another look which made her cower and slip off the end of the daybed.

  He stood and loomed over her. “How many times you heard that dumb song, Brenda? Oh, ’scuse me,” he sneered at her, “you wanna be called Elva now. In honor of Elvis Presley. Well, he’s dead and you’re nothin’ but a dummy. Say it, Elva—you ain’t nothin’ but a dummy.”

  Elva swallowed hard. The side of her head smarted from the blow. She knew better than to argue with Cudge. “So, okay, I’m a dummy.”

  “You always get hit because you never know when to shut up.” His words were accusing, placing the blame for his actions on her. “Now, shut up, if you know what’s good for you. Already I missed the first part of the show.”

  Righting herself, cautious to stay out of his reach, Elva put the cassette player in the paper shopping bag on the floor beside her, where she kept all her meager possessions. If Cudge decided they were moving on, he wouldn’t give her five minutes to get her gear together. Wishing she were invisible, she settled herself again on the worn daybed. She wanted to cry. She wanted to run. But she never would. Cudge scared her sometimes, but the outside world scared her more. At least Cudge took care of her. Sometimes he wasn’t so bad, she told herself. Once he’d bought her a purple scarf, and he often took her to the movies. Every Elvis cassette she owned had come from Cudge. So why did she take such pleasure in goading him the way she did? Even when he was raging at her, even when he hit her, there was a small part of her that took abject pleasure in it. Not that she was a pervert, or an S&M freak, or anything like that. No, it was more that she was little and helpless, so it felt good to be able to get a rise out of a hulk like Cudge. It gave her a kind of power, knowing she could set him off anytime she wanted. It made her stronger than him, in some strange way. But Cudge was right—she was a dummy. Someone smarter would know how to get a rise out of Cudge and aim it at somebody else. Whenever she set him off, she was bound to get the brunt of it.