The Book of Spies

53

WHEN THE book club meeting concluded, Chapman opened the door. Mahaira was sitting in the foyer, hands folded neatly in her lap. As the members of the club trooped past to prepare for an evening on the town, she rose, smiling.
"She's taking a bath," she whispered.
Eagerly he headed across the carpet, removing the long-ago photo of beautiful blond Gemma from his pocket, burning her image into his mind.
Flushed with excitement, he hid it again and opened the bathroom door onto the opulent sanctuary of the bath, with its spacious glass shower, ornate full-length mirror, and marble-clad floor, walls, and ceiling. The air was infused with the fragrance of camellia-scented bath oil. Beneath the softly glowing crystal chandelier was the massive soaking tub set on a pedestal in the center of the enormous room. Bubbles rose above it, and above them was his gorgeous wife.
Her hair was piled on her head, a mass of golden curls, her smooth shoulders fragile and sweet. She turned to look at him, the vibrancy of youth in her violet-colored eyes, aquiline nose, and good chin.
"You're here at last, Martin. How wonderful to see you." Her voice was musical. "Bring me a towel, will you?"
"Later." Stripping off his clothes, he stalked toward her.
Her laughter sang. She balled up a washcloth and threw it, sopping, at him.
He sidestepped and climbed the pedestal naked. He slid into the tub's warm water.
She glided through the water toward him, bubbles cascading away. "I've missed you. Oh, how I've missed you."
"I've missed you, too." He pulled her to him, running his hands hungrily over her breasts, her thighs.
"Umm," she purred. "Umm, umm."
He arched her backward and nipped her shoulders. Kissed the hollow of her throat. She laughed happily, the vibrations sending shudders through him. He felt her hands on his cock, stroking, twisting, pulling.
Fever inflaming his brain, he slid his hands under her bottom and lifted, his fingers digging into muscle. She licked his ears, the tip of his nose, and locked onto his mouth. The taste of her sent a titanic wave through him. Her legs straddling him, he lowered her slowly, then, in a heated rush, pulled her down and made love to her. To Gemma.
THEY DRESSED in the master suite, Beethoven playing from the tall armoire. The long rays of the setting sun spread across the carpet and touched their naked feet.
Wearing a long white skirt with a tight waist and a red silk strapless top, she sat on a brocaded chair, slipped on high heels studded with diamonds, and buckled the tiny straps around her slim ankles.
"Well, that was a waste." Chuckling, she sat up and gestured at the smoothly made bed. "I'd planned to be lying here undressed for you."
"How's Gemma?" he asked casually as he adjusted his tie in the mirror. He watched her reflection in it. She had put on her makeup, and her lips were like rubies. She looked and sounded so much like Gemma his heart ached.
"Mother's fine. She's in Monte Carlo with her new boyfriend. I do wish she'd settle down. She's costing you a fortune."
Gemma had been married five times, but never to him. The summer they graduated from college, her family had given her a choice--either end the relationship or be disinherited. To spare her the pain of choosing, he left California and hitchhiked across the country to New York City, where he dove into the pirana-infested sea of finance, determined to earn the wealth that would make him acceptable. By the time he had, she had married her second husband, who drank, gambled, and went through all her money. That husband was Shelly's father.
"She looked beautiful at the San Moritz party," Shelly said. "But she never mentioned the family necklace and earrings. Or the new tiara you bought me. I wore all of them, you know."
"Mahaira told me. I'm glad you enjoy them so much."
"Mother loves diamonds, too. She must miss having them a lot. I offered to give the necklace and earrings back to her, but she wouldn't take them. As long as I can remember, I think she's hated you. Why is that? She won't tell me."
"I suspect that's more her parents' attitude than her own." It was what he always said, because he had never understood why Gemma had been so furious at him for leaving California. It was some foolishness about insisting she had a right to be part of such an important decision. Now he breezed past his wife's questions by focusing on what she could understand: "I doubt she's ever really hated me, but now I agree she's quite unhappy about the difference in age between you and me." And, he hoped, jealous.
Shelly shook her head, her golden hair floating across her bare shoulders, and studied her four-carat diamond engagement ring and the diamond-encrusted wedding band. "I thought when you bought the family jewels to help her, she'd get over it."
He said nothing. His tie satisfactory, he turned.
"Will you be here tomorrow?" she asked eagerly.
"I have business," he said kindly.
A cold look crossed her face. "Okay. I'll fly to Cabo, then. Friends invited me."
"Where's your wrap, darling? We'll be late for cocktails." While they were separated, he yearned for her. But when they were together . . . In the end, she was not Gemma.
As they crossed the living room, his cell phone vibrated against his chest.
Looking at her, he took it out. "Sorry, darling."
She nodded, her face frozen. Alabaster.
He went into the dining room and closed the door.
It was Preston, and he sounded jubilant. "I just got a call from my NSA contact. Robin Miller turned on her cell phone, then turned it off. I've flown in men from the library for backup and to bring supplies, and we're in Plaka--that's where she was. We'll find her and The Book of Spies very soon now."