Designer Genes (19 page)

Thank goodness
he knew how to change a diaper.

*

The red-haired
model in the thong bikini executed a perfect swan dive off the board. She was
gorgeous, Roger thought. Why had he ever allowed that silly Yoko to monopolize
his attention?

A brunette,
her nearly nude body crisscrossed by black straps, smiled at him winningly from
her lounge chair. He couldn’t remember her name, but he had no doubt she would
leave a composite photograph with both her name and her agent’s phone number on
his bedside table.

They were
hoping to model for his fashion design firm, or win his support in their bid to
be featured on a new reality show about aspiring actresses on which he would
serve as head judge. He liked to dangle those possibilities, even though he
left such selections entirely up to his marketing people.

Of course, his
intimate pool party also included a tall, bosomy blonde—currently swimming
laps--who would overshadow Buffy. According to her pushy lawyer, she might show
up this afternoon.

He was ready.

Roger knew
Buffy’s weak points: her insecurities, her overwhelming mother instinct and the
emptiness of her bank account, which precluded a long legal battle. He intended
to exploit her vulnerabilities until she signed away every penny she or her
daughter might ever claim.

His estranged
wife had some unique qualities, Roger conceded. Personality-wise, she stood out
from the vacuous models he usually dated, although that hadn’t been obvious
initially. At first, like them, she’d practically worshiped him and his
accomplishments. He’d felt young, handsome and virile.

But as the
years passed, she’d expected him to treat her like an equal, which was
preposterous. Then there was this annoying business of having children. What a
stroke of luck that the sperm bank had made a bonehead mistake.

At the
poolside bar, he poured himself another daiquiri and paused to regard his
tanned frame in a reflective window panel. The low-slung black trunks he’d
bought in Japan emphasized how thin he kept himself, with scarcely a hint of
paunch.

A man of forty-two
was still in the thick of things. The traces of gray in his blond hair gave him
a distinguished air.

He was an
internationally renowned clothing designer and entrepreneur. Soon, he would go
public with his new cable production company, whose planned reality show had
landed a major corporate sponsor. Bigger things, including a vastly larger bank
account, were on the horizon, as soon as he shed the last of his old baggage.

The doorbell
rang, magnified over a speaker. Roger’s smile broadened as he waited for his
housekeeper to answer it. He’d hired someone new who didn’t know Buffy and
wouldn’t feel loyal to her, in case he needed her to testify about anything.

“Who could
that be?” asked the redhead, dripping onto the concrete next to him. Her name
was Charisse Lamar and she was the most ambitious of his three guests. Possibly
the most gullible, too.

“My wife,” he
said.

She shrugged,
as if accustomed to other people’s unusual marital arrangements. “I hope she’s
not a party pooper.”

“Not at—” He
stopped, scarcely aware that his jaw had dropped.

“That’s your
wife?” Charisse stifled a giggle with the back of her hand. “You’re kidding,
right?”

“Right,” he
said. The stout, graying woman walking toward him wasn’t Buffy. She was the
woman who’d helped him launch his business twenty years ago. She was also the
company part-owner he’d cut off six months ago with the same trumped-up plea of
poverty that he’d made to his wife.

She was, in
other words, his mother.

“Looks like
you’re back in the chips again, and don’t bother to lie about it,” said Louise
Arden, her sixty-seven-year-old figure ramrod straight as she marched toward
him. “A girl named Yoko called me Friday. She had a few rather interesting
things to say.”

When someone
else rang the doorbell, Roger hardly noticed.

*

Buffy didn’t
recognize the woman in the housekeeper’s uniform who opened the door. “Hi!” She
extended a hand. “I’m Buffy Arden, Roger’s wife. What’s your name?”

The woman
blinked in surprise. Short and dark, she had kind eyes despite her wary expression.
“I’m Sarah. Mr. Arden is expecting you and the baby.” She frowned at Carter.
“Who is this?”

“He’s the
baby’s nanny.” Buffy knew she had to bluff for all she was worth. “That’s how
they do things in Texas these days. You know, the vanishing frontier, oil wells
displacing cowboys. Everybody’s entitled to a job, right?” Hurrying on before
the woman’s stunned expression could morph into a protest, she asked, “Where’s
Roger?”

“By the pool.”
The woman admitted them with a worried air, although she sneaked a small smile
at Allie. “I will show you.”

“I know the
way. Thanks, Sarah!” It occurred to her that a one-on-one meeting might be the
safest way to start. “Would you take Carter and Allie to their room?”

“He only said
to prepare a place for you.” Sarah shrugged. “But there are extras. This way,
Mr. Nanny.”

Buffy avoided
meeting Carter’s gaze. Although she was glad he’d come, he’d have to figure out
his own way to fit into her world.

After only a
moment’s hesitation, he said, “Much obliged,” and strode down a hallway with
Sarah, Allie and the luggage.

Buffy took a
deep breath. It felt strange, being in this house again, although she’d only
been gone a few months.

To her left
sprawled the sunken living room. Like the rest of the house, it had been
decorated in subtle, blond woods, earth-toned fabrics and abstract art. Roger,
having hired the most expensive designer in Beverly Hills, had refused to allow
Buffy to add so much as a vase of her own.

When she first
moved here as a bride, she’d been awed by the elegance. Now she found it cold.

What it lacked
were toys spilling across the cream carpet and cat hairs on the tan leather
sofa and a dog sprawled in a doorway. An inappropriate flowered china teapot on
the coffee table would provide a refreshing note, too.

She wasn’t
here to improve the decor, Buffy reminded herself. Smoothing down her black
punk-inspired skirt embroidered with the words “Eat My Socks”—the latest style,
with a Nowhere Junction twist—she strolled down the hall, through a vast
audio-visual and game room and past the catering-quality kitchen.

Just before
she reached the French doors that led to the pool, they were opened by a tall
blonde woman with a voluptuous figure. She wore a tiny black string bikini and
a disgruntled expression.

“Don’t bother,”
she told Buffy. “He’s out there arguing with some old lady and anyway, he
believes he’s running a harem. The things a girl has to do to promote her
career!”

“You’re a
model?” The standards must have changed drastically in the weeks Buffy had been
away. Models, in her experience, were sleek as greyhounds.

“I’m an
actress.” She pouted and then, realizing she wasn’t impressing her audience,
snatched a gauzy cover-up from a chair. “I don’t have to put up with this kind
of treatment. I have talent!” She headed for the front door.

Why would an
actress waste her time on Roger? Buffy wondered. The woman must be confused.

She went
outside into sunshine intensified by glare on the pool’s glittering surface.
Fishing her sunglasses from her purse, she studied the guests.

Buxom redhead.
Languorous brunette. They weren’t Roger’s usual type, so she figured he’d hired
or cajoled or borrowed the largest-breasted women he could find in order to
make her feel inadequate. Judging by the dimensions of these two women and the departing
blonde, he must have raided a plastic surgeon’s office.

Still, they
were beautiful in a way that Buffy could never equal. She doubted Carter would
be impressed, though. They all had a doll-like quality, as if a toy company had
used molds to shape them.

More
interesting was the older woman who stood with hands on hips, turned away from
Buffy. Gray-haired and draped in a green woven pantsuit, she appeared to be
scolding the man in front of her. Even though his face was hidden from view,
Buffy presumed the guy with the skinny legs and overtanned torso was Roger.

Puzzled that
he would let this woman take over his pool party, Buffy circled the deep end on
approach. Her slinky camisole, which had pushed the envelope of near-nudity in
Nowhere Junction, made her feel overdressed.

“Excuse me,”
she said.

Swiveling, the
tall woman surveyed her impatiently. Her pale blue eyes resembled Roger’s. “And
you are...?”

“Roger’s
wife,” she said. “Buffy.”

In the silence
that descended, she could hear the distant burr of an airplane. “Wife?” the
woman repeated. “Since when?”

“The past five
years,” Buffy said.

“That was you
who answered the phone?”

“Excuse me?”

“All those
times,” the woman said. “I thought it was some tootsie. I’m Louise Arden,
Roger’s mother.”

“From Ohio?”
Buffy shook the outstretched hand. “So that’s why you never said hello.”

Half a dozen
expressions flitted across Roger’s gaunt face, none of them pleasant. He’d lost
weight since she’d last seen him, and the effect wasn’t flattering.

His heavy
eyebrows, prominent cheekbones and narrow jawline gave him a striking,
sophisticated air. Buffy could see how she might once have been impressed.
However, the knowledge that his weasel brain was working to twist every
situation to his own advantage rendered him what Zeppa might call butt-ugly.

“You never
told me you were married,” Louise snapped at her son.

“It didn’t
seem worth mentioning until I knew whether the marriage would take or not,” he
replied. “As it happens, Buffy and I are getting a divorce.”

“Which shows
good judgment on her part,” snapped the woman. “Since five years wasn’t long
enough for you to inform your family about your marriage.”

“Look at the
bright side,” he responded. “All those anniversary gifts you didn’t have to
send.”

His mother
issued a noise somewhere between a bark and a snort.

“Roger, honey,
I hate to interrupt.” The red-haired woman wandered toward them. “I’m bored.”

“Why don’t you
and, uh—” he gestured at the brunette “—whoever, take off?”

“Just like
that?” asked the redhead.

“I’ll see you,
you know,” he said. When she didn’t react, he added, “Later.”

“Oh, later.
Okay.” She sauntered away, followed languidly by the dark-haired woman.

Later? Buffy
wondered what that meant. Did Roger intend to carry on an affair right under
her nose? She’d figured he was smart enough to behave properly in the two days
before they went to court. Or did he have other plans for this evening?

She recorded a
mental note to find out. In the meantime, she was curious about her
mother-in-law. “What brings you here?” she asked Louise.

“A little
birdie named Yoko,” the older woman said. “She told me he’s hiding his assets.”

“He’s been
cheating you, too?” Buffy was astonished at the depths to which this worm would
sink. His own mother!

“Whoa!” Roger
held up his hands. “You two are not on the same side, Mom, for heaven’s sake,
you have to trust me.”

“Like I
trusted your father?” she asked. “He was a snake, too.”

Instead of
looking offended, he gave her a sly smile as if he’d discovered an ace up his
sleeve. “This is different. You see, Buffy wants to take it all. Yours, mine
and ours.”

“Hmm,” said
his mother.

“I do not!”
Buffy retorted furiously. “You’re the one who insisted I come back here. You’re
the one trying to take custody of my daughter.”

“Explain,”
Louise demanded of her son.

“She, uh, we,
uh, there’s this baby,” he said. “Not mine. But she is mine by law.”

“Your wife had
a child by another man?”

“It’s not like
it sounds,” Buffy interjected. “We used a sperm bank.”

At the far end
of the long, one-story house, a sliding glass door opened. Out swooped Carter,
his cowboy boots tapping on the cement as he whirled Allie through the air.

“You have to
hear what she just said,” he called. “Say it again, sweetie. Say Mama!”

“Who is this?”
demanded Louise Arden. “Your gigolo?”

Roger
chortled. Then he smirked. Buffy invented a new word, smortled, to describe his
expression, and then hoped she never had reason to use it again.

*

Carter could
see that his timing was off. The shrimpy guy with the beetle eyebrows wore a
disdainful expression. And judging by the older woman’s haughty stance, he’d
bet that in a fair fight between her and Mazeppa, the smart money would be on
the L.A. lady.

Of course,
Zeppa wasn’t likely to let a little thing like fairness get in the way of a
takedown. He decided he’d back the hometown girl after all.

There was no
defense like a good offense. “Howdy!” Tucking Allie under one arm, he strode
around the pool and shook the woman’s hand firmly. “I’m Carter Murchison, the
nanny.”

“Carter, this
is Roger and his mother, Louise Arden,” Buffy said in a warning tone. “Five
years of marriage and I’ve only just met her.”

“Say hi,” he
told the baby, and held her up for a good look at Louise. When Allie’s face
scrunched, he feared she might scream like a banshee, a new talent she’d
developed this afternoon when he tried to put her down for a nap.

“Cute,”
pronounced the older woman. “For a baby.”

Allie
apparently thought the better of screaming. “Bo da da,” she said. “Ma ma ma.”

“She said
Mama!” Squealing, Buffy hugged her daughter. “You little cutie!”

“She’s
precocious,” Carter added for the benefit of the others.

“She resembles
you,” observed Louise.