of taking that kind of bull from anyone. Not even Felix who had been his agent since the start—well before his first-class trip through hell—had permission to lecture him.
“Sorry.”
Hearing the mumbled word and sensing the hurt beneath it, Zach realized what a mistake he’d made. A stupid one. He needed to stop remembering the scene of Willa talking to Sacks, not to mention replaying the moment he’d almost learned the taste and feel of her, and keep his mind on the business at hand.
After a grunt and an oath, he added, “Ignore me. Too many hours at the computer lately.” That much was true. His body ached from the ninety-minute workout Ger had put him through.
“I know. Your neck and shoulders are a mess, man.” As if wanting to make his point, he gave a surprisingly painful twist to the muscle he’d been working.
“Son of a…hey!” Zach lifted himself on his elbows and glared at the man who gazed back at him through startled, summer-blue eyes. “It’s the legs that have the nerve damage! What are you trying to do, kill me?”
Ger’s expression turned as studious as when he was teaching a new move. “Killing wouldn’t take that much strength. When I was into martial arts, I learned that much. And I was only trying to make the point that you ignored technique today. Injure yourself, you’ll be hurting more than you. Think about my reputation, man.”
Zach doubted he’d ever heard Ger say anything half as intelligent, and the revelation about his past was interesting, as well. Wondering how else he’d underestimated him, he lowered himself back to the towel-covered table. “You studied martial arts?”
“Hell, no. I took a few classes and found out it wasn’t for me.”
“Why not?”
“Just wasn’t. Too much head stuff.” Ger paused to pour more lotion into his palm. “You want more work on your shoulders or do you want me to move on?”
“Finish. I have to get back upstairs.”
In the sixteen months since he’d hired Gerald Sacks to transform the den into a training room and keep his body from atrophying, they’d had their moments of tension and disagreement. The accident had honed Zach’s innate tendencies to be strong-willed and acerbic. What’s more, the soft-spoken, machine-tanned Ger was one of only three people who could gain entrance into the house, and was damned well paid for his time and service. Zach figured that gave him the right not to mince words, and pretend to be something he wasn’t.
“You want to talk?”
Sometimes Zach did tire of his isolation, and the singular cerebral focus of writing; and as with the chess games he looked forward to with Roger Elias, he saw conversation as a discipline requiring skill and strategy. But although Ger was a good source of information for what was going on in town, he wasn’t exactly the most inspiring, let alone challenging, conversationalist. Then again, Zach thought as his thoughts darkened, political or philosophical insight wasn’t what he wanted from his trainer.
“Talk about what?”
“The underwear lady. Her coming over the way she did.”
He grunted. Wouldn’t Willa love hearing herself described that way? “From what I’ve seen in newspaper advertisements, ‘underwear’ doesn’t quite describe what she sells.”
Ger made no response to that, but after several long seconds, he ventured with some caution. “I, uh, thought since she kinda looks like…you know, it might have upset you.”
Renewed tension created the coldest knot yet in Zach’s belly. “Do you think she looks like my ex-wife?” he mumbled into his pillowed towel.
His trainer had been here the last time less-than-beloved Judith had slithered in seeking more money. As usual, the scene had gone from drolly amusing to ugly, thanks to the woman’s vicious mouth. By the time she left, Zach thought her lucky to escape with only a scratch on her chin from the car keys he’d flung back at her.
How he despised the woman. Despise? Hell, he hated her with every ounce of his being. Not because she’d filed an assault case against him after their argument when he’d told her he was filing for a divorce, or for taking so much that wasn’t hers, but for unleashing the demons inside him. The demons that whispered he could commit murder.
“Well, maybe not up close.” Ger sounded sorry to have brought up the subject. Moving down to concentrate on Zach’s legs, he continued, “I mean, I know Ju—uh, Mrs. D. is older. Maybe I thought that because they’re about the same height and build.”
And that was all Willa had in common with his ex-wife, Zach thought. When he’d touched Willa, and looked into her eyes, he’d seen a soul and not a heartless, conniving she-devil.
“Don’t forget the hair,” he drawled, curious to hear what else Ger might say. He already knew, however, that Willa’s glorious coloring didn’t come out of a bottle. “And the blue eyes.”
“Oh. Okay. I hadn’t noticed.”
Disappointed, Zach closed his eyes. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over.
“Say…” Ger’s laugh sounded almost like a girl’s giggle. “I just had a thought. Wouldn’t it be weird if the stalker got rid of your ex old lady for you?”
Zach opened his eyes and briefly focused on the note sticking out of the T-shirt he’d hung on the doorknob. Then he thought of the several others upstairs in his desk.
“I hope not,” he replied, tempering the savagery stirring inside him. “If anyone’s going to give Judith a tour of hell, it’s going to be me.”
CHAPTER FIVE
On Sunday, Zach was still dropping bombshells…and still groping in the dark.
“Would you mind repeating that?”
He recognized the ominous, chilly tone in Felix Fraser’s voice, but it didn’t keep him from pouring himself another Scotch from the bottle he kept on the corner of his desk. Swirling the melting ices cubes in the amber liquid, Zach took a sip, recalling a time right after the crash when he’d witnessed Felix’s Arctic-Attitude directed at Judith, who’d burst into his hospital room and pretended concern. It was the same frigidity he’d heard countless times since, when his agent negotiated with publishers, movie producers and audio rights reps. But this was the first time Zach had found himself on the receiving end of it.
He found it oddly enjoyable.
“You heard me.” Turning back to the computer screen, he eyed the last page of the chapter he’d finished only minutes ago. Two chapters in two days, not bad. “I’ve put off doing Under the City right now. I want to pursue another idea.”
“But Carstairs is expecting City by Christmas” came the steel-coated-by-velvet reply. “They’ve issued a press release to that effect. Your readers are expecting Under the City.”
“And they’ll get it. But not yet.”
“When then?”
“After Checkmate.”
He could picture Felix, an elegant fifty-seven-year-old, tall, large-boned man, pinching the bridge of his El Greco nose as he fought for control of his temper. It was the curse of Felix’s Spanish, Scottish and Russian genes to be eternally at war with himself. He’d simply inherited too much passion, even for his six-foot-four-inch frame.
“Lord almighty, Zach. Why don’t you simply take a stake and drive it through my chest? Exactly what the—” Pausing just in time to censor a particularly crude expletive because, like an alcoholic, once Felix started swearing it was difficult for him to stop, he drew in a deep breath and started over. “What is Checkmate?”
“Only a fine madness right now.” The liquor was beginning to ease the fatigue, tension and pain