Rita Angela Sullivan switched on the answering machine and left the office early, bored out of her skull with that stupid job. David insisted on opening the mail himself, and the few times the phone rang it was usually a wrong number or someone trying to sell a time-share in a Port St. Lucie condo.
So she locked up, headed for home, and her spirits rose. Christmas was only a week away, but you'd never know it from the weather: a dulcet afternoon with burning sun and frisky breeze. The holiday decorations along Atlantic Boulevard seemed out of place, and the white foam sprayed in the corners of shop windows looked more like yogurt than snow.
She had already mailed her cards and sent her mother a nice blouse from Burdines. She had bought a bottle of Courvoisier for Tony Harker. It came in a plush-lined gift box with two crystal brandy snifters. For David, she had shopped long and hard, and had finally settled on a slim black ostrich wallet with gold corners. It cost almost $500, but she didn't begrudge that. After all, it was his money, and she was certain it was a gift he'd love: elegant, expensive, and showy.
She went directly to the kitchen when she arrived home. Blanche and Theodore were there, preparing an enormous bouillabaisse that Rita would reheat for dinner. They were also working on a chilled jug of California Chablis, and Rita had a small glass. It tasted so tangy that she filled a thermos to take up to the terrace.
"Still having trouble with the phones?" she asked.
"Is worse," Blanche said. "So much noise!"
"I told Mr. Rathbone," Theodore said. "He called the phone company, and they're sending a man out to check the lines."
Rita carried her thermos upstairs and undressed slowly. Then she collected beach towel, sunglasses, oil, radio, and went out onto the terrace. The westering sun was unseasonably florid, and heat bounced off the tiles. If it hadn't been for that lovely breeze, she would have been lying in a sauna.
She oiled herself, wishing David were there to do her back, and then rolled naked onto the towel-covered chaise. She lay prone, lifting her long, thick hair away from the nape of her neck.
Whenever she tried to concentrate on the decisions facing her, that passionate sun made her muzzy and melted her resolve. She found her thoughts drifting, just sliding away, until her mind was a fog, and all she could do was groan with content and let the sun have her. But this time, determined not to become muddled, she sat up again, feet on the hot tiles. She turned off the radio and leaned forward, forearms on thighs, and reviewed her options as rationally as she could.
She had no doubt that Tony Harker was speaking the truth when he said he loved her and wanted to marry her. That dear, sweet man could cleverly deceive the black hats he was hounding, but she was convinced that his dealings with her were frank, honest, open.
No question about it: The guy would be a great husband. He'd work at it and do his damnedest to make a marriage succeed. He could be stuffy at times, but he wanted to change and was changing. Rita took some credit for that, but mostly it was Tony's own efforts that were making him less uptight. More human.
But despite the thaw, he still represented Duty, with a capital D. He was a straight arrow and would never be anything else. If a conflict ever arose between his personal pleasure and the demands of his job, Rita knew which path he'd take.
If Tony was good malt brew, David was champagne. It made Rita smile just to reflect on what a rogue he was. She knew all his faults, but she knew his virtues, too. He was generous, eternally optimistic, attentive to her needs, and loving. He was also the most beautiful man she had ever known, and that counted for something.
She admitted he was a swindler, but did not agree with Harker's harsh condemnation of Rathbone as a sleazy crook, a shark, and possibly a drug dealer and counterfeiter. Those were heavy crimes and, Rita decided, totally out of character for David.
It was also out of character for him to propose; she knew marriage played no part in his plans. The guy lived by his wits and had the typical con man's aversion to commitments. After his divorce, he was free, unencumbered by legal responsibilities, and he intended to stay that way.
Both men were good in bed, but in different ways. Tony was all male. He was always there, solid and satisfying, if predictable. With David, she didn't know what to expect. Kinkiness was the norm with him and sometimes, during their lovemaking, he feverishly sought role reversal as if he needed desperately to surrender and be used. Punished?
Rita lay back upon the chaise. She had sense enough to admit that neither man was totally or even mainly fascinated by her mental prowess or scintillating personality. She propped herself on her elbows, looked down at her tight, tawny body, at the sleek, black triangle, and wondered how long she could depend on that.