Naked Came The Phoenix

Chapter Nine

CAROLINE HAD STORMED OUT OF the cottage at full throttle, but halfway down the tree-lined drive that led to the gates of Phoenix Spa, she eased her foot off the gas. Behind the pillars and the elaborate wrought-iron barrier, a writhing mass of reporters stood before a backdrop of cars and television vans, their satellite dishes pointed toward the sky on long, slender stalks. As she approached, Caroline thought she could make out some familiar faces-a bespectacled, frizzy-headed reporter from CNN and, Lord help us, that guy with the mustache, Geraldo Rivera. Next to Geraldo stood a well-coifed reporter who reminded her of an anchor back home on Cha

Home. That word again. It stabbed at her heart with a pain so intense that she sobbed and paused in her purposeful march toward the world and the truth to catch her breath. Where was home? The house where she grew up had long ago fallen to the wrecking ball. Her bachelorette bungalow on Forest View in Nashville had been sold. And she couldn't imagine returning to the Georgian-style row house on Thirty-first Street in Georgetown where Congressman Blessing had brought his new bride less than a year ago. The furniture, carpets, wallpaper, and fabrics that she had chosen with such care and joy held no more warmth for her now than the cold fist of anger and fear that seemed to be squeezing the heart right out of her chest.

Panic seized her, she recognized the signs. First a tingling in her fingers and toes, then a wave of heat that rushed up her neck, suffusing her face and scalp and overwhelming her with dizziness. Fool! Whatever made her think she was even capable of meeting the press? Caroline glanced about for a quiet spot to withdraw, but a serpentine wall of solid brick lined the drive on both sides. She could continue toward the braying pack of media hounds or retreat up the drive to the cabin she shared with her mother, to her loft bedroom, now the only home she had.

Caroline scurried to the wall, seeking refuge in one of its sheltering curves. Panting with relief, she sat on her heels and leaned against the brick, which felt deliciously warm through the sheer cotton of her blouse. Insanely, she wished for Douglas. Douglas had experience with the press; he would tell her what to do. To her right, the manic shouting of the reporters assaulted her ears. To her left, there was nothing but tranquillity-a twittering bird, the drone of a honeybee-and a young man, striding purposefully in her direction.

"Mrs. Blessing?" he called.

Caroline swiped at the tears that streaked her cheeks and turned her face in his direction. She could tell he was a staff member by his green Phoenix Spa polo shirt, but he was neither tall enough nor lean enough to be Emilio Constanza. "Yes. Who are you?" she asked u

"I'm a masseur," he offered.

"What do you want?"

"Dr. de Vries sent me to find you. You had an appointment with him at two-thirty yesterday."

Caroline wrinkled her brow. "What appointment?"

"Everyone has them. Part of the package. You discuss your needs, he evaluates your general condition, then he plans out the best therapeutic course for you during your stay."

In the blinding sunlight Caroline squinted up at Dante. She couldn't believe it would be business as usual for the freshly widowed Raoul. "Of course, I remember now." She stood, dusted off her slacks, and walked toward him. "But how did you find me?"

Dante pointed.

She followed the long line of his arm from rounded biceps to tapered index finger. "That birdhouse?"

He chuckled and shook his head, sending his ponytail flipping from one shoulder to another. "Surveillance cameras. They're all over the place."

Caroline gasped. "Raoul's been spying on me?"

"Not spying, exactly. The security officer sits in a basement room in the main lodge while this software just flips from one camera to another, capturing it all on videotape."

"I'm on tape?" Caroline was incredulous.

As if sensing her next question, Dante laid a hand on her arm. "They're only for the spa entrances and the grounds. We don't have any cameras indoors."

Caroline said, "Well, that's a relief." She wondered if Detective Toscana knew about the security system and, remembering her midnight raid on the spa kitchen, was glad she had come clean to him about it. "Do the police …?"

"Oh, yeah. That Toscana fellow and his goons have been all over security this morning."

Grateful for the interruption and glad of the company, Caroline turned her back on the reporters and accompanied Dante up the drive toward the main lodge. Exhausted and drained, she walked in silence. As they passed the kitchen wing, the smell of food teased her nostrils.

"Mrs. Blessing, do you mind if I make a suggestion?"

Caroline had been thinking about her meager breakfast and how much she now regretted passing up the whole-grain Belgian waffles with fresh fruit in favor of some dry toast. Her stomach rumbled noisily. "What?"

"After you finish with Dr. de Vries, come see me." Walking slightly behind, he laid his hands on her shoulders. "You're tied in knots. Stiff. Your spine's coiled as tightly as a bedspring."

Caroline rotated her shoulders. "I know."

"I have an opening at three." He removed his hands. "Have you ever been Rolfed?"

Caroline laughed. "Rolfed? You're making that up, surely?" But when he didn't smile she said, "Is it anything like shiatzu?"

Dante shook his head. "Not at all. Rolfing's a deep-massage technique that works on the co

Caroline smiled up at the masseur, thinking, What could it hurt? "I'll mention it to Raoul," she promised.

"Ordinarily, we suggest an eight- to ten-week course of treatment," the young man continued. "But let's do an introductory session and if it seems to work for you, I'll recommend a practitioner for when you get home."

Wherever home might be, she thought ruefully. Forcing her lips into a smile, she looked up at Dante. "Okay, then," she said. "Pencil me in."

Through the half-open door, Caroline could see that Raoul's office was the June cover of Architectural Digest, from the brocade draperies to the foil-backed wall covering right down to the oversized art books carelessly but expensively arranged on the Louis XV coffee table. To the right, built-in bookshelves held matched sets of leather-bound classics. To the left, a globe the size of a basketball, each country delineated by encrustations of semi-precious stones, was centered on a narrow credenza.

If Raoul had a medical degree, Caroline could see no evidence of it. On the other hand, a boasting, black-framed diploma would hardly have been in keeping with the decor. As proud as Caroline was of the diploma from Juilliard that hung in her own study, it wouldn't have taken much arm-twisting to persuade her to replace it with one of the Mirós or Klees that hung in carved, gilded frames over Raoul's credenza.

Near the fireplace, a tabby cat, undoubtedly chosen by the decorator to coordinate with the rusty gold medallions in the Turkish carpet, had draped itself casually across the back of an overstuffed wing chair. When Caroline entered, the cat opened an eye, studied her, determined she was of no importance, and returned to its nap.

Raoul was hardly napping. Piles of papers and what Caroline took to be case files littered his desk. He was shuffling through them frantically, oblivious to her presence.

"Raoul? You wanted to see me?"

"What?" His eyes were enormous behind his glasses. "Oh, Caroline. So good of you to come." He shoved the folders aside until the space on the desk directly in front of him was clear, anchored the tallest pile with a substantial brass paperweight shaped like a propeller, whipped off his glasses, and stood. "Sit down. Sit down."