With his arm in a sling, Michael sat at his desk in his office at the bank. All morning he attempted to go over some paperwork that required his close attention, but Rochelle filled his mind so completely, he could not think of anything else. A million thoughts poured through his brain, and one that pounded at him more than any other was Tobias kissing her that night. When he thought of Tobias touching her, making love to her, it ate at him with such acid fervor he was sure he would lose his mind.
He had become irritable, sullen, and grouchy with everyone who spoke to him, and he seemed no nearer to overcoming the deplorable characteristics that left his bank employees afraid to speak to him. He was bad-tempered with everyone, even Mabel who took every opportunity to inquire if he had heard from Rochelle. She had stopped by earlier that same morning, and he guessed it was probably more to check on him, than to inquire of Rochelle.
“Mikey, you're not doing yourself any good letting it get to you this way. As your friend, I must warn you to get hold of yourself.
The time may come when Rochelle will need your help, and you can't even help yourself in your present frame of mind.”
“Mabel, do I pay you a salary to bitch at me every chance you get?” he demanded sourly.
“No, Mikey, you don't pay me a salary, but if you don't stop being so bitchy yourself, I'm going to demand a salary for putting up with you. Your employees are praying you will take a long vacation and put Zimmerman in charge.”
Michael kept perusing some papers on his desk, not really seeing them. He listened and responded to everything Mabel said, his mood as irascible as ever. Finally, when she started lecturing him, he threw up his hands and pounced from his chair.
“What in the hell do you think I can do? If the cops won't do anything, then how in the hell can I? Mabel, if I didn't have the experience of that trial I went through, I think I would consider killing the bastard. It is about the only thing that will stop the son of a bitch. My hands are tied, and you're not helping with your meddling,” he retorted in sheer frustration.
Mabel dropped her hands in futile bewilderment and turned to go. At the door, she turned back to him. “If that son of a bitch can come here and take her from you, why can't you go and take her from him?” With a toss of her head and a mild snort, she went out, not waiting for an answer.
Michael jerked his head up and observed her departure through the doorway. He was sorry for being so sharp with her. Hell, he was sorry for being sharp with everybody. It seemed to be his normal disposition now.
Then it hit him what Mabel had said . If that son of a bitch can come here and take her from you, why can't you go and take her from him. He mulled over the thought for several minutes, his paperwork totally forgotten. Why couldn't he? Why in the hell couldn't he go take her back?
Without meaning to, Mabel planted a seed that at first shriveled and died a number of deaths, and then took on life again with nurtured fruition. The idea took shape and form. Exasperatingly though, every plan running through Michael's head had weak links, and he couldn't come up with any adequate strategy that might suffice to insure his goal. The idea stayed with him though. Every time he thought of Rochelle, which was mostly all the time, he meditated on ways to take her back from Tobias Chandler.
“Come in!” he thundered impatiently when a light tap sounded on his door.
The door opened slightly. “Excuse me, Mr. Matheson,” one of the bank clerks said, sticking her head inside the door with meek hesitancy. “I brought you the morning mail.”
“Put it on my desk!” he bellowed, not bothering to look up at the woman who tiptoed into his office, laid the mail on his desk, and then tiptoed out.
Michael looked up as she was leaving, and upon seeing her tiptoeing, pure irony hit him with a wallop. It was almost laughable.
All the people who until recently, held him in the highest esteem, were now afraid of him. Mabel was right. He did have to do something about his disposition. When people started tiptoeing around him, then it was time for change.
Naturally, everyone either knew, or had heard some version of what happened. Nothing was safe from the small town grapevine.
While he expected some negative responses from employees and associates, their attitudes were sympathetic and concerned. They deserved better than his sour attitude that caused people to tiptoe around him and whisper as though afraid to disturb him.
He grabbed up the stack of mail and shuffled through it, glancing at the return addresses as he usually did, opening the ones he deemed most important. Then his eye struck on an address from Miami.
He dropped the packet of mail from his hand except for that one letter, ripping it open like a kid tearing into a present. Eagerly, he pulled the letter out and unfolded it, his eyes raking greedily over the contents. When he finished reading, he went back and read it again, finally reading the first paragraph several times until he memorized every word.
Our time together was too brief, but it was the most important and blessed time of my life. Your affection, your gentleness, your every endeavor on my behalf fills my thoughts each minute and allows me to believe there might still be reason to go on wanting to live.
The words knifed through him with such sharp regret over his loss that he swallowed spasmodically at the lump rising in his throat.
His fingers caressed the paper touched by her hand, her script written with delicate even strokes, and he groaned inwardly at the deep pain and loneliness from losing her.
He had to do something to get her back. He couldn't just sit idly by and allow Tobias Chandler to destroy the best thing that ever happened to him. He must formulate a plan. As Mabel had said, if Chandler could come take Rochelle from him, he could take her from Chandler. The only problem, Chandler hadn't been dealing with fortresses, walls, gates, and guards with the likes of which fortified his estate, as Rochelle had told him about. Michael needed all the information he could get about the place if he was to conceive a plan that would work.
Immediately, he drew stationery from his desk and began penning a letter. It was probably the most poignant letter of his entire life, but due to the state of depression Rochelle's letter reflected, he hoped to say something, anything, that would give her strength. He first assured her the bullet had done small damage and he would be as good as new in a few weeks. Next, he told her what he had wanted to say numerous times when he held her in his arms; he told her he loved her and would never rest easy again until he had her back beside him.
With that declaration, he carefully worded his following requests, hoping not to alarm her. He inquired about the address where she was staying, about the estate itself, if it was fenced, what sort of security devices were in place, if there were backup generators for electrical blackouts. He inquired as to the location of her bedroom in conjunction with the rest of the house, and urged her to draw a rough sketch of the layout of the house and grounds, to indicate the location of security devices, and areas posted by guards.
Then he asked her to tell him Tobias's routine, his schedule, if he ever took trips or was away for several days.
When he finished his four-page letter, he reread it, deciding there was no way he could spare her concern and still get the information he was requesting. The letter clearly indicated his intentions. She would recognize his intent immediately even though she wouldn't know when he planned his coup. He stamped the envelope, addressed it in care of Rochelle at The Boutique, and put it in the outgoing mail.
REMY'S CALL CAME TO ROCHELLE four days after Michael mailed the letter. “Rochelle, your dress has been altered and we have in some new things you might be interested in,” she said.
Rochelle thanked her, and dressed eagerly, her hopes flaring like a blaze of light over the prospect of hearing from Michael. She pushed the button on the phone and Gibson answered. “Let me guess,” he said in lighthearted humor, “you need the car brought around.”
“Yes, but…” she was going to ask how he knew, but the thought took shape immediately that he had heard her phone conversation with Remy. They had her phone bugged.
Gibson realized his error, and quickly tried to cover his mistake.
“Mrs. Chandler, I'm really not psychic. It's the only reason you ever call downstairs.”
“Yes, of course,” she replied, letting him think she believed the explanation for his blunder.
She sat in the back seat of the car with anxious anticipation for the letter from Michael. He's alive, she kept thinking. He's alive.
Being miles apart, the letter would be almost as good as having him in person. Thinking of the letter also brought memories of Michael, all their times together, his touch and the excitement he could unravel in her veins, his strength when he held her in his arms and pressed her to his body. An intense yearning grew inside her, not unlike a profound and aching hunger.
Understanding her need to be discreet so as not to provoke the bodyguard's suspicions, Remy knew a little of what Rochelle wanted to do. She wanted privacy to read her letter, and would probably write a return. She watched Rochelle choose several dresses from a rack and go into the dressing room. Once there, she asked Remy to clandestinely bring her a writing pad and envelope, then suggested she come in randomly with other dresses and carry out the ones she supposedly would try on.
The two hounds took up the same positions they took the last time she came to The Boutique.
Hurriedly, Rochelle tore into Michael's letter, skimming over the words with a hunger to know all he had written. Rochelle, I love you and I will never rest easy until you are back beside me again.
Rochelle read that part several times. Then realizing the need to hurry, she quickly read the rest of the letter, spending a thoughtful couple of minutes on Michael's request for information about Tobias's estate.
Just to make her lengthy stay in the dressing room look less suspicious, she put on one of the dresses, and went out into the shop to look at things on another rack. Gibson's head turned to look at her from his position out in front of the shop, and he was satisfied that all was well. Rochelle took a couple of dresses from the rack and went back to the dressing room to pen her reply to Michael.
My dearest Michael,
I am sending you the information you requested, but I must caution you. What you are planning is highly dangerous, and I would rather never see you again than know your life is in jeopardy over trying to rescue me. I beg you not to attempt this.
The five guards have guns and would not hesitate to use them on any encroachers discovered on the property. One of them monitors the televised security system in a security room near the kitchen in the rear of the house. It comprises numerous cameras that televise every inch of the property outside. The mounted cameras are on all sides of the house and at the gated entrance, which usually has a guard stationed there. While the cameras have back-up batteries and record on video tape, the security monitor can't televise them when there is a blackout, except when the generator kicks on.
During an electrical blackout, the generator automatically comes on after five minutes—the delay meant to offset power surges. It is located toward the left side of the house in the rear.
A six-foot wall surrounds the estate with spikes at the top. Four guard dogs are on the property at night, and are capable of tearing a man to pieces. The master bedroom where I sleep faces the east with the only balcony on that side of the house.
Tobias mostly handles his affairs here at home, and often meets with his associates in his study. To the best of my knowledge, he routinely schedules his visits to South America about every other month, sometimes monthly. I have no idea just now when his next trip will be since I wasn't here the last time he went. I dare not question him on such information lest he get suspicious of my interest and forbid me to leave the house.
Michael, please consider the dire consequences of such an attempt. I could not live, would not want to live, if something happened to you. I love you and though our lives may be separate from now on, I will always hold you dear in my heart.
She signed her name, and quickly sketched out a floor plan of the house and grounds on a separate sheet of paper. Remy came in with another armful of clothing, sweeping back out again with the ones she had brought in the last time. Rochelle quickly read what she had written.
Folding the pages, she stuffed the letter in the envelope, addressed and sealed it, giving it to Remy the next time she came in.
She tried on another dress and came out into the store to model it for Remy and the other clerk. As she expected, Gibson's eyes swept over her, watching longer than necessary as she spun about, letting the skirt of her dress swirl about her silky thighs.
Gibson quickly looked away as her green eyes caught his. He dared not risk familiarity with her that might spur her to speak to Chandler about him, knowing as he did that the man was obsessed with his wife. He needed little provocation to take dire measures against any employee's unnecessary interest in her.
Remy boxed up Rochelle's purchases while Rochelle used the bathroom to reread Michael's letter. Finished, she tore it into dozens of tiny pieces, touched the last piece gingerly to her lips, and flushed it all down the toilet. Loneliness echoed throughout her body as she watched the torn bits disappear down the toilet bowl, the flushing water gurgling noisily.
When she was ready to go, Remy opened the back door and let Anderson inside. He immediately asked if he could use her restroom.
A resounding alarm went off in Rochelle's head. Had all the pieces flushed down? She cringed at the idea she had considered in the bathroom, debating over hiding the letter beneath the sink with tape so she could read it again. Her better judgment had won out against it. Now, she breathed with relief that she sent the letter to the sewer. Otherwise, it could have meant no further communication with Michael, and she would most likely have been restricted from leaving the house at all—or worse.
MICHAEL RECEIVED ROCHELLE'S LETTER, read it carefully many times, his mind absorbing the knowledge while he gave considerable thought to various other information he was considering. He would need someone who knew security systems, would need an electrician, a trucker, then two others who would back up his endeavors. He made a list of names of people he knew and their abilities. He calculated the time needed, the cost, and mentally toyed with numerous strategies. As the plan took shape and form inside his head, his final goal took on dimension.
Rochelle would be his again.