PART I

 

The First Day

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

The neon lights flashing Pleasure Palace splashed onto the hectic crowd bullying its way through the front doors.

Hank Lee parked his Caddie in the crowded front lot. He followed the thinning line up to the door, paid the cover charge, and squeezed past the well-dressed steroid freaks guarding the door.

Hank never came to strip joints. In his view, tossing hard-earned cash at a bunch of half-naked females he wasn't allowed to touch was expensive and plain stupid. But he wasn't here to touch or even look at half-naked women. He was here to find a man--someone who hadn't exactly been using the brain cells he'd been born with.

Amos Miller, a surveyor with Anderson & Associates, one of Orlando's major architectural firms, had been in trouble before, and women and alcohol were usually the cause of it. As Executive Field Administrator for A&A, Hank supervised the crews working the construction site. His duties dealt with overseeing the surveying operation and making sure things ran smoothly for the life of the project. During the last few weeks, Amos had been making things difficult. Broken up over his young wife leaving him, he was hitting the bottle more than usual and had been thrown in the drunk tank twice during the last two weeks, which made it difficult for him to show up for work.

Like most rough, hard-living men, Amos could attract women, but had no luck keeping them. His clever lines and clowning-around tactics were effective in the beginning, but not sufficient to sustain a lasting relationship. And it didn't help that he consistently attracted women who weren't looking to make a lasting commitment.

Judging by what Hank had learned from the other surveyors, finding Amos and sobering him up would not be easy. His latest wife, April, was more than thirty years his junior, flirted constantly, and had supported herself quite well dancing naked when she met Amos here, at Jennifer's. Hank figured this was the most logical place to begin his search. Whether she'd gone back to her former trade was anyone's guess. But it might be a good starting point.

Inside, the big room exploded with spectacular neon. It took him a little while to acclimate his eyes to the flashing multicolored glare. While he waited for his vision to return, he considered his options. The only way to help Amos was to convince him April wasn't worth this aggravation. All women were the same when the lights were out. Why would any man put himself through hell for one particular woman, when there were so many others to choose from?

It was a sexist, chauvinistic attitude--one Hank didn't believe at all, but it was the only thing he could come up with that might penetrate the thick skull of a hard-drinking construction worker. But, no matter what he might say to Amos, he doubted any well-meaning words of wisdom or sexist generalities would work. Love could be tough and unforgiving under the best of conditions. It was ten times worse when you messed it up. Hank knew trying to pound sense into a lovesick man pushing sixty was going to be like banging the man's head against a brick wall.

Looking around, Hank spotted a couple middle-aged guys in loud Hawaiian shirts ogling the gal gyrating on the nearest dance platforms. A scantily clad roving waitress came up to him and asked if he'd like a drink. He ordered Jack's on ice and continued looking for Amos. Finally, he found him perched on a barstool in front of a dance platform at the far end of the main room, his bald head pulled back far enough to pop a disk in his neck. A bottle of Budweiser sat on the counter in front of him. He was no prize package--that was evident--but he was oblivious to everything except the near-naked strawberry blonde dancing on the sparkling pedestal in front of him.

Hank sat down beside Amos and could tell by the older man's glazed expression that the only thing that could get Amos off his stool would be a baseball bat to the back of his head. Amos was a hopeless addict, and the dancing blonde before him was the drug that had him by the balls.

"Amos."

No response.

Hank tapped the man on the shoulder.

Startled, Amos yanked himself out of his trance. "H-Hank?" He squinted. "I didn't know you came here."

"I don't."

Amos blinked and turned back to the blonde.

Hank hoisted the drink as soon as it was placed in front of him. Thankfully it was strong. "That April?"

"Yeah. Ain't she sweet?"

"I'm developing a serious zit just watching her."

She gyrated her hips and jiggled her small round breasts. Ignoring Amos, she smiled down at Hank. That was all he needed right now--another man's ex coming on to him. He turned away from her and faced Amos. "I'll make this short and sweet," he said. "Dragon Lady wants your ass. I told her you'd straighten out."

Amos glanced at him, dazed.

"You need a break, and I'm gonna give you one. If you fuck it up, it's my ass too."

Amos turned back to April dancing before him.

Hank sighed peevishly. He had better things to do with his time than hassle with a drunken, lovesick old man. But he knew what Amos was going through, and he really did want to give him one more chance to clean up his act and save his job. The last thing Amos needed was the company manager, Colleen Moore, swooping down on him with her razor-sharp talons. For Hank, getting through the month without throttling Colleen had become a personal challenge. The image of his hands closing around her swanlike neck and squeezing until her beautiful face turned blue made his mouth water. He took another gulp of his drink, avoiding the water ring on the bar near his elbow.

Colleen had been running Anderson & Associates the last three years and genuinely loved her role as the Stone Bitch. The office workers referred to her as Cat Woman. The construction crew called her Dragon Lady. The A&A execs didn't care what she was called, because she always seemed to know what she was doing.

Colleen projected an image of competence and professionalism--two important qualities the project manager of a major architectural firm desperately needed. The company, a subsidiary of Division Development Association, based out of Columbus, Ohio, kept offices in half a dozen states. Anderson & Associates specialized in high-rises and had been making a killing in the Orlando area for more than twenty years.

Colleen viewed Amos Miller as a fly in the ointment and would not tolerate such 'avoidable irritations.' She took her work seriously and considered the project her own personal creation. Anything compromising the work drove her into a rage. Hank had been called into her office half a dozen times the past two days to discuss Miller's fate.

"Fire him," she'd told him that morning. "He's compromising my project. At this rate, we'll lose our next contract. We're talking Disney for the second quarter of next year. Disney, for God's sake." The famous name had flowed softly and reverently from her pouty collagen lips, as if in solemn prayer. "We all know how they feel about slipshod operations. They want two mega complexes, and they don't care about price. Between nine and ten figures has already been mentioned. We're talking billions. I refuse to let one drunken loser screw us out of such a huge contract."

Hank couldn't understand why Colleen had singled out Amos. Construction crews were a wild, horny bunch. Everyone knew that. "All those guys drink," he told her. "Take a peek in some of the local bars tonight and you'll see quite a few familiar faces."

"I don't care how much they drink, as long as they do their job while they're on the site. Miller's not doing his job. He's jeopardizing the project."

"How can one man jeopardize a huge contract like this one?"

"The publicity, Lee. If Disney suspects we tolerate drunks, that'll be it. They'll take their gold elsewhere."

"He's going through hell. Give him a break."

"Everyone's got problems. We've all learned to deal with them. Miller's old enough to be my father. Why should he get any more consideration than the rest of us?"

"I know what he's going through." Hank had been through similar circumstances himself. He wasn't about to let her kick a man while he was down.

"Drunks are trash. Believe me. I lived with one. You're my field man. Handle it."

Now things were clear. This had become personal. "So you want Amos nailed to the cross because you had a bad experience with a drunk?"

Colleen's large, dark, almond eyes blazed. "Get him to deliver. He was a good surveyor once. Talk to him. Tell him his ass is on the line."

"He won't listen."

"What makes you say that?"

Hank turned to her large square window. The sun was high and bright, the heavy tint barely able to keep down the powerful glare. In spite of the wide-open view, he felt trapped. Confined. "He's been screwed. When a guy's been screwed, he doesn't listen."

"Nobody ever said life was fair."

He sighed. The situation with Amos was just like what he had endured several years earlier, when Heidi drained his checking and savings accounts before walking out. Those were dark, unforgiving days. The bottle thundered into the picture, numbing things and blurring them just enough to help him sleep through the nightmares. He'd desperately wanted someone to help him out of the gutter and tell him things would get better. Someone had--at least she'd tried. But, like Amos, Hank hadn't been able to listen. His self-pity had automatically drowned out everything--and everyone--around him.

"I just think we could all use a break," he'd said to his reflection in the window.

"Talk to him, Lee," Colleen had ordered. "People with engineering and teaching degrees are working at Burger King for a lot less than we're paying Miller."

Now, as Hank sat finishing his drink, he knew it would be much easier to strangle Colleen Moore than give an ultimatum to Amos Miller, whose guts had been ripped out by a selfish young woman.

Amos poured some beer down his gullet and set the bottle shakily on the counter. "April ... she ... don't want me, Hank. Told me yesterday. Wants somebody that makes the big bucks. Somebody younger, wears a suit, drives a nice car." He frowned at Hank. "Somebody with thick, bushy hair." Amos reached up and touched his own bare scalp.

"Weren't you bald when she met you?" Hank knew, the moment he said it, how ridiculous that sounded.

"She saw you the other day when she picked me up at the site. Asked who you were, then said I ought to shave once in a while." He shrugged. "I shaved. Then she moved out."

"Listen, Amos..."

"She was planning all along to move out, but was scared to tell me. Thinks I'll do something drastic. I came over tonight to tell her it's okay, I understand. Soon as she's done with her number."

"How long were you two married?"

"Two years."

Hank shrugged. "You'll find someone else." He couldn't believe how much he sounded like Bing Crosby in an old Father O'Malley movie. But Colleen hadn't given him much choice.

"I dunno..."

"Hell, you've still got some juice left. Women are everywhere nowadays. The ratio's at least three to one here in Florida. It may be higher now, women starting up companies and all. You can find someone better. Trust me."

"Not like her. She can go all night long, make you think you died and went to heaven."

"A lot of women can do that."

Amos shook his head.

"Give someone else a try. Maybe shop around in a better place."

"Like where?"

Hank couldn't believe how few brain cells this man was using. "Someplace where a girl has to wear clothes and doesn't have to show anyone how close she shaves her mound."

Amos just sighed and had more beer.

Hank couldn't blame Amos. This was no different from when Heidi decided she needed a drastic change in her lifestyle.

Hank dropped a crumpled ten on the counter and stood up. "You gonna be all right?"

"Yeah."

"Be at work tomorrow morning, then. Eight o'clock."

"Sure thing."

Hank pushed through the crowd and squeezed past the bouncers at the door. As he pulled in some fresh evening air, he hoped the residual thumping in his head from the loud music would go away.

Amos's beat-up white Nissan pickup sat just six spaces down from Hank's Caddie. A sticker that said Surveyors Get it Done Right! showed prominently on the rear bumper.

Hank edged down the gravel aisle. If he doesn't show in fifteen minutes, I'll go back in and haul his ass outside. He sincerely hoped he wouldn't have to go back in. Paying a cover charge twice to rescue a grown man who should know better was ridiculous.

He slid behind the wheel of the Caddie, sat back, and pulled down the knot of his tie. His scalp began to itch. It always did when something wasn't quite right. In Saudi, it itched constantly. Since he'd come home, that quirk had saved his bacon a couple of times, prevented him from embarrassing himself several times, and kept him out of trouble most of the time. But even though it always rang true, it still worried him.

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

Seated at her vanity, Sally Bascomb carefully applied mascara.

These days it took a little longer to get it right. It also took a steadier hand--not to mention a tad more makeup.

She first noticed the crow's feet about a year ago, spotting them one morning when the sun peeked in through the bathroom blinds while she brushed her teeth. Back then, she had to squint and move close to the mirror to see them. But lately squinting proved unnecessary. Now she could see them clearly, even five feet from the mirror, without the sun shining on her face. The little buggers had decided to dig deeper and widen, as if getting ready to build an interstate bypass around her eyes.

Sighing, she inspected her handiwork. Not exactly breathtakingly fresh, but still good enough to turn her husband's head--if only he'd look her way. She couldn't imagine how much longer this semblance of self-confidence would stay with her. It was a miracle she had any left at all, thanks to the mood swings Warren had been demonstrating lately.

She couldn't help thinking it was her fault. She tried telling herself during the last couple of months that nothing was wrong. Business pressures were responsible for Warren's foul temper and lack of interest in her. Long hours, deadlines, dealing with uncooperative people all over the world could easily take a toll. But each day brought about new fears. The evidence proved frighteningly clear. Warren spent longer hours at the office and less time at home. Their conversations invariably turned into heated arguments. Worse, they hadn't had sex more than five times in the last twelve months.

Forcing herself back to more practical matters, she pushed a comb through her heavy blond mane, thanking God it was still thick and full. If she let it fall freely, with stray curls touching her cheeks, she could hardly notice the crow's feet.

But despite her hair, her youthful appearance and her slim, taut figure, some things refused to cooperate - such as that unwanted monster she'd been dreading for years. That horrid beast that would arrive, in spite of her efforts, in just three years. The dreaded Four-O. Every woman's mortal enemy.

Back when she'd dropped out of college to work as a swimsuit model for J.C. Penny's, she was twenty-one, whippet-thin, and didn't have to worry about wrinkles or sags or what an added pound would do to her perfect figure. Everything looked good on her. Heads turned wherever she went. Forty was so far away, she didn't even give it a second thought. Little did she know how quickly that freedom from worry would fly away.

Now she was struggling not to lose ground. But Bally could only do so much. Three weekly sessions of aerobics, combined with twenty minutes of sheer torture using their sadistic weight machines, would send anyone scrambling for the nearest plastic surgeon. And if that wasn't enough, she took brisk walks around the block each night after supper to burn off any unwanted calories. Her regimen kept her weight down and made everything tight and firm. It also stopped her hips from spreading and the wattle from pulling her chin loose. Those who didn't know her, guessed her at around thirty. But when her husband spent so much time with rich, important men walking around with gorgeous, slender women half their age hanging on their arms, she realized just how demanding and unforgiving the battlefield actually was.

She wondered if her physical changes could be the main reason for Warren's attitude change ... why, after nearly seven years of marriage, he no longer seemed interested. Things could be worse, but a girl didn't think of stuff like that when her husband stayed away more and tended to her less.

That episode three days ago continued eating away at her. Muriel had, as usual, planned supper for seven and was having a terrible time keeping the Porterhouse steaks from becoming desiccated chunks of charcoal. Warren's explanation for his two-hour tardiness--corporate nonsense--was tossed casually over his shoulder as he headed straight for the wet bar. While he fixed his drink, Sally waited for more of an explanation. When he didn't provide any, she did her best to fill in the blanks. Last-minute meetings. Conference calls. A crisis at one of the overseas plants. Labor conflicts. Management difficulties. Union troubles. Stockholder problems. Any one of dozens of possibilities could have sufficed, but he didn't bother to elaborate.

As founder and CEO of Bas-Com, Inc., the Orlando-based software conglomerate, Warren had his plate full. He'd single-handedly started up the works and was directly involved in every aspect of the business. He would not tolerate anything happening without his knowledge. Working close to eighty hours each week had never been much of a challenge.

As his wife, Sally realized this. She also considered the pressures her husband encountered during the average workday. She could sympathize with him, support him, and certainly didn't want to make the situation worse by demanding explanations when she knew how busy and difficult his schedule was. So she'd stood there silently while he made his drink, patiently hoping he'd glance her way, notice her pleasant smile, and soften. But he'd merely gulped his drink and wandered off to his study.

Her father had acted similarly while she was growing up--coming home, saying little, fixing a drink, then plopping in his favorite armchair to read the paper while Mom finished fixing supper. Growing up this way had primed her for this sort of lifestyle. Although she'd had only a few relationships before Warren--most of them casual, with one serious affair that ended horribly--she'd known men all her life and was familiar with their attitudes and moods. But even though she was nearly thirty when she married Warren, she still wasn't prepared for her husband's sudden change in behavior.

She feared he might be going through a crisis. After all, he'd turned fifty last August. As far as she knew, he hadn't experienced that silly midlife male thing. But since he was over forty when they'd met, and had recently been divorced, he might have suffered one earlier.

Thoughts of another woman briefly entered her mind. While part of her knew that could be a definite possibility, her more practical side dismissed it. Unless Warren was having a clandestine relationship in his office, he simply didn't have the time. And he wasn't the sort of man who sneaked around.

For Warren, a divorce meant inconvenience and a hefty outlay of money. He'd been divorced three times before. Each time had cost him more than a million dollars, plus stocks and other perks. Warren was worth half a billion dollars. Though he could easily afford such costs, the inconvenience of divorce proceedings and court appearances meant much more aggravation than handing over large sums of money.

Divorce meant something much worse to Sally. Though their pre-nup would leave her in terrific shape financially, she'd be forced to face the rest of her life alone--just another divorced, middle-aged woman whose best days were behind her. The image made her cringe.

She'd never wanted money to become a major factor in her future. She hadn't even known Warren was rich when she first met him. She'd wanted only love and companionship. If the money was there, fine. If not, it didn't matter, as long as love dominated the picture.

She'd met Warren on the rebound from a passionate relationship with a terrific guy with too much baggage, who couldn't forget what his ex-wife had done to him. Although their union had resulted in the greatest relationship and the best sex she'd ever known, Sally could not compete with a memory. And after enduring the agony of watching the man she loved crawl back to his former love, Sally forced herself out of the picture.

But that was another matter. In another life. A life she no longer thought about--not much, anyway.

She knew things would be even worse if she'd been able to bear children. With Warren, this had never been an issue. He had two grown offspring from a previous marriage and had expressed no interest in bringing anyone else into the world. This was good because she'd never wanted kids either. As a former child whose parents frequently fought, watching her parents silently avoiding one another was not something she fondly remembered.

With one last glance in the mirror, Sally declared herself presentable. Maybe not as ravishing as she was just a few years ago, but certainly attractive and pleasant enough to greet her husband with a warm smile and a tender kiss.

Sally hurried off to the kitchen to see how Muriel was coming along with supper.