Free Mercy by Julie Garwood Page A

Yeah, that was it. John knew it wouldn’t look good to get involved with another woman so soon after Catherine’s death. People would certainly think it was odd and start talking and speculating, and the club sure as hell didn’t want that to happen. John was smart enough to know he should keep a low profile.
    Cameron had almost convinced himself that what he had seen was pretty harmless, but he still felt compelled to make certain. He didn’t let John see him. He paid his bar tab and slipped out of the restaurant. He had the valet bring around the used Ford sedan he was forced to drive these days — his soon-to-be ex-wife had already confiscated his cherished Jaguar, damn the slut. He drove to the next block, ducked down in the seat, and turned to watch for the couple to come outside. While he waited, he called his attorney on his cell phone to cancel dinner.
    The two of them came outside twenty minutes later. They stood at the curb, facing each other about five feet apart, acting stiff and formal, as though they were little more than strangers, John with his hands stuffed in his pants pockets, the blond clutching her purse and her Day-Timer. When her car arrived, she tucked her purse under her arm and shook John’s hand. The valet held the door of her cherry red Honda open, and she got inside and drove away without a backward glance.
    To the casual observer, the scene was very businesslike.
    A minute later John’s gray BMW convertible arrived. He took his time removing his suit jacket, folding it just so before carefully placing it on the passenger’s seat. The well-fitted suit was Valentino, the only designer John ever wore. A wave of bitterness washed over Cameron. Six months ago he, too, had had a closet full of Joseph Abboud and Calvin Klein and Valentino suits, but then his wife, in a drunken rage, had grabbed a butcher knife and shredded the clothes into rags. That little tantrum had destroyed over fifty thousand dollars’ worth of garments.
    God, how he longed to get even. Some nights he lay in bed and fantasized about all sorts of ways to kill her. The most important element in the daydream was pain. He wanted the bitch to suffer as she was dying. His favorite scenario was smashing her face through a glass window and watching the whore slowly bleed to death. In his fantasy a shard of glass barely nicked her artery.
    Oh, yes, he wanted her to suffer the way she was making him suffer, to get even with her for stealing his life from him. She’d frozen all of his assets until the divorce settlement was reached, but he already knew what the outcome would be. She was going to take it all.
    She didn’t know about the Sowing Club or the assets they had hidden. No one did. Her attorney wouldn’t be able to find the money either, even if he had been looking. The millions of dollars were in an offshore account, and none of it could be traced back to him.
    But for now, it didn’t matter that he had money hidden. He couldn’t touch any of it until he turned forty. That was the deal the four friends had made, and he knew the others wouldn’t let him borrow from the fund. It was too risky, and so, for the next five years, he was going to have to bite the bullet and live like a pauper.
    John was the lucky devil. Now that Catherine was dead, he had what was left of her trust fund, which he didn’t have to share with anyone.
    Cameron was filled with envy as he watched his friend put on his Saints’ ball cap. He knew John only wore the thing to hide his bald spot. He was going to be completely bald by the time he was fifty, like all the men in his family, no matter what precautions he took. But what did that matter? He’d still look real good to women. Women would put up with any flaw if there was money involved.
    Cameron dismissed this latest bout of self-pity with a shake of his head. Feeling sorry for himself wasn’t going to change anything. Besides, he could hold on for a few more years. Concentrate on the