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A dark gray SUV with Illinois plates.
Chapter Eleven
LUCY WAS FURIOUS. SHE SLAMMED the door behind her, dropped her backpack, and stomped down the front hallway, passing the empty wall space where the baker’s rack should never have been in the first place.
Panda was in the sunroom, his back to the windows, his eyes on her. She hardly recognized him. His wild mane had been cut and tamed into something respectable, although she suspected that wouldn’t last for long. He was clean-shaven, or as clean-shaven as he’d ever get, and he wore a neatly pressed gray dress shirt with equally neat dark gray pants, both a far cry from the cheap suit he’d worn to her wedding. It was disconcerting seeing him dressed like a reputable businessman, but she wasn’t fooled. Beneath all that good grooming was a renegade biker who’d taken advantage of her, then called her a bad lover.
His gaze went to the fire-breathing dragon crawling up her neck, then to her fake pierced eyebrow, and two things were immediately clear. He was no happier to see her than she was to see him. And he wasn’t alone.
A woman stood next to him, her back to Lucy, her attention fixed on the view of the cove through the sparkling windows. Lucy gave Panda her iciest glare. “Patrick.”
He knew exactly how much she loathed seeing him, and his aloofness equaled her own, which made her even angrier. He had no right to act as though he’d been the injured party.
You weren’t that good anyway.
“I told you not to make any changes.” His displeasure couldn’t have been more obvious, but she didn’t care.
“Sorry, but I had orders from the health department.” She pulled off her ball cap, revealing her freshly colored purple dreads. The clutter in the bookcases was gone, the shelves neatly arranged, and the grimy sisal rug that should have been thrown out years ago was nowhere to be seen. She’d edited the mishmash of shabby furniture down to a chest, a few tables, and the sofa and chairs she and Toby had dragged in from the living room. Even without new paint, the space was homey and inviting.
The woman, her spine ramrod stiff, still hadn’t turned from the window. She wore an oversize black tunic top, black slacks, and stilettos. Her straight dark hair hung to her shoulders, and her ring-less hands looked too large for her wrists.
“Panda has assured me that I can count on you for discretion.” She spoke in a low-pitched, slightly husky voice, but something about her authoritarian tone suggested she preferred full volume.
“No problem,” Lucy said. “I’m leaving.”
“You can’t leave.” The woman’s large hands fisted at her sides, but she still didn’t turn.
Lucy gave Panda a poisonous look. “If Panda tries something, you can always call the police.”
“There has to be another female here,” the woman said in her eerily quiet drill sergeant’s voice. “I understand you’ve been through a lot lately, but I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
So Panda had told her who Lucy was. Another indication that he had no moral compass.
“Normally, I’d offer to pay you,” she said, “but … that seems a little insulting.”
A little? The woman didn’t appear overawed at being with a member of the former first family, which suggested she was accustomed to celebrities. Lucy’s curiosity got the best of her. “Why is it so important?”
The woman’s head came up another inch. “Before I explain, I don’t suppose you’d consider signing a confidentiality agreement?”
She had to be kidding.
“Lucy has a lot of faults”—Panda leaned on that last word—“but she has too much at stake herself to go around blowing anyone else’s cover.”
“So you said.” The woman straightened her shoulders. “I suppose I’ll have to trust you, not something I’m good at.” A gull swooped by the window. And then she turned. Slowly … Dramatically … A tragic queen facing the guillotine.
Enormous black sunglasses concealed much of her face. She was tall and statuesque, a little overweight underneath that voluminous tunic top. She wore no jewelry, nothing to call attention to herself except the inappropriateness of all that black on a warm June day. Her hand shook ever so slightly as she took off her sunglasses. She folded in the stems, then raised her chin and gazed at Lucy.
She was attractive—dark, almond-shaped eyes; good cheekbones; a strong nose—but her full mouth could have used a slick of lip gloss, and a little makeup would have done wonders for her sallow complexion. Not that Lucy was one to criticize anyone else’s makeup application, since she was wearing brown lipstick and had thick kohl smudges both above and below her lashes.
The dramatic way the woman stood before her indicated she expected Lucy to say something, but since Lucy had no idea—
And then she understood. Whoa.
“Lucy, I’m sure you’ve heard of Temple Renshaw,” Panda said, all business.
Temple Renshaw, the Evil Queen of the celebrity fitness gurus and star of Fat Island, a horrible reality show that shamed its participants by exiling them to a place “where no one has to look at you.” She’d built her career on humiliation and degradation, and photographs of her panther-sleek body were everywhere—on the labels of her fitness drinks, her power bars, her extensive line of exercise wear. But those photographs only remotely resembled this woman draped in black—a woman with full cheeks and a plump little cushion of fat under her chin.
“As you can see,” Temple said, “I’m obese.”
