A Real Basket Case Page 3

Weak-kneed, Claire wobbled into the women’s locker room, as the implications of taking Enrique home sank in. She had to make sure he knew this was just a massage, a professional relationship and nothing more. She rushed through her shower, quickly changed into stretch jeans and a sky-blue Nordic ski sweater, then worked on her hair. Twenty minutes after leaving the weight room, she stepped into the lobby.

  Enrique sat on a bench, looking casually elegant in black jeans, pearl-buttoned Western shirt, and a fleece-lined leather jacket. All he lacked for the urban cowboy ensemble was a ten-gallon hat. Rising, he looked her up and down and flashed a thumbs-up.

  He steered her to the take-out counter of the health food bar. “Let us order a juice to go. You need to replenish your fluids.” He ordered two.

  “Enrique, this is awkward, but I want to make sure we’re clear on something.”

  The young man behind the counter brought the juices, and Enrique snapped his fingers. “I forgot the massage oil. I will meet you in the parking lot.” He headed for the men’s locker room.

  The young man said, “Seven-fifty, please.”

  Claire felt a wisp of annoyance over being stuck with the check again. Was this a habit of Enrique’s? But she could easily afford it, and he probably didn’t earn much as a fitness instructor. She paid the man and slipped on her coat before picking up the plastic cups.

  In the parking lot, she squinted against the sun’s glare, but with full hands, she couldn’t retrieve her sunglasses from the purse dangling on her shoulder. Nor could she button her coat against the chill. She was debating where to put the cups when Enrique sauntered out a side door, carrying his gym bag.

  Claire caught herself scanning the lot for anyone she knew. Cut it out. I’m not doing anything wrong. Still, she couldn’t help feeling relieved that the lot was empty except for the two of them.

  Enrique waved, then approached and took his drink. “Where is your car?”

  “Right there.” She indicated the late-model blue BMW sedan at the end of the row. She itched to get them in their respective cars and out of public view. “Do you want to follow me in your car?”

  “Mine is in the shop.” He pointed to the auto shop on the corner. “Maybe you could return me here after?”

  Another favor. But Claire could tell from his winsome smile that he didn’t realize what he was asking. And it wasn’t like she had pressing business that afternoon, or that giving him a ride could be viewed as immoral. She nodded. When they reached her car, she pressed her key fob and unlocked the doors. After tossing her gym bag on the back seat, she slid behind the wheel.

  Enrique sat in the gray leather seat beside her and dropped his bag next to hers. He placed his drink in the cup holder and glanced around. “Nice car. Your husband must have a good job.”

  Poised to turn the ignition key, Claire’s hand dropped to her lap. What am I doing? Fear stabbed her chest as she envisioned the risk of Enrique pressing himself on her, of her being swept up with desire. No!

  “I can’t do this.”

  Enrique laid his hand on hers. “If you don’t get a massage, you will hurt tonight and not be good company for your husband. I want to make you feel good, that’s all.”

  “That’s all.” She slid her hand out from under his and stared him down. “Nothing but a professional massage. And I’ll never be ready for more.”

  He held up his hands, palms out, and grinned. “Okay. Only a massage. How do you say it? Boy Scout promise?”

  Ellen did say Enrique would shrug it off if I said I wasn’t interested. Placated, Claire started the engine and pulled out of the parking space. She didn’t tell Enrique that being good company that night would make no difference because Roger wouldn’t be there.

  Enrique settled in the seat and picked up his juice. “So, tell me about your home. Is it Southwestern style?”

  He’s good. Every woman likes to talk about her home. She described how she’d shopped for Navajo and Pueblo Indian crafts and blankets to complement her house’s stucco and tile-roofed architecture. After moving to Colorado from the East Coast twelve years earlier, she had enjoyed learning the history and culture of her new environs.

  Enrique seemed genuinely interested and asked several questions as she guided the car up the steep, winding canyon roads of her upscale neighborhood. When a red fox scampered across the road, causing her to brake hard, he asked, “Do you see many wild animals here in the foothills?”

  “Lots of birds, squirrels, and mule deer. Roger hates the deer. He calls them giant rats because they eat our flowers and strip the bark off the aspens. He chases them out of the yard whenever he sees them.” Claire pursed her lips. “I wish he wouldn’t do that.”

  Enrique laughed. “You feel sorry for the deer?”

  She shook her head. “The stags can be dangerous, especially in fall rutting season. The neighbor’s dog got gored when it cornered one last year.”

  “Yes, one has to watch out for stags during mating season.”

  Claire glanced at Enrique. What did he mean by that? She decided to ignore the comment’s sexual undertone. “We also hear coyotes howling on the ridge but never see them. Occasionally, we’ll smell a skunk when we have the windows open in the summer.”

  “No air-conditioning?”

  “Don’t need it.” Claire pulled the BMW into her long driveway. She glanced around but saw no one on the street. Then she caught herself. Why am I worried?

  She pressed the garage door opener and drove into the third bay. As the door slid down behind them, she cut the ignition and let out the breath she’d been holding.

  Enrique stepped out of the car and reached in to retrieve the two gym bags from the back seat. “Lead the way.”

  “You can leave your bag in the car,” Claire said.

  He hefted his bag and smiled. “The massage oil is in here.”

  A nervous flutter tickled Claire’s throat, and she cleared it before saying, “Fine.” She preceded him into the kitchen and took her gym bag into the adjoining laundry room.

  Enrique shucked off his jacket and looked around, as if wondering where to put it and his gym bag.

  “I’ll take those,” she said.

  “I will need the bag later, but here.” He handed her his jacket and put the bag on the floor.

  Claire hung Enrique’s jacket along with her own in the hall closet. Through the glass beside the front door, she spied a UPS package on the porch. She unlocked the door, dropped the package on the front bench, then returned to the kitchen.

  Enrique had found the wine rack and was scanning labels. “How about some wine? It would be relaxing.”

  Claire glanced down at her hands, clasped in a tight knot before her. Yes, wine was a good idea. “Pick one you like. I’ll fix us some cheese and crackers for lunch.” She handed him a corkscrew and glasses, then opened the refrigerator.

  With a practiced pull, Enrique deftly extracted the cork from a bottle of Australian Shiraz. He filled their glasses with the plum-colored wine and carried them to the counter where she had laid out a tray with Brie and Jarlsberg cheeses, crackers, and grapes. He smiled, handed her a glass and lifted his. “A toast . . . to an excellent hostess.”

  Claire drank two quick gulps. The slow burn down her throat to her stomach felt good.

  Enrique settled on a stool and pointed at a family portrait on the wall. “Tell me about your children.”

  “My son, Michael, graduated from the Colorado School of Mines last year and works as an engineer for Electronic Data Systems in Boston.”

  “He must be very intelligent. What about your daughter?”

  “Judy’s a junior at the University of Colorado, currently in France on a semester study-abroad program.”

  “Will she be an engineer too?”

  “No, but she had us wondering. Michael knew his junior year in high school that he wanted to be an engineer. Judy didn’t pick her major until the last possible minute. Then she decided to make it a double. Art and French. In spite o
f her stubborn independence, she chose the same major as her fuddy-duddy mom.”

  Enrique raised a brow. “Art and French. Très chic.” In a mock salute, he kissed his fingertips and spread them wide.

  Claire laughed. “I didn’t do much with the major besides teach art in elementary schools before the kids were born.”

  “So your nest is empty now. Do you miss them?”

  “Yes, terribly.” Claire stared at the portrait, at Roger’s handsome squared jaw and the clear blue eyes that made her heart thrill when he looked at her with desire, which hadn’t happened since forever. She focused on the images of her children, and guilt washed over her. What would Michael and Judy think of their mom sharing wine with another man, alone, in their home?

  She put down her glass. “Enrique, I’m—”

  “Feeling a little awkward? I promise I will do no more than you want. You shouldn’t waste Ellen’s gift.”

  Her back muscles were already stiffening. A massage made sense, and he did say he would respect her wishes. “I don’t want to disappoint Ellen.”

  Enrique squeezed her hand. “Of course not. But now, let us eat. I am famished.” He slid a cracker into his mouth.

  The light remark dispelled some of her tension. She clinked her glass against his and took the last sip.

  Enrique refilled her glass. He maintained a steady flow of conversation as he plied her with cheese and more wine.

  Soon she felt a warm buzz and laughed as Enrique tossed grapes in the air and caught them in his mouth. Before she knew it, the wine bottle lay in the sink, empty.

  He stood. “Where is your bedroom?”

  Claire’s eyes widened. Then she realized he hadn’t brought a massage table. “Oh no, not my bedroom.” Her gaze lit on the kitchen table. “How about there? I could spread some towels.”

  He glanced at the table and shook his head. “The surface must be soft, like a bed.”

  “Maybe one of my kid’s bedrooms, then.”

  “Let us check them out. Come.” He took her hand, pulled her off the stool, and steered her into the hall. Once there, he dropped his gym bag on the floor and removed the bottle of massage oil and a CD.

  She preceded him upstairs, gripping the rail to steady herself, then led the way into her daughter’s room.

  Enrique glanced at the bed, pursed his lips, then checked her son’s bedroom. Before she could stop him, he walked into the master bedroom suite. “Perfect.”

  She trotted after him. “Wait.”

  Enrique walked around the large room, furnished with two bulky walnut dressers, a sitting area, oil paintings of snow-capped mountains, and a raised king-sized bed, its side facing the door. “Nice, very nice.”

  He moved to the other side of the bed and pressed a hand on the mattress. “This is just the right softness, and I won’t have to bend over much.”

  The image of him leaning over her while she lay on the bed she shared with Roger made Claire’s throat tighten.

  Enrique pointed at the compact stereo system on the headboard. “May I play my CD? The music will help you relax.”

  The freight train pushing her down the track of least resistance roared in her ears. “Sure.”

  “Now, bring some towels. While I prepare, you may change out of your clothes.”

  “Out of my clothes?” Claire instinctively clasped her arms across her chest, as if already covering her nakedness.

  Enrique laughed and raised the bottle of massage oil. “You cannot receive a massage wearing jeans and a sweater. Leave your underthings on if you wish.”

  She gulped. She would definitely leave them on.

  He waved his hands toward the master bath suite. “Go.”

  Claire returned with the towels. Enrique had pulled back the bedclothes. The soft strains of a Navajo flute floated from the speakers. She walked back into the bathroom and closed the door. Staring in the mirror, she debated her reflection.

  Should I?

  C’mon, it’s just a massage.

  But what if Roger finds out?

  How could he? He probably wouldn’t care anyway. He did say I couldn’t depend on him to fill my time. Maybe he hates being with me. Maybe he doesn’t love me anymore.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. Decision made, she turned away from the mirror. Once she had stripped down to her plain white bra and panties, she grabbed her thick, terrycloth robe and threw it on before she caught a glimpse of her middle-aged body and lost her nerve. She closed her eyes, counted to ten, and stepped into the bedroom.

  Enrique smiled and clasped her hand. “No need to be nervous. I’ve done this many times before.”

  Done what?

  He led her to the bed and untied the belt of her robe. Easing it off her shoulders, he let it slip to the floor.

  Claire cringed. Other than Roger and her doctor, no man had seen this much of her since she’d birthed her two children. Who had left their marks.

  “You are a beautiful woman, Claire. Do not let anyone tell you different.” He paused, then pointed at the bed. “Lie on your stomach on these towels.”

  Claire did as she was told.

  Enrique moved to stand beside her, then unfastened her bra.

  She tensed and lay nervous and stiff, arms tight against her sides. She wondered what would happen next and if she should allow it. When his warm hands, slick with sandalwood-and-rose-scented oil, touched her back, she shivered.

  His palms slid down, up, and down again, pressing deep into her flesh and willing her to relax.

  The muscles in her back loosened one-by-one under Enrique’s firm touch. Her brain, already fuzzy from the wine, loosened too. His soothing strokes and the calming flute music pushed her remaining worries aside.

  He must have felt the difference, because he began kneading her shoulders.

  She finally yielded to the bliss with a sigh.

  “Yes, just relax. I will do all the work, and you will feel wonderful. You do feel wonderful,” Enrique said with a laugh.

  All Claire could muster was a murmured assent.

  Enrique worked on her neck, back, and shoulders, then massaged her arms and legs, freeing cramped muscles and releasing the accompanying pain and tension.

  Claire had never felt so relaxed—like warm gelatin. When Enrique refastened her bra and asked her to roll over, she mumbled, “I don’t think I can.”

  He eased his hands under her and helped her roll onto her back. His hands lingered on her waist a moment too long before he drew them away to pour more of the fragrant oil into them. Then he began massaging her thighs.

  A warm tingle spread over Claire’s body. She closed her eyes.

  Enrique’s hands froze. “You—”

  BLAM!

  Claire’s whole body jerked. Her eyes snapped open. She sought the source of the loud noise reverberating through the room.

  Past the other side of the bed, a flash of metal glinted in the doorway. Then it disappeared.

  Footsteps thudded down the stairs.

  With a groan, Enrique fell face-forward across her hips.

  Hot, sticky fluid seeped onto her belly. She propped herself up on her elbows and stared down the length of her body with dawning comprehension—and horror.

  A red pool oozed over her, the towels, and the bed. A ragged, bloody hole gaped in Enrique’s back and shirt where the bullet had exited.

  Overwhelmed with whirling, frantic fear and revulsion, Claire screamed. And screamed again.

  A raw, animal instinct for survival seized her. Scrambling, she pushed herself out from under Enrique’s dead weight. She leapt off the bed and swiped at blood dripping down her legs. Feeling dizzy, she grasped the headboard to steady herself.

  Will the shooter come after me next? She crouched beside the bed and listened.

  Nothing.

  Only the sound of her heart pounding against her ribcage, with the accompanying rush of blood in her ears. Think, Claire. Now what? She forced herself to feel Enrique’s neck for a pulse
. Her trembling fingers found none.

  She picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1, smearing blood on the receiver. When the operator answered, Claire shouted, “A man’s been shot! Send an ambulance!”

  “Please calm down, ma’am. I need to confirm your address.”

  Claire realized she was panting, almost hyperventilating. She took a deep, slow breath and listened to the operator recite her address. “Yes, that’s it.”

  “You said a man’s been shot,” the operator said. “Are you in danger?”

  “I don’t know. Someone was here, but I don’t see anyone now. He or they might still be in the house.”

  “The police and ambulance are on their way. Do you hear any noises in the house?”

  “No.”

  “Which room are you in?”

  “The upstairs master bedroom, to the left of the stairs.”

  “It’s probably best for you to stay where you are. What’s the status of the victim?”

  Claire looked at Enrique’s body, slumped over the bed, leaking blood all over the linens. He was so young, with so many years left to live. Why would someone shoot him? She squeezed her eyes shut. Tears ran down her cheeks.

  “I think he’s dead. He was shot in the chest.” She swiped at her runny nose.

  “Does he have a pulse?”

  “I didn’t feel—”

  “Claire?” Roger’s voice sounded from downstairs.

  Without thinking, Claire yelled, “Oh, God.”

  What was Roger doing home?

  She glanced down at her nearly naked body smeared with blood. She dropped the phone, grabbed her robe, and threw it on.

  Roger stumbled into the room, holding a handgun. He gaped at Enrique’s body.

  Claire stared at her husband. As far as she knew, he’d never fired a gun before in his life.

  Did he kill Enrique?

  The emergency operator’s voice floated out of the telephone receiver at Claire’s feet. “Hello? What’s going on?”

  Roger looked at the telephone, then at her. Taking in her blood-smeared, semi-clothed state, his eyes burned with rage.

  Claire backed up against the wall, sure she would be his next victim. She screamed.

  Roger jumped, and the gun went off, firing a slug into the floor. He dropped the gun. With a puzzled glance at her, he approached Enrique’s body and pressed his fingers against the neck. His hand came away smeared with blood. “This man’s dead.”