Читать книгу If Looks Could Kill - BEVERLY BARTON, Beverly Barton - Страница 13

Chapter 7

When his father left the country club to drive home shortly after six, Brian had told him that he wouldn’t be in until late. And when Farlan had asked—hopefully—if he had a date, Brian had smiled and said yes, but that it was a first date and he preferred keeping the lady’s identity to himself in case things didn’t work out between them. It was far from the first lie he’d told his father, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Lying had become second nature to him. Sometimes he thought it easier to fabricate a lie than to tell the truth. Besides, what did his father expect after the example he’d set? Both of Brian’s parents were adept liars and apparently felt little or no guilt when they didn’t tell the truth. He’d been a kid, barely twelve, when he’d discovered that his beloved father, his idol, had feet of clay. And although he’d always adored his mother and, in a way, still did, he’d known since childhood that she was emotionally unstable.

Here he was, at forty-two, still living with his parents. He’d tried living on his own, during his years away at college and during his brief marriage to Phyllis, but he preferred the family residence in the heart of Cherokee Pointe. The MacKinnon mansion made a statement. It shouted, “The people who live here are rich and powerful and important.” He enjoyed being a MacKinnon, with all that entailed. And someday the entire family fortune would be his and his alone. If his nutty Uncle Wallace outlived Veda and Farlan, he’d have the old man put away somewhere. A nice facility where he’d be taken good care of, but where he’d be out of Brian’s hair. His uncle had been an embarrassment to him all his life, but neither of his parents would hear of institutionalizing him. His father truly loved his only brother, but he suspected his mother’s concern for her brother-inlaw was more self-serving. After all, she had to know that on any given day, she, too, might be a candidate for the looney bin.

His parents had made it perfectly clear to him that they expected him to remarry and sire at least one child, to provide the family with a MacKinnon heir. Although he seriously doubted he could endure the dullness of a monogamous relationship for more than a few months, he realized he needed to get married. A man in his position should have a family. Otherwise, people talked. They wondered about his sexual orientation. And they whispered that maybe his first wife had broken his heart so badly that he could never love again. Some probably even speculated that he’d been too much of a mama’s boy growing up to be able to completely sever her apron strings.

What did he care? Let the tongues wag. For now. When he did remarry, that would shut them all up fast enough. And he would get married again. It was just a matter of time. He’d thought he had found the perfect woman to be his wife. Genny Madoc. Lovely beyond words. Gentle and kind. And she’d been a virgin. He’d courted her, turned himself inside out to please her, and yet the minute that burly blond FBI agent had shown up in Cherokee County, Genny had proven herself to be no different from most other women. She’d given her precious innocence to a man unworthy of her, a man who could never have appreciated the priceless gift the way Brian would have.

Even now the thought of tutoring Genny in the ways to please him aroused him unbearably.

Brian had driven his Porche this afternoon, not only to impress Wade Truman, but because he had known he’d be picking up a companion for the evening. Ladies—and he used the term loosely—always appreciated riding in an expensive car. He’d never used a local prostitute before and even now, on his way to pick up his “date,” he felt uneasy. What if someone saw him with this woman? How would he ever explain? When the need to be with a woman drove him hard, he usually made a trip to Knoxville, but he’d been assured by Mr. Timmons that the girl he was sending Brian tonight would fulfill all his fantasies. All he required in a woman was that she be agreeable to a little S&M.

Farlan didn’t want to go home. His life had reached that sad state where he’d rather be anywhere than with his own wife. If the guilt of a long-ago indiscretion hadn’t weighed heavily on his shoulders—a love affair with another woman that had pushed his unstable wife over the edge—he would have sought a divorce twenty years ago. But Veda had never completely recovered from the nervous breakdown she had suffered when she found out about his mistress. She had gone so far as to try to kill herself and threatened to try again if Farlan ever left her. Since then he’d been shackled to her with a ball and chain formed out of guilt and regret.

Poor Brian had been only twelve at the time Veda tried to commit suicide, and Farlan would never forgive himself for the upheaval he and Veda had created in their son’s young life. After Veda’s botched suicide attempt, Brian had become unruly and occasionally violent. But when Farlan had mentioned seeking psychiatric help for both his wife and his son, Veda had gone berserk, saying she’d rather die than be subjected to such humiliation for herself and their child. Looking back, Farlan realized that he’d made a mistake by giving in to her threats But at the time, it had been easier to let Veda have her way. If he could turn back the clock and do everything all over again, he wouldn’t take the easy way out. Not with Veda and Brian. And not with—

No, don’t even think her name, he told himself. After she went away, you swore to yourself that you wouldn’t go after her. Not ever. And you wouldn’t let her memory drive you mad. But how could a man ever completely forget what it was like to have a woman love him with her whole heart, to light up the moment he walked into a room, to lie in his arms and make him feel like a king?

Before he knew what he was doing, Farlan parked his Bentley down the street from Jazzy’s Joint, the local honky-tonk. It had been over a year since he’d ventured inside—since Max’s last birthday when he’d asked his buddies to meet him there for an all-male celebration. After parking, Farlan called home on his cell phone and left a message with Abra.

“Tell Miss Veda that I won’t be home for supper. I’m staying late at the club.”

What was one more lie between them, after a lifetime of lies?

The minute he entered Jazzy’s Joint, the roadhouse ambience put him at ease. In this place he wasn’t Farlan MacKinnon, Chairman of the Board of MacKinnon Media. In here, he was just another man looking for a glass of beer and a quiet corner where he could drown his sorrows. Of course, he’d already drowned quite a few sorrows with three glasses of bourbon at the club, but the numbing effect of that liquor had begun to wear off. He needed to renew that languid feeling only alcohol produced.

Surrounded by loud music and smoky air, Farlan walked up to the bar and ordered. The bartender wasn’t especially busy since this early in the evening there was only a handful of patrons. A couple of guys in the back shooting pool, one sitting at the other end of the bar and another man at a nearby table, nursing a glass of what looked like whiskey.

“I haven’t seen you around here in quite a while,” the bartender said.

“You know who I am?”

“Of course. Everybody in Cherokee County knows you, Mr. MacKinnon.”

He shrugged. So much for finding anonymity in this place. “You have me at a disadvantage, madam. You know me, but I don’t know you.”

“Lacy Fallon.” The middle-aged bleached blonde offered him a kind smile. “I’ve been bartending here ever since Jazzy opened up this place.”

Farlan nodded, then glanced around the room. “Guess it’s a bit early for most folks.”

“Yeah, this place doesn’t usually start hopping on a Saturday night until after nine.”

“Well, that suits me fine. I just came in for a beer. I’m too old for much of anything else.”

“You don’t look too old to me,” a feminine voice behind him said.

The bartender frowned and turned up her nose as if she’d smelled something rotten. Farlan glanced over his shoulder. The girl standing only a few feet away was a pretty little thing and probably not a day over twenty. She wore too much makeup and not enough clothes.

“We don’t want your kind in here,” Lacy Fallon said, loud and clear. “Jazzy’s done sent you packing once. If you’ll leave now, I won’t call the police.”

Farlan glanced back and forth from the young woman to the bartender and realization dawned. The unwanted customer was a prostitute. He hadn’t realized there were any in Cherokee Pointe. But then again, he hadn’t been in the market for a hooker. Not since . . .

“I’ll leave quietly,” the girl said, then cozied up to Farlan and whispered, “Want to give me a ride? Or if you’d prefer, I could ride you.”

Farlan didn’t flinch, but his gut tightened. He inspected the girl thoroughly, from head to toe. For a split second his old eyes played a trick on him, and he saw the ghost of a pretty young woman from his past.

He paid for his drink, then said, “Why don’t I give you a lift home, young lady? You shouldn’t be in a place like this. You should be out on a Saturday night date with some nice young man.”

Glowering at Farlan, the bartender harrumphed. Hell, let her think whatever she wanted to. He had no intention of taking this girl up on her offer, but he did want to spend a little time with her. And he didn’t owe Lacy Fallon or anyone else an explanation.

The young woman curled her arm around his as they walked out of Jazzy’s Joint. “I don’t have a place of my own, so you’ll have to rent us a room somewhere. Or if you’d rather, we can just do it in your car. I give great blow jobs.”

Without replying to her offer, Farlan led her out of the bar and down the street to his Bentley. He unlocked the car and helped her in on the passenger’s side; then he slid behind the wheel and turned to her. “I don’t want sex from you. But I am willing to pay you for an hour or two of your time tonight.”

She stared at him, her expression one of doubt. “How much? And what do you want me to do?”

“Would a hundred dollars be sufficient for . . . say, two hours of your time?”

She grinned. “Yeah, I’d say a hundred is just fine, depending on what I have to do to earn the money.”

“Take a ride with me. Talk to me. Tell me about your hopes and dreams.”

She looked at him as if she thought he was crazy. “That’s it. That’s all you want from me?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s all.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m perfectly serious. You see, I’m a lonely old man with only a few truly happy memories. Some of those mem ories are about another pretty young woman who had so many hopes and dreams for her future.”

She shrugged. “Sure, if talk is all you want. I can talk all night for fifty bucks an hour. And if you change your mind about the blow job or—”

“I won’t change my mind. I know what I want.”

She’d told him she was eighteen. He’d asked to see her driver’s license. Sure enough, she was legal. Just barely. Despite his penchant for tasty young things, he couldn’t risk screwing around with jail bait. He’d learned his lesson ten years ago when a certain fifteen-year-old gal’s daddy had come after him with a shotgun. If Farlan hadn’t had the law in his hip pocket back then—both the sheriff and the chief of police—things might have gotten nasty. But once Farlan paid her father fifty thousand not to press charges, the whole ugly mess simply went away. Not one word had ever been printed in the local paper, thanks to the fact that MacKinnon Media had a monopoly on the press in Cherokee County. Max couldn’t help shivering just a bit whenever he thought about the whole situation and how close he’d come to ruining his life. He owed Farlan a debt he could never fully repay.

Max lay in bed, naked as the day he was born, and let her remove his soiled condom. When she got up, he swatted her smooth, round backside. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled at him, then disappeared into the bathroom. With the heat of passion fading, he felt a sudden chill, so he dragged the sheet and blanket up to his waist.

He had needed this evening’s entertainment, needed it the way he needed air to breathe. Sex with his wife—which he got about once a month, if he was lucky—had never been great, not in years. Not after she got a little older and more demanding. He liked ’em young. So sue him. If all men would admit the truth, most of them would prefer a sixteen- year-old to a thirty-year-old.

Hell, he wasn’t a damn pedophile. Little girls didn’t turn him on. They had to be mature enough to have tits and a furry pussy before he was interested. Somebody between fourteen and twenty. He’d enjoyed his share of the younger ones in the past, until he’d picked the wrong gal. Ever since then, he’d made sure they were either legal age or in an illegal profession. Lately most of his pickups were the later. Young prostitutes.

When she came out of the bathroom, she started putting on her clothes. Max patted the bed and motioned to her.