It had all been working well until Claudia had demanded to see some results. Christopher had been able to stall since last fall with a series of excuses. Ondine's schedule was packed. Ondine had some sort of flu, the result of a bug she had picked up during a photo shoot in Peru. Ondine needed to rest.
Christopher absentmindedly swept his fingers through the pool water as he anxiously remembered Claudia's anger at all the delays.
"Well, bring her down here to rest, for God's sake!" Claudia had finally cried in exasperation.
"I will, I will, Claudia. I'll get her down there as soon as her schedule permits," Christopher tried to assure the spa owner.
"Well, her damned schedule had better permit it soon, or I'm going to hire myself the best lawyer money can buy and sue your ass off, Christopher! Sue your ass off and make sure that everyone knows what a swindler you are!"
He had tried not to panic. With Ondine none the wiser that her earnings had gone in Christopher's bank account, he had already spent most of the money Claudia had paid. Now it was time to pay the piper.
He laid the groundwork, suggesting to the already painfully thin Ondine that it looked like she was putting on some weight. As Ondine cried and fretted, Christopher came to her rescue, soothing her and telling her that he would take her away to Phoenix Spa. There she could work on losing a few pounds without the eyes of the unforgiving New York fashion world watching. So they had come here, ostensibly to get the fat off Ondine, but, in reality, to buy some time with Claudia.
Claudia wasn't going to be bothering him anymore.
After breakfast the next morning, Caroline took her beloved cello from its case and seated herself in the straight-backed chair that stood in the corner of her bedroom. She listened to the tones as she tuned the instrument. Caroline positioned herself carefully, as she had so many times before, and slowly pulled the bow across the cello's strings.
The two began to make their mournful music together. Caroline's long, thin fingers held the bow gracefully and moved it expertly back and forth across the strings. The prized cello faithfully emitted the haunting sounds the musician requested of it.
Caroline tasted salty tears as they slid down her cheeks and reached her lips. It was a relief to cry again. It was comforting to have the sad music as her companion.
This was not what she had planned. She had so wanted things to be different. Caroline had gone into the marriage with such high hopes and such wonderful dreams. But if Douglas had betrayed her with another woman, those dreams were shattered. How could she share her life with a man she didn't trust?
Caroline dried her eyes with the back of her hand. Why should she worry about protecting Douglas anymore? Douglas Blessing, the freshman congressman from Tennessee, the handsome young man with the high political aspirations, was no longer her husband in the finest sense of the word. He hadn't cared about her feelings or about his sacred vows to her. Why should she fight to guard him now?
Caroline had a good mind to march down to the gates right now and tell the media camped outside all that was going on inside Phoenix Spa. In fact, the more she thought about it, the better the idea seemed.
Let the chips fall where they may.
Chapter Nine
CAROLINE HAD STORMED OUT OF the cottage at full throttle, but halfway down the tree-lined drive that led to the gates of Phoenix Spa, she eased her foot off the gas. Behind the pillars and the elaborate wrought-iron barrier, a writhing mass of reporters stood before a backdrop of cars and television vans, their satellite dishes pointed toward the sky on long, slender stalks. As she approached, Caroline thought she could make out some familiar faces-a bespectacled, frizzy-headed reporter from CNN and, Lord help us, that guy with the mustache, Geraldo Rivera. Next to Geraldo stood a well-coifed reporter who reminded her of an anchor back home on Channel 5.
Home. That word again. It stabbed at her heart with a pain so intense that she sobbed and paused in her purposeful march toward the world and the truth to catch her breath. Where was home? The house where she grew up had long ago fallen to the wrecking ball. Her bachelorette bungalow on Forest View in Nashville had been sold. And she couldn't imagine returning to the Georgian-style row house on Thirty-first Street in Georgetown where Congressman Blessing had brought his new bride less than a year ago. The furniture, carpets, wallpaper, and fabrics that she had chosen with such care and joy held no more warmth for her now than the cold fist of anger and fear that seemed to be squeezing the heart right out of her chest.
Panic seized her, she recognized the signs. First a tingling in her fingers and toes, then a wave of heat that rushed up her neck, suffusing her face and scalp and overwhelming her with dizziness. Fool! Whatever made her think she was even capable of meeting the press? Caroline glanced about for a quiet spot to withdraw, but a serpentine wall of solid brick lined the drive on both sides. She could continue toward the braying pack of media hounds or retreat up the drive to the cabin she shared with her mother, to her loft bedroom, now the only home she had.
Caroline scurried to the wall, seeking refuge in one of its sheltering curves. Panting with relief, she sat on her heels and leaned against the brick, which felt deliciously warm through the sheer cotton of her blouse. Insanely, she wished for Douglas. Douglas had experience with the press; he would tell her what to do. To her right, the manic shouting of the reporters assaulted her ears. To her left, there was nothing but tranquillity-a twittering bird, the drone of a honeybee-and a young man, striding purposefully in her direction.
"Mrs. Blessing?" he called.
Caroline swiped at the tears that streaked her cheeks and turned her face in his direction. She could tell he was a staff member by his green Phoenix Spa polo shirt, but he was neither tall enough nor lean enough to be Emilio Constanza. "Yes. Who are you?" she asked unnecessarily as the fellow got closer and she saw the name tag clipped to his uniform. It said "Dante."
"I'm a masseur," he offered.
"What do you want?"
"Dr. de Vries sent me to find you. You had an appointment with him at two-thirty yesterday."
Caroline wrinkled her brow. "What appointment?"
"Everyone has them. Part of the package. You discuss your needs, he evaluates your general condition, then he plans out the best therapeutic course for you during your stay."
In the blinding sunlight Caroline squinted up at Dante. She couldn't believe it would be business as usual for the freshly widowed Raoul. "Of course, I remember now." She stood, dusted off her slacks, and walked toward him. "But how did you find me?"
Dante pointed.
She followed the long line of his arm from rounded biceps to tapered index finger. "That birdhouse?"
He chuckled and shook his head, sending his ponytail flipping from one shoulder to another. "Surveillance cameras. They're all over the place."
Caroline gasped. "Raoul's been spying on me?"
"Not spying, exactly. The security officer sits in a basement room in the main lodge while this software just flips from one camera to another, capturing it all on videotape."
"I'm on tape?" Caroline was incredulous.
As if sensing her next question, Dante laid a hand on her arm. "They're only for the spa entrances and the grounds. We don't have any cameras indoors."
Caroline said, "Well, that's a relief." She wondered if Detective Toscana knew about the security system and, remembering her midnight raid on the spa kitchen, was glad she had come clean to him about it. "Do the police …?"