Public Secrets

have let her out of his sight, should have known he couldn’t trust her. The only women a man could trust were hookers. They did their job, took the money, and that was that. There was a world of difference between an honest hooker and a whore. And his sweet, delicate-faced wife was a whore, just as his mother had been.
He was going to give her a beating she’d never forget.
Imagine her having the nerve to take off. The fucking gall to transfer her money and cancel the credit. He’d been humiliated at Bijan when the clerk had taken back the cashmere duster Drew had decided to purchase, with the cool comment that his credit card had been canceled.
She was going to pay for that.
Then to have that snotty lawyer serve him with papers. So she wanted a divorce. He’d see her dead first.
The New York lawyer hadn’t been any help. Some bullshit about a professional courtesy to another firm. Mrs. Latimer didn’t want her whereabouts known. Well, he was going to find her whereabouts all right, and he was going to kick ass.

At first he’d been afraid she’d gone to her father. With the benefit coming up and all Drew’s plans to go solo about to bear fruit, he didn’t want someone as influential as Brian McAvoy coming down on him. But then Brian had called about Emma’s old lady dying. Drew was pleased that he’d been able to cover himself so quickly. He’d told Brian that Emma was out for the evening with a couple of her girlfriends. And he was certain he’d had just the right tone of sympathy and concern in his voice when he’d promised to tell Emma the news.
If McAvoy didn’t know where his bitch of a daughter was, then Drew figured none of the other band members knew, either. They were all as thick as bloody thieves. He’d thought of Bev, but he was nearly sure that if Emma had gone to London, her old man would’ve gotten wind of it.
Or maybe they were all playing with him, laughing at him behind his back. If that was the case, then he’d pay her back, with interest.
She’d been gone for over two weeks. He hoped she’d had herself a high flying time because she was going to pay for every hour.
He hunched his shoulders against the brisk wind as he walked. The leather jacket kept out the worst of the early spring chill, but his ears were ringing from the wind. Or maybe it was fury. He liked that idea better and grinned a little as he crossed the street to the loft.
He’d taken the subway, something he found degrading but safer than a cab under the circumstances. He would more than likely have to do something…unpleasant to Marianne. Unpleasant for her, anyway, Drew thought with a laugh. It would be a great pleasure for him.
Emma had lied to him. Marianne had been at the funeral. He’d seen the pictures of them together in the paper. As sure as God made hell, Marianne had been in on the whole thing. She’d know where Emma was hiding. And when he got through with her, she’d be damn delighted to tell him.
He used the key he’d gotten from Emma months before. Inside, he punched in the security code to unlock the elevator. As the doors closed him in, he rubbed the knuckles of one hand against the other. He hoped she was still in bed.

The loft was silent. He moved quietly across the floor and up the stairs with his heart pounding happily. There was disappointment when he saw the empty bed. The sheets were tangled, but cool. The disappointment was so great, he compensated by trashing the loft. It took him nearly an hour to vent his frustration, ripping clothes, breaking glassware, hacking cushion after cushion in the sectional with a knife he’d taken from the kitchen.
He thought of the paintings, stacked up in the studio. Knife in hand, he started up when the phone rang. He stopped, jumping at the sound. He was breathing hard, sweat rolling into his eyes. There was a trickle of blood from his lip where he’d gnawed through while slashing the sofa.
On the fourth ring, the machine picked up.
“Marianne.”
Drew bolted down the steps at the sound of Emma’s voice. He’d nearly yanked up the receiver before he caught himself. “You’re probably still in bed, or up to your elbows in paint, so call me later. Try to make it this morning. I’m going to the beach later to practice my surfing. I can stay up for more than ten seconds. Don’t be jealous, but it’s going to hit ninety in LA. today. Call soon.”
L.A., Drew thought. Turning, he stared at the mural of Emma on the plaster wall.

W HEN