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Authors: Lynda La Plante
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like a nightdress, but he’d told her he loved it—he loved anything that made her happy. Suddenly he was overcome by emotion.
“Tone, what’s the matter?” she asked, alarmed.
Driscoll was crying now. How could he tell her he was broke? That he’d been a bloody idiot and lost his life savings. A few thousand here or there wasn’t going to keep this pretty little soul in the manner to which she was accustomed. “I’ve had too much to drink,” he muttered.
She reached for his hand. “Let’s go to the room. They’ve got the porno channel. We could order more champagne, get into the Jacuzzi, and have dirty sex.” She giggled.
Dear God, he thought, how am I going to keep this up until New Year’s Eve? All he wanted was to get back to London, meet de Jersey, and hear his plan. Just thinking about it, he got another erection. “Yes, darling,” he said. “Let’s go up to the suite.”
They didn’t make it into the Jacuzzi, and he didn’t need to watch any porno film. To Liz’s delight, Driscoll didn’t even take off his dinner jacket, he was so desperate. They screwed against the bathroom wall, in the bedroom on the carpet, and then in their bed until he passed out. She wished their sex life was always this good.
Wilcox had never been money-conscious. He lived life on the edge in Aspen, keeping his mind off his financial crisis with excessive amounts of cocaine. Rika worried about his recklessness. Wilcox had more innate class than de Jersey, but he lacked prudence. This man liked taking risks. Over and over again Rika tried to stop him going out late at night to ski, but she always backed down at the first hint of anger. Fury lay dormant in Wilcox, and she did not want to provoke it against herself. So when he left the house on Christmas night, she didn’t try to stop him.
The loss of his fortune had left Wilcox balancing on a precipice. When he got off the ski lift at the level for experienced skiers, he positioned himself, checked his skis, adjusted his goggles, then eased forward. In the five-minute descent, he made a near-perfect run. Upon reaching the lower slopes, however, he felt a tightening in his chest. He gasped for breath, and by the time he was at a standstill he was bending almost double. Lately these pains had been occurring more frequently. Added to chest pain, he’d been experiencing dizzy spells, and a couple of times during this holiday his nose had bled profusely. Even now, as he pulled off his goggles, there were spots of blood on the snow.
He removed gloves, then skis, which he carried to his truck. Once inside he leaned back until the dizziness subsided. Then he adjusted the rearview mirror; his nostrils were encrusted with dried blood. He took a tissue and wiped it away. When he got back to the chalet, every light was on. The kids would be listening to music, playing table tennis, or watching videos, and Rika was probably waiting to have another go at him for disappearing. He told himself he was too old to be indulging a serious drug habit—if he caught any of his kids using the same substance, he’d thrash them—but he could feel the itch starting. He dumped the skis on the ground by Rika’s car and hurried up the stairs.
He locked the bathroom door, unfolded the wrap, chopped three lines of cocaine, rolled a dollar bill, and snorted. He was rubbing the residue on his gums when the door handle turned. “James, are you all right?”
He unlocked the door, smiling. “I’m great. Just got caught short coming up the drive.”
“I vas vorried vhen I saw you just throw your skis inside the garage. You haven’t viped dem clean.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do it later.”
“You do it now, James. You shout at the kids for doing just the same thing.”
“Get off my back, Rika.”
“I’m not on it.” She stormed out.
Wilcox locked the door, then sat on the toilet. One more hit, he thought, then he’d dry off his skis. He snorted two lines, then reached for the phone.
“Tone, what’s the matter?” she asked, alarmed.
Driscoll was crying now. How could he tell her he was broke? That he’d been a bloody idiot and lost his life savings. A few thousand here or there wasn’t going to keep this pretty little soul in the manner to which she was accustomed. “I’ve had too much to drink,” he muttered.
She reached for his hand. “Let’s go to the room. They’ve got the porno channel. We could order more champagne, get into the Jacuzzi, and have dirty sex.” She giggled.
Dear God, he thought, how am I going to keep this up until New Year’s Eve? All he wanted was to get back to London, meet de Jersey, and hear his plan. Just thinking about it, he got another erection. “Yes, darling,” he said. “Let’s go up to the suite.”
They didn’t make it into the Jacuzzi, and he didn’t need to watch any porno film. To Liz’s delight, Driscoll didn’t even take off his dinner jacket, he was so desperate. They screwed against the bathroom wall, in the bedroom on the carpet, and then in their bed until he passed out. She wished their sex life was always this good.
Wilcox had never been money-conscious. He lived life on the edge in Aspen, keeping his mind off his financial crisis with excessive amounts of cocaine. Rika worried about his recklessness. Wilcox had more innate class than de Jersey, but he lacked prudence. This man liked taking risks. Over and over again Rika tried to stop him going out late at night to ski, but she always backed down at the first hint of anger. Fury lay dormant in Wilcox, and she did not want to provoke it against herself. So when he left the house on Christmas night, she didn’t try to stop him.
The loss of his fortune had left Wilcox balancing on a precipice. When he got off the ski lift at the level for experienced skiers, he positioned himself, checked his skis, adjusted his goggles, then eased forward. In the five-minute descent, he made a near-perfect run. Upon reaching the lower slopes, however, he felt a tightening in his chest. He gasped for breath, and by the time he was at a standstill he was bending almost double. Lately these pains had been occurring more frequently. Added to chest pain, he’d been experiencing dizzy spells, and a couple of times during this holiday his nose had bled profusely. Even now, as he pulled off his goggles, there were spots of blood on the snow.
He removed gloves, then skis, which he carried to his truck. Once inside he leaned back until the dizziness subsided. Then he adjusted the rearview mirror; his nostrils were encrusted with dried blood. He took a tissue and wiped it away. When he got back to the chalet, every light was on. The kids would be listening to music, playing table tennis, or watching videos, and Rika was probably waiting to have another go at him for disappearing. He told himself he was too old to be indulging a serious drug habit—if he caught any of his kids using the same substance, he’d thrash them—but he could feel the itch starting. He dumped the skis on the ground by Rika’s car and hurried up the stairs.
He locked the bathroom door, unfolded the wrap, chopped three lines of cocaine, rolled a dollar bill, and snorted. He was rubbing the residue on his gums when the door handle turned. “James, are you all right?”
He unlocked the door, smiling. “I’m great. Just got caught short coming up the drive.”
“I vas vorried vhen I saw you just throw your skis inside the garage. You haven’t viped dem clean.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do it later.”
“You do it now, James. You shout at the kids for doing just the same thing.”
“Get off my back, Rika.”
“I’m not on it.” She stormed out.
Wilcox locked the door, then sat on the toilet. One more hit, he thought, then he’d dry off his skis. He snorted two lines, then reached for the phone.
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