Private (Private 1)

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Trouble.”

She was telling me “hands off,” but without much conviction. Finally, she rested her head on my chest. She smelled like rosewater, her favorite. I put my hand in her hair, and she lifted her face.

I kissed her and she kissed me back. “Okay, Jack. Have your way with me. Please.”

“Hang on,” I said. I got up and locked my office door, turned off the overhead lights, went back to the sofa. I said, “Stand up, Molloy. Please.”

“I can do that.”

I unbuttoned her sweater, unzipped her pants, and when she was in her underwear, I returned her to the sofa and undressed myself.

She watched me take off my clothes, then covered her face with her arm as I touched her and made her moan. Colleen cried out as I made love to her… but then she cried tears when we were done.

I wrapped her in my arms, held her between my body and the back of the couch so that she wouldn’t get chilled. “What is it, sweetie? What’s wrong?”

“I’m twenty-five,” she said in a whisper.

“You don’t mean—today?”

She nodded, sang, “Happy birthday to me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”

“I did,” she said.

“No. I forgot.”

“It doesn’t mean anything, really. I’m not a birthday person.”

“It does,” I said. I tilted up her chin. “It does. I’ll make it up to you.”

She shrugged, then pushed me aside, swung her bare legs over the side of the couch, and picked her clothes up off the floor.

“I shouldn’t say this, Jack, so I won’t.”

I already knew. No birthday present, no flowers, no dinner. Sex on the couch. I said, “Go ahead and say it. You deserve better than this.”

“Anyone would,” said Colleen.

Chapter 30

NOT ONE, but two celebrity couples were waiting for me in reception as I came through on the way to my office that morning. Their money manager had called ahead for them.

The most visually arresting of the four was Jane Hawke, the rock idol who was pierced, tattooed, and dressed in five shades of purple. Her husband, action movie star Ethan Tau, sat to her right. He was wearing cowboy garb down to his Lucchese boots.

Sitting across from them were tennis stars Jeanette Colton and Lars Lundstrom: fair-haired, tanned and toned, Euro-LA all the way.

When I got settled, Colleen showed the couples into my office, asked if they’d like coffee or tea. Then she gave me a tepid smile and said, “Is there anything else, Jack?”

“We’re good,” I said. But were we?

She closed the door behind her. It made an almost imperceptible click.

“How can I help you?” I said. Then I sat back to listen.

Jeanette Colton spoke first. “It’s a little difficult to talk about,” she said. Her stolid-looking husband, the Swedish tennis champ, folded his hands in his lap.