Free The Girl with the Golden Spurs by Ann Major Page A

home? Would she finally realize she had to come home? Would she ever forgive him for the disgrace and scandal he’d brought on her name? Or for Cole?
    Vaguely he was aware of Cherry sliding off him and reaching for the telephone. To his surprise she didn’t call an ambulance or a doctor or even the police.
    When he heard the name of the person she called, a chill went through him.
    “You got me in this!” she screamed. “You made me hit on him! What do I do?”
    He had been set up. When Caesar remembered who’d suggested that first night at the strip joint, his next thought was for Lizzy.
    First Electra. Now him.
    If Lizzy did come home, would she be next?
    Cherry hung up and dialed another number. “You wanna know who I’m calling, I bet.” She flashed him a hateful smile. “Well, I’m calling your wife!”
    “Hi there—Mrs. Kemble.” Brash as she was, even Cherry hesitated for a moment. “It’s me—Cherry. Your husband’s fianceé.”
    Joanne must have had plenty to say on that score because it was a long time before Cherry could get another word in.
    “Y—yes, well, I—I don’t care about any of that. He’s in my bed…not yours. And he’s as still as a stump. Somethin’s bad wrong with him. If you don’t send somebody to get him out of here, and send him fast, I’ll call an ambulance, and,and the newspapers. And if I do that—all hell will break loose.”
    Another long silence.
    “No, he’s not dead, and I don’t want no corpse in my bed! Do you hear me? No! I didn’t do anything to him. We were making love.” Another long silence. “No. No drugs. A stroke maybe… I’m not a doctor. I don’t know. Just hurry!”
    Lizzy—he had to warn her .
    Why in the name of God had he told everybody he wanted her to succeed him? By doing so, he’d signed her death warrant.
    He fought to say her name, but his lips felt like cold concrete.
    Imprisoned in his own body, he could only stare helplessly at Cherry, who was watching him, too. Her pretty face beneath her straw-white mane was a mask of disgust. Her eyes were cold and soulless. His throat tightened.
    She got up slowly. Lifting her sequined cowboy hat off its nail, she put it on. Then she twirled round and round for him just like she had the first night.
    “What’s going on in that mind of yours, big daddy?” Spreading her long legs, she made a faux bow.
    She pitched her hat toward the bed and went to her mirror where she made up her mouth with vivid red lipstick and combed and fluffed her hair.
    When she turned around again and smiled at him, she looked more ravishing than ever.
    But it didn’t matter. He felt nothing, absolutely nothing for her.
    Only Lizzy mattered.
    And Electra. She would always matter.
    He remembered the day he’d stood in the rain and scat tered her ashes under the Spur Tree because she’d written inher will that that was her final wish. She’d chosen to be with him in death at least.
    Joanne had been furious when he’d had a bronze marker placed beneath the tree with Electra’s name on it.
    “Jack’s spurs are there, aren’t they?” he’d said to shut Joanne up.
    Electra. Always Electra.
    He had to stay alive to save their daughter.
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Four
    Manhattan
    T oo much was happening to her.
    The phone was ringing, but Lizzy ignored it. She was too busy watching the two naked men writhe on her television screen with a total absorption that would have embarrassed her had she been of sound mind, which after the catastrophic events of today—she was not.
    The late-afternoon sunlight was still red and sparkling outside her window, and the air was crisp and cool. It was a gorgeous evening for a walk. The smart Lizzy had known she should have gone with Walker and Vanilla when Walker had been nice enough to invite her, but the self-destructive Lizzy had been depressed at the thought of an activity that might cheer her up. That Lizzy had wanted, no, needed , to indulge in her very own pity party.
    How