A Man to Rely On

Marcus laughed again, a harsh, barking sound. “Don’t you get it? It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference what you think or even what the truth is. For the better part of a year, Marisol Dixon was the woman people loved to hate—the rich bitch socialite who offed her husband, the highest paid player in NBA history. Just because some jury said she didn’t do it doesn’t mean people believe it.”

Scott knew a thing or two about being tried and found guilty in the court of public opinion, but Marcus’s cynicism about Marisol annoyed him. “Thanks for letting me know about the picture in the paper,” he said. “I’ll lay low a few days and it will all blow over.”

“And stay away from Marisol whatever-her-name-is.”

“She’s a client. If she wants to talk to me, I can’t avoid her.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have her as a client, then.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I hired you to represent my interests in this new development. The buyers I’m courting here are high rollers from Houston and Dallas—the kind of people who think the worst of a social climber like Mrs. Dixon. If they think you’re associated with her, then that reflects badly on me.”

The fact that Marcus had hired him to sell a bunch of golf course lots didn’t give him the right to dictate who Scott could and could not associate with. He would have liked nothing better than to tell the man so, but that desire came up against hard reality. Those listings from Marcus were Scott’s ticket back to both solvency and respectability. If he lost them, he may well lose his last chance to redeem himself.

“I took a big risk hiring you,” Marcus reminded him. “Don’t make me regret it.” Or you will regret it was the unspoken codicil. Marcus had ruined people with better reputations than Scott who had gotten on his wrong side. He wielded the power that came with his wealth with all the subtlety of a war club.

“I promise not to do anything that would fuel any rumors about my association with Ms. Luna,” Scott said stiffly. “Ours is strictly a business relationship.” That was all that would ever be between them, but he would not—even at Marcus’s insistence—refuse to do the one thing he could do for her, that is, sell her house.

“See that you don’t. And keep Sunday open for me. I’ve got a group of investors coming down from Houston to look at the development. I think they’ll be good for at least one lot each, maybe more.”

“I’ll be here,” Scott said. “I’ll let you go now. Goodbye.” He hung up before Marcus could think of any more orders to give him. He sat on the side on the bed, heart thudding hard in his chest, the familiar feeling of wanting to escape almost overwhelming. Drugs had provided that kind of escape once, a floating euphoria that made all his problems disappear.

But he was stronger than that now. He could cope. He stood and went into the bathroom, where he chose a bottle from the medicine cabinet and shook out a single, small pill. He hated he’d traded one drug dependence for another, but a methamphetamine habit and the subsequent recovery had left him with a lingering anxiety disorder he kept under control with the help of a prescription and a meditation practice the Buddhist director of the treatment center where he’d spent three months had passed on him.

He finished dressing and made coffee and toast, then walked to the street and collected his copy of the Houston paper from the box at the end of the driveway. Sure enough, there on the lower right quadrant of the front page was a close-up of him and Marisol, his arm around her, their heads together, in the backseat of his father’s car.

It was an intimate shot, her head tilted toward his, almost touching, her hair fallen forward to hide much of her face, only the curve of her cheek and lips and part of one eye showing. Lamar Dixon’s widow wastes no time finding new beau read the caption beneath the photo.

They obviously hadn’t talked to anyone in Cedar Switch about his relationship with Marisol, or they’d have learned pretty quickly he was her real estate agent, not her lover. Then again, he supposed men like those reporters never let truth get in the way of a good story.

He continued to stare at the photograph, at that moment frozen on the page. Marisol looked beautiful and vulnerable and he had never felt more protective. Had she seen this? What did she think? Should he call her and see how she was doing? Not out of any romantic interest, but because he wanted her to know she had at least one friend in this town.

He was still standing on his front porch, staring at the paper when the screech of tires drew his attention. He looked up as a familiar lime-green VW pulled to the curb.

The driver’s side door opened and a lithe blonde dressed in navy trousers and a navy and white blouse stepped out.

“Tiffany? What are you doing here so early in the morning?” he asked. Tiffany Ballieu taught fourth grade at Cedar Switch Elementary school. Normally at this hour she’d be on her way to playground duty or bus duty or preparing her classroom for the day’s lessons.