“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“He hurt you.”

“Yes.”

“Bad.”

She opened her eyes then. “I’m a whore. I’ve done everything. But always when I was in control. Having it forced on you is different.” She closed her eyes again. “Believe me.” When she reopened her eyes, she said, “Try explaining that to a cop.”

“I will. You were raped.”

“And he’ll say it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me!” He shot up from his chair, sending it over backward. Dwight came running, wearing an apron, a dripping spoon in his hand. “Get back to your bisque,” Griff ordered. Dwight hesitated, then cupped the spoon with his free hand and, walking backward, retreated into the kitchen. The decorator’s almost comical rush to her rescue had defused Griff’s temper. He righted the chair and sat down, taking Marcia’s hand again.

“Rodarte’s not going to give up. The son of a bitch has been stalking me. He knows everything going on in my life. But all that’s nothing compared to sodomy. I’d like to kill him for that. But I can’t, and he knows it. I can’t do anything without violating my probation. He’s going to stay after me, Marcia. Pushing. He’ll continue hurting people close to me. The only option left is to take it to the police.”

“I’m begging you, Griff, don’t.”

“But-”

“Look at me!” Tears filled her eyes. “If you do this, I’ll have a huge spotlight focused on me and my business. Every Bible-thumping Holy Roller-some of whom are clients, by the way-will come out of the woodwork, condemning me and my occupation. It wouldn’t matter to my self-righteous critics that I went to the emergency room, torn and bleeding. They’d say it was punishment befitting my sins.

“If Rodarte is made to answer for himself at all, which is doubtful, he’ll deny the beating and blame it on a customer or boyfriend who was there after him. Probably you. There’s no DNA. He used a condom.” Sourly, she added, “I’m glad of that at least.”

“Christ,” Griff swore, knowing that what she said was probably right. “So you expect me to do nothing?”

“I’m asking you to do nothing. I avoided public scrutiny when I was my gorgeous, voluptuous self. Do you think I could endure it looking like this? I couldn’t, Griff. I’d jump off the roof first.” She said it in such a way that he believed she would. “The threat of exposure would frighten my clientele away for good. I’d lose everything. If you have any regard or feeling for me at all, let it go. Let it go.” She withdrew her hand from his and closed her eyes.

“I think you should leave now. She needs to sleep.” Dwight had slipped back into the room. His tone wasn’t unkind, but unquestionably he was Marcia’s self-appointed advocate and protector.

Griff nodded and came to his feet. Before turning away, he bent down and kissed Marcia’s closed eyes.

Dwight saw him to the door. “I suggest you call before you come here again.” Griff gave his silent consent with a nod.

In the foyer, he punched the button for the elevator but was so lost in thought, he stood looking into the empty cubicle for several moments before it registered with him that it had arrived.

On the descent, he realized that further argument wasn’t going to change Marcia’s mind. Pressuring her would only add to her mental anguish. He had already inflicted enough suffering on her, and when all was said and done, she was right. Taking this matter to the police would fix a spotlight not only on Marcia but on him. He didn’t want that any more than she did.

No, he would have to solve his Rodarte problem alone, one-on-one with the son of a bitch.

He stopped at the florist’s in the lobby and ordered an orchid plant to be delivered to Marcia’s penthouse. On the enclosure card, he wrote, “Okay. It stays our secret. But he will pay.”

He didn’t sign it.

CHAPTER 15

GRIFF HEARD THE DOORBELL CHIME INSIDE THE HOUSE AND then approaching footsteps. His gut tightened with apprehension over how he would be greeted. Maybe with the door slammed in his face.

Was coming here a bad idea?

Too late to change his mind now. Because the door was pulled open and he was looking into Ellie Miller’s smiling face.

He waited in dread to see her smile dissolve. Instead, it brightened. “Griff!”

She looked ready to launch herself against him and give him a big hug but checked the impulse and instead reached across the threshold and grabbed his hand with a strength surprising for a woman so petite. She looked him over from head to toe. “You’re thinner.”

“I’ve been doing a lot of swimming, less weights.”

She hadn’t stopped smiling yet. “Come in, come in, we’re standing here letting cold air out, and our electric bill is sky-high as it is.”

He stepped into the house and was instantly enveloped in its familiar scents and sights and textures. He paused to take a look around. The hall tree was where it had always been. The wallpaper hadn’t changed. The framed mirror, which to him had always seemed a little too small for that particular spot, was still there.

“I replaced the living room carpet last year.”

“It’s nice.”

Beyond the carpet, everything was exactly as it had been the last time he was here. Except that the picture of the three of them was no longer on the end table. The photo had been taken minutes after the NCAA national championship victory, he still in his grass- and bloodstained jersey, hair matted down by sweat and the weight of his helmet, standing between Ellie and Coach. Three beaming smiles. Ellie had had the picture framed and prominently displayed within days of the game.

The Millers had never been happier or more proud of him than after that Orange Bowl victory, except maybe the day he signed his letter of intent with the University of Texas. That day this house had been filled to capacity with sportswriters from all over the state. Ellie had fussed over the mess they were making, dropping cookie crumbs and spilling punch. Coach had complained when the TV lights blew out a fuse.

But their grumbling wasn’t taken seriously. It was obvious to everyone there that the couple was bursting with pride over Griff. Not only had he been offered a full scholarship to play football for the university but he was graduating cum laude from high school. Coach’s decision to take him in had been validated. His investment in that recalcitrant fifteen-year-old had paid off, and in ways beyond Griff’s athletic ability.

The four years Griff had played for UT, he was coached by some of the most respected and knowledgeable men in the game. But he still had relied on Coach Miller’s advice. He took everything he’d learned from Coach into that Orange Bowl game with him. It was Coach’s triumph as much as his.

It was later, after signing on with the Cowboys, that Griff stopped listening to his mentor’s advice and started thinking of Coach as a nuisance rather than a sensible guiding hand. The absence of that framed photo on the living room end table spoke volumes about Coach’s feelings toward him now.

“Come on back,” Ellie said, shooing him into the kitchen. “I’m shelling peas. You can buy them already shelled, but they don’t taste as good to me. Want some iced tea?”

“Please.”

“Pound cake?”

“If you’ve got it.”

She frowned at him as though her not having pound cake on hand would happen the day hell froze over. She cleared her pea-shelling project off the kitchen table. He sat down in the chair that had been designated his after his first dinner here and was embarrassed by the unmanly nostalgia that made his throat seize up. This was the only real home he’d ever known. And he’d brought disgrace to it.

“Coach isn’t here?”

“He’s playing golf,” Ellie said with vexation. “I told him it was too blamed hot to play at this time of day, but he hasn’t grown any less hardheaded. In fact, he just gets worse.”