Sins of the Flesh. Fern Michaels

of his marriage would simply have to be endured for the time being. Nervously he wiped the sweat from his forehead. The storm wasn’t doing much to alleviate the oppressive heat and early morning humidity.

      The rain began to pound down around him; the wiper blades worked harder and harder, barely clearing the windshield. Beyond his headlights, visibility was so poor that he found himself holding tight to the wheel and leaning into the glass to see his way. To take his mind off the storm, he began to ruminate about Mickey’s circumstances but found he couldn’t even begin to imagine what was going on with her in France. He knew the newspapers reported only what they wanted to. Terrible thoughts began to surface in Daniel’s mind…. War…the rumblings had become louder and louder until—his own memories, which had lain dormant for so many years, flashed before his eyes. No matter what, he would help Mickey in any way he could—she had done exactly the same for him twenty years before.

      Suddenly the rain stopped, as though he’d personally commanded it to cease. One last splatter ricocheted across the windshield, and then as if by magic all was silent. Steam spiraled upward from the bridge like the gray fog that had rolled in from the ocean the night before.

      Daniel started to sweat when he caught sight of the Fire Island ferry and heard the blast of its warning horn. It was about ready to leave the slip. He pressed his foot on the gas and roared into the parking area. Without bothering to lock the car, he sprinted toward the ferry, briefcase in hand, his trousers sticking to his legs, his collar and tie askew. He made it on board without a second to spare, then checked his watch as he tried to pull himself together. By the time he got back to Washington he’d look like something the cat dragged in.

      An hour later Daniel boarded the train that would take him to Union Station in downtown Washington just blocks away from his office on K Street. Now his rushing was over, and he had a four-and-a-half-hour ride ahead with nothing to do but think. He deliberately ignored the pressing legal work packed neatly away in his bulging briefcase. The two corporate mergers he had been working on could wait. If the corporation heads themselves were to issue him an ultimatum to get to work, he’d hand over the briefcase and thank them for their consideration. But that wouldn’t happen, of course, because they’d waited patiently until his calendar was free. Apparently he was in demand.

      Daniel settled back in the scratchy seat and closed his eyes, but his questioning thoughts still tripped over one another in his head. God, what if Rocky couldn’t help? What if he couldn’t get to France? Mickey was depending on him, counting on him to come through for her. And the faceless Philippe, he was waiting, too. A white knight, a savior…What if…what if…Think positive, Daniel, he told himself. If anyone can get you to Europe, it’s Rocky and Jerry.

      He took a moment to savor his long-standing friendship with two of the finest men he’d ever met. Of course, their friendship was nothing like the one he had with Reuben, but it was damn close. Eventually his thoughts drifted and he slept, an uneasy, restless sleep, but one that would allow for a clear head on his arrival.

      Some instinct, or maybe it was the shuffle of the passengers gathering their belongings together, woke him as the train slowed and pulled into Union Station. With only his briefcase to worry about, he elbowed his way off the train and headed for the row of phone booths on the concourse. With dismay he stared at the line of weary travelers waiting to use the phones, and then he ran, tie flapping and coattails swooshing, leaving behind him the stale, urine-smelling air.

      Swinging through the revolving door of the office building he owned, Daniel raced up to the fourth floor, for once preferring not to wait for the elevator. Breathing heavily, he opened the plate-glass door with his firm’s name emblazoned in gold lettering and dashed to his mahogany-paneled office, calling over his shoulder to his wide-eyed secretary, “Get Rocky on the phone and bring me an ice-cold soda.”

      His chair, a deep burgundy Morris and a gift from Jerry Vanderbilt, welcomed him with a resounding, comforting swoosh, like a well-worn slipper. He drained the Coca-Cola when it was brought to him and set the green bottle to dancing on his desk. Then he bellowed to Irene, his secretary, to bring him two more from the small compact kitchen. He was working on the second bottle when Irene buzzed him. “Mr. Rockefeller is on the line, Mr. Bishop.”

      Daniel gagged on a mouthful of soda, the fizz bubbling in his nose. He cleared his throat before reaching for the phone. “Daniel here, Rocky.”

      The voice on the other end was low and filled with subdued excitement. “We did it! Don’t ask any questions, but if you can be at Dulles Airport at five-thirty, we have a Red Cross plane that will take you in. Actually, it’s one of Jerry’s planes, his grandfather’s. Vintage, to say the least, but in tiptop shape. It will set down at Heathrow in London, and the Red Cross insignia will see you through. My daddy called F.D.R. and got clearance.”

      Daniel had put all his faith in his friends, and they had come through again. He couldn’t speak.

      “Say something, you son of a bitch!” Rocky urged with a hearty laugh. “A small show of excitement will do.”

      “I…I honestly didn’t think you’d be able to…” Daniel sat up and tried to pull his thoughts together. “Listen, Rocky, I have to talk to you. Where the hell are you?”

      “You called me and you don’t know where I am?…Some lawyer you are. I’m at Dulles. Your secretary called my office, and they told her where to reach me. Jerry’s here now seeing to the outfitting of the plane. You know, goodies and that sort of thing. Oh, and don’t worry about clothes, we’ve got that covered, too.”

      Rocky paused to temper his natural exuberance with the gravity generally reserved for his courtroom monologues. “We want to help, Daniel, and if you need us to go with you—and Jerry is hoping you do, you should see him scrambling around this plane—we can say good-bye to jurisprudence at the drop of a hat. Whatever you need, you know it’s yours.”

      Daniel’s eyes misted. “There are a couple of things I’ve got to handle first. I shouldn’t be too long. We’ll talk when I get there, okay?”

      “You bet.” The exuberance was back. Daniel smiled and shook his head. Rocky and Jerry were doing for him what he was trying to do for Mickey. Friends…that said it all. Somehow he’d find a way to thank these two men, but for now he’d have to push ahead.

      Richard Rockefeller, Rocky to his intimate friends, was a tall, imposing man with crisp golden-brown hair that curled about his ears and forehead. Shrewd gray-green eyes gazed benevolently from beneath thick, fringed lashes that women would have killed for. A chiseled jaw, complete with cleft, and strong, even white teeth completed the saintly look Rocky strived for. He had worked on “the look” for years to get it just right. But Daniel knew Rocky’s boyish, innocent look was a facade. His friend was the toughest, meanest, nastiest courtroom lawyer on the East Coast, and proud of the fact that he’d never lost a case. Oh, he’d settled out of court at the eleventh hour, but he’d never let any arbitration be construed as an admission of guilt on the part of his client. Daniel knew that if he was ever in legal trouble, Rocky would be the man he’d turn to.

      As he hurried across the busy airfield, Daniel tried to hide his smile when he caught his first glimpse of Rocky. His friend was standing just outside the plane’s open hatch dressed in what he called clam diggers and deck shoes, absorbed in arguing about something to one of the crew. When Rocky turned to him and Daniel saw the noticeable hole gaping near the armpit of his friend’s stretched-out T-shirt, he lost the battle. Grinning openly, he climbed the steps to join Rocky and slapped him on the back as they shook hands.

      “Where’s Jerry?” Daniel yelled over the noise of the hubbub surrounding the plane.

      Rocky cocked a thumb over his shoulder toward the inside of the waiting plane. “Believe it or not, he’s outfitting a bed for you back there—complete with satin quilt,” he joked. “It’s a long flight.” Daniel couldn’t help thinking Rocky was the one who really wanted to get on that plane with him.

      “Come on, I have a bottle of the best waiting for us inside,” Rocky said with a wink, “and I think we’re all in need of a stiff drink.”