Free All or Nothing by Elizabeth Adler Page A

slammed his mug on the kitchen counter so hard the coffee slopped over the sides. “What do you mean by that?”
    Al took it in his stride. He had seen men get mad before. Often. “Just what I said, buddy. Maybe you like blondes.” He lifted a shoulder. “Lots of men do. And that includes married men.”
    “Well, it didn’t fuckin’ include me.” Steve slammed his fist on the counter, this time sending the mug flying. He was on the edge of that hairspring temper again, face reddening, eyes blazing, hands atremble. “I thought you were supposed to be on my side. Aren’t I paying you?”
    “Your wife is paying me. But don’t get me wrong, I am on your side. And because of that I need to know the truth. So why don’t you just tell me what happened. Straight from the shoulder. I’ll take it from there.”
    Steve began to pace the floor. His face was contorted with grief––or was it fear? Al knew he was cracking. This was confession time, alright. If the guy had anything to confess   .   .   .
    “Laurie was friendly, enthusiastic on the phone,” Steve said finally. “She said she knew exactly what I needed and was sure she would find it. We arranged to meet after my workday, in the bar at the Ritz–Carlton. I happened to have been out there for a meeting earlier that day and she had been to look at some properties in that area. She had taken care of business, though, and showed me particulars of a lot of houses. I picked out half a dozen and we arranged to meet the following evening to look at them.
    “I was depressed by the houses we saw, none of them was as good as its photo, none of them worked out. It had been a long day, I was tired . . . I had invited Laurie to join me for dinner at a nearby café. We talked . . . you know how it is, two people geting to know each other. She knew I was married, of course, and I showed her photos of my wife and my two daughters. She was very complimentary, said how pretty they were. And she showed me a picture of her dog––a little black mutt in a red bandanna she called Clyde.”
    He paused and Al said, “So how was it?”
    “How was what?”
    “The dinner, you know, how did you two get along?”
    “It was pleasant. We got along okay, I guess. But I still didn’t have a house. I remember when she was getting into her car I said to her, “Better luck next time.’ And she replied, “Trust me, Steve. I won’t let you down.’”
    “You saw her often after that,” Al said, picking up the story.
    “We looked at a lot of houses.”
    “And you also had dinner?”
    “Sure, we had dinner, drinks––part business, part pleasure. She was attractive, good company. Mostly we talked about California, the real estate game, possible houses. . . .”
    “So Laurie had found you the perfect house?” Al paced the small cabin, he was dying for a cigarette, why had he ever let Marla talk him into quitting. . . .
    “At possibly the perfect price.” Steve was slumped in a chair by the empty fire grate. He looked exhausted.
    “So were you two, like y’know . . . an item?” Al was less direct than Marla.
    Steve’s eyes took his measure. “You want to believe that, nothing I say will make any difference. Oh, sure, maybe I shouldn’t have asked her to dinner, lunch, whatever, but I was lonesome and she was there. But that’s all there was to it.”
    “No sex?”
    “No sex.” His voice was firm. He had answered these questions a hundred times before.
    “How about you and Vickie?”
    Steve was on his feet, eyeball to eyeball with him, mad as hell. Al did not flinch. “Y’gotta come clean, buddy,” he said softly. “I’m working for you, remember? You don’t tell me the truth, we don’t get nowhere.”
    Steve groaned, closing his eyes. “Just leave me alone, why don’t you? I’m tired. And I’m sick of denying it.”
    “Then maybe you don’t have to anymore.” The suggestion was in Giraud’s soft southern drawl, the temptation, the