CHAPTER 35
I PULLED UP to the Beverly Hills Sun, Jinx Poole’s flagship hotel, at just after ten. I stepped out of my two-hundred-thousand-dollar car looking as if I’d been dragged behind it for a couple of miles. I gave my car keys to the valet and checked in at the desk.
The clerk said, “Mr. Morgan, I believe the woman on the red sofa is waiting for you.”
It was Justine.
Thank God.
I was so glad to see her, my eyes got wet. Thinking about stretching out on clean sheets, Justine lying beside me, of feeling her skin against mine, flooded me with relief.
But why was she here? I called her name. She looked up, and I crossed the plush and glittering lobby to her, saying, “How long have you been waiting? Are you okay?”
I couldn’t read her expression.
“What’s going on, Justine?”
“It’s just—we have to talk. Gloves off. Nothing but the truth.”
“Let’s go to my room,” I said. I turned my head, pointed to my bruised jaw, and said, “I’ve got to lie down.”
“You stink of beer. You were in a bar fight?”
“You don’t miss a thing.”
“Sit down. Please. This won’t take long.”
It didn’t sound good, whatever was coming. I eased myself onto the sofa next to Justine.
“I’m just about brain dead. Maybe we should talk tomorrow.”
“Very little of your brain is required.”
I looked at her and she hooked me in with her eyes. I loved Justine. I loved her.
“When you saw Colleen last week, before you left for Europe—what happened?”
“We had lunch at Smitty’s. I have a receipt somewhere. I haven’t had time to go over my credit card bill.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“Christ. You shouldn’t do this. Do I ever grill you? Can’t you just trust me?”
“Did you say ‘trust me’? I’ll take that to mean it wasn’t just lunch. Oh, Jack.”
She shook her head.
I threw up my hands. “If you don’t believe me about this,” I said, “then what’s the point? How can we work things out if you don’t trust me?”
Justine got up, hooked the strap of her handbag over her shoulder, and without looking back, left the hotel through the revolving doors. I watched her through the glass. She gave her ticket to the valet and faced the street as he went for her car.
Justine could read me like an FBI polygraph. Lying to her was futile. I could chase after her, but what more could I say?
The valet brought her car, and Justine slid in behind the wheel, strapped in, and took off fast down South Santa Monica.
This time I was sure I’d lost her. It wasn’t what I wanted, but it was pretty much what I deserved.