Park Avenue Secrets. Barbara Dunlop

good.

      Elizabeth glanced around for inspiration. She caught sight of the living room bookshelf. There was an idea. She could sort through her books, maybe donate some of the older ones to the library. And Reed had hundreds shelved in his office. She’d call Rena on her cell and get her to pick up some cardboard boxes on her way home.

      Perfect.

      After gathering a sizable pile in the living room, she moved to the office.

      Reed liked the occasional mystery or thriller, the kind of book that you didn’t reread once you knew the ending. She tugged a couple of his volumes from the eye level shelves and carried them to the black meeting table.

      There she paused, wrinkling her nose, trying to identify an unusual smell. It wasn’t dust, not leather, not furniture polish. Where had she …

      Coconut.

      She staggered back in shock.

      That woman in Reed’s office had smelled of coconut.

      “Elizabeth?” Reed called from the entry hall.

      The coconut woman had been in the penthouse? Her penthouse? Her home?

      “What’s with the books?”

      She could hear his footsteps starting down the hall.

      What did she do? Ignore it? Confront him? Look for more evidence?

      Was this why he hadn’t made love with her last night? Or yesterday? Or last week?

      “There you are.” He came around the corner and smiled. “Feeling okay?”

      She stared at him in silence, trying to reconcile the man she knew with such reprehensible behavior. While she was desperately trying to save their marriage, had he already ended it?

      “There’s somebody I want you to meet,” said Reed, coming fully into the room.

      Not her. Good grief, not her.

      “This is Joe Germain.”

      A man came into view in the doorway, and Reed motioned him into the office.

      “Joe, this is my wife, Elizabeth Wellington.”

      The man stepped forward. He was at least six foot three, with broad shoulders, a burly chest, and very little in the way of a neck. His hair was cropped close, and he wore a dark, neat suit with a dress shirt and tie.

      “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Wellington.” The man held out a strong, callused hand.

      “Hello,” Elizabeth managed, giving a brief shake, catching a glimpse of a leather holster beneath his suit jacket. Then she met gray eyes, intelligent eyes, some might even say cunning.

      “I’ve hired Joe as your driver,” Reed continued.

      A driver?

      Elizabeth might have been duped, but she wasn’t stupid. The man looked like he was half linebacker, half mercenary. He definitely wasn’t somebody she’d want to be alone with in a dark alley.

      A visceral chill worked its way up her spine.

      “Elizabeth?” Reed’s confused voice seemed to come from a long way off. “Are you okay?”

      She looked back to her husband, her lying, cheating, untrustworthy husband. “I don’t need a driver.”

      Five

      “Elizabeth,” said Hanna, her voice chastising as she dunked a tea bag into the teapot at her counter. “You have seriously gone round the bend.”

      “He insisted, absolutely insisted I keep the guy as my driver.” Elizabeth had tried every argument in the book to change Reed’s mind, but his stubbornness had been off the charts, even for him.

      “Maybe he simply wants you to have a driver. You did get pretty drunk last night.”

      “That guy is not a driver.”

      “He drove you here, didn’t he?”

      Only because Elizabeth had been too frightened to try to escape. “I think he’s a criminal.”

      “Now, why on earth would Reed hire a criminal?”

      Elizabeth hesitated, reluctant to give voice to the fear that had followed her over. But she had to share it with someone. “What if they’re right?”

      “Who?” Hanna returned to the living area of her loft, where rain pattered on the skylights, and dull daylight gave the airy room a gray atmosphere.

      “The SEC. What if Reed has a secret life? What if his wealth really is from shady deals with the underworld?” Her mouth went dry and her voice shook ever so slightly. “You know, he’s got an awful lot of money.”

      Hanna enunciated slowly and carefully. “Round the bend, Elizabeth. Reed is a husband and a businessman.”

      But there were too many inconsistencies lately. He was being far too secretive for this to all be nothing. “Not that much of a husband,” Elizabeth pointed out. “He’s fooling around with the coconut woman.”

      “You don’t know that he’s fooling around with the coconut woman.”

      “He lied about her. And I know she was in our suite.” Elizabeth warmed to the theory. “You know, my parents warned me about rich people. They said they were sly and untrustworthy. They were rich for a reason, and it wasn’t hard work and fair trade practices.”

      “Elizabeth.”

      “What?”

      “You disagree with your parents on that, remember?”

      “I was wrong. And look where it got me.”

      Hanna fought a grin. “You mean with the imagination of a conspiracy theorist? Forget being a script girl. You might want to consider scriptwriting as your future career.”

      “What future career? I’ll probably be killed in gangland crossfire before I can ever get a career off the ground. I might know too much already.”

      “This is insane,” said Hanna, picking up her phone. “What’s his name?”

      “Reed Anton Wellington III.”

      Hanna shot her a look of dark disbelief. “I mean your driver.”

      “Oh. Joe Germain. What are you doing?”

      “I’m calling Bert Ralston. You give an investigative reporter an hour, and you’ll be amazed what he can find out.”

      Elizabeth plunked back on the couch. That wasn’t a half bad idea. At least then Hanna would believe her. At least then Elizabeth would know if she was in any danger from Joe.

      How could Reed do this to her? She’d been an innocent young college graduate from New Hampshire when he met her, wooed her, enticed her away from the safe bosom of her family. She never should have borrowed that red dress, or gone on the harbor cruise. Then she never would have met Reed.

      Hanna hung up the phone. “You know, you were a lot more fun last night when you were drunk.”

      “You’re not taking this seriously enough,” Elizabeth accused.

      Hanna rose to pour the tea. “I’m taking this exactly seriously enough. You want vanilla cookies?”

      Elizabeth’s stomach gave a little lurch of protest. “How come you’re not hung over?” she asked Hanna, rising to follow her into the kitchen area.

      “Because you outdrank me. How are you feeling by the way?”

      “You mean other than facing imminent death by either criminal gang wars or by annoying my driver?”

      Hanna carefully poured two cups of steaming tea. “Yeah.”

      “Bit